There's this meme going around Facebook right now. I like to say it to my customers at a certain retail establishment that employs me and pretend I made it up. I do it even though they probably saw it on their iPhones right before they got to my cash register, because it makes me sound super witty and because I desperately need something to say after nine hours of working overnight on Black Friday.
"Only in America do we have a day devoted entirely to giving thanks for what we have...and then go out the next day and trample people to buy even more stuff." I'll chuckle as I say it, like a cultured middle-aged single woman who thinks everything is a shame and eats chocolate for dinner sometimes because she believes in the little things. Sometimes I'll substitute "materialistic kitsch" for "stuff," but only when that middle-ager in me starts to get bold. (Which is always.)
But holy HELL is that ever true.
Never in my years have I been out in public on a Black Friday. I feel absurd even capitalizing it, like it's some Renowned and Revered Religious Holiday that I need to Respect. In fact, in light of my great alliteration just now, I think I'm going to rename it Ridiculous Friday. I don't know, there's irony in there somewhere, somebody do something with that.
I was scheduled at my particular place of employment (which I will not name because I am afraid of getting sued even though I have nothing particularly terrible to say about them and in fact I quite like them for what they are) from 11:45pm on Thanksgiving to 8:45 this morning. I was obviously late getting there, because somehow I can never be early or even on time to anything, no matter what time I leave. That said, my lateness was largely influenced by the traffic from the crazies who needed to get to Sears to buy a blender for 2 dollars less. "To heck with all you silly goldurn drivers looking for things to buy at 11:45 on Thanksgiving!" I yelled many a time, shaking my fist. Except what I actually said was much more colorful and involved gesticulations other than fist-shaking.
By the time I got there, the line to get in extended all the way down the strip mall to the booze warehouse. (It is actually called Total Wine, but it might as well be called Booze Warehouse.) People were STOKED. I mean, stoked. Stoked to go in there and buy some jeans for $15 instead of our regular $19.50. As soon as we opened at midnight, the line to the cash register started. Customers were waiting two hours on average to get to a register, and we up at the registers were busting our butts like never before. Somehow I got stuck taking security sensors off pants for five hours straight, but I was still butt-busting! I have many a cut on my finger to prove it, and someone somewhere will be proudly sporting my blood on their 8 long stonewashed jeans that they fought an old woman with diabetes and heart problems to buy.
In no particular order, here are the things that happened last night during my nine-hour shift that disturbed me.
a) I ate a taco at 4am and was stone sober. Best taco of my life.
b) A woman was yelling at her 3 and 4 year old children to stop crying so she could buy boots in peace. At 3:30am. GET A BABYSITTER.
c) Right around the time I embarked on a major project to refold all of the shirts ever, someone farted. It was like a crop duster swooped down and showered me with sulfuric Agent Orange-style dog fart. And everyone's body heat trapped it in my little 4-square-foot area. Needless to say, I did not finish my project. Mostly because the scent hovered so long that after a half hour I thought I might find an unpleasant pile of something under the peach-colored Perfect V-necks.
d) A 6-ish-year old girl was crammed into a cart that we have that are designed to hold babies and toddlers. She had vomit in her lap and her grandmother, who she was with, had covered it up with a jacket. At one point, the girl got up to run to the bathroom and throw up again, spraying vom everywhere, and her grandmother said - I kid you not - "Get me a plastic bag. She can throw up in that - I still have shopping to do."
Guys, I am thankful for many things. I am thankful for my intact hearing, so that as I lie in my bed at 6:30pm, trying in vain to get some sleep before my shift starts, I might count the barks of the neighbor's dog. (64/min.) I am thankful for the -$6.32 in my bank account, because at least we ate something this morning. I am thankful that I am presently home safe, sitting in my bathtub, writing a blog post/wishing I were Tina Fey, and I am thankful that there are cookies involved. And lord knows, I am thankful as all get out that I have a job.
BUT BITCHES IS CRAZY.
I did not learn anything new on this, the most sunny of Revered Renowned Ridiculous Fridays. I did not learn that retail is not for me, because I knew that already. I did not learn that people will do anything to get ahead, because I knew that too. And I certainly did not learn in the past 24 hours that bitches is crazy.
I guess I did learn that I don't really care what people say they're thankful for on their Facebook statuses, except maybe for witty things from my closest friends, such as "I am thankful for my therapist."
But now imma tell you what I'm thankful for, and I don't just mean my ability to count down the number of dog barks, because what that really is is a countdown to my breaking point where I go next door in my bathrobe and undies and punch somebody.
I am thankful for my voice teacher Michelle, who restores my creative faith in myself when I have none.
I am thankful for my education at Amherst College, and that I made it through relatively unscathed.
I am thankful for my dog and my kitten, who allow me to dress them up in wedding garb and are fantastic, empathic individuals that know how to comfort Mommy.
I am thankful that I have a job, and that so far I have been levelheaded enough to maintain it.
I am thankful for the sun, which always comes again. Especially in Vegas. HA!
I am thankful for my time with my grandmother; that she taught me all she did, and that she continues to teach me in death. And I am thankful that she loved me.
I am thankful for my iPhone, which automatically saved for me a voicemail from my grandmother from last July, and allows me to listen to her voice whenever I need to.
I am thankful for my friends, my second family. I am thankful that we have a tradition of "Second Thanksgiving" and that it continues on. I am thankful for all these people who love me, and I am so, so lucky to have the support of. And I am thankful that all these people are brilliant individuals who constantly help me to grow.
I am thankful for my father, with whom I argue about 70% of our time conversing. I am thankful that he loves me and that I love him, regardless. I am thankful for the sacrifices he makes to support me, and that he has become the man he is, despite the hardships, and I am so, so grateful to have him.
