My Life On PLanet H2O

How Staying Apart Will Keep You Together

2009-06-17T14:50:00.006-04:00

For the entirety of my dating career, I have run into the same issue over and over again; I would meet a great guy, become completely smitten with him, spend every second I could in his arms...and then become sick of him and/or dump him in under six months. For years I thought something was wrong with me because I couldn't stay in a long-term, committed relationship without feeling like gnawing off the hand my man was holding (though I often did stay in said relationships out of guilt, creating a miserable situation for both parties involved). I became a serial dater of the worst kind and as a result, lost a lot of important guys in my life and acquired nicknames including, but not limited to, succubus, Jezebel, Eve, siren, hussy, harlot, man-eater and, of course, the usual bitch, slut and whore.
After releasing the most recent of my victims, I made myself a promise to not even go near the idea of a monogamous relationship for a good while. I became a self-proclaimed swinger, giving myself the right to have no-strings attached hook-ups with any guy I pleased, and to casually date as many different types of men as possible.
The first of my hook-ups was a guy who had become a friendly acquaintance at school, and someone whom I knew wanted me; Kyle. He was an odd duck, but an extremely good-looking, intelligent, and polite odd duck, so I gave it a shot and found him to be quite the man-candy. Aside from hooking up, I just plain liked spending time with Kyle as a person. While I did stick to my promise and dated other guys, Kyle was probably always the favorite. Knowing I wanted to be a free woman, Kyle respected that, but after several months it became clear that we were pretty smitten with each other. Of course, I knew this meant it was all downhill from there.
Much to my surprise, it wasn't. We didn't really start hanging out more, which at first I was a little upset about. However, I found that instead of losing interest in him, my interest grew. Every time I saw him I was happy and excited, and what was more, I still actually wanted to have sex with him. I was absolutely perplexed by the situation until one night when I stayed in to have a "me" night. As I lied in bed writing, my mind drifted off across all of my past relationships and I finally realized what was different. For the first time in a relationship, I was allowed to have a "me" night. I could also still hang out with my friends almost every night. The reason I wasn't getting sick of Kyle is because he gave me the space and time to be Caitlin.
We never see each other more than two or three times a week, which can get a little tough, but for the most part, it just makes me more excited for the days when I do get to see him. I can't say for certain that I will never get sick of him, but I can say that this is hands down the happiest I have ever been with another person because I still get the chance to be my own person.

I think that when relationships first start out, a lot of people tend to binge on all the happy,romantic things they are feeling and ignore the fact that they are still two separate people. They do everything together, and end up sacrificing many of the people and things in their lives which made them happy as an individual, eventually leading to feelings of suffocation and resentment. This can especially apply to people who are living together and sharing one bedroom. Having to sleep in the same bed every night can become monotonous and even irritating depending on the other person's sleeping habits. So why not have two separate rooms and have "sleepovers" a couple of times a week? Just as every person is different, so is every relationship and what may work for the "Leave it to Beaver", All-American, perfect couple, may not work for you. So even if a married couple sleeping in separate beds seems weird, it could be what makes all the difference.
I used to always think that if I didn't want to spend all or most of my time with my significant other, there was something wrong with me, because it wasn't what I saw in the movies or the media. But, the truth is, as much as we may love another person, one of the most important ways to a happy relationship is to have time and space for ourselves, so we can keep being the people our significant others fell for in the first place.

Why Brangelina is the Scariest Thing to Happen to Long Island Since the Amityville Horror

2009-06-14T20:03:00.003-04:00

It began at around 9 a.m. on April 19th, 2009 when I got a text from my friend that read "OMG! Brad and Angelina were at the Oyster Bay Stop and Shop! That's right near you, did you see them?!"
No, I had not see them, nor did I have any interest in seeing them. I'm not really the type to go nutso over celebrities of any sort and I certainly don't understand the fascination with the Paris Hiltons and Brangelinas of the world. Apparently the rest of the world, or at least the rest of Long Island, doesn't feel the same. Starting with that fateful trip to Stop and Shop, it suddenly seemed as if all of Long Island had Brangelina Fever.
That text message proved to be nothing in comparison to the barrage of Brangelina-related questions, comments, and incidents I had hurled at me over the next few weeks. The magazine racks quickly became packed with tabloids featuring Brad and Angelina in Oyster Bay, Long Island on the cover and contained riveting stories and photos of Brad and Angelina's OB house, Brad and Angelina at Stop and Shop in OB, Brad and Angelina at CVS in OB, Brad and Angelina out for a family stroll in OB. Think about this for a second; a magazine was taking terrible Kodak disposable camera pictures of completely average people doing completely average things and making millions off of it because these very average people just so happen to be famous. Well, as a Long Islander I thought that most of Long Island would be brought to their senses by the fact that if these things were taking place in their normal, everyday home-sweet-homes, it couldn't really be that big of deal. Naturally, I was wrong. The tabloids flew off the racks throughout Long Island, including where I, and Brangelina live, Oyster Bay. After the magazines alerted absolutely everyone who saw them that the world's biggest celebrities were in town, the topic became unavoidable. At least three times a day I would be asked by random people who I never really talked to if I had seen Brangelina, what were Brad and Angelina like, what did the Jolie-Pitt household like to do on weekends, had I ever partied with Brangelina? There were internet articles popping up everywhere claiming that Oyster Bay was causing some sort of a split between the two because Angelina was involved with Oyster Bay men and that Oyster Bay mothers who usually "schlepped" around in sweatpants were now glamming themselves up for Brad Pitt (this is absolutely insane by the way, because Oyster Bay is the land of MILFs, Botox parties and mansions starting at no less than one million. If things around here got anymore "glammed up", we'd be in Bel Aire).
One day as I walked through town with my friend, venting about the pandemonium that had apparently hit our town, we noticed that there was some sort of filming process on what I later found out was the set for a TV show, which neither Brad Pitt or Angelina Jolie were cast in.
"Wonder if Brad and Angelina are there," I joked.
Before we knew it, the entire area was surrounded by hopefuls attempting to get a look at the acclaimed couple. People literally left shops and restaurants just to get a look. Mothers called friends and family on their cell phones to lure them into town to play "Where's Brangelina?" As we walked on, my friend and I were approached by a man in a convertible talking excitedly on his iPhone. As he turned a corner at a good 40 mph, he screeched to a halt at the curb, asked "Have you seen Brad and Angelina?!" and drove off in frenzy as we told him we had not. A week later I was informed that a high school acquaintance had tipped off People, or OK, or one of those typical tabloids, providing it with information about Brad and Angelina in exchange for a lousy $2000. How low can you go Long Island?
It's not the fact that people getting excited over celebrities that is bothersome. I understand; they're beautiful people who many aspire to be like. What bothers me is that people allow their entire realities to become twisted by the presence of over-publicized, yet perfectly average people. Such is the case with Long Island, hence the storm of text messages, trashy magazine articles, sell-outs and crowds of Brangelina-obsessed zombies. For whatever reason, indirect contact with these two beings has turned Long Island into Bedlam.
I can't say whether or not the mayhem is intensified by Long Island culture; maybe it's the affluence that makes many Long Islanders feel entitled to schmoozing with the "beautiful people", or maybe it's our close proximity to the most well-known city in the world that makes us feel like it is somehow in our destinies to brush shoulders with fame. Honestly, though, it would probably be the same anywhere else as it is here, maybe even worse. It's just a wonder to me how a glimpse of the beautiful people has made my home seem so ugly.

