Sarahbeth Caplin's Blog, page 64
September 20, 2013
"Public Displays of Convention," chapter 3
Catch up on previous chapters under the "Books by Sarahbeth" tab. After two weeks of sulking, I resolve to start positive today. I think I cried more during those two weeks than I did in the last year. At first it felt good to let out that pent-up, overdue grief, but after a while my body ached, and I actually began to crave productivity. Or at least I thought I did. I made the mistake of checking my email before class this morning, something I don’t usually do because it ends up making me late. My heart leapt into my throat when I saw a new message from Jared, and without Tess there to hold me accountable, I knew I wouldn’t have the strength to delete it without reading it. My day had barely started, but these words have now been seared into my mind: “You’re just going to act like a child and delete me from your life, is that how it’s going to be?” I can’t imagine what more he has to gain by keeping me around. He has someone else now, what does he need me for? Does he really think I’ll be fine with simply being “friends”? Or, more likely, does he enjoy the hold he knows he still has over me? I won’t respond to his message now, if at all. Not when my emotions are all stirred up again. Turning off my computer, I grab my bag and head to class, but at the end of the lecture, I barely remember any of it. I’m angry all over again; just when I thought the worst part of the grieving had passed. This is how I know just how deeply I am wounded: after changing into sweatpants and an old T-shirt, I walk briskly toward the campus track and start jogging. I hate jogging; Jared knew this. The only thing that can propel me to move faster than speed walking is someone chasing me with a sharp object. I probably look like a crazed idiot, but adrenaline compels me to keep pounding against the pavement, not caring who sees. I imagine fleeing from every dark moment with Jared that made me question my worth, and I imagine that I’m running him over. Actually, I do succeed in running someone over. It must not be a great idea to run when your heart is splintering, when all you see in front of you is pure red. The unexpected thud of my face meeting someone else’s chest happens so suddenly, we both collapse on the ground in an ungraceful heap. Wind bursts out of my lungs so painfully I can’t respond for several minutes when a male voice asks, “Are you okay?” Completely embarrassed, I fervently nod yes. “I – I’m all right. Just a…a little shocked.” How sad that this man should know I’m a terrible liar before even knowing my name. “You don’t look all right. You look upset.” His concern is not unwarranted, but it irks me anyway. “I’m just not used to jogging.” “Yeah, well I’m not used to running into pretty girls who look like they’re about to implode. What’s your name?” Did he just call me pretty? “I’m Anna-Kate.” “Nice to meet you, Anna. I’m Collin.” I sigh heavily, having to correct someone yet again for not understanding my double-barreled first name, the bane of my miserable existence. “No, it’s Anna-Kate. It’s hyphenated.” “Ahh, one of those girls. Okay, Anna-Kate. Is it okay if I call you AK? No, wait.” A menacing twinkle sparkles in his eyes. “I think I’ll call you AK-47 for the way you clobbered me.” On a better day, under completely different circumstances, I might have found this amusing. But not today. “Umm, yeah, whatever.” Not like it matters. After this confrontation, the most awkward, literal confrontation of my life, it doesn’t matter what he calls me since I’m highly unlikely to ever see him again. Reluctantly, I allow Collin to help me up. “Shoot straight next time,” he says, and with a strange wink he proceeds to sprint away, leaving me to hobble on a scraped knee back to my dorm. I hope I never run into – I mean, see him, again. It’s a decent-sized campus, so I suppose the odds of that are in my favor. After I’ve showered and made myself a cup of tea, I sit down to tackle Jared’s email. After careful consideration, I type, “We both know that what we had wasn’t healthy, and I need to get over you. So if you love me like you say you do, please just leave me alone.” Without any hesitation, I click the “send” button. Still, I wonder now if I said too much, or perhaps not enough to accurately convey the hurt I feel. As furious as I am, I don’t want to appear scathing or vindictive. I can’t let him think that I’ll wither into a bitter, shriveled excuse for a woman because I don’t have him anymore. I should be done caring what he thinks. Perhaps I should have been clearer that this separation is meant to be permanent. I should have left no doubt that he is not welcome in my life anymore, with or without a new girlfriend in the picture. But even if he tries to crawl back into my good graces, hopefully by then I will reach a point where the thought of taking him back is not the slightest bit tempting.
September 14, 2013
No heritage left behind? Post-"conversion" thoughts
My first book "Confessions of a Prodigal Daughter" has undergone a slight makeover recently. I finally got around to correcting the grammatical errors that aren't uncommon for a first-time, self-published author's debut. This meant re-reading the entire manuscript with fresher eyes, and as I did so, I realized a few things. Mainly, I don't quite have the same strong beliefs as I did when I first wrote it. I'm also more confident in other beliefs that I was still unsure about at publication time.
Considering the book is barely two years old, it surprises me how much has changed since then. But living at seminary will do that to you. As a "baby Christian" explaining how my spiritual turnabout happened, I wrote as if I was trying to convince myself that Christianity was the ultimate fulfillment of Judaism. This is what my new Christian friends told me, and it made me feel slightly better about myself. I didn't have to compromise as much as I thought. Christianity and Judaism cross paths with each other in history: no one can argue that. The change would not be as radical if, say, I was going from Judaism to Hinduism.
But the "Jewish Christian" or "Hebrew Christian" label never sat well with me. In fact, I didn't really understand why it was so important to hold on to something -- anything -- Jewish in the first place. Never in my life have I ever been a "religious Jew." I suppose it had more to do with appeasing my family and remaining Jewish friends; I didn't want them thinking I went completely off the deep end.
Then seminary happened. My immersion into Christian culture has been, shall we say, not so graceful. "Christian-ese" language, and pretty much everything having to do with Christian culture, drove me nuts. And that makes sense, considering I spent most of my life making fun of it. Now I'm a Christian, and I'm supposed to forget how it made me feel to hear people talk about me being a "non-believer," as if I didn't believe in anything, and hearing phrases like "bathed in the blood," which just sounds cult-ish and creepy to people outside the church? This language was so off-putting to me then, and it still is now. In addition to not knowing what any of it meant, it also implied an air of exclusivity: "First you join our club, then we'll let you know what we're talking about."
Okay, so it's not like Jewish culture doesn't have its own "air of exclusivity," with words like "kvetch" that sound like a sneeze to gentile ears. What can I say? I know I'm biased.
I started to long for my Jewish culture again -- because there's more spice and history in words like "chutzpah" than in any other "ism" I've heard in church (personal opinion). Quite honestly, I miss having Jewish friends: to joke with, to commiserate with, to bond with. But to miss the culture is to ultimately miss the religion itself: something I didn't completely internalize until my father got really sick this summer, and I had to fly back to Ohio. It felt like a metaphorical return to my roots: something I owed to myself after trying to assimilate in foreign territory for so long.
Long story short: it just isn't that easy.
Some of my Christian friends at seminary will still try to convince me I can have it both ways: they try to tell me I'm a "completed Jew." I've been called a heretic for strongly disagreeing with that wording. Only those who have grown up Jewish, or studied the religion immensely, can understand just how much one gives up when they decide to embrace Christianity. I don't regret this decision at all, because I love the Christian theology of God becoming man so he can relate to me on my level. I love that so much, I am now willing to accept that such a theology is incompatible with Jewish theology. Maintaining a love for Jewish culture and being a descendant of Jewish heritage are one thing, but spiritually speaking, I know I cut myself off.