I am thankful for my mother and her incessant strength. (Even though she heartily reminded me of some paperwork I need to deal with literally 5 minutes after my RRRRFriday shift ended this morning and I basically never want to hear about it ever again.) I am thankful for her health and I am thankful that she is a fighter, because she has made me who I am, and without her rock solid intellect and heart, I probably would not be alive today.
And I am thankful for the man who is going to be my husband. I am thankful that this morning when I got home from work and realized I was miserable, he cleared out of the bedroom and let me take over and nap and watch Netflix alone. I am thankful that he cares enough to know me, to buy me kittens, to bring me juice, to not touch me when I'm annoyed, to let me have the first shower even when he is super crusty. I am thankful that he is my best friend, that the world is so much less lonely and so much safer with him, that I can cook him dinner and he loves it even when it's tuna fish, that he evens me out, that he makes me a better person. And I am so, so thankful that I'm gonna marry his fucking face off on June 27, 2014.
The word thankful is starting to look weird.
Last one: I am thankful that so far in my life, this has been the only Black Friday that I've been in public. Legit. Bitches is crazy and this is stupid, and it is absolutely not, as one customer put it, "super cool" that in America we have this. It is dumb. Black Friday is dumb. And some poor guy died in a hit and run out here last night. I am never working in retail on Black Friday again, and I will immediately get out of it when I find another job, because I DON'T CARE ABOUT YOUR SEQUINED BOOTS, AMERICA. I DON'T CARE. AND NEITHER DO YOUR VOMITING CHILDREN.
Kisses.
Friday, November 23, 2012
Tuesday, November 6, 2012
Election '12 Almost Made Me Believe In God Again
This lovely election night, it is a breezy 65 degrees in Nevada. The stars are out, my laundry is sorted, and I made my own chicken nuggets from scratch.
And Barack Obama is President again.
I woke up this morning at 6:30am, ridiculously eager to get going. Last time this happened, I was a senior at Amherst, voting in NJ by absentee ballot. My previous post will tell you all about how wonderful it was, how magical that the first election I could ever vote in yielded a Black President. (Note the capitalization.)
Today, I danced around in the kitchen in my "I SUPPORT LOVE" t-shirt while my Romney-voting fiance ate oatmeal (gross) and took his sweet-ass time getting ready. Walking into the high school, I sang loudly, "Get up, stand up, stand up for your rights!" while Paul pretended not to know me. Inside, I joked around with the volunteers, high-fived an old dude, and got not one, but two stickers saying, "I voted today in Clark County, Nevada!" Today, I voted for Barack Obama and for the Henderson libraries, and I am damned proud of doing so.
There is something about voting that makes a person feel worthwhile. Something about doing your part, exercising not only your civic duty but your civil rights. And something so, so glorious about speaking your mind and having it be heard. I have never cared so much about a presidential election. (This was way better than last time.)
A couple days ago, Paul and I almost came to blows over this election. By the end of our dispute, I think we both were crying. He finally explained to me why he felt the need to vote Romney. And I still didn't understand. There's a quote that's been going around by Doug Wright:
“I wish my moderate Republican friends would simply be honest. They all say they’re voting for Romney because of his economic policies (tenuous and ill-formed as they are), and that they disagree with him on gay rights. Fine. Then look me in the eye, speak with a level clear voice, and say, 'My taxes and take-home pay mean more than your fundamental civil rights, the sanctity of your marriage, your right to visit an ailing spouse in the hospital, your dignity as a citizen of this country, your healthcare, your right to inherit, the mental welfare and emotional well-being of your youth, and your very personhood.' It’s like voting for George Wallace during the Civil Rights movements, and apologizing for his racism. You’re still complicit. You’re still perpetuating anti-gay legislation and cultural homophobia. You don’t get to walk away clean, because you say you 'disagree' with your candidate on these issues.”
That's it for me. I simply do not understand how anyone can prioritize the economy over the civil rights of anybody, ever. Paul kept saying that it was unfair, that it's not that black and white. But the thing is, it is that black and white. Oppression is oppression. And it terrified me that I could be with someone who didn't think so. And what was worse was when I turned on the TV today, finally, to see how the East Coast was doing, and the electoral college was all about Romney.
If there's something glorious about voting, there's something utterly nerve-wracking about the possibility of one's heart and body - one's entire human existence - in the hands of a man who doesn't care. In a flash, I envisioned myself crying on the couch in my underwear, bemoaning the loss of my civil rights and gnawing helplessly on chicken nuggets while my dog loyally sat watching over her heartbroken mistress.
And now I am crying [tears of joy] on the couch in my underwear, helplessly gnawing on chicken nuggets and trying to balance the feeling of complete relief with the feeling of desperately needing to run around the streets of Las Vegas naked in celebration.
All of this is to say that as I watched the numbers climb tonight, I realized that I didn't necessarily trust the people of my country to make the right decision. And, quasi-atheist/agnostic that I am, it annoys the hell out of me when a large portion of a certain party calls on God to help out our country. As far as I'm concerned, the help half our country needs is moral. If people are bigoted enough to feel that they can determine folks' right to marry who they love, or a woman's right to deal with her body herself (also, that old white man on the television machine definitely just said the phrase "a Latino problem"), then maybe we do straight up need a law that tells us not to be closed-minded dicks who prioritize our own financial well-being over anything else.
My writing just stopped being eloquent, I think.
I'm amazed, guys. It is nothing short of miraculous that as a society we have gotten here. And we need to keep going. Miracles are a great booster, but it's on us.
For tonight, America, rest easy. Barry's at the wheel, and he's not a closed-minded dick.
PS, Paul didn't get to vote and while I felt bad for him I was also totally stoked that I wouldn't move all the way to a battleground state where an individual's vote actually has a large chance of swaying an electoral vote just to have my vote canceled out by my other half. Everyone celebrate. Our relationship is politically safe for another four years.