The Swine Flu: Why This Little Piggy Can't Make Me Cry

2009-06-11T19:49:00.001-04:00

If you know me, you probably know that I am a hypochondriac. I think I have every disease known to man... all the time. I attribute this to my loving but neurotic grandmother, may she rest in peace, who habitually thought everyone around her was dying...all the time. If we had dirt on our hands, we immediately were plagued with some mystery illness that would surely kill us if we didn't go to the doctor within the next 24 hour period. As a pseudo neo-hippie, I believe in free love and enjoy being out in nature more than anything, but as i get older I notice it has become increasingly harder to do so without my grandmother's Brooklyn, New York, Jewish accent screaming, "ya gonna catch ya death; ya gonna need a tetanus shot!" The bottom line is that disease scares the living Hell out of me for no rational reason beyond the fact that dead or alive my grandmother has proven herself to be the archetypical Jewish mother.
And yet somehow, with the threat of Swine Flu all around, (the sheep wearing dentists masks, this persistent cough , and my frequent trips into the City), I just can't get myself to be worried about the Pig. I'll admit, I was sent into a momentary panic a week or so ago by an unusually high fever, but I awoke the next morning feeling like a new woman and haven't given it a second thought since. I'm just not worried about the swine flu. So naturally, this worries me. Why should a hypochondriac such as myself, who is finally faced with an actual disease, unconcerned with it? Call it a hunch, but I'm going to say that, for starters, it's called Swine Flu. All I see are images of the three little pigs or Pumba from The Lion King. Not very threatening. Now The Black Death, that's a keeper in terms of disease names. The Black Death does not sound like something you want to mess with. Neither does Scarlet Fever or Flesh Eating Bacteria. These are all things I would instinctually try and avoid based on the name. But Swine Flu sounds like a bored seventeen year old's senior prank, and quite frankly, in a time where I can't really count on finding a job when I get out of school or ever being able to retire, you tell me how much thought I should really be putting into how to avoid what sounds sort of like an overpriced, pork-based dish served at a fancy restaurant somewhere around Broadway. Bird Flu, Swine Flu, Mad Cow Disease. Doctors are getting lazy with their disease names, I'm getting bored with the over-exposure of them, and the rampant publication of Swine Flu fluff seems to be a blatant avoidance of the only real American issues, because let's face it, the amount of suicides resulting from job loss and economic failure probably trump any number of Swine-related fatalities. So I guess that's my answer; I'm not worried about Swine Flu because there are a lot of other things for me and my generation to be worried about. The wasted youth epidemic that is sweeping my generation of the nation is a lot more of a threat than a drop of pig snot could ever be. We were told to go to college, work hard then get a job. But we can't even though a lot of us actually want to. But the papers won't put that on the cover because it doesn't sell as well and it doesn't send people rushing to purchase over-priced and unnecessary medications. I’m not scared of the Swine Flu because I’m more scared of where this country is headed and what it means for my future. I’m not scared of the Swine Flu because if I get it and it’s as bad as they say it is, then hey, at least I won’t have to worry about paying off student loans or trying to save the endangered retirement fund.
That’s all folks.

The Bracelet

2009-01-24T14:31:00.000-05:00

Alex glanced at the little piece of plastic around her wrist and frowned. This wasn’t the type of accessory a girl usually wants to wear for a night out, but she felt like a fake cutting off her hospital bracelet so soon. She shook thoughts of St. Francis from her mind and took a drag from her joint. She was stressed enough from having to play catch up at school after being released from the hospital. The last thing she needed was to have to try and impress some guy her friend had set her up with.

“It’ll help you get back into the swing of things…you know, normalcy” her friend Anna had told her.

The two girls were now wandering hurriedly around Alex’s room getting ready for their double date slash concert.

“He’s an old friend of Eric’s and he’s a great guy.” Anna said cheerily. I met him yesterday and he is really good-looking. He’s smart too. He’s been away at this fancy private school for the past couple of years, and he’s going to Vassar in the fall but as smart as he is, Eric says he’s still crazy fun. We’ll just all go to the concert together and have a great time. It will help you get your mind off of…stuff…”

As much as Alex appreciated the efforts of Anna and Eric, Anna’s long-term, perfect boyfriend, she doubted not only the sincerity of those efforts, but also that some demi-god of a guy would help her to forget “stuff”. In fact, she was pretty sure his perfection would only emphasize her instability, because the “stuff” Alex was trying to forget about didn’t consist of the normal, angst-ridden, teen issues. Less than a week ago Alex had still been unable to wear clothing with any type strings or metal attached to it, for fear that she would either try to kill herself or someone else with it. Even in the half-conscious, drunken, self-loathing state which Alex had been dragged to The St. Francis Psychiatric Facility, she had mustered the coherency with which to ask the nurse “how the fuck’mygonna kill myself with a zipper, bitch?” In response, the nurse proceeded to strip her down, dress her in an ensemble of a paper gown complete with slipper socks and that beautiful plastic bracelet and fed her a sedative (as if she needed any more drugs in her system) in order to shut her up. “After all,” said the nurse cheerily, “we don’t want to disturb the other patients who are on their way to a happy recovery.”

Despite the absurdities the hospital employed to ensure its patients’ well-being, it seemed that Alex always found an equal and opposing absurdity to ensure her ceaseless stay at St. Francis. And so, despite the hospital staff’s original estimate that Alex would only need to stay two months maximum, the entire year came and went and only four days ago, exactly one year and two weeks after she had been admitted, had she been officially released. No one but Alex and a few far-too-happy doctors at St. Francis knew exactly where she had been and why she had been admitted, and only Alex knew for sure why she had stayed so long. As Alex’s best friend since kindergarten, Anna had been satisfied with the explanation that “I knew I was on a bad path and I just had to go away for a while where people could help me…so basically my dad dragged me away kicking and screaming against my will” In any case, Anna got the gist and had dropped the subject. At least, this was the impression Anna had given Alex. However, in high school, bad news travels exceptionally fast, and so by this point, Alex was aware that, starved of information, Anna had proceeded to fill in the blanks like a bad game of Mad Libs with stories ranging from Alexis trying to kill her father and being hauled away by the authorities to Alex being pregnant, getting an abortion and going insane from the guilt of killing her first unborn child. “But what can you do?” thought the newly reformed Alexis, frowning, “that’s just your typical upper-middle class teenage girl sort of friendship.” “Besides, I am the only one who knows about that girl’s little eating issues.”

Alex turned away from the mirror where she had been applying enough black eyeliner to make even Alice Cooper cringe. She flashed a synthetic smile at Anna, but it quickly fell back into a frustrated pout.

“So you’re telling me that you set me up with some perfect guy who’s going to what is essentially an Ivy League level school in the fall a few days after I was released from a mental hospital? Anna, I don’t think he’s going to be smitten with someone whose interests are getting fucked up, resisting anything that isn’t masochistic, and listening to music that would make your grandmother cry. He’s probably into girls that wear kaki and headbands and play field hockey and go to sock hops.”

“Sock hops?”

“I don’t know, Anna, whatever it is that good, intelligent people who attend private schools do! Sock hops, clam bakes, croquet…practicing fiscal responsibility; I don’t know. But I do know that whatever it is that he does, I don’t know shit about, and he is going to think that I am a basket case at the very least. How did you even get him to go to a punk rock concert anyway?”

“Apparently his father has sold insurance to a couple of the members of the Misfits. He’s the one who got us these tickets in the first place. That whole family is tied in with a bunch of famous people.”

“Of course they are”, sighed Alex as she purposefully smudged her eyeliner because “a Misfits concert just isn’t a Misfits concert unless everyone there looks they’ve been on a ten week bender and a lot of drugs that can’t be smoked”.