It's irrelevant to me that Jesus didn't intend to create another religion when he started his ministry. Judaism and Christianity evolved in separate directions anyway, and that is the reality we must work with.
It's not enough to convince a Jewish person that Jesus is the real Messiah: the Jewish teachings about sin are different from Christianity's, as are the doctrines about the afterlife, suffering, etc. It makes me angry how "Messianic Jews" (in my experience, the people who use this title are actually full-blooded gentiles who "have a heart" for Judaism) dismiss all that, as if it's all so simple. It's not. Theology -- any theology -- is already messy, but combining two religions as one is even messier. Not to mention impossible.
Of course, people who disagree are free to believe what they want. I just have to put my foot down when it comes to the evangelism tactic that Jews can become Christian and not lose Judaism. Yes, talk about Jesus' Jewish ancestry and what he set out to do, but couching Christianity in Jewish terms is deceptive, plain and simple.
I still wonder about the "What is a Jew" debate, and how much of Judaism, if anything, I can still claim as my own. But that doesn't mean I can't still appreciate it for what it is, and "visit" my roots by rereading my collection of Jewish books. It feels good to be somewhat more at peace with what I believe, even if complete contentment is highly unlikely in this life. Such is the summary of every conversion story: you can't ever leave your heritage behind.
Considering the book is barely two years old, it surprises me how much has changed since then. But living at seminary will do that to you. As a "baby Christian" explaining how my spiritual turnabout happened, I wrote as if I was trying to convince myself that Christianity was the ultimate fulfillment of Judaism. This is what my new Christian friends told me, and it made me feel slightly better about myself. I didn't have to compromise as much as I thought. Christianity and Judaism cross paths with each other in history: no one can argue that. The change would not be as radical if, say, I was going from Judaism to Hinduism.
But the "Jewish Christian" or "Hebrew Christian" label never sat well with me. In fact, I didn't really understand why it was so important to hold on to something -- anything -- Jewish in the first place. Never in my life have I ever been a "religious Jew." I suppose it had more to do with appeasing my family and remaining Jewish friends; I didn't want them thinking I went completely off the deep end.
Then seminary happened. My immersion into Christian culture has been, shall we say, not so graceful. "Christian-ese" language, and pretty much everything having to do with Christian culture, drove me nuts. And that makes sense, considering I spent most of my life making fun of it. Now I'm a Christian, and I'm supposed to forget how it made me feel to hear people talk about me being a "non-believer," as if I didn't believe in anything, and hearing phrases like "bathed in the blood," which just sounds cult-ish and creepy to people outside the church? This language was so off-putting to me then, and it still is now. In addition to not knowing what any of it meant, it also implied an air of exclusivity: "First you join our club, then we'll let you know what we're talking about."
Okay, so it's not like Jewish culture doesn't have its own "air of exclusivity," with words like "kvetch" that sound like a sneeze to gentile ears. What can I say? I know I'm biased.
I started to long for my Jewish culture again -- because there's more spice and history in words like "chutzpah" than in any other "ism" I've heard in church (personal opinion). Quite honestly, I miss having Jewish friends: to joke with, to commiserate with, to bond with. But to miss the culture is to ultimately miss the religion itself: something I didn't completely internalize until my father got really sick this summer, and I had to fly back to Ohio. It felt like a metaphorical return to my roots: something I owed to myself after trying to assimilate in foreign territory for so long.
Long story short: it just isn't that easy.
Some of my Christian friends at seminary will still try to convince me I can have it both ways: they try to tell me I'm a "completed Jew." I've been called a heretic for strongly disagreeing with that wording. Only those who have grown up Jewish, or studied the religion immensely, can understand just how much one gives up when they decide to embrace Christianity. I don't regret this decision at all, because I love the Christian theology of God becoming man so he can relate to me on my level. I love that so much, I am now willing to accept that such a theology is incompatible with Jewish theology. Maintaining a love for Jewish culture and being a descendant of Jewish heritage are one thing, but spiritually speaking, I know I cut myself off.
It's irrelevant to me that Jesus didn't intend to create another religion when he started his ministry. Judaism and Christianity evolved in separate directions anyway, and that is the reality we must work with.
It's not enough to convince a Jewish person that Jesus is the real Messiah: the Jewish teachings about sin are different from Christianity's, as are the doctrines about the afterlife, suffering, etc. It makes me angry how "Messianic Jews" (in my experience, the people who use this title are actually full-blooded gentiles who "have a heart" for Judaism) dismiss all that, as if it's all so simple. It's not. Theology -- any theology -- is already messy, but combining two religions as one is even messier. Not to mention impossible.
Of course, people who disagree are free to believe what they want. I just have to put my foot down when it comes to the evangelism tactic that Jews can become Christian and not lose Judaism. Yes, talk about Jesus' Jewish ancestry and what he set out to do, but couching Christianity in Jewish terms is deceptive, plain and simple.
I still wonder about the "What is a Jew" debate, and how much of Judaism, if anything, I can still claim as my own. But that doesn't mean I can't still appreciate it for what it is, and "visit" my roots by rereading my collection of Jewish books. It feels good to be somewhat more at peace with what I believe, even if complete contentment is highly unlikely in this life. Such is the summary of every conversion story: you can't ever leave your heritage behind.
September 13, 2013
"Public Displays of Convention" chapter 2
The paperback version of "Public Displays of Convention" is undergoing some maintenance, but the ebook version is up and running on Amazon. Here's chapter 2 (all previous chapters will be posted under the "Books by Sarahbeth" tab).
