Repressed Rage

 

I don't feel at home here. But is it this planet? This body? This city? I don't know. I don't feel at home on the couch. But not in my bed either. Earlier I thought I did in the bath. But it passed. Anxiety, I guess. Is anxiety to be without a home? Or, a state of peace? Such a simple word for such a big concept that shows up in so many different ways. Uranus on the Ascendant. The church should have radicalized me. I loathe the word should. It's very Saturn. Fuck off Saturn! But in this case, it feels right. The church SHOULD HAVE radicalized me. They didn't. Nor did the young people at the church camp, my youth pastor, or later on, my college pastor. He (always a he, Who do you think we are, Lilith?) spoke about abortion with this special kind of distance. The kind that knows that he'll never truly deal with what that is because those close to him who may want to go to him about it will feel too fearful. He didn't strike a paralyzing fear by any means. But for me, what we was was bigger, scarier. He was charming, affable, and young, with Prince Eric hair. I thought he was hot. Gross. He took his chaste bride when she was 19. You know when Gary Vee is pretending to listen? For those 3-seconds (the longest I've seen it b4 he interrupts this whatever dude that idolizes him), you believe he's truly invested in caring about someone else's life. That was him, all the time. He played basketball and partook in pop culture. He was funny. He drank. Now that was juicy. The church should have radicalized me. But they failed. They fail everyday; the white, American church. Most of the churches. My teachers should have radicalized me....

But they were made busy, under resourced, and underpaid. You don't really have the energy to inspire when you're trying to survive. Furthermore, you barely have time to think more deeply about concepts that don't obviously directly affect you. And those that do find themselves spinning with a depression sourced by the unmendable heartbreak of injustice. The students born into the homes of poor and working-class addicts, foster care, without shoes, are the ones my teachers would watch eat lunch alone. I remember when the police (or some kind of school security) were called on John Tabor. He was big, tall, quiet, gentle seeming. But my peers were afraid of him. I was a little afraid of him. He lived in “the home.” I didn't pay attention in class. I also needed glasses for a long, long, long time before doing anything about it. I would sit in class and stare at John and wonder what it was like for him to go there after school. I imagined it as a horror movie with white walls, cold floors, and no windows where Miss Trunchbull ordered him & them to go to bed without dinner.

I wrote many notes to him I never ended up passing. I was also busy reinforcing toxic gender norms onto the boys interested in me and pretending to read anything that wasn't about the Holocaust. I was weirdly obsessed with The Holocaust and the incredible stories told by Elie and Anne. One of my teachers could have noticed those were the only books I was finishing and said, hey, you know, I noticed you like these books. Maybe you should read this speech called “Ain't I a woman?”, or this speech by MLK Jr. But again, they're kept busy. If they spend too much time thinking about the systems and people allowing this they may lose the faith they need to show up. A lot of my teachers thought I was dumb. I don't know that they really had time to think otherwise. Maybe I didn't give them enough juice to. This will probably make me mad forever. But honestly, a part of me knows it was good for me. I'm that kind of freak who needs people to underestimate me. In a small way it drives me. I've heard that's not healthy. Who knows.

My mom radicalized me in her special way. She was kind and good and affectionate. She would tell me that I was other things besides “beautiful,” and that those things were what mattered. She took responsibility when she caused harm. She told me to. Sometimes I did. When I didn't I felt awful. I still do. She told me her biggest secret when I was 13. It was the truest vulnerability I'd ever witnessed. She cried in public with no apology upon finding out someone, anyone was mistreated. She spoke ill of some more powerful. But not ill enough to keep her from moving, loving, laughing. She kept my friend's secrets. But she didn't have the language. She left the country for the first time 4 years ago. She went to Israel. She came back concerned for the Palestinian people. I wish I could take her everywhere. I wish I could show her the world. C told me I was a good writer. B never did. T said I needed work. I don't think I know yet what he really thinks about my writing. Imprints imprints everywhere. I never thought K was a girl. But I never thought they were a boy. Makes sense. That helped radicalize me.

College should have radicalized me. Instead I sat around angry envying sorority girls who I knew I didn't want to be but who seemed to float through the years I spent stomping about from class to Ruby Tuesdays to the gym to church to the far away phone calls where I would oppress someone who loved me with my own depression and soulful feeling of a personal homelessness. Then I would come home and either gorge myself or starve myself, laying in bed full of the anxiety that kept my legs forever shaking. I hope John Tabor is okay. I hope he's loved. I hope I'm spelling his name right. Jesus Christ.

The Cheesecake Factory should have radicalized me. The GM spoke to me like I was an idiot from the time I met him. He would simultaneously observe my body and mannerisms as if he wanted to consume them, but also owned them. This went on for months. I was pulled aside various times by co-workers and told that I needed to learn how “to act” around him or I would lose my job. Basically, I needed to prove to him that I was capable of upselling product and not rolling my eyes at tables that treated me like shit. He would follow me and quiz me on ingredients in dishes. I told him I was moving to LA in a few months. He laughed in my face and said he'd believe it when he saw it. I told him I was going to transfer stores. He soon demoted me to host. My income was cut three-fourths, and I needed money to get to LA. Kristin said, you know they're always hiring at Hooters. I could get you an interview tomorrow. She was right. I knew I would hate it, but, I needed the money so bad. I started a week later. It was awful. The manager would hold up our beginning of shift meeting to declare that I was an inept child and rebel, refusing to wear the amount of makeup demanded by corporate. One of the girls would cake me up and I'd hit the floor. I made less than I did at Cheesecake, but I figured I'd get to LA and be transferred as a host/server and be okay.