“That’s lovely, Alexis” said Anna, not thrilled that her friend, fresh out of rehab, didn’t seem much different from before she had gone to rehab. “Listen, if you don’t wanna go, I can always have Eric tell Prince Charming that you weren’t feeling well. And then you and Amy Winehouse and Kieth Riachards can all hang out here and snort your parent’s ashes. Besides, you probably are still a little too…fragile” she said with a demeaning tone, “to be going out and meeting new people.”

“First of all, fuck you; my mother was buried. You should know that because if remember correctly we were ten and you wanted to skip her funeral because it just so happened to be on the same day that Lilo and Stitch came out in theatres.” Anna winced at the unfortunate recollection. “And second of all,” continued Alex, “after a year of residing in a place where a Britney Spears CD was considered contraband, there is no way in Hell I am missing that concert.” She looked back to the mirror for a minute and shook her head wildly in order to achieve that perfect “I’ve just had meaningless sex ten times in a row, now let’s go drinking” look. Content with her appearance she turned away from the mirror and reached for her combat boots. “So what’s Casanova’s name anyway?”

“Charles.”

“Jesus Christ, Anna… Charles? What’s his last name, Vanderbilt?”

“No” said Anna with a nervous laugh. “Its Walcott...” she said lowering her voice.

“Oh my God ...you set me up on a blind date with a ‘Charles Walcott’ four days after I was released from a, I mean, just when I’m starting to get my life back to normal?"

"Charles Preston Asher Walcott III actually..."

Alexis rolled her eyes. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “I’m referring you to St. Francis,” she snapped. She laced up her boots and slipped a black hoodie over her wife-beater. “Now let’s go before his parents decide to lengthen his name and you have to introduce me to Charles Preston Asher Warner Skip III, Esquire.”

As they made their way to the back of The Pit, the local bar slash concert hall, Alex frowned, considered all the possible ways the night could get worse.

“Nope, can’t think of anything” she said just loud enough for Anna to hear, “not one damn thing.”

“What are you talking about?” asked Anna. “Listen, Alexis, don’t be weird in front of Charles and Eric okay? Like, I know I’m your best friend but…they’re not. So just try to act like a human being, kay? And stop looking so glum, you look like an Auschwitz victim.”

“Ugh,” Alex couldn’t decide if that was a shot at her religious background or not. “Whatever you say, Aryan Princess,” she spat at Anna, looking only more unhappy than before.

“Good. Now they’re at the bar getting us drinks because both of the boys have really good fakes. Let’s push our way through quick before the first band goes on, or the guards will give us a hard time when we try to go upstairs.”

“Woah, woah. Upstairs?”

“Yea. We got private balcony seats” said Anna happily. “Very VIP.”

“VIP? Anna, this is a Misfits concert! I want to be down there beating people up and drinking Guinness until I pass out, not sipping a Long Island ice tea and observing the mayhem from above.”

“Well, tough luck, Alexis. If you wanna go back stage and chill with the band afterwards, you have to be a good girl and sit still and watch nicely while the band plays. Come on, Allie, please” she said with a pout. Allie is what Anna had always called Alex ever since they were five when Anna wanted something that Alex wanted no part of. Alex was a sucker for nostalgia.

“Ugh, fine. Let’s go”

As they approached the bar, they saw Eric wave. From a distance, Alex could see the back of who she presumed to be Charles, buying drinks; and she already didn’t like the look of him. She could see that his hair was perfectly gelled and that he wore a crisp, white, collared shirt paired with a pair of designer, pre-ripped jeans. “Gross” thought Alex.

“Hey there, cutie” said Anna as she gave Eric a kiss.

“Hey Eric” Alex muttered.

“Hey, Alexis. This is Charles” he said pointing to the perfectly groomed back before her. The back disappeared as the boy turned around and handed her a Guinness. Alex froze.

“Well, hey there…Alexis, right?” he said with a sly smile.

“Well, that’s it,” Alex thought as she stared at a face she had seen many, many times before. “Time for me to back to St. Francis, because I must be losing my mind.” There, before her, stood someone she had laughed with, cried with, and lived day to day with for over a year. Perfect Charles Preston Asher Walcott III, was just as crazy as Alex was, “and we both have the same hospital bracelet to prove it,” she thought twisting hers around her wrist.

Charles stood still smiling that knowing smile, arm out-stretched, holding the Guinness.

“Allie, what’s the matter with you? Say hello and take the beer”

“Ch-Chuck?”, Alex finally managed to stutter.

“Uh…no, it’s Charles, actually” he said, all the while still smiling.

“Um, Allie, you okay?” asked Anna.

“Yea. No. I just, I think there’s something wrong with my contacts because I don’t think I should be seeing what I’m seeing, so I’m going to go fix them and then I won’t see it anymore. Bye.” And she dove into the crowd, careening towards the exit like a train off of its tracks.

“Wait!” came Charles’ familiar voice from behind her. “Alexis, hold on!” The sound of his voice grew closer. “Alex!” Charles grabbed Alex’s arm. “Jesus, you’d think I was here to bring you back to Francis”

Alex whipped around. “Away at a private school, huh?” she asked coyly.

“Well…that’s half true. I was away at private school last year. But after that…well, you know the story. Better than anyone else, in fact”, he said tugging on the bit of the hospital bracelet that stuck out from under Alex’s sweatshirt.

“Why are you still walking around with that scarlet letter around your wrist, Alex? We don’t need to be those people anymore. We’re out, it’s done.”

“It’s not a scarlet letter,” she said furrowing her eyebrow. “It’s more like a badge of honor. Like, I went through something most people will never have to and I made it out alive. I don’t really get why you don’t feel the same way.”

“Because, Alex, if I had a reminder everyday that I’m messed up, and that I’m different from everyone else I’d start to believe it, and I would never have a chance at being happy. I’d just end up right back at St. Francis…and so will you if you keep wearing that bracelet.”

Alex looked more displeased than ever. Then in a sort of a frenzy, she lifted her wrist to her mouth and began to chew away at the little piece of plastic. When at last, she had chewed all the way through, she spat the bracelet out of her mouth and watched it fall to the beer soaked floor.

She extended her hand. “Nice to meet you Charles”

He took her hand in his and shook it firmly. “Likewise… Alexis”

They let their hands drop, and Alex finally took the now-warm Guinness from Charles’s other hand and took a sip.

He smiled at her.

She smiled back.

We Can't Afford Not To Turn Back Into Pumpkins

2008-12-03T17:03:00.000-05:00

I remember the road trip to Florida.
We took two different roads but met in the middle.
And when we finally arrived at Disney World, it was clear we’d found the happily ever after we’d both been looking for.
The thing about the happiest place in the world though, is that it’s got to close sometime.
And the park-hopper passes, they cost money.
You can’t pay your way to happiness with credit forever; that’s how our country ended up in this mess in the first place.
Yes, at a certain point, even Cinderella’s feet begin to blister and she’s got to take the glass slipper off.
Dumbo’s ears get tired and he’s got to stop flying.
Tinkerbell runs out of pixie dust and she can’t go out and buy more-at least not until pay day.
We watch wistfully as Ariel trades in her feet for flippers again-you can take the girl out of the ocean but you can’t take the ocean out of the girl-that’s what they say isn’t it?
We want to go back for just one more ride on Space Mountain but they’ve shut off all the stars.
We walk through the gate and let go of each other’s hands-our tickets have expired, the park has shut down, and the way back home is split into two different roads.
You try to buy us more time but you don’t have the means, and no, you can’t pay your way through a relationship with credit; that’s how we got into this mess in the first place.