I crashed on Tess’ couch that night. After only three hours of sleep, my appearance in the morning matched the way I felt. I would have slept longer, skipping my morning class, if only there wasn’t a quiz. My day is miserable. I wander absent-mindedly through campus, ducking into every restroom I pass when I can’t maintain a straight face. I wish I could be the kind of woman who may be going through hell, but is able to put on a façade of complacency so no one suspects a thing. But there is no way I can ever be that person. Back at Tess’ apartment, she has prepared an evening of sappy chick flicks and not one, but two cartons of Ben and Jerry’s. I wear my designated “fat pants” for this night of unabashedly consuming my feelings. I also haven’t showered in two days, so now I know I look as gross on the outside as I feel on the inside. Nonetheless, I’m surprised I can actually laugh at the movie we’re watching. Tess’ roommate brings over a small group of friends later that evening, and I am instantly embarrassed. Had I known that more people would be coming, I would have made more of an effort to look somewhat presentable. I think, judging by some of the looks I got, they are able to see that something isn’t right. Thankfully, no one asked or said anything to me. When the movie ends, I’m still stuffing my face with Doritos, which Tess has to forcefully pry from me – “Enough, Anna-Kate!” She then has to literally pull me up off the couch. “You and I have something we need to do.” “I can’t move,” I tell her. “I think I gained ten pounds in the last two hours.” Surprisingly, the other guests laugh, though somewhat cautiously. “Glad to see your sense of humor is back,” quips Tess. “Now up!” Reluctantly I stand, and a pile of crumbs fall from my lap (which I promise to clean up later). We leave our friends in the living and go to Tess’ room, where she closes the door and pulls out her laptop. “You ready for this?” she asks as it boots up. “No, but what choice do I have?” We sit on the floor, and I draw my knees up to my chest, trying in vain not to start up the tears again. “Do you want me to do it?” she asks gently. “Please.” The most I do is log in to my Facebook account, praying Jared is not online and hasn’t left me any messages that will cause me to lose my nerve – but I don’t think Tess will allow that to happen. Once that’s done – no messages waiting in my inbox – the rest is up to her, and I turn away so as not to catch any unwanted but curious glimpses of recently uploaded pictures of this new woman of his. With just a few clicks, Tess has ceremoniously removed him from my friend’s list, and un-sarcastically tells me “All done. I’m proud of you.” “I didn’t exactly do anything,” I say. “Well, you provided your account information, so if nothing else, that makes you an enabler of long-anticipated closure.” “Long-anticipated” is an understatement. Breaking up with Jared should have been done years ago. There are so many regretful “should have” thoughts swirling in my head that I decide against contacting him by other means to speak my final piece; some kind of well-scripted monologue about how I’ll be a better woman without him, after which I saunter off with unmistakable confidence. That’s not the woman I feel like right now. I doubt I could even pretendto pull it off. It helps to have friends like Tess – friends who aren’t afraid to tell you that the man you loved for four years really was a scumbag; that the woman he’s with now is probably a ditzy airhead blonde with a ditzy, airhead name like Candy, who never graduated college and works part-time at a tanning salon. More than that, the now-nameless man I used to love has damned himself to a lifetime of grief with this new woman, who has undoubtedly trapped him into a relationship by getting knocked-up accidentally-on-purpose. It’s nice to have friends like Tess, who draw up these ridiculous stories to make you feel better, even if you think the real reason the love of your life left you is because you aren’t good enough.
I crashed on Tess’ couch that night. After only three hours of sleep, my appearance in the morning matched the way I felt. I would have slept longer, skipping my morning class, if only there wasn’t a quiz. My day is miserable. I wander absent-mindedly through campus, ducking into every restroom I pass when I can’t maintain a straight face. I wish I could be the kind of woman who may be going through hell, but is able to put on a façade of complacency so no one suspects a thing. But there is no way I can ever be that person. Back at Tess’ apartment, she has prepared an evening of sappy chick flicks and not one, but two cartons of Ben and Jerry’s. I wear my designated “fat pants” for this night of unabashedly consuming my feelings. I also haven’t showered in two days, so now I know I look as gross on the outside as I feel on the inside. Nonetheless, I’m surprised I can actually laugh at the movie we’re watching. Tess’ roommate brings over a small group of friends later that evening, and I am instantly embarrassed. Had I known that more people would be coming, I would have made more of an effort to look somewhat presentable. I think, judging by some of the looks I got, they are able to see that something isn’t right. Thankfully, no one asked or said anything to me. When the movie ends, I’m still stuffing my face with Doritos, which Tess has to forcefully pry from me – “Enough, Anna-Kate!” She then has to literally pull me up off the couch. “You and I have something we need to do.” “I can’t move,” I tell her. “I think I gained ten pounds in the last two hours.” Surprisingly, the other guests laugh, though somewhat cautiously. “Glad to see your sense of humor is back,” quips Tess. “Now up!” Reluctantly I stand, and a pile of crumbs fall from my lap (which I promise to clean up later). We leave our friends in the living and go to Tess’ room, where she closes the door and pulls out her laptop. “You ready for this?” she asks as it boots up. “No, but what choice do I have?” We sit on the floor, and I draw my knees up to my chest, trying in vain not to start up the tears again. “Do you want me to do it?” she asks gently. “Please.” The most I do is log in to my Facebook account, praying Jared is not online and hasn’t left me any messages that will cause me to lose my nerve – but I don’t think Tess will allow that to happen. Once that’s done – no messages waiting in my inbox – the rest is up to her, and I turn away so as not to catch any unwanted but curious glimpses of recently uploaded pictures of this new woman of his. With just a few clicks, Tess has ceremoniously removed him from my friend’s list, and un-sarcastically tells me “All done. I’m proud of you.” “I didn’t exactly do anything,” I say. “Well, you provided your account information, so if nothing else, that makes you an enabler of long-anticipated closure.” “Long-anticipated” is an understatement. Breaking up with Jared should have been done years ago. There are so many regretful “should have” thoughts swirling in my head that I decide against contacting him by other means to speak my final piece; some kind of well-scripted monologue about how I’ll be a better woman without him, after which I saunter off with unmistakable confidence. That’s not the woman I feel like right now. I doubt I could even pretendto pull it off. It helps to have friends like Tess – friends who aren’t afraid to tell you that the man you loved for four years really was a scumbag; that the woman he’s with now is probably a ditzy airhead blonde with a ditzy, airhead name like Candy, who never graduated college and works part-time at a tanning salon. More than that, the now-nameless man I used to love has damned himself to a lifetime of grief with this new woman, who has undoubtedly trapped him into a relationship by getting knocked-up accidentally-on-purpose. It’s nice to have friends like Tess, who draw up these ridiculous stories to make you feel better, even if you think the real reason the love of your life left you is because you aren’t good enough.
September 6, 2013
Free Preview Friday: Public Displays of Convention, chapter 1
Starting this new idea to advertise my third book, Public Displays of Convention: now available on Amazon! Every Friday will be a "Free preview Friday," where I'll post a chapter excerpt -- first half of the book only. Enjoy chapter one this week for free!