And Barack Obama is President again.
I woke up this morning at 6:30am, ridiculously eager to get going. Last time this happened, I was a senior at Amherst, voting in NJ by absentee ballot. My previous post will tell you all about how wonderful it was, how magical that the first election I could ever vote in yielded a Black President. (Note the capitalization.)
Today, I danced around in the kitchen in my "I SUPPORT LOVE" t-shirt while my Romney-voting fiance ate oatmeal (gross) and took his sweet-ass time getting ready. Walking into the high school, I sang loudly, "Get up, stand up, stand up for your rights!" while Paul pretended not to know me. Inside, I joked around with the volunteers, high-fived an old dude, and got not one, but two stickers saying, "I voted today in Clark County, Nevada!" Today, I voted for Barack Obama and for the Henderson libraries, and I am damned proud of doing so.
There is something about voting that makes a person feel worthwhile. Something about doing your part, exercising not only your civic duty but your civil rights. And something so, so glorious about speaking your mind and having it be heard. I have never cared so much about a presidential election. (This was way better than last time.)
A couple days ago, Paul and I almost came to blows over this election. By the end of our dispute, I think we both were crying. He finally explained to me why he felt the need to vote Romney. And I still didn't understand. There's a quote that's been going around by Doug Wright:
“I wish my moderate Republican friends would simply be honest. They all say they’re voting for Romney because of his economic policies (tenuous and ill-formed as they are), and that they disagree with him on gay rights. Fine. Then look me in the eye, speak with a level clear voice, and say, 'My taxes and take-home pay mean more than your fundamental civil rights, the sanctity of your marriage, your right to visit an ailing spouse in the hospital, your dignity as a citizen of this country, your healthcare, your right to inherit, the mental welfare and emotional well-being of your youth, and your very personhood.' It’s like voting for George Wallace during the Civil Rights movements, and apologizing for his racism. You’re still complicit. You’re still perpetuating anti-gay legislation and cultural homophobia. You don’t get to walk away clean, because you say you 'disagree' with your candidate on these issues.”
That's it for me. I simply do not understand how anyone can prioritize the economy over the civil rights of anybody, ever. Paul kept saying that it was unfair, that it's not that black and white. But the thing is, it is that black and white. Oppression is oppression. And it terrified me that I could be with someone who didn't think so. And what was worse was when I turned on the TV today, finally, to see how the East Coast was doing, and the electoral college was all about Romney.
If there's something glorious about voting, there's something utterly nerve-wracking about the possibility of one's heart and body - one's entire human existence - in the hands of a man who doesn't care. In a flash, I envisioned myself crying on the couch in my underwear, bemoaning the loss of my civil rights and gnawing helplessly on chicken nuggets while my dog loyally sat watching over her heartbroken mistress.
And now I am crying [tears of joy] on the couch in my underwear, helplessly gnawing on chicken nuggets and trying to balance the feeling of complete relief with the feeling of desperately needing to run around the streets of Las Vegas naked in celebration.
All of this is to say that as I watched the numbers climb tonight, I realized that I didn't necessarily trust the people of my country to make the right decision. And, quasi-atheist/agnostic that I am, it annoys the hell out of me when a large portion of a certain party calls on God to help out our country. As far as I'm concerned, the help half our country needs is moral. If people are bigoted enough to feel that they can determine folks' right to marry who they love, or a woman's right to deal with her body herself (also, that old white man on the television machine definitely just said the phrase "a Latino problem"), then maybe we do straight up need a law that tells us not to be closed-minded dicks who prioritize our own financial well-being over anything else.
My writing just stopped being eloquent, I think.
I'm amazed, guys. It is nothing short of miraculous that as a society we have gotten here. And we need to keep going. Miracles are a great booster, but it's on us.
For tonight, America, rest easy. Barry's at the wheel, and he's not a closed-minded dick.
PS, Paul didn't get to vote and while I felt bad for him I was also totally stoked that I wouldn't move all the way to a battleground state where an individual's vote actually has a large chance of swaying an electoral vote just to have my vote canceled out by my other half. Everyone celebrate. Our relationship is politically safe for another four years.
Sunday, October 7, 2012
My fiance is voting for Willard Mitt
My fiance Paul is voting for Mitt Romney, and I can't for the life of me figure out why. We are only middle class because we borrow all our parents' spare change (definitely not a valid form of survival, Republicans), we are under the age of 30, we are artists, he is a student, and he's marrying a black female.
Maybe if Paul were marrying a black male he would vote Obama. Crap. I should've thought of that.
Here's the thing. I keep hoping that if I heard an educated, reasonable answer, I could be at peace with it. So I ask Paul once or twice a week why he's voting Romney, and every time he asks if we can talk about it later. Usually my timing is terrible and I ask while we're at the bar playing video poker and eating cheeseburgers. But sometimes it's not. Sometimes it is actually during the debate when Romney immediately isolates huge groups of the American people by telling them if they're older than sixty they can stop listening. Therefore, my conclusions are threefold.
1) Paul has no concrete reason as to why he's for Romney besides "my parents are" and doesn't want to admit it.
2) He is smarter than me and knows that if he tells me honestly why he's a Romnoholic I'll just get mad and stop planning our wedding.
3) He is a spy on a mission to see how much an average self-titled intellectual twenty-something [read:me] actually knows about politics, and he's going to report back to Michelle Obama next week and shake his head sadly and that's all he'll have to do to communicate that the future of America is a mess.