2008-04-30T12:17:00.001-04:00

Allergic to Normalcy
After almost twenty one years of living on this planet, I’ve finally come to the realization that I am allergic to any sort of normal life. The End. Period. But, for the sake of comprehension, let me back up a minute. See, the reason why I feel the need to say this now is a complicated mixture of things, starting with the fact that in the past week, I have skipped two Spanish classes, one expository writing class, and have left early from my philosophy class twice. The reason for my skipping class is also a complicated concoction of reasons. These reasons include the fact that I’m either allergic to half the foods that I enjoy most, i.e. anything with refined sugar, flour, or gluten, or I have diabetes which would suck even worse. The reasons for my absences also include the fact that every now and then I wake up and I just don’t give a shit, which is a direct result of opening my eyes every morning to my mother’s guitar sitting in the corner of my room, but no matter how hard I look, I never find the mother that’s supposed to go along with it. Also, when it rains, I could really give a shit, because adding to my lack of normalcy is the fact that my moods are controlled at least 75% by the weather. Mix in a severe food allergy of some sort with a depression induced “I don’t give a shit” attitude and you’ve got a lot of missed classes. But hey, the missed classes are just tiny pieces of why I feel like I am allergic to any sort of normal life.
Let’s go back to the food allergy thing for a minute. My entire life I have been addicted to junk food. I love it. Sugar and fat are the yin and yang of my world. But lately, I haven’t been feeling too great after eating junk food. Regardless, I always crave more, so I always eat more, despite the fact that I’ve gained, oh, about fifteen pounds this winter. Anyway, like I said, I haven’t been feeling too peachy after eating these sugary, crappy foods. I get headaches all the time. I’m always tired, no matter how much sleep I get. I feel dizzy and weak a lot o f the time. And I am never, ever in a good mood anymore. Then two weeks ago, my digestive system starts completely malfunctioning. So I go to the doctor. She tells me to drink a lot of water. My insurance company paid god knows how much for some broad to tell me to drink a lot of water. Now, hydration may be part of the problem, it’s true, but the main problem is that about 90% of the time I feel like at any moment one of those creatures from Alien is going to burst through my stomach. No, I’m sorry doc, but lack of hydration is simply not the answer. I want a second opinion from someone who’s not a moron.
So I tell all this information to my fiancé and he says, comfortingly, “maybe its diabetes”. Awesome. I have a family history of diabetes so that’s very plausible, except for the fact that I haven’t been losing any weight. A week later I still don’t know anything aside from the fact that I still feel like crap, so I go to the doctor again. Then she tells me to go get blood tests and hands me a pamphlet about the importance of fiber in my daily diet. I shred the pamphlet and I plan to I go get blood tests. I have to fast for twelve hours so that some nurse in a bad mood can strangle my arm in a tourniquet and drain more blood from my body than I personally believe I have to give. And all this for a woman who went to eight years of medical school to be able to figure out whether I have a food allergy, diabetes, or just a really large parasite living in my stomach. Brilliant. Its been weeks since all this craziness began, and I still don’t know shit. All I know is that I have had to cut out anything from my diet that doesn’t grow on a tree or on a bird’s chest. And after 20 years of eating nothing but sugar, the withdrawal is not treating me well. It’s getting to the point where I’d just about stab someone for a piece of chocolate.
If this doesn’t make me sound abnormal enough, let’s rewind to Monday. I wake up, get dressed, drive to school, get to Literature, and we begin our discussion on Oedipus. I can tell by the overwhelming silence of the classroom that I am one of the only people in the room who reads Greek tragedies not simply for class, but in my spare time. I mean, really, what better way is there to unwind after class than kicking back and reading Medea? Anyway, there were are in class, I raise my hand to answer a question, positive that I have the perfect answer, and I get the response “Mmmmm, kind oofff, but not really”. “Kind of but not really.” “My God”, I think to myself. “It’s happening…I’m actually getting dumber”. This may sound like an overreaction, but let me tell you something. I am not that smart and I am not a good student. I’ve always wanted to be, but have never had the patience for the conveyer belt monotony of it all. But my mother went to Cornell, her brother went to Cornell. Two of my cousins went to other Ivy League schools, and my other cousin who is literally a genius graduated high school at sixteen, moved to France, then moved to New Zealand, then went on to NYU with whom she is currently studying abroad in Ghana. However, she will no longer be attending NYU in the fall because she wants more of a “life challenge”. What, because NYU isn’t challenge enough on its own? I mean Jesus Christ. Basically what I’m trying to say here is…I’m not the brightest bulb in the box. I’m the black sheep of the family, and nobody really expects anything from me. But English…now there’s something I get. The English category is pretty much the only thing I’m good at and the only thing I really care about academically. But having my favorite professor telling me “Kind of but not really”, well, he may as well draw a big red capitalized “FAIL” on my forehead and shove me in the corner of the room with a giant cone on my head.
So, I can’t even comprehend the English language now. Great. There’s only one thing to do in this situation: cry. That’s right, I started crying in the middle of a discussion about a man who accidentally kills his father and makes babies with his mom. Nobody really notices, of course. I’ve gotten good at hiding my emotions over the years. But still, there I sit, my eyes welling up in the middle of Lit class. Well, it didn’t matter anyway, because after that class I was out of there. I had yet another a doctor’s appointment to go to on the other side of the island, so it’s not like I would be returning to class for another chance at a random sob-fest. But see there it is again. My sheer weirdness. My inability to exist on the same plane as everyone else around me. Who does that? Who starts crying in the middle of class because she missed one question? Me, just me. Because I was born in the form of nature’s practical joke.
I really think sometimes I was created when Mother Nature was drunk or something. And speaking of drunk, I can’t help but interrupt this essay to wonder if my food allergy or diabetes or black plague or whatever it is I have effect my ability to get drunk? That would suck because on the rare occasions when I do act like a normal twenty something and decide to get a little crazy with one Bud Light, it’s pretty much the only time I feel like maybe I am normal. Maybe I have the ability to be just like everybody else. Then I sober up and have a horrible hangover, and I don’t drink again for a month because I realize that one night of acting like a twenty year old, care free, idiot is not worth the migraine and/ or nausea.
But seriously, what is my mental damage? I mean, all these thoughts and feelings and all this self doubt. The constant whirring of the wheels in my head. The places my mind goes when I should be in class. None of this can be normal. I am allergic to normal. Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever be normal. I wonder because I do things such as the aforementioned and things like accusing my fiancé of cheating on me, even though that is nearly physically impossible because he spends every moment he is not at school or at work with me. He is completely devoted to me. He is 100% wonderful, but no matter what, I find a way to make him look like an asshole. Why? Because that’s my job. I’m pretty sure that I was put on this planet to annoy and weird people out. I do things like complaining about my weight one minute and then grabbing a doughnut the next. I always talk about how much I want to be a great student, but then I never do my homework. I talk about how adult and responsible I want to be, but, I don’t even have a job right now. I wake up late everyday. I speed even though I got a speeding ticket in August. I need sleep, but then I stay up on the computer till 4 a.m. I smoke pot when I want to be on a diet. When I want to make friends I clam up. When it’s a beautiful day, I lock myself inside to read a book. When it’s rainy I complain that I want to be outside. When I tell my father I want to be closer to him I don’t talk to him for weeks at a time. And I want to finally improve my life and change things for the better…I just turn around and screw things up again. I give up. I get lazy. I can’t. I won’t. I just don’t give a shit.
I am a living contradiction and I hate it. It would seem with all the medications and therapy and self-help books, that there must be some way to stop this never-ending circle. But I don’t know if there is. The philosopher Sartre had a theory that everything that happens in your life and even in other people’s lives is free-will. It’s all choice, and all things, good or bad, are things that you must take responsibility for. Well, I don’t know if Sartre is correct, but if he is, in his world I would be screwed. But, on the other hand, philosopher John Hospers had a theory that everything you do in your life, every decision you make, everything you do, everything you don’t, and everything you are capable of and everything you aren’t is all determined by luck. There is little free will. Some people are lucky, and some are not. Some kids are raised in a perfect household, they go to a good school, they were blessed with an active personality with a “never give up” attitude. Some kids…aren’t. Some kids’ mothers die. Some kids fuck up in school because they’re depressed and don’t have the willpower or energy to deal with life. Some kids are lazy. And some kids are just too tired to not give up. So, I could theorize my life and personality the John Hospers way. None of these quirks or fuck ups are entirely my fault. It’s all just luck. It’s just how I am and there’s nothing I can do about it. But if I live with that kind of attitude, then what? Do I settle with all the things I hate about myself and that’s it? Do I never strive for better? Am I doomed for the rest of my life to be an abnormal, introverted, mess of life just because some fucked up things happened to me? I really don’t want it to be that way. I want to be better, and I want my life to be happy and filled with good things. But, if I choose to live that way that means I’m responsible for all the bad things in my life too. And I’m just not sure I’m ready to handle that.