Today marks the beginning of my New Normal. Today, my worst nightmare is confirmed. The bottom half of my world drops instantly after reading the following message, barely an hour old on my phone: “Just wanted to tell you I’m seeing someone else now. Still care about you, though. Jared.” I stare at the message for a full ten minutes, thinking over and over, is this real? Our conversation from the previous afternoon is still fresh in my mind. If he cares about me as much as he claims to, how could he not have told me about this then? How could he drop this revelation on me in such a flippant, undignified way? The humiliation of this – the lack of an honorable face-to-face explanation – is more painful than the breakup itself. Anger simmers in my gut; boils into my lungs. Four years, wasted. My entire college experience. It’s late, but sleep is completely out of the question tonight, and there’s only one person to call. “Tess?” I say when she answers. “Can I come over? I – I need to talk.” In best-friend-speak, this clearly means “I’m in the middle of an emergency.” Never mind that it’s barely been a few hours since we last saw each other. I feel terrible for imposing like this, but am not surprised when she says, “Of course you can, honey. You can even stay over if you want.” She’s a godsend, Tess Olsen – my best friend since fourth grade, and the only person I know who talks about Jesus the way most people talk about their crushes. Under her photo in our senior yearbook, where students shared their career goals, all she wrote was her ambition to become a “Proverbs 31 Woman,” with a husband and football team of children. She still has a box of letters to her future husband underneath her bed, per our teenage youth group assignment. I did that too for a while, but then gave up because…well, I had Jared. As her devotion deepened with age, mine seemed to waver, but she’s never judged or condemned me for it. So, somehow, our friendship still works. I can’t stop shaking as I pack my school bag with some overnight necessities and a change of clothes. With uneven breath, I dive straight into snowy oblivion. Tess’ apartment would only be a five-minute walk in normal weather, but the thick wall of snow – unusual for the end of March – makes each step heavy, and I’m a little disoriented with the wind whipping brutally at my face. Still, adrenaline keeps me trudging on. As tears begin to freeze on my cheeks, only one thought repeats: Why couldn’t I be the one to move on first? It sounds shamefully petty, but it’s devastatingly true. I knew Jared could never be “The One,” but I clung to him anyway, thinking it was such an honor to be chosen by a visually stunning, impossibly charming, seemingly genuine man like him. Yet, there was never a time I felt secure enough to believe I was good enough; the thought of being cast off for a woman who could match his allures was always imminent. What a self-fulfilling prophecy that was. Finally, I see Tess through the glass windows of her apartment lobby, and that’s when I officially lose it. Once inside her apartment, she places a box of Kleenex and a glass of water in front of me on the kitchen table, and waits for the story to begin. Once I start talking, the words come out in such a sloppy, tangled mess. I’m amazed she can comprehend any of it. She knows the basic story: how we met at the party of a mutual friend early in my freshman year. I was barely legal; he had just turned twenty-one, and it was love (infatuation? lust?) immediately after “Nice to meet you.” But there is much that she doesn’t know; much I made sure she’d never know: the way he’d tell me my opinions were ridiculous; my clothes were either too loose or too tight, revealing too much of a tempting figure, or too much of a too-fat one. The way he refused to introduce me to his other friends, or tell me anything about his family. I expect Tess to be angry for withholding all this from her. For a while she’d had inklings that something “wasn’t right,” but I was so careful about keeping his dark side a secret, I don’t think she had enough evidence to stage an intervention with me. By the time I finish speaking, she looks very near tears herself. “I feel so worthless,” I whisper. She shakes her head. “If only you could see what I see, Anna-Kate” she whispers back. Like a child I lay my head against her shoulder, tears still gushing. I can’t believe it’s happening like this. I knew the end had to happen sometime, and soon – but not like this. I always thought I would handle it with tact and grace. This is just pathetic. “Does anyone else know about this?” Tess asks. I don’t quite know how to answer without sounding like a fool. There were other friends, like Carrie and Liv, who knew bits and pieces of this anti-love story as it tragically unfolded, but not any more than Tess knows. I rarely talk to Carrie since she transferred schools, and I stopped mentioning Jared to Liv when, sensing my love for him was greater than his ever was for me, she told me “You’re such a smart girl, AK. But you’re acting really dumb right now.” Actually, that comment was enough for me to distance myself from her entirely. Now I realize how true it was, but it wasn’t what I wanted to hear. I shake my head at Tess to say “No.” “I know you’re feeling worthless right now,” she says. “But your worth does not depend on him. Please believe that.” I want to. I really, really want to. But Liv was right – I was a smart girl acting very, very stupid. Every date, every kiss with a man I knew all along was not “The One” was all to feel a little less lonely, a little more secure. And it worked for nearly four years, most of the time. I disgusted myself then; I’m more disgusted now.Check back next week for Chapter 2!
Today marks the beginning of my New Normal. Today, my worst nightmare is confirmed. The bottom half of my world drops instantly after reading the following message, barely an hour old on my phone: “Just wanted to tell you I’m seeing someone else now. Still care about you, though. Jared.” I stare at the message for a full ten minutes, thinking over and over, is this real? Our conversation from the previous afternoon is still fresh in my mind. If he cares about me as much as he claims to, how could he not have told me about this then? How could he drop this revelation on me in such a flippant, undignified way? The humiliation of this – the lack of an honorable face-to-face explanation – is more painful than the breakup itself. Anger simmers in my gut; boils into my lungs. Four years, wasted. My entire college experience. It’s late, but sleep is completely out of the question tonight, and there’s only one person to call. “Tess?” I say when she answers. “Can I come over? I – I need to talk.” In best-friend-speak, this clearly means “I’m in the middle of an emergency.” Never mind that it’s barely been a few hours since we last saw each other. I feel terrible for imposing like this, but am not surprised when she says, “Of course you can, honey. You can even stay over if you want.” She’s a godsend, Tess Olsen – my best friend since fourth grade, and the only person I know who talks about Jesus the way most people talk about their crushes. Under her photo in our senior yearbook, where students shared their career goals, all she wrote was her ambition to become a “Proverbs 31 Woman,” with a husband and football team of children. She still has a box of letters to her future husband underneath her bed, per our teenage youth group assignment. I did that too for a while, but then gave up because…well, I had Jared. As her devotion deepened with age, mine seemed to waver, but she’s never judged or condemned me for it. So, somehow, our friendship still works. I can’t stop shaking as I pack my school bag with some overnight necessities and a change of clothes. With uneven breath, I dive straight into snowy oblivion. Tess’ apartment would only be a five-minute walk in normal weather, but the thick wall of snow – unusual for the end of March – makes each step heavy, and I’m a little disoriented with the wind whipping brutally at my face. Still, adrenaline keeps me trudging on. As tears begin to freeze on my cheeks, only one thought repeats: Why couldn’t I be the one to move on first? It sounds shamefully petty, but it’s devastatingly true. I knew Jared could never be “The One,” but I clung to him anyway, thinking it was such an honor to be chosen by a visually stunning, impossibly charming, seemingly genuine man like him. Yet, there was never a time I felt secure enough to believe I was good enough; the thought of being cast off for a woman who could match his allures was always imminent. What a self-fulfilling prophecy that was. Finally, I see Tess through the glass windows of her apartment lobby, and that’s when I officially lose it. Once inside her apartment, she places a box of Kleenex and a glass of water in front of me on the kitchen table, and waits for the story to begin. Once I start talking, the words come out in such a sloppy, tangled mess. I’m amazed she can comprehend any of it. She knows the basic story: how we met at the party of a mutual friend early in my freshman year. I was barely legal; he had just turned twenty-one, and it was love (infatuation? lust?) immediately after “Nice to meet you.” But there is much that she doesn’t know; much I made sure she’d never know: the way he’d tell me my opinions were ridiculous; my clothes were either too loose or too tight, revealing too much of a tempting figure, or too much of a too-fat one. The way he refused to introduce me to his other friends, or tell me anything about his family. I expect Tess to be angry for withholding all this from her. For a while she’d had inklings that something “wasn’t right,” but I was so careful about keeping his dark side a secret, I don’t think she had enough evidence to stage an intervention with me. By the time I finish speaking, she looks very near tears herself. “I feel so worthless,” I whisper. She shakes her head. “If only you could see what I see, Anna-Kate” she whispers back. Like a child I lay my head against her shoulder, tears still gushing. I can’t believe it’s happening like this. I knew the end had to happen sometime, and soon – but not like this. I always thought I would handle it with tact and grace. This is just pathetic. “Does anyone else know about this?” Tess asks. I don’t quite know how to answer without sounding like a fool. There were other friends, like Carrie and Liv, who knew bits and pieces of this anti-love story as it tragically unfolded, but not any more than Tess knows. I rarely talk to Carrie since she transferred schools, and I stopped mentioning Jared to Liv when, sensing my love for him was greater than his ever was for me, she told me “You’re such a smart girl, AK. But you’re acting really dumb right now.” Actually, that comment was enough for me to distance myself from her entirely. Now I realize how true it was, but it wasn’t what I wanted to hear. I shake my head at Tess to say “No.” “I know you’re feeling worthless right now,” she says. “But your worth does not depend on him. Please believe that.” I want to. I really, really want to. But Liv was right – I was a smart girl acting very, very stupid. Every date, every kiss with a man I knew all along was not “The One” was all to feel a little less lonely, a little more secure. And it worked for nearly four years, most of the time. I disgusted myself then; I’m more disgusted now.Check back next week for Chapter 2!