One of my downfalls has always been trying desperately to understand people. The downfall part is that I assume they're going to do the same. When it doesn't happen, all hell breaks loose. I cannot for the life of me figure out why Paul won't explain this to me. Doesn't he have a desperate desire to force me to understand him?? Is it because he is afraid I will judge him? (I will probably judge him.) Is it because he, god forbid, doesn't care?! He can't not care! This is our future together! I have endometriosis and a penchant for getting weird sicknesses! What if Romney takes away my birth control and my already-crappy health insurance?! What if we get pregnant because Willard Mitt stole my Yasmin and then told us we couldn't have an abortion?!?!! WHAT IF THE EARTH EXPLODES BECAUSE WILLARD MITT ROMNEY'S HAIRLINE IS SUSPICIOUSLY KENNEDY-ESQUE BUT HE DOESN'T DESERVE THAT KIND OF SUAVE HANDSOMENESS?!?!?!?
For the past three months, I've been scouring political articles. I type things like "unbiased comparison of policies of Romney & Obama" into Google and hope it tells me something I don't know. I try to forget that in third grade I announced that I was a Democrat because my parents were. I watch the debates and try to open my mind with meditational breathing so that I can be a responsible adult and make my own strong educated decision. I throw myself at the DMV so I can be a registered voter in a crucial swing state. I read transcripts of convention speeches and get annoyed at grassroots events when Obama doesn't obsessively detail how he is going to make the changes he says he'll make. And while I'm doing all of this and graying faster than Barry did in his first two years in office, Paul is sitting naked on the couch playing video games and reading sports forums on his Droid.
I feel a little like I did when in my last relationship I got dumped for someone who I'm pretty convinced is terrible. "What could she possibly give you that I haven't given you in abundance, over and over?" I remember wanting to yell indignantly. What does Romney have that Obama doesn't? (I can't see Obama crying with Smirnoff Ice alone on a mattress on the floor and singing to himself, "It's a quarter after one, I'm all alone and I need you now*" if Paul doesn't vote for him, but there's a reason he's El Jefe and I'm not.)
Yesterday I treated myself to a trip to Pasadena to see a very good friend of mine, and I brought this up. She was telling me about how her partner isn't voting because neither candidate really represents him, and how she isn't voting because she is pretty much indifferent. "It's such a difference from four years ago, when I was campaigning for Obama," she said. "I thought I was changing the world," she said, "I thought I was saving the world."
I remember that mindset. I remember being an RA in my senior year in college, watching the TV in the common room with my residents, being afraid because last time we thought it would be different but then Bush won, and then won again. I remember leaving my dorm at the College On A Hill, hearing "O-BA-MA" chanted through the dark. I remember running down a hill I'd fallen down my freshman year, tears streaming down my face, wondering how my grandmother felt, seeing a black man take the presidency of the United States. I remember hugging my friend and wanting to cry harder. I remember staring at the ceiling, thinking things were going to be different now.
We're not saving the world with this election. Things won't just change. The country won't immediately explode if Romney is elected. And by voting for Barack Obama, I'm not trying to save the world. I'm trying to save my own world. I 100% believe that if Romney is president, our country's mindset as a whole will rewind. As a lower-class twenty-five-year-old black actress and musician, I cannot afford that. And it will not happen because of me. I don't want to see bumper stickers that say "Don't Re-Nig." And I don't want to vote for a man who has people on his side who say things like that. I don't want to worry that the threads I'm clinging to with regards to health care are going to become thinner threads that break and leave me sick and incapable of fixing it. I feel strongly about these things not because I care about politics, but because these things are me. I cannot live the life I want if arts funding decreases. I cannot go back to school and pay off gigantic loans. I am backing Obama because Obama backs me.
My fiance is voting for Mitt Romney, and I cannot for the life of me figure out why. He's not telling me why either. And I can't fully judge him because he was born into a conservative family and therefore has conservative values. I was born into a liberal family, and here I am. I do appreciate that my liberal family raised me to make smart choices of my own and identify my own values rather than defaulting to family history. I can only hope that the man I'm choosing to marry is making a smart choice.
And in my heart of hearts, I know that Paul is not telling me why he's voting for Romney because he knows I'll marry him anyway. Kicking and screaming and narrowing my eyes and saying things like, "Well, then, you better make enough money so that you can finance my vagina," and "Your presidential candidate has a stupid face," but I'll marry him.
*When I looked on YouTube for this song it popped up with an ad from Romney talking about how he fully supports the middle class. Stop undermining my blog posts and yet breaking my heart, country music. Stop it now.
Maybe if Paul were marrying a black male he would vote Obama. Crap. I should've thought of that.
Here's the thing. I keep hoping that if I heard an educated, reasonable answer, I could be at peace with it. So I ask Paul once or twice a week why he's voting Romney, and every time he asks if we can talk about it later. Usually my timing is terrible and I ask while we're at the bar playing video poker and eating cheeseburgers. But sometimes it's not. Sometimes it is actually during the debate when Romney immediately isolates huge groups of the American people by telling them if they're older than sixty they can stop listening. Therefore, my conclusions are threefold.
1) Paul has no concrete reason as to why he's for Romney besides "my parents are" and doesn't want to admit it.
2) He is smarter than me and knows that if he tells me honestly why he's a Romnoholic I'll just get mad and stop planning our wedding.
3) He is a spy on a mission to see how much an average self-titled intellectual twenty-something [read:me] actually knows about politics, and he's going to report back to Michelle Obama next week and shake his head sadly and that's all he'll have to do to communicate that the future of America is a mess.
One of my downfalls has always been trying desperately to understand people. The downfall part is that I assume they're going to do the same. When it doesn't happen, all hell breaks loose. I cannot for the life of me figure out why Paul won't explain this to me. Doesn't he have a desperate desire to force me to understand him?? Is it because he is afraid I will judge him? (I will probably judge him.) Is it because he, god forbid, doesn't care?! He can't not care! This is our future together! I have endometriosis and a penchant for getting weird sicknesses! What if Romney takes away my birth control and my already-crappy health insurance?! What if we get pregnant because Willard Mitt stole my Yasmin and then told us we couldn't have an abortion?!?!! WHAT IF THE EARTH EXPLODES BECAUSE WILLARD MITT ROMNEY'S HAIRLINE IS SUSPICIOUSLY KENNEDY-ESQUE BUT HE DOESN'T DESERVE THAT KIND OF SUAVE HANDSOMENESS?!?!?!?