Working at Hooters was my biggest ever shame and secret at that point in my life. It was incredibly antithetical to my brand, lol. Three months passed and B drove me across the country. I got here and went to The Cheesecake Factory Anaheim to remind them that I was a transfer and they would need to find room for me. They had no idea who I was. I called my best friend who worked at my old Virginia Cheesecake Factory. She snuck in the manager's office and saw that they had never submitted my transfer paperwork. This was intentional. Weeks went by and they took down notes and notes from me but never came to the phone or transferred the paperwork. So she sent me the receipts. I went to corporate. They told me I'd need to organize a collective if there truly was one. I reached out to around 6 women, all whom had been harassed or seriously degraded by this GM. I was told this was the fifth case brought against him. I guess it was enough. He was fired briefly after. Years went by and I felt tremendous guilt. He was a widow and a Gemini. I knew that he wasn't always conscious of the harm he caused. But he needed to pay. So he did. I don't know if it was the right thing. But what I do know is I wish I would have done the same to Henri. Henri was a Scorpio from the true bourgeoisie owning class. He was a sommelier. He told me directly that if I ever went to HR about him I would regret it. He spent an entire beginning of shift meeting one day asking every server (all men, and 5 of them) what was wrong with the outfit I wore to host that night. They went around exchanging complaints of my appearance. The next night he liked my outfit and asked all of these same servers to agree with him that it was nice. It was more figure hugging. It was one of the only jobs I ever cried before instead of after about. Before I think because I was always afraid. He asked me to go to a wine tasting with him and I said no. He cancelled my shift the next day. The stories go on and on and on and on. For some reason Tierra and I were the two chosen victims of his psychological warfare. But, if you ever eat at Superba in Venice, you may see him or someone who knows him well and wishes they didn't. The lesson I want to share with you is, if you can organize, do it.

Social media makes my legs shake. It makes me feel bad, and small. Sometimes it makes me feel hopeful. Often, hopeless. I heard about some study that showed that the more progressive you are, and the more oppressed, the less happy you are. Makes sense. I don't know that I want to know about everything going on in the world. But when I leave here, even for a day I feel lost and selfish. Lorenzo radicalized me on facebook. Then Toni. Greg had a part. Then Rachel on IG. Rachel was a big one. Jenny Yang was it for awhile. There was a consuming period with Ericka. Bernie, obviously. Youtube, sort of. Then Matt McGorry came into the restaurant I was working at. It was 2-ish am. We closed at 3. He sat in the corner with his friends. Him and I fell into a stimulating chat about police brutality and he invited me to this activist group meeting. I had been looking for something like this since I had moved to LA 3-ish years prior.

I went. The first meeting I went alone. I felt a very conscious flight feeling response in my nervous system. But I stayed. I raised my hand when I was asked if any of us had a family member or friend who had spoke ill of undocumented peoples on social media or at home. I kept my hand raised when asked if any of us had retorted to these people. Of the 20-some hands in the room mine was selected in front of this group and asked what I had said to this person. I said that I had stated that it was very difficult and very expensive to complete the processes of immigrating “legally.” They asked, how expensive? I said that I didn't know and that I should have. They went on to double down on this. Everyone in the room aside from the speakers were white. They looked down in their laps with shame at me for not knowing this. There's a lotta shit I didn't know. Still is.

I wanted to go in the bathroom and cry. I knew that that feeling meant that this was something for me to work through, but I was terrified of all the rest that would come up through this process. Afterwards, I walked up to a few people and tried to engage in pleasantries, letting them know I was new and didn't know anyone, and that I wanted to do this work. But all of them were clearly so ashamed of me, or maybe they were just ice cold. Either way they didn't engage with me. I got in my car and sobbed the sobs of isolation for 15-ish minutes and drove home. I told my partner about it and he passionately stated a monologue that wasn't it, including that this is why he doesn't organize with specific “types” of people. Something in me felt that although this was not the right way to do this work, this is what I should be doing. So I went back and back and back. And I reminded myself of monologues of gratitude to these same people for at least putting together the important logistics of setting this work and education up to be available to me. Along the way I got lucky, meeting D and K, G, V and L, and so many more. But to this day I can still feel the harm caused that will never be spoken of or acknowledged. So much more followed...

I remember telling my youth minister how holy and glorious sex was gonna be for me because I was going to wait. I was 14 and very confident about this. We were both sitting on my bed in braids and shorts, sweating. Church camp in the deep south is HAWT. She looked afraid. I was one of those kids that listened, really listened. If an adult I respected said something, I ran with it. People talk about dramatic types that embellish. When I was a kid I blew concepts up to their highest heights. Maybe it was my Leo moon craving the drama. Maybe it was my creativity trying to make anything halfway entertaining happen in the bumfuck mountain town that held me. Maybe it was Uranus telling me to shake it up and rebel against the mehhhhh that played on repeat. I asked my mom what abortion was after I heard about it on the news. She softly told me that sometimes women who were pregnant couldn't have their babies. I jumped in. Not my pastor. Not her. I jumped in with, And they murder them?! Maybe there were seeds planted in whatever I saw on the news that got me there. Or maybe I'm just inherently one of those crisis center worker pieces of shit who has to work against my inner nature to force myself to care about real people. This quandary keeps me up at night.