August 20, 2013
Someday this will count for something
I'm a fairly typical twenty-something woman with a not-so-average dream: I want to talk to high school and college-aged kids about consent and rape.
If you've met me recently, one of the introductory questions you probably asked me is what I'm going to grad school for, and why. Maybe my response startled you. In some cases, people have gotten really uncomfortable and left the conversation entirely, choosing instead to talk to someone with a more "conventional" career choice. I'm not offended when that happens; I expect it. My standard responses to strangers who are ballsy enough to ask why I chose this avenue are "Personal experiences" and "Somebody has to."
You can probably imagine that this is not the career I dreamed of as a little girl. But I take the "Choose Joy" moniker inked on my ankle very seriously (obviously, since it's permanent). This odd career choice has a lot to do with that way of thinking.
The last few months have been difficult, culminating into a long and agonizing summer filled with unexpected trials, grievous mistakes, moments of "What the hell was I thinking?" and mountains of grief. I'm glad it's almost over. But now I have this issue of what to do with the grief that's left. The easiest thing in the world to do would be allowing it to fester and grow into a heinous, life-eating disease that cripples not only myself, but everyone I care about.
Maybe you know someone like that: someone who survived something horrible, and is forever crippled by it. The aftermath of their tragedy influences every decision they make, and ultimately their very character.
"Choosing Joy" isn't putting on a happy face, and masking the pain. Choosing joy is accepting that the pain is real, it sucks, and making use of it. Some people may take up a self-defensive sport like kick-boxing. I decided to write a book about it.
Choosing Joy isn't quoting some well-intentioned but misguided bumper sticker that says "Everything happens for a reason." That may or may not be true, but who cares what the "reason" was? Does it make you hurt less? Does it make you glad the incident happened, whatever it was? It doesn't matter to me anymore what the "reason" was; what matters, is that IT MATTERED.
I've heard it said that success is the best form of revenge. I agree, minus the part about revenge. I can't say I've never fantasized about it: the things I could do to ensure that the person who made my life hell experiences hell for himself. But even that doesn't undo the suffering that was inflicted. What I'm more interested in is preventing irrelevant suffering. I don't want to play the role of a helpless victim, a broken woman, or an irredeemable hot mess. I want to be someone with a cause. The way of choosing joy is using suffering to ignite the need for a cause.
It would be easier to do nothing. It would be easy to sit in therapy for the rest of my life wondering what I can do to "get over it" without actually doing anything. Waiting for grief to pass is never going to happen. Sometimes you have to act in spite of what you feel. If I sit back and do nothing, he wins. Hands down.
Lately I've come to believe that no true form of justice exists in this world. But if the only alternative is to give up on pursuing justice altogether, well, I can't do that.
I refuse to settle for that.
Choosing joy = choosing action.
If you've met me recently, one of the introductory questions you probably asked me is what I'm going to grad school for, and why. Maybe my response startled you. In some cases, people have gotten really uncomfortable and left the conversation entirely, choosing instead to talk to someone with a more "conventional" career choice. I'm not offended when that happens; I expect it. My standard responses to strangers who are ballsy enough to ask why I chose this avenue are "Personal experiences" and "Somebody has to."
You can probably imagine that this is not the career I dreamed of as a little girl. But I take the "Choose Joy" moniker inked on my ankle very seriously (obviously, since it's permanent). This odd career choice has a lot to do with that way of thinking.
The last few months have been difficult, culminating into a long and agonizing summer filled with unexpected trials, grievous mistakes, moments of "What the hell was I thinking?" and mountains of grief. I'm glad it's almost over. But now I have this issue of what to do with the grief that's left. The easiest thing in the world to do would be allowing it to fester and grow into a heinous, life-eating disease that cripples not only myself, but everyone I care about.
Maybe you know someone like that: someone who survived something horrible, and is forever crippled by it. The aftermath of their tragedy influences every decision they make, and ultimately their very character.
"Choosing Joy" isn't putting on a happy face, and masking the pain. Choosing joy is accepting that the pain is real, it sucks, and making use of it. Some people may take up a self-defensive sport like kick-boxing. I decided to write a book about it.
Choosing Joy isn't quoting some well-intentioned but misguided bumper sticker that says "Everything happens for a reason." That may or may not be true, but who cares what the "reason" was? Does it make you hurt less? Does it make you glad the incident happened, whatever it was? It doesn't matter to me anymore what the "reason" was; what matters, is that IT MATTERED.
I've heard it said that success is the best form of revenge. I agree, minus the part about revenge. I can't say I've never fantasized about it: the things I could do to ensure that the person who made my life hell experiences hell for himself. But even that doesn't undo the suffering that was inflicted. What I'm more interested in is preventing irrelevant suffering. I don't want to play the role of a helpless victim, a broken woman, or an irredeemable hot mess. I want to be someone with a cause. The way of choosing joy is using suffering to ignite the need for a cause.
It would be easier to do nothing. It would be easy to sit in therapy for the rest of my life wondering what I can do to "get over it" without actually doing anything. Waiting for grief to pass is never going to happen. Sometimes you have to act in spite of what you feel. If I sit back and do nothing, he wins. Hands down.
Lately I've come to believe that no true form of justice exists in this world. But if the only alternative is to give up on pursuing justice altogether, well, I can't do that.
I refuse to settle for that.
Choosing joy = choosing action.
July 26, 2013
Let your words be anything but empty
Sometimes healing means doing things that make you uncomfortable. I never thought speaking in front of crowds would ever make me uncomfortable, as someone who used to make her home on ice rinks and high school auditorium stages. But tonight, I was nervous. I think I was nervous not because of the people, but the subject matter. Because it's a subject so close to my heart, I knew I'd take it personally if people responded negatively. But ultimately, other people's opinions don't matter. So I got up there and read a chapter from my book; a chapter that shows (I hope) how big my brave is.
And hey, I even sold a book afterwards. Yep, just one. Luckily I don't measure success in numbers. Success was being able to write it down in the first place.
I couldn't have done it without you, Sara Bareilles.
And my GOODNESS do I make weird faces when I talk.