For the past three months, I've been scouring political articles. I type things like "unbiased comparison of policies of Romney & Obama" into Google and hope it tells me something I don't know. I try to forget that in third grade I announced that I was a Democrat because my parents were. I watch the debates and try to open my mind with meditational breathing so that I can be a responsible adult and make my own strong educated decision. I throw myself at the DMV so I can be a registered voter in a crucial swing state. I read transcripts of convention speeches and get annoyed at grassroots events when Obama doesn't obsessively detail how he is going to make the changes he says he'll make. And while I'm doing all of this and graying faster than Barry did in his first two years in office, Paul is sitting naked on the couch playing video games and reading sports forums on his Droid.
I feel a little like I did when in my last relationship I got dumped for someone who I'm pretty convinced is terrible. "What could she possibly give you that I haven't given you in abundance, over and over?" I remember wanting to yell indignantly. What does Romney have that Obama doesn't? (I can't see Obama crying with Smirnoff Ice alone on a mattress on the floor and singing to himself, "It's a quarter after one, I'm all alone and I need you now*" if Paul doesn't vote for him, but there's a reason he's El Jefe and I'm not.)
Yesterday I treated myself to a trip to Pasadena to see a very good friend of mine, and I brought this up. She was telling me about how her partner isn't voting because neither candidate really represents him, and how she isn't voting because she is pretty much indifferent. "It's such a difference from four years ago, when I was campaigning for Obama," she said. "I thought I was changing the world," she said, "I thought I was saving the world."
I remember that mindset. I remember being an RA in my senior year in college, watching the TV in the common room with my residents, being afraid because last time we thought it would be different but then Bush won, and then won again. I remember leaving my dorm at the College On A Hill, hearing "O-BA-MA" chanted through the dark. I remember running down a hill I'd fallen down my freshman year, tears streaming down my face, wondering how my grandmother felt, seeing a black man take the presidency of the United States. I remember hugging my friend and wanting to cry harder. I remember staring at the ceiling, thinking things were going to be different now.
We're not saving the world with this election. Things won't just change. The country won't immediately explode if Romney is elected. And by voting for Barack Obama, I'm not trying to save the world. I'm trying to save my own world. I 100% believe that if Romney is president, our country's mindset as a whole will rewind. As a lower-class twenty-five-year-old black actress and musician, I cannot afford that. And it will not happen because of me. I don't want to see bumper stickers that say "Don't Re-Nig." And I don't want to vote for a man who has people on his side who say things like that. I don't want to worry that the threads I'm clinging to with regards to health care are going to become thinner threads that break and leave me sick and incapable of fixing it. I feel strongly about these things not because I care about politics, but because these things are me. I cannot live the life I want if arts funding decreases. I cannot go back to school and pay off gigantic loans. I am backing Obama because Obama backs me.
My fiance is voting for Mitt Romney, and I cannot for the life of me figure out why. He's not telling me why either. And I can't fully judge him because he was born into a conservative family and therefore has conservative values. I was born into a liberal family, and here I am. I do appreciate that my liberal family raised me to make smart choices of my own and identify my own values rather than defaulting to family history. I can only hope that the man I'm choosing to marry is making a smart choice.
And in my heart of hearts, I know that Paul is not telling me why he's voting for Romney because he knows I'll marry him anyway. Kicking and screaming and narrowing my eyes and saying things like, "Well, then, you better make enough money so that you can finance my vagina," and "Your presidential candidate has a stupid face," but I'll marry him.
*When I looked on YouTube for this song it popped up with an ad from Romney talking about how he fully supports the middle class. Stop undermining my blog posts and yet breaking my heart, country music. Stop it now.
Sunday, September 2, 2012
With thighs like these, who needs enemies? ...or a job?
I would speak broadly about women and body issues and self-perception, but I have a judgmental, selfish little mind and too much junk unevenly distributed in my trunk to discuss it from an educated and reasonable perspective.
Here's the thing, though. It's impossible not to at least somewhat speak broadly about it, because all I - and all other people - are doing is comparing my body to some skinny blonde bitch who's never eaten a bacon cheeseburger [topped with barbecue sauce and onion rings and probably fries on the side with maple mayo].
My fiance and I moved recently to The City of Sin, where old men dress up like Victoria's Secret Angels and roofers drop twelve hundred bucks in a night on video poker and Red Bull Vodkas. Naturally I figured I would immediately become rich by being scantily clad and singing Mariah Carey on a table. At the very least, I envisioned myself in a slinky red dress on a piano. And what with my credentials (honors degree from the top liberal arts college in the country, a resume practically busting at the seams with arts experience), it would only be a matter of days, really, before Celine Dion discovered me and decided she would spend the rest of her life doing my backup vocals and/or being my personal assistant cum stage manager.
I forgot one thing, though.
SLIGHTLY OBESE BLACK BITCHES DON'T MAKE BANK.
Over the past few months, I have had to admit to myself that I am not the delicate size 6 that I was in high school. Nor am I so overweight that I can immediately be typecast in mammy roles. NOR, I should say, am I some crazy-ass belter who learned to sing in a Baptist church with some loving Queen-Latifah-like maternal so-and-so to steer her out of her broke-down walk-up slum apartment towards fame and fortune. Nay, my loyal readers, I am a child of choral music (don't let that new Artistic Director fool you; in my day I was the token black girl and we did one gospel tune a season, every one of which I was incompetent at singing). Bach cantatas, John Rutter's contemporary bullshit with too many add9s (all of which I obviously adore), Gregorian-style motets and Jewish music set for two-part vocal harmony is all I knew until I got to college, when I horrifyingly applied my madrigal prowess to a jazz combo.