I've always told stories about people from home using their names, sometimes their full names. I think most southern and rural people do that. “My friend” just feels too far away. I wanna bring people in so they get to know the people I'm talkin' about. Sometimes people call this endearing or make jokes about it. Lately I've been wondering if I do this because I fear that those I love and know won't have a shot at the kind of legacy they deserve in the wider world. So, just repeating their name signals to the universe that they're being thought of. And then there are other names that irritate me. I like to use those so I can curse them. Obvi, I'm a witch. Jk.

I don't know where to place this writing. I don't know if anyone is even reading it at this point. I don't even know why I am writing it. What am I gonna do, write a fuckin' book? Who am I? And who is anybody to be interesting enough for that? Most women. Women are so important to me. But I don't always feel important. I hope you feel important today. I just want us all to feel as important as Jeff Bezos does, you know?

Meandering Morning pt. 2

I think it should be illegal to criticize other's public art if you've never shared your own in such a large platform. We should all have to share our art so publicly before raising sharp criticism. It just seems so clearly immoral, reckless, and harmful to our collective as a whole. It's also disturbing. It's disturbing to entertain how many people are so deeply depressed, repeating cyclical patterning of unconscious ill will upon another's creative perspectives. There are so many people so willfully destructive that they may effort towards minimizing the striking and bold vulnerability of others in order to feel more seen themselves. In order to validate their own life's presence. We've ousted the coolness factor behind cynicism, labeling it masculine, advocating too often for the devil to remain socially acceptable in the zeitgeist. Criticism is "lit" though. And no, not the intellectual debate kind. But that of human beings doing and sharing their most quintessential forms. You comment how much you hate the way Becky does her hair in her youtube tutorial, or the basic and mediocre song Jonathan wrote. You spend thoughtful time artfully crafting just why you hate so many things. It's in our millennial bloodline. It's criticism, and often, it's entitlement. And I know it well. I know it best in the dark. I know it's most shrewd voice in my ear speaking belittling words to myself every time I think about my bank account, or decide what to eat for a meal. I know it on my way to auditions and I know it's voice overlapping on a track of repetition between glances, words, and silence traced between conflict with my lover. I've used criticism successfully to receive laughs and validation. I've used it to validate my own intellect. I've used it to connect to new people most immediately. I've used it when angry and disappointed in the way I have allowed the critical shame monster to imprison me with neurosis keeping me from sharing my creative gifts, leading me to sink in, to feel small and useless. When you know how much you have to give, and you know that you aren't giving it because the opinions of other's are holding you back, you feel selfish, and empty. And that's what that crippling fear does. It makes you selfish, withholding all the love, connection and unique perspectives that you were brought in this carnation to share. You know people are yearning for it, but you just can't bring yourself to share it for the same reasons that you find yourself taking such thorough craftsmanship in your critical comment. You know that others will do the same to you and your soul's work. We live in a time where the degree of exposure that is accessible most immediately to all of us in the social space is some of the most fragile and dangerous positioning one has been able to find themselves in throughout all of history. No, we are not experiencing famines. Disease is often treated. But our mental health has no protections. There is no refuge from such exposure. When I see others express fiery criticism of inspiring, creative vulnerability, no matter how big or small, it's almost as if my fears have manifested most largely. And often, they're even bigger monsters than I had previously dreamed up. I wish people could be conscious around the mediums we're finding ourselves exposed through. Not fully seen and far too seen at the same time.

Meandering Morning Steam of Consciousness

I don't have many photos of my early twenties, I know. I roll over staring at the bookshelf, running my teeth across my dry lips from left to right. Right to left. Am I even alive? And who decides? My best friend growing up was always the one to take pictures of us, of me. She even made my first myspace. I'm just not very good at making sure my memories are able to hold the long term value of a photo. Who needs commitment, right? I could ask why I don't have more photos, although I know well and I'm not proud of the larger reasoning. I'm able to pass the more consistent reasoning off as being committed to “being present,” which helps me honor my denial's best college try. So many of the best moments I have had were many in which I did not want to disturb, almost out of fear that all at once they might disappear if I were to interrupt them, like my restaurant jobs in response to some midnight “talks” with managers in which I wouldn't stay for a glass of wine knowing that the next day my job may have vanished. The real reason I don't have more photos as of recent, I don't know what's real. It's also why my illogical fear of wonderful moments disappearing overwhelms me to the point of conscious belief. Is this a passing phase? I mean, this is my life? Maybe? I can't always tell. So much of my life in LA feels like a walking, eclipsed dream. So ridiculous, it couldn't be real. There's no way that I actually live, permanently, intentionally in a place that all four of my first best friends each moved away from. Like dominoes, one-by-one within a span of two long years I said hello and goodbye to the only people that made the city feel real, my life feel real, or even acceptable for residency. Sometimes I get lost in how unbelievable it is for me to imagine that yes, there are people who push their dogs in strollers and call them their children in a genuine way. And yes, there are people who fully lack any spatial awareness who have been fully accepted into the culture of this place I call home.

