anthurium

Also, loved dearly.

More photos on flickr.

Since film is expensive and bytes are cheap, the number of shots I took increased dramatically when I made the switch to digital. Generally speaking, I find few shots fit for public release. I’m trying to let go of perfectionism in all areas of my life. This week has granted me some great opportunities to let go of unrealistic expectations.

I keep telling myself that most of the people I know aren’t critiquing the dynamic range, composition, exposure, sharpness, and color saturation of my work. Even when my artistic flaws are noticeable to laypersons, said flaws are hardly unforgivable. Every shot I take makes me a better photographer; ideally, every fuckup makes me a better person as well.

These pictures aren’t perfect: neither am I, nor was my aunt. Hopefully the love, laughter, happiness, and life in these shots overshadows their technical imperfections.

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I wish I could do something to fix this.

Make a casserole. Hook a scarf. Buy everyone dinner. Give her a hug. Bring her back.

As the youngest person there, I inadvertently became the center of attention. They toasted my pithy achievements a little too loudly. I blushed. When they told me, “It’s okay,” I know that they were merely trying to convince themselves.

In my naiveté, I had written this story with a different ending. She had, has, spirit and determination and courage in greater quantities than most of us. She’s one of those rare people with a gift for creating community, for loving and being loved.

I’m still grappling with the fact that all the love in the world can’t keep someone from dying.

My mom said, “Everything happens for a reason. We just don’t know the reason.” I told her that’s bullshit. There are no reasons. Shit happens. We deal with it. That’s life.

What on earth do you do while someone is letting go? I know I’m not the warm little center of the world; nevertheless, it seems strange that anything is business as usual right now. I feel disassociated, one step removed from the rest of humanity.

I’ve never lost someone I’ve loved. I used to wonder what to say in these situations, and now I know the answer. There is nothing. “I’m sorry,” doesn’t even begin to cover it. Why do people apologize for death, or, for that matter, mistakes that aren’t their fault? Verbiage should differentiate sympathy apologies from sorry-I-fucked-up situations.

My heart is entwined with the people dying in Iran as I write, and with my aunt. I can’t disentangle these events. We’re already planning, moving on, speaking in the past tense. I’m not sure this is appropriate, but how should I feel? Fighting is only possible for so long. I respect the fact that sometimes life is too much, much too much for any one of us to bear.

I want to see her, speak to her, tell her I love her, that my life was better for having known her. I know that this desire is more for me than for her. I know she wants me to laugh at the absurdity of grief. I’m doing my best. Wine and courage are necessary in this endeavor. I just told a man who was hassling me to fuck off, emphatically. Mincing words has never been one of my strong points. What else can I do but celebrate life?

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Last Friday was a good day. I felt confident, energized, and playful.

Also, beautiful.

I know that the amount of bodily scrutiny and criticism I am subjected to to is trivial, compared to women of size. Nevertheless, the pressure to conform to the beauty standards is very real. I’m fucking tired of letting the patriarchy dictate my self-esteem.

It’s not that easy. Image after image of Photoshopped perfection have been burned into my retinas and etched into my subconscious. On some level, I’m still acting out a script that was written on my journey from socially inept girl to awkward adolescent. I’m afraid that there is something wrong with me, deep down; a tragic flaw that would cause everyone to abandon me if they really knew me. The only way I can keep people in my life is to be the perfect friend, employee, partner; of course, that includes looking perfect.

I used to be teased constantly about being ugly, weird, clumsy, and queer. When I moved away from Bumfucksuburbia, that kind of harassment stopped. Still, shattering negative-self perceptions is no easy task.

I’m not telling you this because I’m seeking approbation. I’m telling you this in the hopes that writing down these totally absurd, negative thoughts can help me to own and eradicate them.

Although the public admission of this fact embarrasses me, I’ve gained a little weight over the past two years. This gain is a result of my thyroid surgery, back injury, and mostly, having a more sedentary job. Like everything else in life, our bodies are constantly changing. The inextricable link between body image and confidence is a social construct that effectively keeps women subjugated. I quit. I truly, finally, made a decision not to play the game anymore.

It’s taken me almost two years to let go of the idea that hating my body is somehow going to magically melt away pounds. I’m still not there, but I’m through trying to live in some imaginary future where losing weight solves all my problems. I’m through dieting. I’m through commenting on other women’s bodies. Analyzing, comparing, and critiquing female flaws buys into patriarchal body norms. I refuse to pay compliments on weight loss, and if any of my feminist friends do so in my presence, I am going to call them on it. I have to keep telling myself that there is absolutely nothing wrong with my body. I am beautiful, and anyone who thinks otherwise can go suck a fuck.

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Apparently, there exists an inverse correlation between the sharpness of my snarkometer and the ambient temperature.

During my ride home from work today, I spotted two men in suits.

I looked at them a little more closely, wondering why they were dressed so formally in this heat. As soon as I figured it out (teh Mormoms, duh) I accidentally made eye contact with one of them.

He flashed me a grin and stepped closer to the curb.

“Greetings, Ma’am! Have you ever talked about the word of God with a missionary such as myself?”

Dude. I was ON A BIKE. Seriously?