And, more to the point: nay, my loyal readers, I am 186.5 pounds of classically trained nerd.
To be fair, I am out of my element. I left my college-town home, where, at the neighboring community theaters and chorus rehearsals, I was the best thing since Nikki Wadleigh. (Shout-out.) I even made for a suitable stage stripper/crack addict a few times. And versatile directors who can appreciate that some hoes got curves are really who I have to thank for my beefcake resume.
So what now? In this bizarre city where art is exclusively entertainment and nothing more, a cat fart would make a larger impression than the aforementioned beefcake resume. Last week, I auditioned for Rock of Ages, a jukebox musical forged from 80s rock (again, exclusively entertainment, nothing more). It was a damned disaster. I showed up in my flats and short black skirt, doing my best to appear classy and yet potentially skanky, and was immediately smacked upside the head with pleather miniskirts, neon spandex and big hair. Not naturally qualifying for any of the roles (the only one slated specifically for a black woman was basically Aunt Jemima), my intent was to present myself as an attractive but blank slate who could fit anywhere. And I might've even gotten away with it if I'd weighed twenty pounds less.
Or if I'd been white, dare I say.
Or if I'd had an STD and was willing to share it with the director. Whatever.
I mean, what I would really love to do is separate these things out. The weight, the race, the training. For better or for worse, they are part of the package. And frankly, there were more black people there than I've seen since that time I had a layover in the Atlanta airport. But the key: they were all literally either size 2 or overweight and could "sang," as we say in the African-American Vernacular English, of which we have already established I am an expert.
So where do us in-between girls fit in? And going back to the fact that I have a judgmental, selfish little mind, where do I fit in? I feel mad nasty. I was an athlete, up until, well, up until I wasn't. And when I go to the gym, I glare at the chicks who are there exclusively to pick up men and pretend that they don't care about anything by sitting on the bike going .2 miles an hour and texting about how they're going to get sooooooo wasted tonight with their perfectly flat stomachs in their purple sports bras and nothing else with their yoga pants slung low so we can see their slutty-ass meaningless tattoos creeping out from their artfully shaved pubic region, and I want to either punch them, shove their pink iPhone cases down their throats, or go to the front desk and say in a very small and non-confrontational voice, "Excuse me, ma'am? I know that Planet Fitness has this judgment-free mantra? And I know that here we are supposed to not be uncomfortable in our bodies? And that woman over there, it kind of seems like she maybe should put a shirt on? Because it makes me aware that to society my body is inadequate and possibly even disgusting?"
Here's the thing. I don't want to be scantily clad, singing Mariah Carey on a table for a living while old men try to look up my hoo-ha. And I don't want to be in a damn 80s jukebox musical. I do not want to create art that exists exclusively to entertain, because I'm better than that. And these are all things that I would immediately be sucked into if I didn't have back fat that my shirt gets stuck in sometimes. So, you know, THAT'S cool.
What bothers me most is two-fold: first, by Western Mass standards, and by general, individual, personal standards, I am fuckin' fyyyyyyyyyyyyyyne. Which is cool, whatever, I'm in a committed relationship, I'm an egotistical c-u-next-Tuesday, whatever. And something I dislike about that, but maybe it just is what it is, is that things have been relatively easy. I don't have to throw myself at employers and directors because I'm unattractive. They hear me by default because I'm not unattractive. And frankly, I am used to that. I am used to being naturally above average on the attractive scale and therefore not having to worry about what I look like when I walk into a room. But also? I'm not getting jobs in the industry I know and thought I understood, and it's not because I'm not capable. It is because what I bring to the table doesn't fit into any existing ideals, and every time it's because of one factor: "Well, if she were thinner..." "Well, if she were white..." "Well, if she would sing like she were actually black instead of this weird folky musical theater fusion..."
It is also probably because people are not sure where my ribcage is, and nobody wants that shit on a stage. I haven't seen Celine Dion lately, but I'm sure her ribcage is around.
The bottom line is obviously that I need to lose weight. Unfortunately, the bottom line is also that I have to spend time giving a rat's ass about my image instead of honing my craft. And when that happens, I walk into a casting call feeling bad about myself, because everyone else looks like they don't have to try. And when THAT happens, I do something dumb like screw up the words to Pat Benatar and then scat to cover my ass, and then casting directors say, "Man, we just love that you kept going!" or "I can tell you worked really hard on that!" or "Wow, there's a lot on your resume!" And then I drive home in a funk and get drunk with the skeevy old racist dude down the street. Cruel cycle, lemme tell you.
There's a certain shallowness to this that both angers me and depresses me. I am not the woman I thought I would be. I didn't even learn to put eyeliner on until I was 19. And here we are, half a decade later, and I can walk into a studio and write "165 pounds" on my audition form and have it not even appear unrealistic, but it's not good enough. They say the camera adds ten pounds, but really? People's damn brains add ten pounds, a layer of unattractiveness, and a layer of incompetence.
So here's to me as I embark on my journey. I plan to get a crappy but sustainable job that I don't completely abhor, work out five days a week (which I have been doing! When I got here I weighed 189), and hone my craft. Take voice lessons so I can be pretty bomb instead of squeezing by on natural talent and instinct and - dare I say it - looks, because what I REALLY don't want to be is one of those girls in the miniskirt who can't carry a tune in a picnic basket but looks like a model. And then, after all of this, I will rise to fame and glory and be on a stage with Meryl Streep and/or Denzel Washington and be best friends with Idina Menzel and have a secret love affair with Taye Diggs AND Idina Menzel.