I weave in between smiling, awkward, lonely, yet “comfortable” (the word I like to use when framing my inner monologues around class) people at friends of friend's parties at their parent's Hollywood Hills home, or running into another ex's friend at a yoga studio yearning to scream out, I DON'T HAVE ANY MONEY, and I hate you because you do!!! I walk around dragging my crippling fear that at some point it may become so obvious that black ink will ooze out of my pores, beginning to write it on my face for them to see, or they'll just hear it in a dream. My bubbling rage feels so overwhelming that I fear I may unintentionally send it to them via subconscious psychic mail-order, writing my identity's address all over the box for their mind to open up in pity – my second worst fear.

My inexhaustible insecurities about class, silenced in rarely broached contempt. Is that why it turns so bitter? If only I were able to more openly interject it in between my millennial astrology jokes at these parties of people, or at check out at the hair salon upon opening up my Groupon, or when I meet someone and immediately feel such envy? They say envy is supposed to be such a wonderful feeling, full of productive opportunity. I hate whoever this they collective is that always starts these trends. THEY started the whole, Does like attract like? And lack to lack? There aren't enough emotional boundaries to set in place in order to combat these notions once entertaining them, even once. They stay with you because it's human nature to use our imagination's fullest capacity to inflict self-criticism and what-ifs. Are these Laws of Attraction really so cruel? Are they truly this degree of insufferable libertarian keyboard warrior, cis, class-owning white man, telling you to go out there are pull yourself up by your Urban Outfitter thrifted suspenders? Or even worse, ARE THEY REALLY working class victims of the capitalist fairytale, aggressively sharing the good word of, “If you just work hard enough..” , in good faith, because they are so terrified that they may not believe it themselves. Because they know that they have to. Because if they don't, there is nothing to dream about. So they push on. They push their mansplaining, trite, neoliberal trash over into YOUR existential mind's driveway for you to fucking sort through, and yet again, self-criticize yourself into deciding what you actually believe about it.

I mean, I am a white woman with cis appearing, eurocentric features deemed “attractive” by the racist, anti-black beauty standards of our country's yesteryear, still stained in blood. I'm white and I'm talented. So.... I should be able to do something with that? Make more happen at least with those privileges? But then, lack attracts lack comes back again? Because what if I don't like that reality? Moreover, what if I hate that reality. What if I don't like that women that look like me are all so easily used for a Neutrogena commercial in a way that further promotes such dangerous, covert messaging about beauty, race, and class? What if we were all honest about our eating disorders? Another thing we can't talk about. What can we talk about?! Oh yes, our dreams. What we're doing to “make it happen,” and, “how it's going.” Until you're like, you know, I don't know. No one wants to hold space for “I don't know.” Everyone wants to know. Everyone wants their therapist to know. Their religion must know. Or their manifestation guide to know. People are so fucking desperate that they will pay a woman with a Silverlake hat, culottes, crystals, and a soft, just-masculine-enough voice a bunch of money every month to tell them how to be more “magnetic.” She talks about true authenticity. Maybe authentically I'm sometimes a depressive person screaming inside that if we don't talk about the taboo I am going to punch the wall. Maybe authentically the world isn't fair. It's full of injustices and shame and people who need more access to human touch and people unable to access to their dreams. I feel consumed with anger on their behalf and at these systems that I am supposed to work with, smile at, and rub my titties together for.

If you're reading this I want you to know that I only wish to validate other's pain as fully and readily as possible. And I hope to be held in a similar way. Following your dreams is often a lonely business. Following your dreams as an actor, is kind of like following your dreams as an inventor. No one believes you until you make a million dollars, and sometimes you find yourself in a place where you can totally understand Romy's Post-it lie. It's not just the fear of being an imposter that so impels you to keep quiet about your true dreams. It's other people actively implying, or even stating in so many words that you are the imposter whom you fear. It's like, FINE, I didn't invent post-its. I must be lying about everything! I'm just a big liar!

All of You Men?