The Soul Purpose

2008-04-22T09:15:00.000-04:00

The Soul Purpose

Though J. K. Rowling may not be the great philosopher that Plato once was, she is a woman wise beyond her world. Her illustration of the soul based on her description of horcruxes is comparable with that of Plato’s own view. Though Rowling seems to write as more of a dualist, and Plato as much more a spiritualist, some similar points are made by both about the soul. In both Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince and Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, horcruxes play a very important role in the description of soul and mortality. In Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, Tom Riddle coerces Professor Slughorn into sharing information about the workings of Horcruxes. Professor Slughorn explains that existence in the form of a split soul, or horcruxes, would be a very evil and undesirable existence. “Few would want it, Tom, very few. Death would be preferable.” (497) Lord Voldemort, however, would clearly not prefer death. His main goal is power and therefore sees nothing wrong with abusing his soul in the name of attaining that power.

In Plato’s view, that abuse of the soul is highly detrimental. “If the soul is really immortal, what care should be taken of her, not only in respect of the portion of time which is called life, but of eternity!” (Phaeto). For one to find purity and truth, the flow of life and death cannot be interrupted. The act of prolonging life is looked upon as pointless, and fear of death is deemed ridiculous. Fear of death, is, of course, Voldemort’s entire motivation behind creating his horcruxes. He feels the opposite of how J. K. Rowling and Plato view the soul; his soul has little worth, but as long as he is physically present he believes he has the most important type of power.

Voldemort believes what neither Rowling nor Plato does; that his evil separation of the soul with has no consequence. It does, of course, take a toll on him physically and otherwise. In The Half-Blood Prince, Dumbledore explains that so many separations of the soul may be the cause for the change in his physical appearance. “Lord Voldemort has seemed to grow less human with the passing years, and the transformation he has undergone seemed to me to be only explicable if his soul was mutilated beyond the realms of what we might call ‘usual evil’” (502). Although Voldemort regarded his physical presence on Earth with more importance than the well-being of his soul, the books back up Plato’s theory, that the main importance lies within the soul, and that the body is a mere vessel. “When the soul and the body are united, then nature orders the soul to rule and govern, and the body to obey and serve” (Phaeto).

Voldemort’s ideas of separating soul from body greatly contradict Plato’s views on separation of soul and body. Where Voldemort seeks to literally separate his soul into many, many parts, in order to keep just a small, miserable portion of his physical self in existence, Plato views the separation of soul and body as a very wonderful, nondestructive thing. “And then the foolishness of the body will be cleared away and we shall be pure” (Phaeto).

In The Deathly Hallows, when Harry is “killed” by Voldemort and is at King’s Cross station, a whimpering, weak, repulsive animal, which seems to represent Voldemort’s soul, lies near Harry. Although Harry would like to help, Dumbledore tells him “You cannot help” (707). This image shows that Rowling’s view is that, through evil, even the soul can be destroyed, which is the complete opposite of Plato’s view that while the body can be destroyed, the soul cannot. “The soul is in the very likeness of the divine, and immortal, and intelligible, and uniform, and indissoluble, and unchangeable; and the body is in the very likeness of the human, and changeable” (Phaeto). Though Rowling paints the portrait that human life and the soul are tied together, for Voldemort would have ceased to exist had he not split his soul into many parts, Plato insists that the soul is entirely free and separate of body, and that all life came from souls that existed before, and which will exist again after departing from the body. “We arrive at the interference that the living come from the dead, just as the dead come from the living; and if this is true, then the souls of the dead must be in some place out of which they come again” (Phaeto).

Rowling and Plato do share a similarity as far as good and evil goes, however. Though Voldemort’s soul does not seem to outlast his life, the “death” of his soul at King’s Cross seems to be a very slow and painful one, in return for the abuse of it. “And the danger of neglecting her from this point of view does appear to be awful” (Phaeto). Though Voldemort, along with his soul do die, and it is at last the end for him, which is contrary to Plato’s belief of the immortal soul, neither he or his soul escape his life without some form of punishment for his evil. “If death had only been the end of all, the wicked would have had a good bargain in dying, for they would have been happily quit not only of their body, but of their own evil together with their souls” (Phaeto). Voldemort’s soul does wither, but that in no way means he has been relieved of the evil he caused throughout his life.

The soul is a complex idea that deserves much exploring. Both Plato and Rowling do this in their own ways. No one may ever be certain of what the soul is or how long it lasts. No one may ever agree exactly on their ideas of what the soul is and what its existence entails, but ideas do often cross and collide and create new, shared ideas, giving the soul new meaning and all the more reason to be explored.