Why has no one pointed this out to me before??? ;)
And hey, I even sold a book afterwards. Yep, just one. Luckily I don't measure success in numbers. Success was being able to write it down in the first place.
I couldn't have done it without you, Sara Bareilles.
And my GOODNESS do I make weird faces when I talk.
Why has no one pointed this out to me before??? ;)
July 18, 2013
Conservative vs. Liberal: a mid-faith crisis
I can't believe I've been doing this Christian thing for almost five years, and am just now hearing about Rachel Held Evans. I can't believe I'm trying to figure out how to integrate Christianity with feminism and am just now discovering her blog. She's the kind of influential writer I hope to be one day...a mover and a shaker who may have to stir up a bit of controversy to make positive change happen, but at the same time isn't stirring things up just to cause trouble.
This blog, in particular, really speaks to where I am right now, almost-halfway through seminary. After becoming a Christian at a liberal party school, my parents joked that seminary would turn me into an atheist. That hasn't happened (and I don't see it happening any time soon), but something else I never expected has...I think seminary is turning me into a liberal.
Then again, my definition of "liberal" is probably quite different from the way most of America defines it (though I'm not entirely certain what that exact definition is). Quite possibly, I haven't changed all that much; it just feels that way because my environment has. The beliefs that caused readers of my column in The Daily Kent Stater to hurl "fanatical conservative" at me are quite normal at seminary (surprise, surprise). But the beliefs I have that would actually make me normal by Kent State standards make me somewhat of an anomaly in seminary.
Like Evans, I don't fit a standard "evangelical package." I don't even like the term "evangelical." I'm not your typical conservative evangelical because:
I really don't mind if homosexuals are allowed to have legalized relationships.
I believe God created the world, but not in seven literal 24-hour days, and I don't think Darwin was a heretic.
I enjoy a good drink every now and then. I agree with Ben Franklin that beer is proof (well, one of many) that God loves us.
I can't stand most worship music, and when a large body of "believers" raise their hands to the music, the first thought that pops into my head is "Is this church, or a Nazi rally?"
I really can't stand the expressions "believer" and "non-believer" (does that mean non-Christians don't believe anything?).
What Jon Acuff calls "prayer right there" (group prayer that, literally, happens just about anywhere, usually in coffee shops) makes me extremely uncomfortable...and I secretly hate anyone who asks me, an introvert, to lead that sort of prayer (okay, I don't *actually* hate them, but you know what I mean).
I believe women should have leadership positions in church.
But at the same time, I'm far from being a "liberal Christian" because:
I do believe in sin. And hell.
I may be a little lax in my attitudes toward gay marriage, but I'm one of the fiercest pro-lifers you will ever meet.
I believe in the Bible. I believe in a literal bodily resurrection. I believe prayer works...but not always the way we want it to.
For all my many mistakes, I still passionately believe in the Gospel, and "being a good person" is not the goal of Christianity. In fact, that's impossible.
So where does that leave me? Am I two different people among the "liberal" and "conservative" camps? Are those my only options to belong?
I like how Evans says "Unity is not the same as uniformity." Too often I look around a church, or a Bible study, see people who appear to have more faith than me, or who express it in ways I'm not used to, and think "How in the world am I supposed to fit in with these people?" They probably think the same about me...or maybe they don't. I realize that I'm far too judgmental for my own good. My goal for next semester will be to force my mind open as much as possible, while not being afraid to censor myself.
I'll let you know how that goes.
This blog, in particular, really speaks to where I am right now, almost-halfway through seminary. After becoming a Christian at a liberal party school, my parents joked that seminary would turn me into an atheist. That hasn't happened (and I don't see it happening any time soon), but something else I never expected has...I think seminary is turning me into a liberal.
Then again, my definition of "liberal" is probably quite different from the way most of America defines it (though I'm not entirely certain what that exact definition is). Quite possibly, I haven't changed all that much; it just feels that way because my environment has. The beliefs that caused readers of my column in The Daily Kent Stater to hurl "fanatical conservative" at me are quite normal at seminary (surprise, surprise). But the beliefs I have that would actually make me normal by Kent State standards make me somewhat of an anomaly in seminary.
Like Evans, I don't fit a standard "evangelical package." I don't even like the term "evangelical." I'm not your typical conservative evangelical because:
I really don't mind if homosexuals are allowed to have legalized relationships.
I believe God created the world, but not in seven literal 24-hour days, and I don't think Darwin was a heretic.
I enjoy a good drink every now and then. I agree with Ben Franklin that beer is proof (well, one of many) that God loves us.
I can't stand most worship music, and when a large body of "believers" raise their hands to the music, the first thought that pops into my head is "Is this church, or a Nazi rally?"
I really can't stand the expressions "believer" and "non-believer" (does that mean non-Christians don't believe anything?).
What Jon Acuff calls "prayer right there" (group prayer that, literally, happens just about anywhere, usually in coffee shops) makes me extremely uncomfortable...and I secretly hate anyone who asks me, an introvert, to lead that sort of prayer (okay, I don't *actually* hate them, but you know what I mean).
I believe women should have leadership positions in church.
But at the same time, I'm far from being a "liberal Christian" because:
I do believe in sin. And hell.
I may be a little lax in my attitudes toward gay marriage, but I'm one of the fiercest pro-lifers you will ever meet.
I believe in the Bible. I believe in a literal bodily resurrection. I believe prayer works...but not always the way we want it to.
For all my many mistakes, I still passionately believe in the Gospel, and "being a good person" is not the goal of Christianity. In fact, that's impossible.
So where does that leave me? Am I two different people among the "liberal" and "conservative" camps? Are those my only options to belong?
I like how Evans says "Unity is not the same as uniformity." Too often I look around a church, or a Bible study, see people who appear to have more faith than me, or who express it in ways I'm not used to, and think "How in the world am I supposed to fit in with these people?" They probably think the same about me...or maybe they don't. I realize that I'm far too judgmental for my own good. My goal for next semester will be to force my mind open as much as possible, while not being afraid to censor myself.
I'll let you know how that goes.
July 13, 2013
The new naked normal?
On the heels of my last post on modesty, this article was just published on Focus on the Family's entertainment review site (yes, I am unafraid to say that I enjoy a lot of FOTF's stuff, even if I don't agree with all of it). It's about society's ever-changing perspective on nudity, and whether it's too risque for entertainment. Should it be censored on TV and Youtube? Or is it time to stop being prudes about our bodies already?
Nowhere in the article is it mentioned that nudity is not inherently a bad thing; we were born naked, after all. To me, the issue isn't nudity itself, but the exploitation of it. The definition of what qualifies as "art" is rather subjective, but somehow I don't think that's Justin Timberlake's intent. Exploiting nudity means taking away one's personhood, and reducing him or her to a sex object. Art, on the other hand, says "I am more than a pair of breasts." There is an exponential difference between celebrating the body and cheapening it. I have to consider Timberlake's new music video to fall into the latter category, but I'm open to any arguments suggesting otherwise.