Can all of these men stop dropping bombs on people? Can all of these men stop telling me who I am? Can all of these men stop texting me unanswered for three weeks, sending me strange pictures of vaginas? Can these men stop being 16-year-old boys I have hope for instead of old, creepy boomers who I've already set aflame any positive expectations of in my various traditions of burning bonfires of trust for various men I now have to part with. It's depressing. Can all of these men stop calling me and leaving me very scary, overtly sexual voicemails? Or simple, yet deeply complex breathing voicemails? Can all of these men stop finding joy in the knowledge that they have power of fear over me? Can all of these men stop beating vulnerable people in the streets, and in prisons, and gay men, Trans, and their children for not subscribing to their religion, and women for not engaging in sex with them? Can all of these men just stop beating? Can all of these men stop explaining to me what I already know? Can all of these men stop promoting a story and culture in which the original woman was more inherently sinful, for their own personal gain? Can all of these men stop hiring me at restaurants so that they can flex their power through moving me back and forth from the position they hired me for; server, to host, to counter, then back?, because I am a seemingly agreeable young woman who in reality just really needs a job, and they want to see me in a dress, or see me vulnerably ask time and time again for what I was promised, or have the opportunity to passive aggressively demand a smile from me, or to force me to stay after shift to have a drink with them that I do not want, because their company is such a divine privilege that I must be so ungrateful to not acknowledge and accept. Can all of these men stop punishing me and us the next day at work when we don't stay after work for the free drink they so graciously demanded we enjoy with them? Can all of these men stop building strong relationships with us, offering us specific compliments void of sexual nature, giving the appearance of unconditional concern and care, then touching our knee and whispering in our ear in the manager's office later on? Can most of these men, also, stop being our dad's age and occasionally looking like our dad? Can all of these men stop treating jobs they offer us as quid pro quos for praise and insured agreement? Can all of these men stop telling us how we should of responded in sexual harassment situations when they lack the education of the psychology of what it feels like to find yourself paralyzed with fear, frozen into a moment of allowance. Agreeable allowance allows for disassociation. Disassociation makes it easier to forget. Right ladies? Can all of these men managers stop telling me that the bartender who always calls me sweetie, condescends me for sport, and touches my lower back at every close quarter opportunity, is the person in charge, and to listen to him and not take everything so seriously? Can all of these men that run stand-up comedy mics stop describing any of the female comics as adorable? Just, please? Can all of these men directors of plays stop lashing out at the young woman in the cast who seems the most likely to accept unnecessary, moody lashings by way of petulant children trapped in overweight, hairy, 50-year-old man bodies. WHY have you been conditioned to feel empowered to exercise your power in a toxic manner? Furthermore, why have you capitalized on it and chosen to cultivate such disgusting qualities? Why has SHE has been conditioned to accept and move through emotional abuse so gracefully at the ever-changing moods of grown men incapable of processing stress while making choices as the corpus callosum will not allow? Can all of these men stop trying so desperately to belittle my opinions on social media through personally attacking me as someone who “probably watches The Bachelor”? Can all of these men stop attacking my ideas with personal attacks, period? Can all of these men stop positioning themselves as the all-knowing authorities on morality? Can all of these men stop trying to shame us, while simultaneously romantically pursuing us, in order to weaken our self worth so that we may feel so empty and lost that we seek something in them? Can all of these men driving Lyfts and Ubers stop asking me to sit in the front seat and putting their hands up my skirt when I'm tipsy and clearly too trusting of men in general? Because god forbid a young millennial woman chooses hope in the face of reality and makes the bold decision to view men as humans and not as the freaks they are, consistently objectifying young women. Can all self-righteous male chefs, and also, underpaid and undervalued men of the kitchens of the restaurants I work in stop laughing at me when I ask for a missing item for my table, or guest's food? Maybe you did give it to me, and I made a mistake because I'm a human, and I mess up ALL THE TIME, but often, you didn't, and just because I'm a young, silly girl, does not make me stupid, or someone who should be put in a position to have to beg for a caesar dressing for Tom. Can all of these men stop describing women's sexual choices as unattractive, as if they are the ultimate authority on what is attractive? Most of you don't even own pants that fit so I don't know who you think you are. Can all of these men stop re-iterating the amount of money they have spent on dates with women? Can they also stop describing the woman's choice to not engage in sexual relations with them following said date as “fine, it's whatever, but you know, I mean I spent like $150 on her, and we were together all day, but, that's how they are.”? Can men stop describing us as “they”? Can other men stop describing us as “some women”? “You know, not all women, but some, crazy, liberal women”? Can all of these men please stop using public figures of women who actively work to silence feminists as examples of good or more sane women? Anyone working to silence anyone is working against understanding. Can all of these men stop touching our heads in forceful ways, pulling it towards their crotch in their cars in front of Yogurtlands? You guys are freaks and we would never do that to you. Why? Because we don't feel ownership over your body. Also, maybe I don't want to hold your hand. So, how about not making me? Can all of these men stop telling their wives who to vote for and what to care about? Can all of these men stop telling other men who to love? Can all of these men stop telling all people who to love and how? Can all of these men stop telling other men what rights to support and which are too much? Can all of these men in authority positions stop punishing me for not laughing at their jokes or smiling at them through firing me, or cutting my shifts, or spreading gossip about me, or not casting me or making an effort to embarrass me in a public setting, more often than not, in order to make me appear stupid, silence me, or discredit my voice? Can all of these same ego driven, sensitive men stop claiming that women and socially conscious men are too sensitive to be effective voices in positions of power? Can all of these men stop wanting power more than anything? Can all of these men stop pursuing power? Can all of these men stop giving other men who want power, the right to have it, simply because they want it, and not because they are deserving or decent or diplomatic or clear leaders? Can you guys PLEASE stop defending men in power that commit violent, inhumane acts against others? Can all of these men stop enjoying oppressing others? Can all of these men stop pretending to appease women?, especially those women they claim to value and share a paramount, intimate relationship with? Can all of these men stop perpetuating the notion that apologizing makes you weak? Or that conceding to new ideas or change makes you less principled? Or that men who view their female partner as an equal are just pretending? Can all of these men stop perpetuating the lie that men of other races are either more violent or more feminine, in order to attempt to strip other men of the freedom to feel or live into the dimensional, sensitive, living being they are, because that's not appropriate. Can all of these men stop using the word appropriate in relationship to women's choices? Can all of these educated, caring men stop trying to have the very big, important conversation of classism and capitalism, while avoiding the topics of racism and misogyny, because “they are all tied together”? Even if technically this can sort of be true, and this knowledge you have  is knowledge you have cultivated which can be helpful, this is still an active choice to softly invalidate racism and misogyny and it's incredible, perennial effects. *There is nothing soft about the invalidation of racial and gender issues. Can all of these men please stop reminding us of what a horrible candidate Hillary was for president? Most of us know. But if you think for one second that we don't deeply fear that it wasn't just because she was a poor candidate, but more than anything, that she was a woman, then you don't know us at all. If you think that reality doesn't devastate us, keep us up at night, disturb our relationships with men, or command power over us, you are wrong. Can all of you men stop claiming to not associate with third wave feminism because Lena Dunham does? We are more important than your disdain for Lena Dunham. And if she's so stupid and pointless then you should have no problem overlooking her existence in order to care about women. Can all of you in that same group please stop condescending our passion about feminists topics with guilt about the heinous and horrific sex trafficking and more severe misogynistic cultures in other countries? Again, please STOP telling us that we can't care about less severe injustices towards women because more severe injustices are happening every second of every day. We know. And we know what entitled pricks we can sometimes be, but, as humans, not as women. That's the difference. In painting us as being entitled in our concern and demands for equal rights, because you are “nice” to us, you are finding yourself in the position of ultimate entitlement. So, stop. Also, we don't have to be extra grateful to you for treating us with decency because so many men in the world don't do the same. That's not how decency works. So please stop expecting that. Can all of you men stop telling women who they should be dating? Can you also stop trying so hard to sell these women the narrative that they would never be able to date men of other races because those men are “different”?, i.e. more likely to objectify, more likely to be aggressive, not emotionally strong enough, too feminine, too boring, & other various racist culture insults and other-thans. Can all of you men stop using so much of your energy and effort towards finding new, creative ways to hate and try to discredit and de-fund Planned Parenthood? Many of you have daughters who found refuge there when they were 16 and too ashamed, due to the culture you created, to be honest with you. Affordable access to health care for ALL women is important. Women feeling safe is important. Can all of you men stop following women around clubs that keep moving into their circle of friends, and away from you? This is intentional. We have all labeled you a threat and want you to leave us, and her, alone. Can all of you men just be cool? Can you please just TRY to see the world in a more racial and gender and class structured and capitalist controlled lens?, even if that lens does serve you and it may be difficult to acknowledge your privilege. Can you please just be more mindful of your relationships with us and the causes you denote worth to and the adjectives you use to describe us? Can all of you please just try to see? Can all of you please just listen?  