My Religion

2008-04-09T06:57:00.010-04:00

I know next to nothing about religion. I don't even have a religion. I wasn't even really given a religion at birth. I'm not an atheist or anything, it's just that religion has never played much of a role in my life, and yet it seems to be what has shaped my life. I was born to my mother, Marilyn Ross, and my father Ed Poteet. They were hippies and I think that's excellent. Our house was simple but beautiful, always filled with flowers and music. I remember being young, spinning aimlessly around my living room as children of that age sometimes do, and being surrounded by the smell of lilacs and the sound of Bob Dylan, or the scent of roses and the vibrations of Beethoven, or the simple air of baby's breath and the sweet softness of the Beatles, or Judy Collins, of show-tunes, or Sinatra. That was what I knew from the time I was born up until about middle school when the education system started subliminally weaving religion into my life. I knew music and nature and simplicity and happiness. Religion was of no real import.Of course, that's not to say that my family and I didn't celebrate our share of holidays. In fact, that's basically the only thing I got out of religion as a kid; celebration. We celebrated Christmas, Hanukkah, Halloween, Passover, Easter, Yom Kippur; you name it, we celebrated it, but only in the Hallmark card, paper Mache decorations, over-sized plastic reindeer on our front lawn kind of way. Religious values not included. Christmas was about Santa and presents, Hanukkah was about dreidel, a menorah, and more presents, Easter was about a man in a giant bunny suit and a basket full of Peeps, and all the other holidays were pretty much about getting dressed up, eating a lot, or both. Sometimes we watched the Ten Commandments, or sang a traditional song around the menorah. I vaguely knew the biblical Christmas story, and was somehow or another eventually introduced to the improbable story of Adam and Eve, but aside from that, the bible, prayer, and god were all tucked away in very remote parts of my mind and existence. You see, my mother was raised Jewish, but as a kid she always wanted a Christmas tree, and even attempted to decorate her house with candy canes, which didn't fly too well with her mother, who in light of World War II, was so attached to Judaism, that she was even offended by the image of angels. Now my father was raised Christian. When I say Christian, try to imagine the perfect 1950s image of a blond haired, blue-eyed, fair skinned little boy, dressed in a sailor suit, who never so much as folded his napkin the wrong way at supper time. That was my father. He was the gentile of gentiles but as soon as the effects of the 60s kicked in, he just kind of forgot about the existence of religion altogether. So here's this feminist hippy Jew who's burning her bra at Cornell, and this meandering ex-christian hippy who's just kind of hitch-hiking through life and trying make some money for himself and eventually they find each other, marry, and decide to procreate. My mom being who she was, refused to give up her last name just because it was in some ancient rule book that a lady should do so, and my parents as a couple, being what they were, saw no reason why their children could not share both of their last names. Hence my not so complicated last name that no one can figure out simply because it's interrupted by a hyphen. So they could share last names, but what about religion? Well it seemed to work out perfectly that neither one of my parents really believed in their birth-given faiths, so they just decided: To hell with it! No religion! The kids can choose for themselves. But no one wants to give up an excuse to have a party, so they kept the holidays but ditched the prayers, worship, and all that other un-fun stuff. While my friends were at church on Sunday morning, I was eating a nice big pancake breakfast with my family, and listening to the radio. While my friends were stuck in religion class, I was playing with my Barbies or getting beat up by my brother. My friends had their communions, I was oblivious to the fact that such a thing even existed. My friends had confirmations, I had no idea what that was, nor did I care. My cousins had bar mitzvahs and bah mitzvahs and my brother and I didn't. We never went to church or synagogue, or temple or anything like that. The only times my family and I ever stepped foot inside a “House of God”, as others called them, were for weddings, funerals, and other family get-togethers that required them. I was glad for this, being that these "Houses of God" scared the shit out of me. They were always so big and intimidating, and the stained glass windows always obstructed the warmth of the natural sunlight. They were always so quiet and dark, and as far as churches went, I could not for the life of me understand the thought process behind hanging up giant images of the miserable looking man with the beard, who I later found out was bloody, lifeless, and nailed to that cross. All in all, these places scared me, so I avoided them as often as possible, which isn't that difficult when you don't have a religion. When the topic of religion did happen to come up, and people wanted to know what religion I was, I or my parents would tell people I was "half and half", meaning half-jewish, half-christian, but in reality, I wasn't. I just celebrated the holidays as if they were big birthday parties for everyone. Everyone was celebrating and celebrated. Everyone got food, everyone got a gift, and nobody treated it religiously or formally at all. To be quite honest, my lack of knowledge of god, prayer, religion, and the bible, was always something that I sort of prided myself on. I was not only free of religion classes and having other people's beliefs thrust upon me, but I also had the sense that this made me different from most people in a way that I was very fond of. It was my most treasured pride and joy that no god, no prayer, no book could define me. My lack of religion, and especially my ignorance of the bible, was something not many other people could attain. I am not the sort to define ignorance as a good thing, but from what I had observed, religion did nothing but tear people apart, and the bible did nothing but stop people from forming ideas of their own. Religion was the cause of ignorance, not the lack of it. I had experienced that ignorance first-hand when I came home from Disney World one year at the age of eight to find my house covered with the words "Fuck Jews" and "Go Home Jews" and tainted with swastikas and other symbols of hate. So up until I got a bit older, I considered my "ignorance" to be my greatest knowledge. After my mother died however, I was embittered and began to question everything. When I wanted to speak to her, I had no prayers to recite, and no church or temple in which to pray. I had no rules, no restrictions, no commandments; I had nothing to follow. Seeing my very convincing lost lamb impression, my Christian friend, Sarah, herded me to her youth group. It was one of the scariest experiences of my life. Everyone closed their eyes, and lifted their arms to the sky and praised Jesus! According to my mother's religion, Jesus was just some dude who spun the dreidel along with all the other jews, so why were they all praising him? Aside from that question, I had many others like, Why is it a sin for teens to have sex if they're safe about it? Why am I going to go to hell if I decide to have a lazy day? What is so poisonous about loving someone of the same sex? Why did all these people have the exact same opinions on these topics? Why did they all appear to be in some sort of a trance? Why did this place seem more like a cult than a church? and Where was the nearest door? Needless to say, I never went back to youth group, and I never became a christian.
After my questionable experience at youth group, I looked into my jewish roots to see if they provided me with any comfort, but upon discovering I would have had to give up many things, such as Hawaiian pizza, in order to remain kosher and devout, no comfort was found. I found that sacrifice was a key ingredient in most, if not all, religions. It didn't make sense to me. Why should I give up the things I enjoy in order to enrich my life or to be blessed or to be saved? It seemed completely counterintuitive. After looking into the more unorthodox religions, such as wicca, but finding these religions seemed either a bit too out there, or a bit too contrived, I gave up and declared myself an atheist. That lasted about a week, when I realized that not only was I was failing math and found myself praying to whatever it was out there to help me pass, but that atheism was quite the paradoxical entity being that this un-religion was a religion based on the fact that it provided a belief system to be followed, which is a simple one mainly stating that there is no god, still, it’s a belief system. I felt a totally lost, and felt that maybe my parents should have given me something to put my faith in when life got rough, as it often does. So I turned back for a brief period of time to Christianity. I didn't go to church or anything, but I planned to...eventually, and I discovered some christian rock bands that weren’t totally abysmal. I kind of dug some of Switchfoot's music and admired them for an unyielding faith that I could never even imagine attaining. Yet, I just could not convince myself to agree with this religion one hundred percent, and I simply wouldn't negotiate my morals for the sake of being able to plop myself in the midst of one particular sect. Aside from that, I often found that my childhood observations had been correct; religion often tore people apart. My friend Sarah and I were no longer friends, and even though it was seldom talked about, we both knew the underlying cause was our religious differences. So again, I ditched religion and chalked it up to my idea that there was something out there that I couldn't explain, some force or something, and though that something was probably just the forces of nature or the Universe or whatever you want to call it and not a sentient being, there was something; and to me, that's all there probably ever will be. Twenty years later it's still just nature and music and happiness. The simplicity is lost most of the time, because that's just how life is, but the happiness is still there. I remain proud of my lack of knowledge of prayer, god, formal religion, and the bible, and rather choose to celebrate the religion of life. However, as an English major, I am finding myself more and more frequently to be missing out on many of the points of great works of literature or poetry. So consider this; do I read the bible and destroy what I pride myself on, or do I remain ignorant to what, in the mind of an English professor, is just one of the many great works of literature? To be honest, it probably doesn't matter either way because a book is just a book, religion is what you make it, and mine is made out of life, love, nature, and happiness. Every day is a holy day, therefore everyday should be celebrated.