Off to the gym I go. If I don't go back to bed first.
PS: There is an awesome article in the New York Times today about Valerie Jarrett, which you should all check out post haste. Maybe I should just be her when I grow up. I am already a pushy bitch, and it seems like actually understanding politics would be easier than losing 40 pounds.
Here's the thing, though. It's impossible not to at least somewhat speak broadly about it, because all I - and all other people - are doing is comparing my body to some skinny blonde bitch who's never eaten a bacon cheeseburger [topped with barbecue sauce and onion rings and probably fries on the side with maple mayo].
My fiance and I moved recently to The City of Sin, where old men dress up like Victoria's Secret Angels and roofers drop twelve hundred bucks in a night on video poker and Red Bull Vodkas. Naturally I figured I would immediately become rich by being scantily clad and singing Mariah Carey on a table. At the very least, I envisioned myself in a slinky red dress on a piano. And what with my credentials (honors degree from the top liberal arts college in the country, a resume practically busting at the seams with arts experience), it would only be a matter of days, really, before Celine Dion discovered me and decided she would spend the rest of her life doing my backup vocals and/or being my personal assistant cum stage manager.
I forgot one thing, though.
SLIGHTLY OBESE BLACK BITCHES DON'T MAKE BANK.
Over the past few months, I have had to admit to myself that I am not the delicate size 6 that I was in high school. Nor am I so overweight that I can immediately be typecast in mammy roles. NOR, I should say, am I some crazy-ass belter who learned to sing in a Baptist church with some loving Queen-Latifah-like maternal so-and-so to steer her out of her broke-down walk-up slum apartment towards fame and fortune. Nay, my loyal readers, I am a child of choral music (don't let that new Artistic Director fool you; in my day I was the token black girl and we did one gospel tune a season, every one of which I was incompetent at singing). Bach cantatas, John Rutter's contemporary bullshit with too many add9s (all of which I obviously adore), Gregorian-style motets and Jewish music set for two-part vocal harmony is all I knew until I got to college, when I horrifyingly applied my madrigal prowess to a jazz combo.
And, more to the point: nay, my loyal readers, I am 186.5 pounds of classically trained nerd.
To be fair, I am out of my element. I left my college-town home, where, at the neighboring community theaters and chorus rehearsals, I was the best thing since Nikki Wadleigh. (Shout-out.) I even made for a suitable stage stripper/crack addict a few times. And versatile directors who can appreciate that some hoes got curves are really who I have to thank for my beefcake resume.
So what now? In this bizarre city where art is exclusively entertainment and nothing more, a cat fart would make a larger impression than the aforementioned beefcake resume. Last week, I auditioned for Rock of Ages, a jukebox musical forged from 80s rock (again, exclusively entertainment, nothing more). It was a damned disaster. I showed up in my flats and short black skirt, doing my best to appear classy and yet potentially skanky, and was immediately smacked upside the head with pleather miniskirts, neon spandex and big hair. Not naturally qualifying for any of the roles (the only one slated specifically for a black woman was basically Aunt Jemima), my intent was to present myself as an attractive but blank slate who could fit anywhere. And I might've even gotten away with it if I'd weighed twenty pounds less.
Or if I'd been white, dare I say.
Or if I'd had an STD and was willing to share it with the director. Whatever.
I mean, what I would really love to do is separate these things out. The weight, the race, the training. For better or for worse, they are part of the package. And frankly, there were more black people there than I've seen since that time I had a layover in the Atlanta airport. But the key: they were all literally either size 2 or overweight and could "sang," as we say in the African-American Vernacular English, of which we have already established I am an expert.
So where do us in-between girls fit in? And going back to the fact that I have a judgmental, selfish little mind, where do I fit in? I feel mad nasty. I was an athlete, up until, well, up until I wasn't. And when I go to the gym, I glare at the chicks who are there exclusively to pick up men and pretend that they don't care about anything by sitting on the bike going .2 miles an hour and texting about how they're going to get sooooooo wasted tonight with their perfectly flat stomachs in their purple sports bras and nothing else with their yoga pants slung low so we can see their slutty-ass meaningless tattoos creeping out from their artfully shaved pubic region, and I want to either punch them, shove their pink iPhone cases down their throats, or go to the front desk and say in a very small and non-confrontational voice, "Excuse me, ma'am? I know that Planet Fitness has this judgment-free mantra? And I know that here we are supposed to not be uncomfortable in our bodies? And that woman over there, it kind of seems like she maybe should put a shirt on? Because it makes me aware that to society my body is inadequate and possibly even disgusting?"
Here's the thing. I don't want to be scantily clad, singing Mariah Carey on a table for a living while old men try to look up my hoo-ha. And I don't want to be in a damn 80s jukebox musical. I do not want to create art that exists exclusively to entertain, because I'm better than that. And these are all things that I would immediately be sucked into if I didn't have back fat that my shirt gets stuck in sometimes. So, you know, THAT'S cool.
What bothers me most is two-fold: first, by Western Mass standards, and by general, individual, personal standards, I am fuckin' fyyyyyyyyyyyyyyne. Which is cool, whatever, I'm in a committed relationship, I'm an egotistical c-u-next-Tuesday, whatever. And something I dislike about that, but maybe it just is what it is, is that things have been relatively easy. I don't have to throw myself at employers and directors because I'm unattractive. They hear me by default because I'm not unattractive. And frankly, I am used to that. I am used to being naturally above average on the attractive scale and therefore not having to worry about what I look like when I walk into a room. But also? I'm not getting jobs in the industry I know and thought I understood, and it's not because I'm not capable. It is because what I bring to the table doesn't fit into any existing ideals, and every time it's because of one factor: "Well, if she were thinner..." "Well, if she were white..." "Well, if she would sing like she were actually black instead of this weird folky musical theater fusion..."