One of the comments on the article fell into the timeless Christian stereotype: the one that suggests our bodies are somehow shameful. "Adam and Eve covered up after they ate the fruit," this person says. Yes, they did...but my amateur attempt at biblical exegesis suggests that Adam and Eve covered up because they were vulnerable, not because they were naked. Physical vulnerability is connected to emotional vulnerability: if we were never insecure, if we never struggled with lust, if we never had a tendency to take something intended for beauty and wreck it for selfish purposes, there would never be anything wrong with nakedness.
I think American culture's biggest problem with nudity is not knowing how to appreciate and value it well. Our bodies were made for more than just sex. At the same time, Youtube should maintain its policy that one must be 18 or older to view certain videos, and movies should still keep their ratings in check. For the safety of those who don't know how to see the human body as anything but a means to a self-gratifying end.
Nowhere in the article is it mentioned that nudity is not inherently a bad thing; we were born naked, after all. To me, the issue isn't nudity itself, but the exploitation of it. The definition of what qualifies as "art" is rather subjective, but somehow I don't think that's Justin Timberlake's intent. Exploiting nudity means taking away one's personhood, and reducing him or her to a sex object. Art, on the other hand, says "I am more than a pair of breasts." There is an exponential difference between celebrating the body and cheapening it. I have to consider Timberlake's new music video to fall into the latter category, but I'm open to any arguments suggesting otherwise.
One of the comments on the article fell into the timeless Christian stereotype: the one that suggests our bodies are somehow shameful. "Adam and Eve covered up after they ate the fruit," this person says. Yes, they did...but my amateur attempt at biblical exegesis suggests that Adam and Eve covered up because they were vulnerable, not because they were naked. Physical vulnerability is connected to emotional vulnerability: if we were never insecure, if we never struggled with lust, if we never had a tendency to take something intended for beauty and wreck it for selfish purposes, there would never be anything wrong with nakedness.
I think American culture's biggest problem with nudity is not knowing how to appreciate and value it well. Our bodies were made for more than just sex. At the same time, Youtube should maintain its policy that one must be 18 or older to view certain videos, and movies should still keep their ratings in check. For the safety of those who don't know how to see the human body as anything but a means to a self-gratifying end.
June 3, 2013
Modesty is not a "woman's problem"
A friend of mine posted this article on modesty on Facebook recently. It's a timely article, since bikini season has just begun. As a woman and a Christian, I understand the point that this writer is trying to make: as a kindness to our male brothers in Christ, we ladies should cover up to keep them from lusting after our exposed bodies. That's a message I was given as a college student in Bible study, and didn't think to question it. But now I wonder...
Why aren't more women offended by the notion that modesty is a problem exclusive to our gender?
I brought this up once at dinner while on a church retreat. I was sitting at a table with half a dozen other women, and somehow the issue of modesty came up. We talked about the double standards at play: how women are lectured to cover up so the guys don't go crazy, but no one seems to care about telling guys to pull up their pants or put on T-shirts at the pool. Are men the only ones who get visually stimulated?
Because I lack a mental filter, I spoke up and added my no-cents: "There's this one guy who goes to our church, and I've seen every pair of boxers he owns. And no, we're not dating!" It took me a few seconds to realize why everyone was looking at me funny. But, my point stands (when taken in context): as far as I know, no staff member told this dude to pull his pants up a few inches to spare the ladies a lust-fest.
But this post isn't to remind the Church that women have libidos too: it's about why modesty is important in the first place. If you read the article above, the author makes a big deal about pointing out that women need to "be kind" to their brothers in Christ by wearing more fabric at the beach. Clearly, she's never heard of the expression "Less is more."
How do magazines like Maxim and the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue, which show just-barely covered models, stay in business when there's magazines like Playboy to compete with? Not to mention, naked women are at our disposal these days, thanks to the internet. But some guys (so I've been told) like to use their imaginations. And as long as the imagination can function, does it really matter whether a girl is wearing a bikini or a scuba suit?
The article fails to take into consideration that lust is a heart issue, not a clothing issue. Men are capable of lusting equally after women in bikinis and woman in burquas. There are far more convincing reasons to encourage young girls to embrace modesty, without shaming them into believing that their bodies are shameful stumbling blocks. I don't want to preach about the Christian stance on modesty -- we've all heard it, to some degree -- so I'll just share why I choose to embrace modesty:
I choose modesty because I believe my body has worth. I want to be selective about who I allow to see it. I choose modesty because, to an extent, my choice of clothing says something about my character. It's why I dress up for job interviews instead of showing up in pajamas (Don't read too much into that statement, though. I am not saying that women who dress provocatively have poor character. And any guy who whistles at a woman and expects to get sex from her because she's wearing a low-cut shirt is a toolbag).
Bottom line: I'm modest out of respect for myself and the body God gave me. I am not modest for the sake of other guys. Contrary to what that blogger says, I am not responsible for the choices they make. Did anyone ever consider how maybe men give in so easily to lustful fantasies because we set low standards for them to aspire to? It's not *just* about biology.
It's deeply saddening to see young girls buying into the idea that modesty is some kind of punishment, simply because the features we are born with are deemed attractive by the opposite sex. Not only that, but this line of thinking contributes to the idea that "men can't help themselves," which is a common excuse used to justify rape.
That blogger wants to talk about the huge "sacrifice" she's making by not wearing two-piece bathing suits; seriously? Let's talk to the men to "sacrifice" turning their heads around to stare, shall we?
Women deserve better than that. Modesty is not our problem.
Why aren't more women offended by the notion that modesty is a problem exclusive to our gender?
I brought this up once at dinner while on a church retreat. I was sitting at a table with half a dozen other women, and somehow the issue of modesty came up. We talked about the double standards at play: how women are lectured to cover up so the guys don't go crazy, but no one seems to care about telling guys to pull up their pants or put on T-shirts at the pool. Are men the only ones who get visually stimulated?
Because I lack a mental filter, I spoke up and added my no-cents: "There's this one guy who goes to our church, and I've seen every pair of boxers he owns. And no, we're not dating!" It took me a few seconds to realize why everyone was looking at me funny. But, my point stands (when taken in context): as far as I know, no staff member told this dude to pull his pants up a few inches to spare the ladies a lust-fest.
But this post isn't to remind the Church that women have libidos too: it's about why modesty is important in the first place. If you read the article above, the author makes a big deal about pointing out that women need to "be kind" to their brothers in Christ by wearing more fabric at the beach. Clearly, she's never heard of the expression "Less is more."
How do magazines like Maxim and the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue, which show just-barely covered models, stay in business when there's magazines like Playboy to compete with? Not to mention, naked women are at our disposal these days, thanks to the internet. But some guys (so I've been told) like to use their imaginations. And as long as the imagination can function, does it really matter whether a girl is wearing a bikini or a scuba suit?
The article fails to take into consideration that lust is a heart issue, not a clothing issue. Men are capable of lusting equally after women in bikinis and woman in burquas. There are far more convincing reasons to encourage young girls to embrace modesty, without shaming them into believing that their bodies are shameful stumbling blocks. I don't want to preach about the Christian stance on modesty -- we've all heard it, to some degree -- so I'll just share why I choose to embrace modesty:
I choose modesty because I believe my body has worth. I want to be selective about who I allow to see it. I choose modesty because, to an extent, my choice of clothing says something about my character. It's why I dress up for job interviews instead of showing up in pajamas (Don't read too much into that statement, though. I am not saying that women who dress provocatively have poor character. And any guy who whistles at a woman and expects to get sex from her because she's wearing a low-cut shirt is a toolbag).