The Philosophy of Emily Adison

2008-03-12T18:02:00.002-04:00

Caitlin Ross-Poteet

The Philosophy of Emily Adison

Emily Adison stepped daintily on to Friedrich Street. It was a day that only God him/her/itself could dream into creation. Or maybe, it simply was a dream, who could tell for sure? And who/what is this God character anyway? Well, Emily thought she knew, and she asked him why he would create such a gray, rainy day. But, in any case, Emily Adison stepped, nay, skipped, well maybe it was more of a hop? Well, to be fair, it could have looked different to different people. Whatever it was that she did, it landed her in the middle of Friedrich Street. Poor Emily Adison. She never saw that hospital car coming.
Emily Adison felt….unreal. “Perhaps”, she thought, “I am unreal. If I feel unreal, that must mean I am unreal musn’t it?” She pondered this for a bit. Or perhaps, you would prefer the word “explored”? No? Maybe then “consider”. She considered this? Or if that does not satisfy you, perhaps muse, mull over, puzzle, contemplate, ruminate, or percolate will? Or if even these do not fit your fancy, perhaps you can use a word in another language that serves this meaning, or, oh! Even more fun, you can make up your own word! After all, it cannot be nonsense if you give meaning to it! Can it? Well, I’ll revotillum (that’s “mull it over” backwards! See now, isn’t this fun?!), and while I do that, you choose a word to use, and whatever that word is, Emily did it, and in doing so had a small revelation.
“Wait!” thought Emily, “If I am thinking I am unreal, I am doing something, so I can not be unreal then can I?!” This was the conclusion Emily Adison came to. A rather good conclusion; doesn’t mean it’s true, nonetheless, she came to it and she stuck with it momentarily.
Feeling her eyes rolling underneath her lids, or what seemed at the time, like her eyes rolling underneath her eyelids, Emily decided that now that she had figured out she existed, she should start to function again, and she would start with opening her eyes. This is when all Hell broke lose. Or perhaps you don’t believe in Hell, so for you it would just be hell, or heck, or something that represents a poor situation that you would not want to find yourself in. Maybe you don’t like clowns. So, for you it would be “if a circus broke loose” or “Timmy’s 6th birthday party broke loose” (who’s Timmy?). That would be the general idea. But not the absolute idea, because you can never be too sure that anything is absolute, because in being absolute that leaves no room for change, and if you find one day that things are not absolutely as you thought them to be, you would be forced to stick by your absolute belief even if it was almost absolutely wrong and that would lead to ignorance, absolutely. Well, not absolutely…In any case…
Emily Adison opened her eyes to see…nothing. Nothing but white. Although I suppose you could argue that white isn’t nothing, but aside from that, she saw nothing. Of course that depends on your definition of nothing, because if to you nothing really means something and something really means nothing, then the nothing plus white that Emily saw, to you, could mean everything! But again, Emily saw nothing. She saw only the blinding white nothing (or something) and felt a great heat upon her face, or what she hoped was still her face, for, at the moment she could not see it so she was not quite sure. Even if she could have seen her face, who was to say that it was no more than an illusion? Emily realized at once what this must mean.
“Oh my!” she cried as (her) reality slowly settled in. “Bright lights?! Great warmth?! I’m dead aren’t I?!” she exclaimed as the image of the hospital car rushing towards her gradually returned to the forefront of her cranium (which is odd, seeing as how this image had never been there in the first place).
Then, rising from the highest, purest peak of the Heavens (since this is where Emily thought she must be if she really were dead; I won’t argue because I don’t want to start trouble), came a voice.
“Emily Adison?” thundered the gracious yet powerful voice.
“Yes?” replied Emily. “God, is that you, God?”
There came a slight pause and then again the deep voice spoke.
“Well, I don’t know. I mean, you sound so excited, so, in the interest of keeping you cheerful, why don’t we just say I am?”
Emily Adison fumbled for words for a moment. And I do mean fumble. There is no replacing this word. I mean if you could have seen this girl fumble…anyway, Emily tried to gather herself.
“W-what?” was all she was able to spit out.
“Well” responded the voice, “I mean, you just seemed so excited to meet God, so the pragmatic solution to this would be to say ‘yes, I’m God, what can I do for you today?’”
Again, Emily fumbled, but less so, so go ahead find another word, same meaning, have a field day, or whatever you associate with fun. Have one of those.
Throughout her new experience, Emily had started out scared, then had become excited. Now, however, she was just getting angry, and Emily Adison was not the type of girl who wanted to be angry with God. From what little she had seen, or, erm, felt, she liked Heaven, and she had no intention of leaving on account of God being stubborn.
“Look”, she said, sounding a bit less angelic than she previously had, “all I want to know is, are you God, or aren’t you, is this Heaven or isn’t it, and am I dead or aren’t I?”
The voice seemed to consider these questions for a moment and with a deep and dignified breath it spoke: “Yes. Yes, Emily Adison, Yes”.
The room, Emily felt, was grower warmer by the minute, and if she had a face, she was certain it was growing redder.
With clenched something or others (because without a face can one have teeth?) she replied “Yes, what?!”
“I am whatever you think I am.”
“WHAT?!” shrieked Emily. “What does that even mean? That is nonsense! Alright, I want to know what is going on, and I want to know now! If you’re not God, then who are you and how do you know my name?!”
“I never said I wasn’t God”
“What?” snapped Emily.
“I never said I wasn’t God, you assumed. And as for knowing your name, well, what is your name?”
“What’s my name?” she said in disbelief. “Why, you just said it, it’s Emily Adison, EMILY ADISON!!!”
The voice responded quite calmly, “Are you sure?”
“Am I sure what?”
“Are you sure that Emily Adison is your name?”
“Of course I’m sure!”
“Prove it.”
“Wha- prove it?! It’s on my birth certificate but-”
“Your birth certificate? Well how does that prove that Emily Adison is your name?”
“How?” How. Emily paused for a moment. “Well, because it’s in print, and…it’s a certificate. That means something doesn’t it?”
“Oh does it?” asked the voice with pure fascination. “Well, now I’m rather interested! Do tell me what it means!” Again, Emily paused.
“Well I-I don’t actually know really. I guess I was always just sort of under the impression that it meant something because people, my parents, told me it did”
“Your parents?”
“Yes, my pare-My parents!” Emily cried. “That is how I know my name is Emily Adison! My parents gave that name to me, they called me that my entire life, and it’s what everyone has known me by my entire life, so it has to be my name!”
“Oh, does it?”
“Oh, what do you mean ‘does it’? Of course it does! That is the name that people know me by, that is the name that I respond to, therefore it is my name.”
“Well if Emily Adison is your name simply because you respond to it, then what if you didn’t hear someone when they called your name? Someone called your name, and you didn’t respond to it, so it obviously can’t be your name anymore. ” Emily was stumped. The voice was right. “Something can only have meaning if you give it meaning”. Emily had a vague feeling that, if the voice could smile, it was probably doing so now.
“So…I don’t have a name? I don’t have an identity? Then who am I? I mean, who was I? Am I? Was I? Am I a Was I?” Emily was growing increasingly confused and increasingly frustrated. “Where am I?! What is this?!” she exclaimed at last.
“This is whatever you want it to be” said the voice. “You are wherever you want to be. You are whoever you want to be. Your reality is only…”
“what I decide it to be” finished Emily. Suddenly the bright nothingness grew brighter and brighter and brighter and brighter still. She pushed her mind forward.
“Ohhhhh” sighed Emily. “I see” she cooed as she began to make out a blur of the faint figure before her. She made out a white robe…
“Do you?” the voice questioned her.
“No, I don’t think I do. But if I think I don’t at least I’m doing something, meaning that I exist, and in existing and doing something and that something being merely thinking and not knowing, that leaves room for change, possibility, uncertainty, and relativity.”
“So…” prompted the voice.
“…So…by knowing thinking I know nothing I will always have the possibility of learning all! You are God!!!” Emily exclaimed. “Oh I knew it, I knew it! Only God could bring such a Truth to my blind eyes!”
“Oh Emily Adison” came the mournful reply. “Have I taught you nothing?” And everything went dark.
“Emily! Emily! Emily Adison can you hear me?!” This voice was not so soothing as the one that had left her. At last Emily physically opened her eyes and saw…a middle aged man in aqua scrubs and a long white lab coat.
“Hi, Emily” he said with a smile. “Welcome back. I’m Dr. Rene, I’ve been taking care of you while you were out. You gave us quite a scare there, skipper. Do you remember what happened at all?” Emily looked around at the blinding white hospital around her. She squinted as her eyes adjusted to the fluorescent lights.
Thought Emily. And then, just as it had before, it all came back to her. The hospital car colliding with her body. Or at least, it had appeared to. The rushing car was the last thing she remembered seeing. She looked at Dr. Rene. The long white lab coat. That was it. It was all just an elaborate dream, Emily realized.
“Yea, I think I remember” Emily responded finally. “I was hit. By a hospital car ironically enough.”
Dr. Rene chuckled. “Yes well, we had a bit of an issue with one of our patients down in the psychiatric ward…” He cleared his throat nervously.
“Problem?” Emily thought she might be understanding, but thought there could be no possible way…but as Emily should have learned, there is almost always a possible way…
“Well to be honest, Emily” Dr. Rene began nervously, “this little accident of yours was a sort of a saving grace for our hospital”
“Oh yea, well whatever I can do to help” Emily said politely, not really knowing how else to respond to the fact that Dr. Rene seemed quite appreciative of her near-death incident.
“Yep”, said Dr. Rene, “if it weren’t for you that psych patient might still be out there, on the run with our car! Haha!” His chuckles quickly faded as if he knew that this really wasn’t funny at all. “But because the accident happened and the police showed up and everything, he was identified and brought back here. In fact he should be on his way to the psychiatric wing right now…”
Dr. Rene’s voice faded away and was soon replaced by a deeper, booming, thunderous voice…
“I know the Truth!” it boomed “I climbed from the inside out and beyond the shadows I have seen the Truth!” They must know that we can never know by climbing towards the light! That is the only solution. That is the only way to find the Truth!!!”
The voice grew louder until at last two strapping hospital security guards passed attempting to sedate an old man, wearing a long white hospital gown, who was flailing about uncontrollably. And for a moment, or maybe for a million years, or possibly for the length of the creation of an entire universe, or perhaps for no time at all, the voice was given a face as Emily Adison looked deep into the old man’s eyes. He fell quiet and still for just a moment. “Emily Adison! Emily Adison! You must see the light! So close Emily Adison! So close! Keep climbing Emily Adison and you shall know!!! Meet me at Friedrich Street seven days from forever and you shall learn the Truth!”
Dr. Rene stood silent for a moment or two, then cleared his throat again, laughed nervously and said “Now, where did I put your chart?”
Emily looked at him in disbelief. “I don’t know, Dr. Rene, where did you put my chart?”
“Um, i-it must be h-here…” he stuttered “I mean, I’m the doctor, so that means I’ve got to have that clipboard around here somewhere…uh, doesn’t it?”
Emily raised one eyebrow at Dr. Rene. “Oh does it?”