It is also probably because people are not sure where my ribcage is, and nobody wants that shit on a stage. I haven't seen Celine Dion lately, but I'm sure her ribcage is around.
The bottom line is obviously that I need to lose weight. Unfortunately, the bottom line is also that I have to spend time giving a rat's ass about my image instead of honing my craft. And when that happens, I walk into a casting call feeling bad about myself, because everyone else looks like they don't have to try. And when THAT happens, I do something dumb like screw up the words to Pat Benatar and then scat to cover my ass, and then casting directors say, "Man, we just love that you kept going!" or "I can tell you worked really hard on that!" or "Wow, there's a lot on your resume!" And then I drive home in a funk and get drunk with the skeevy old racist dude down the street. Cruel cycle, lemme tell you.
There's a certain shallowness to this that both angers me and depresses me. I am not the woman I thought I would be. I didn't even learn to put eyeliner on until I was 19. And here we are, half a decade later, and I can walk into a studio and write "165 pounds" on my audition form and have it not even appear unrealistic, but it's not good enough. They say the camera adds ten pounds, but really? People's damn brains add ten pounds, a layer of unattractiveness, and a layer of incompetence.
So here's to me as I embark on my journey. I plan to get a crappy but sustainable job that I don't completely abhor, work out five days a week (which I have been doing! When I got here I weighed 189), and hone my craft. Take voice lessons so I can be pretty bomb instead of squeezing by on natural talent and instinct and - dare I say it - looks, because what I REALLY don't want to be is one of those girls in the miniskirt who can't carry a tune in a picnic basket but looks like a model. And then, after all of this, I will rise to fame and glory and be on a stage with Meryl Streep and/or Denzel Washington and be best friends with Idina Menzel and have a secret love affair with Taye Diggs AND Idina Menzel.
Off to the gym I go. If I don't go back to bed first.
PS: There is an awesome article in the New York Times today about Valerie Jarrett, which you should all check out post haste. Maybe I should just be her when I grow up. I am already a pushy bitch, and it seems like actually understanding politics would be easier than losing 40 pounds.
Wednesday, July 4, 2012
Serious bidness
Before I write my post about how my father told me to shut the hell up yesterday, let me point out what exactly this blog is.
I teach a plethora of pre-teen girls how to play piano. In short, I am a glorified babysitter. I am, however, lucky enough to like, nay, love, all of my students. Each of them is smart, musical, hilarious, and adorable. I possibly would like them better if they practiced more. Or if they gave me snacks.
A few weeks ago a favorite of mine, let's call her Jenna, age 12, 6th grade, said to me, "I had some serious business going on today."
"Um, what?" I asked, trying to figure out what serious business could possibly pertain to the horrible version of "This Land is Your Land" written on the music in front of her.
"You know...serious business."
"No, Jenna, I really don't."
She waved her hands around, like that was supposed to indicate business. She continued to insist, "You know, SERIOUS BUSINESS. That thing my friends call The Biz." Finally, she pointed to her pants.
Oh, lawd. How much did I not want to discuss puberty with any of these children? Enough to say bluntly, "You must be referring to bleeding out of the vagina."
This blog is not about bleeding out the hoo-ha. And frankly, it's not even about serious business. It's about bidness. It's about how wonderfully screwed up life is. How nasty, how beautiful, how twisted, how complex, how stupid, how brilliant, how absurd, how anything it all is. Because when you come of age in the 21st century - and I don't mean puberty, I mean REAL coming of age, being shoved out of a sheltered environment into a virtual maze where there is no employment for you and you are finally forced to try to find yourself - you need to know that you are not alone in this world. And what I know is this: art connects us. Be it writing, music, theatre, fine art, etc, the function for the artist is to create, to get out of her head for awhile. And the function of her audience is to hear her and know for themselves that something, somewhere, is staid.
Or it's not, I don't know. I just like the word staid.
N.B. "Bidness," for those readers not in the know, is from the African-American Vernacular English, which in itself is serious bidness. I am obviously an expert in it.
I teach a plethora of pre-teen girls how to play piano. In short, I am a glorified babysitter. I am, however, lucky enough to like, nay, love, all of my students. Each of them is smart, musical, hilarious, and adorable. I possibly would like them better if they practiced more. Or if they gave me snacks.
A few weeks ago a favorite of mine, let's call her Jenna, age 12, 6th grade, said to me, "I had some serious business going on today."
"Um, what?" I asked, trying to figure out what serious business could possibly pertain to the horrible version of "This Land is Your Land" written on the music in front of her.
"You know...serious business."
"No, Jenna, I really don't."
She waved her hands around, like that was supposed to indicate business. She continued to insist, "You know, SERIOUS BUSINESS. That thing my friends call The Biz." Finally, she pointed to her pants.
Oh, lawd. How much did I not want to discuss puberty with any of these children? Enough to say bluntly, "You must be referring to bleeding out of the vagina."
This blog is not about bleeding out the hoo-ha. And frankly, it's not even about serious business. It's about bidness. It's about how wonderfully screwed up life is. How nasty, how beautiful, how twisted, how complex, how stupid, how brilliant, how absurd, how anything it all is. Because when you come of age in the 21st century - and I don't mean puberty, I mean REAL coming of age, being shoved out of a sheltered environment into a virtual maze where there is no employment for you and you are finally forced to try to find yourself - you need to know that you are not alone in this world. And what I know is this: art connects us. Be it writing, music, theatre, fine art, etc, the function for the artist is to create, to get out of her head for awhile. And the function of her audience is to hear her and know for themselves that something, somewhere, is staid.
Or it's not, I don't know. I just like the word staid.
N.B. "Bidness," for those readers not in the know, is from the African-American Vernacular English, which in itself is serious bidness. I am obviously an expert in it.
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