Et Ceteras

So this Monday was supposed to be the day that I went to both Kickboxing and Body Pump, before 11 a.m. I was going to write a short film and memorize a script for an audition. I was going to maybe go to "Hip Hop 3 with Mike" at night. I need the mental workout. And the fun. Choreography wards off Alzheimers, and 24 is just the right time in life to be warding off Alzheimers. I was going to do 20 minutes of Duolingo. I was going to eat vegan, one hundred, meaning no Snap Pea crisps or milk chocolate. I have Monday off. I am young, vital, sexy, capable, self-loving, and ready. This is the narrative I wrote in my head for myself on Sunday night, in bed, watching the new episode of Girls, followed by Togetherness, drinking beer by myself and living in the filth that was a day of skipped Nike Training Club (because I didn't feel like it), improv practice I was 20-minutes late to, and 2 days unshowered for (sorry), an overpriced Starbucks iced coffee (not only against my 2-month caffeine cleanse but also, sincerely, the WORST quality coffee chain of all fucking time), a comedy workshop where I felt my voice drowned out by other comedy writers (you can probably imagine those type of humans) and two free samples of chicken salad at Pavilions (because if I don't actually buy it, I'm still like, food-consumer-vegan, right?!, or ish?).

I came home from the glory of my self sabotaging Sunday to write another story for myself. That's what we do in LA. I'm an LA resident. Identifiers would be; resident, actress, server of Vietnamese, occasional stand-up comedienne, sketch writer, more so short film comedy writer, etc. Etc. is like, girl that dances full out at The Brig in Venice when no one else is, or that eats unwashed, giant carrots in her car in the LA traffic, dipped in hummus in my lap on good days, and nutella on the bad, or girl who is told she should not be threatened by the existence of Paris Hilton, by suffocatingly narcissistic Beverly Hills PR lawyers who are trying to hook up with her, because "baby, you're pretty too". Don't worry guys, I'm pretty too…… Etc. is like, doesn't wear a bra normally, and reads as free and cool enough to do that, but almost always feels weird about it, even though it's definitely because I just hate all of my bras and don't wanna buy any new ones. But what is etc., really? Because I'm starting to think that it's the stream of consciousness that runs through my mind when my guy friend tells me he couldn't hook up with the girl from the restaurant he works at, who is oddly absorbed in his every word, even though she is far out of his league, unbeknownst to him. He enumerates how she just doesn't feel like someone he could be truly interested in, or even worse, outlines her deficiency in living up to his cleanliness (i.e. shaved) standards, down there. In this moment all I can think is, if you were walking on a sidewalk, you would walk in the middle, even if it was raining and you were carrying an umbrella. Like, that's who you are. You are a middle of the sidewalk, walker. You are the person that eats the grapes in the grocery store, but leaves the stems. IF YOU ARE GOING TO EAT THE GRAPES, EAT THE GRAPES, It's fine. Everyone does it. But TAKE THEM, PUT THEM IN YOUR CART, WALK AROUND, EAT THEM TO YOUR DISCRETION, AND THROW AWAY THE STEMS. No one wants to come home with nothing at the end of their grape stems. Life has enough disappointment.