Granted, I wasn’t riding all that fast, since I was on a mountain bike going uphill with a heavy-ass backpack full of groceries.

Still.

I snickered and hollered, “I’m kind of busy going this way!”

Did he seriously expect that I had never heard of his particularly illogical brand of Christianity? As a matter of fact, I had. Quite recently, the Mormon church effectively facilitated a giant step backward for gay rights in the state where I’m looking to move. Was that why the LDS Church chose to position missionaries in the gayest part of town?

Did he really think that I would pull my bike over to listen to his bullshit, even if I was interested? What’s next, drive-by proselytizing?

I’m kicking myself now for missing an opportunity to mock hapless Christians. I should’ve asked him if he’s ever met a homosexual missionary such as myself? I can’t help but wonder, just how far were they willing to go to score brownie points for Joseph Smith? Was second base out of the question? If he and his “friend” would make out in front of me, I’d gladly put up with their godbaggery for awhile. Heck, I’d even read the book of Mormon.

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Negative definitions are problematic, because they reify binaries; things should be defined by what they are, rather than by what they are not. Nevertheless, it’s pretty clear that I am not one of those people who divides their to-do list into projects and action items. Actually, I don’t have a to-do list. I don’t have a five-year plan either. I suppose I’m in one of those pesky transitional phases, but I suspect that almost everyone is experiencing at least a minor upheaval of expectations these days.

I graduated from college last semester. I’m about to go through with the commencement bit, but frankly, I’m not looking forward to it.

I thought I would feel amazing when I finally finished college. Instead, I feel bitter and exhausted.

I paid my way through school by working full-time. I didn’t take out any loans. I received no scholarships. My parents chipped in three grand for my first semester, and I paid for the rest myself.

I have a degree in Women’s Studies. Officially, the title is “Bachelor of Arts in Independent Studies: Gender and Media Studies.” I harbored no illusions that my degree would get my a job. I chose Women’s Studies because learning about feminism felt like coming home. I wanted to dedicate my life to writing, but I thought that having something to write about was the most important way to make my words matter.

School was there for me, for better or for worse. Papers, presentations, and projects loomed in the background during adult identity crises, bouts of insomnia, failed relationships, promotions, thyroid surgery, and eight different moves. I dropped out a couple of times, but never gave up my dogged pursuit of a degree. I told myself it would all be worth it.

I’m not sure why I thought there would be a grand moment of triumph at the end. That only happens in movies. All I have now are questions.

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All aboard the clue train! Last stop, Privilege Station.

I work for a progressive, not radical, company. Therefore, most of the organizational power is held by Neo-Hippie Liberal Douchebags. It could be worse, but I hate how white people who didn’t fit in in high school think that their tragic adolescence allows them to truly understand the experience of oppression.

Occupational segregation in my facility runs along predictable lines. All the top leaders are white, and most are male. Most of the PoC are cooks, dishwashers, or janitors. I’m partly responsible for perpetuating this racism. Even though department heads are responsible for their own hiring, I handle some recruiting and serve as an applicant liaison. I don’t know how to change the systems I’m complicit in that perpetuate sexist racism, and it pisses me off.

Activist guilt about how I pay my bills has been stewing in my brain for quite some time. Last week, I was poignantly reminded of my failure to live up to the feminist ideals I espouse. In order to thank our employees for all their hard work, my boss wanted me to organize a Potluck Against Racism.

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It’s been a year since the photo experiment; thus, a foray into nostalgic narcissism is in order.

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-It’s 4:51 AM and I can’t sleep.  Corporate douchenozzlery is keeping me up at night, why?  Ugh.

-I have to go to work in approximately two hours and display some kind of enthusiasm for indoctrinating two new hires into my company culture.  The thought of it is making me a bit ill.

-For working women, there is an invisible tightrope that is strung between being a bitch and a bimbo.  However, I can’t be alone in doubting that this tightrope actually exists.

-I should stop putting in 120% every day.  It’s not getting me anywhere; I’m still vastly underpaid for the nature of the work I’m performing.   Being helpful only succeeds in getting more work dumped on me.  It’s a vicious cycle, and one that I can stop by ratcheting my work ethic down a notch or two.

-Everyone who works with me would acknowledge that I do an outstanding job.  I’m also well-liked by the the 300 people I serve.  However, I’ve developed a serious stumbling block when it comes to interviewing.  This block has developed by being told for years, subtly and not-so-subtly, that my personality is just too much and I need to tone it down.  After said personality-toning, I was told that I wasn’t personable enough to be promoted, and I should “show more of who I am” during interviews.  I can’t fucking win no matter what I do.  Patriarchy, anyone?

-There are many things I could be doing that would be much more fulfilling than performing the emotional labor of a corporation, AKA Human Resources.  Since graduation, I’ve been filling the void school left in my life with work.  Frankly, that strategy is having a negative impact on my mental health.

-I should be grateful I have a job, period, as so many people are out of work these days.

-It’s difficult to explain my degree in Women’s Studies without using the word feminist. I know better than that. I wouldn’t want to imply that I’m a ball-busting bitch.  Also, a dyke.

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