Bottom line: I'm modest out of respect for myself and the body God gave me. I am not modest for the sake of other guys. Contrary to what that blogger says, I am not responsible for the choices they make. Did anyone ever consider how maybe men give in so easily to lustful fantasies because we set low standards for them to aspire to? It's not *just* about biology.
It's deeply saddening to see young girls buying into the idea that modesty is some kind of punishment, simply because the features we are born with are deemed attractive by the opposite sex. Not only that, but this line of thinking contributes to the idea that "men can't help themselves," which is a common excuse used to justify rape.
That blogger wants to talk about the huge "sacrifice" she's making by not wearing two-piece bathing suits; seriously? Let's talk to the men to "sacrifice" turning their heads around to stare, shall we?
Women deserve better than that. Modesty is not our problem.
May 15, 2013
"Real women" have curves? Think again
Well now that my first year of grad school is over, I FINALLY have time to write! Write blogs, that is. I don't want to know how many pages I printed this semester for class. Enough to compose a book, I'm sure.
By now, what Abercrombie and Fitch CEO Mike Jeffries said about why his store doesn't carry plus-size clothing is old news. I, however, have been formatting my response to this little catch-phrase that came up in retaliation when his interview went viral: Real women have curves!
It's a nice sentiment, really. I think America Ferrara was in a decent movie of the same title. As a woman, I appreciate those who understand that beauty isn't a one-size-fits-all package. But as a woman who is only 5'0", graduated high school at barely 90 pounds, and didn't even weigh 110 pounds until spending a semester abroad in Italy, and DOESN'T have an eating disorder, I am honestly hurt by that statement. It's well-intentioned, but ultimately misguided.
Furthermore, you have to admit that it's dangerous to try and define what a "real woman" is, beyond someone who is born with a vagina. Even when meant as a compliment, it's treading very hollow ground.
I'm not writing this to complain, but rather to shed light on the other side of the "What does a real woman look like?" conversation. The real reason I was so small for most of my life is probably because of my highly competitive figure skating lifestyle, which lasted ten years (age seven to seventeen). But genes factor into that as well -- my mother is naturally slender, and so is my grandmother. We all have ridiculously high metabolisms, so you'll rarely see me NOT hungry. And yet, no matter what I eat (or how much), my weight remains around the same.
Before you begin to say "Ugh, I HATE you! I wish I had that problem!" let me just say that it's not as easy as it sounds. It is nearly impossible for me to find clothes, mostly jeans, that fit right. Dresses and skirts that are meant to flatter a woman's curves hang awkwardly on my frame. Not having a "woman's body" makes it easy for people to assume I'm much younger than I am, which often leads to patronizing remarks that are difficult to deflect. It's not fun being 24 and feeling trapped in the body of a 13 year old. And then there's the taunting I received in high school, and occasionally in college: "Don't you eat?" Of course I eat! Seriously, just ask my roommate.
As rude as it is to make fun of a woman with noticeable curves, it's just as rude to make disparaging comments about a healthy woman who doesn't have them. But believe me, this one wishes she did. Just how the grass is always greener on the other side, the cocktail dress looks better on the other side of the rack.
My point in talking about this isn't to compare who has it worse in terms of body image. There are plenty of difficulties in being a few pounds heavier or lighter than you'd like.
But Jeffries isn't concerned about that. He wants his clothes worn by thin, pretty people. He dislikes fat people. Fine. But how do you define "fat," exactly? Obesity can't always be detected just by looking at someone. A few pounds over an otherwise healthy BMI doesn't equate to "fat." But a few pounds less than an otherwise healthy BMI doesn't scream "Anorexic!" either.
The picture of health is different for everyone. So encouraging one body type over another, even if it's a less-appreciated curvy body type that represents the "average" woman, isn't right. Healthy eating and living is what should be encouraged. Some women are a natural size 8 or 10, and some of us are a natural 4 or a 2. That's nothing to brag or feel guilty about. Changing yourself to fit a certain status quo is.
By now, what Abercrombie and Fitch CEO Mike Jeffries said about why his store doesn't carry plus-size clothing is old news. I, however, have been formatting my response to this little catch-phrase that came up in retaliation when his interview went viral: Real women have curves!
It's a nice sentiment, really. I think America Ferrara was in a decent movie of the same title. As a woman, I appreciate those who understand that beauty isn't a one-size-fits-all package. But as a woman who is only 5'0", graduated high school at barely 90 pounds, and didn't even weigh 110 pounds until spending a semester abroad in Italy, and DOESN'T have an eating disorder, I am honestly hurt by that statement. It's well-intentioned, but ultimately misguided.
Furthermore, you have to admit that it's dangerous to try and define what a "real woman" is, beyond someone who is born with a vagina. Even when meant as a compliment, it's treading very hollow ground.
I'm not writing this to complain, but rather to shed light on the other side of the "What does a real woman look like?" conversation. The real reason I was so small for most of my life is probably because of my highly competitive figure skating lifestyle, which lasted ten years (age seven to seventeen). But genes factor into that as well -- my mother is naturally slender, and so is my grandmother. We all have ridiculously high metabolisms, so you'll rarely see me NOT hungry. And yet, no matter what I eat (or how much), my weight remains around the same.
Before you begin to say "Ugh, I HATE you! I wish I had that problem!" let me just say that it's not as easy as it sounds. It is nearly impossible for me to find clothes, mostly jeans, that fit right. Dresses and skirts that are meant to flatter a woman's curves hang awkwardly on my frame. Not having a "woman's body" makes it easy for people to assume I'm much younger than I am, which often leads to patronizing remarks that are difficult to deflect. It's not fun being 24 and feeling trapped in the body of a 13 year old. And then there's the taunting I received in high school, and occasionally in college: "Don't you eat?" Of course I eat! Seriously, just ask my roommate.
As rude as it is to make fun of a woman with noticeable curves, it's just as rude to make disparaging comments about a healthy woman who doesn't have them. But believe me, this one wishes she did. Just how the grass is always greener on the other side, the cocktail dress looks better on the other side of the rack.
My point in talking about this isn't to compare who has it worse in terms of body image. There are plenty of difficulties in being a few pounds heavier or lighter than you'd like.
But Jeffries isn't concerned about that. He wants his clothes worn by thin, pretty people. He dislikes fat people. Fine. But how do you define "fat," exactly? Obesity can't always be detected just by looking at someone. A few pounds over an otherwise healthy BMI doesn't equate to "fat." But a few pounds less than an otherwise healthy BMI doesn't scream "Anorexic!" either.
The picture of health is different for everyone. So encouraging one body type over another, even if it's a less-appreciated curvy body type that represents the "average" woman, isn't right. Healthy eating and living is what should be encouraged. Some women are a natural size 8 or 10, and some of us are a natural 4 or a 2. That's nothing to brag or feel guilty about. Changing yourself to fit a certain status quo is.