Maybe etc. is all the salt and pepper in my bed right now. I like to eat avocados in bed. I've been wondering if bugs fuck with salt and pepper. I'm gonna solve that science fair project question soon I guess. It'll be the first one I actually tested myself. You know those nights when you get fully ready for bed and it's 10 p.m. and you're like, tonight is the night to be an adult and get adequate sleep and I have flossed my teeth. But then you decide to eat 2 avocados in your bed. And you decide to see what all of the Donald Trump supporters on Facebook are up to. And you decide to start picking at the zit on your face that might be a zit or might be skin cancer, because there is no grey area in the life of twenty-something skin practices. You write out what you want read at your funeral if it's skin cancer and you only have 2 months to live. You realize how destructive and pointless all of these decisions are. You check in with yourself and realize that these are all practices you have found yourself doing because you just want to be fucked well, by someone who can love you but not obtain rights to you, someone who will feed you a weed cookie in bed, then exchange metaphorical, critical thoughts about Black Lives Matter, both supporting of the cause, in their own abstract, specific ways. You realize that you just want the Beverly Hills egg bank to accept your fucking eggs! You just need the money to go to Israel to see Donna and to be a young person who is fucking alive and exploring. The etc. is your twenty-something experience I guess.

I'm a twenty-something. And we're pretty into our identifiers. But maybe who we actually are is our et ceteras. I mean, what those really mean is, our, "and so forth[s]" anyway. I know. I looked it up. Our and so forth is the acknowledgement that there is more. There is more to come, to learn, to do, more habits to form, more avocados to eat in bed, or to stop eating in bed. There will be more of our self involved dude friends to finally honestly check, with love of course, on all the male privilege. And so forth, we are so many things, and ready to be so many things. I think the et cetera starts with ownership. What I've come to in writing this random conglomeration of bullshit, honest, nonsense is a moral. Because you can't have a story without a moral, right? You can, but, it doesn't serve my current agenda as far as what this article probably needs to be, so, I've decided that the et cetera is the ownership of all of who we are, so that we can fully be the original, interesting, dynamic, fucking-alive-when-no-one-else-is, cool as fuck individuals that we've been called to be. I am a twenty-something badass bitch that moved across the country to pursue my dreams. I am a twenty-something, bold, funny, actress and writer. I am a twenty-something who has been fully engulfed in a blinding, passionate, terrifying love. I guess I'm also a twenty-something that eats chemicals and GMOs on my carrots even though I champion the notion of food labeling publicly. I think when we own the et cetera, we make the choice to be a human in a room with someone else. And that is all we've actually been called to do in life.

There Is Nothing More Basic

It's not the memories exactly that seem to be irritating me. I guess it's an attempt at reconciling the acknowledgement that you can share such enormous chunks of beautiful moments, ideals, and virgin feelings with another person and that those can so easily be cheapened (in appearance, at least) through that person either repeating those, so easily, with another, or simply making decisions or building relationships that go directly against the version of that human that you not only knew, but believed so righteously in the moment that you had some sort of original patent on. And I can't decide exactly whether to feel stupid, confused, or… pathetic? Whatever feeling I'm feeling, I have felt before. It is one that aggressively begs me to summon the gods of all that is basic and answer my plea. Is this not the most basic shit?! It is. It is basic. This word is one that I find my fellow youths taking for granted, all too often, and using it in my very least favorite way; to shine dark on women as one-dimensional, less than fully valuable characters. Used specifically in comparison to otherwise superior, multi-dimensional female characters. But I love this word, when used as more of an edifice. It is one that deserves true, rare, savory grit. So allow me to indulge in this.

There is nothing more basic than the ability to easily disengage from a connection of which you claimed once possessed monumental importance. Honorable relationships are not something to be extricated from. Say you're a cop who wants to turn in your badge to go pursue your truest dream of accounting. You don't turn it in, cry, claim ultimate appreciation and loyalty to your memories with the force then ride out down the street, a few weeks later to start working for the force a county over as their new accountant, rubbing shoulders with the old, ex-nemesis (by association) crew. There is a choice, always, to honor a past with someone (friend, family, love, work) or to weaken the currency of what made those defining moments so particular and unique through painting over them in a discrediting way.

Now look, I get it. I get the whole past is the past, future is the future, today is the day to eat the bread and tell someone they're beautiful. And homegirl is not about past dwelling. But there is something to be said about those that can set aside what once looked like fully lived-in, unconscious, blinding, open love to slide right back into intimacy versus those that do what they can to properly and independently obsess over memories, gained insight, intricacies of smells and sweatshirts and specificity of laughter in order to truly honor that human being that you shared life's pie with as the whole, entirety of person that you once affirmed that they were, in the very least, in relationship to you.

I've hung out with two Sagittarius men in my past year of life. Both strangers. The first informed me of his dating history. The detail in which he recanted the lines and curves of the exe's personality, time spent with, downfall, and divine, as well as otherworldly moments shared, filled me up. There was something pure about it, especially when he described the one that was clearly most special to him. They were together for a year, him and his first love. He followed that year surfing and nothing but on a foreign island that he ran away to in order to escape her images and place association in his mind. But he told me it was years before he was mentally checked out from the relationship. The second guy described the depth of his love for his ex with a fluidity that made me wonder, just for a moment, if there really was someone out there who could stare into Ann Coulter's eyes and care for her. Regardless, being around these dudes sharing such information with me showed me that when someone truly invests in living fully while sharing life with you, there will be an ultimate respect and honor that can not be escaped. It is not something that can easily be wiped out, traded in for, or burned over top of the initial song.

The truth is, I loved someone and he loved me. Cis relationship commiseration right? Sooooo unique. He moved on and I feel left stripped of self, nude and colorless, forced into shedding a coat that I need to stay warm. In the cold, I am learning too much about myself too quickly. I feel punished through karma's violent assaults, and also shame in the harm I've caused while projecting my pain onto my love. My pain sourced from heavy, pushing pressure of growth. We both had that pain. Differently, at different times. Light, short breaths could be heard in the silence between one another. The fear of wanting different things amidst the ravaging, passionate co-dependence we had cultivated between eyelash memorization and pheromone chemistry seemed so impossible that it be better to hold our breaths between one another in refusal of acknowledging the silence, or allowing the moment to move forward, or the cells in our bodies to take note through establishing breath, which just might establish the consciousness of the most terrifying notion, the reality of distance. I lack the emotional strength to accept the mountain of effort I now must denote to working through my past so that I may phoenix into my future. Right now. This is momentary. Fleeting. Time heals. And for many of us, only time. I need more. Until then, I am left with perspectives I have to choose to protect my sensitive, shattered, shame-filled heart. I choose to see him as basic, and her as well. To move on so quickly from a love like mine, is his right as a human, as a lover, as a person more deserving of wild experience and eternal love than anyone I've ever known, or sometimes I fear, might ever know. But still, from me? There is nothing more basic.

I don't know

               My coherent incoherency was as endless as the day itself. The warm water was glistening around me whispering beautiful coos and hums, as if inviting me to stay in its body forever. I felt as if we would stay forever. I believed that we would be that close, that fun, that safe and silly and free and daring and confidant forever. Silly is my favorite luxury, and also the first insult I ever got in trouble for. If someone had told me that any young boy or moment or fight with my parents or job interview let down would have ever thieved any of our individual boldness from us, infecting the others with insecurity, I would’ve laughed in their face. I was as much in love with those girls as I envisioned myself loving my own future daughters. They were my peers, but so much more.

 I’ve never understood others when they recall memories from the past and describe them with such detail yet claim that they didn’t know how good that memory was while they were living it. In every big, meaningful stepping stone and glistening second of effortless happiness I have known it as a moment that would stay with me forever. I have looked around and devoted more mental energy into that stream of conscious minutes than any test I’ve ever taken, knowing full well that my current state of being was one I would recall to future children at some point, shaping me into new, unrecognizable versions of myself, having known more fulfillment than I ever could of asked for.

 I wonder if we can truly hone in on it, our moments of blinding light, if we don’t live our moments of deafening dark with the same vigor? People claiming to be living but dead to half of themselves. We’re made up by particles and atoms, but demand the freedom of the full feeling of life. Feeling, emotion, that’s what drives our lives isn’t it? Why are we doing ourselves a disservice in running from the uncomfortable? You know what makes me uncomfortable? The phone rings and it’s my dad. Or I turn off the interstate after my four hour drive south into my small, southwest Virginia, Appalachian town, and social anxiety creeps in, holding me captive. The ever expected and predictable, earth shattering question; What are your plans after graduation? I mean, come on, do any of our elders (all respect implied) really have the right to ask us such a question in this economy, this day in age? No one really knows where they’re going or what they’re doing, or no one that’s worth a good conversation anyway. But you see, I’m not allowed to run. I have no rights in escapism. Well, there’s school, Richmond, the city, my friends, buttttt I still allow those dreaded moments to infiltrate my self-perception, my psyche, because, just maybe, I need the push. I need the accountability. I need to damn well believe in myself with ten times the confidence it takes to say “You know, I don’t really know where I’m going, but I know that I want to write. I know that I want to live in a city that I love. I know that I want to speak to women and America. I know that I will make myself proud. I know that my ambition and work ethic will work for me. I know that I won’t settle, and that’s all anyone needs to know.” I guess the question is; how well can you know yourself while living solely in the light? How could I possibly know what I love so passionately about myself (candor, bravery), without knowing what I hate about myself (hyper criticism that consumes me and suffocates my relationships, fear, a flighty mind, insubordinate disorganization)? We need to know ourselves so that when it comes down to it, we live your truth.