In some world, on some sort of day, seven days after now, or then, or never or forever, Emily Adison stepped, or lept, or did whatever your mind will say she did, to arrive on Friedrich Street. Poor Emily Adison never saw that hospital car coming, probably because it didn’t come. Regardless of what she did not see, Emily Adison heard a voice.

A Letter to Christopher Mayer

2008-03-05T19:06:00.025-05:00

Dear Chris, How are things? I know we haven't talked in a while, but I just wanted to write this to say I hate you. This may seem out of the blue, but for the life of me I would not be able to figure out why you would think that it was anything but the case. I don't think I ever truly knew what hatred was until I met you, and dated you, and got my heart broken by you, was ignored by you, defiled and degraded by you, fucked up my entire life for YOU. I have been a complete and absolute mess since high school because of you. I have denied it, and neglected it, and buried it, time, and time, and time again You are the reason I broke up with an amazing guy. You are the reason I let myself be degraded and belittled. You are the reason I was in some of the worst relationships with people i didn't even like. You are the reason I couldn't hold on to any relationship for more than a few months. You were the inspiration behind my treating other people like crap. You were the inspiration behind acting like nothing more than a burlesque dancer around you and your crew. You are the inspiration behind ever night I got too fucked up. You were the inspiration behind every guy I just couldn't say "no" to. You were the inspiration behind every drug, every drink, every stupid, selfish, life-threatening risk I took. You were the inspiration behind every item of clothing I stripped. You were the inspiration behind every tear I cried. You were the inspiration for every self-destructive act I ever put upon myself. You took my innocence away, and when I told you that you were gonna drink yourself to the bottom of the bottle one day and that would be it, I meant it and you needed to hear it. So I take back my bullshit apology I gave you in hopes we would lock lips just one more time. I take back every compliment, every glance, ever drink, ever smoke, every drug, every meaningless lay, every skanky outfit, every asshole I dated.
Sincerely,
Caitlin.
I remember the moment I met him but I don't remember like it was yesterday. It's more like remembering a scene from another life, or at least from an old John Hughes movie where I'm Molly Ringwald but the rest of the breakfast club has up and left me, and even by the end of the movie the guy of my dreams still won't like me, even though it's in the script. That's what the whole messy thing was like. A really classic, well-written script that the male ingénue decided not to follow.I was sixteen and blond and I wanted to be more famous than Britney Spears and Jesus combined. Which is why I was in Ms. Nielson's first period acting class. It was also why I was in desperate need of a CD player that would play the Broadway Musical Wicked soundtrack loud enough for me to hear, but just quiet enough so that the entire class would hear me belting along and be really really really impressed, and really really really jealous and so that maybe if by some chance a record producer just happened to be walking by the classroom he would instantly stop, turn, poke his head into the little theatre, see me singing and say "why, young lady that is the most incredible voice I have ever heard and you have the looks to match, I'm going to make you more famous than Britney Spears and Jesus combined!" Of course I imagined this sort of scenario playing out countless times in various locations (the mall, the book store, Borders, Fridays, a gas station, in the car while I was singing to music and some man in a fancy car next to me would roll down the window like in those Grey Poupon commercials, except instead of asking for mustard, he would ask me to sign with his record label). But, shocker: it never happened. I'm not sure I ever really thought it would, but hey, I was sixteen and bathing in naivety and my number one idol, Britney Spears, hadn't lost her damn mind yet. I had to keep hoping.So there I was in the little theatre, growing increasingly desperate seeing as how class was about to start and I had yet to wow my classmates with my unyielding bravado, when my friend Alisha, the fiery, rebellious girl with hair of fire and a mind to match, stood up on her chair and shouted "does anyone in this damn class know if there is a CD player in this room?!" The response was a chorus of confounded mumbles and head scratching, and finally Alisha rolled her eyes, fixed her green neon fishnets, and plopped back down in her seat. I heard her mutter something about "useless, fucking retards” and I laughed in response, as her dangerous hazel eyes narrowed and wandered to the left of me. She abruptly rose from her seat and made a move towards the heap of black fabric sitting at the desk next to mine. Up until this point I had been a little less than unaware of, and even a little disgusted by this presence. I didn't know who he was and I didn't care. I hadn't seen him there the last two quarters, but his black, over sized band sweatshirt, pulled up over his head, which was lying seemingly unconscious on his desk told me that this was not my new best friend anyway. The smell of cigarettes wafting from his direction and his dirty backpack, adorned with skulls, safety pins, and what I assumed to be some sort of devil music death metal band patches also gave me the hint that I wasn't missing much by not being acquainted with him. Nonetheless, Alisha continued on her path towards him. "Hey, Chris!" she yelled directly in his ear, which I hadn't noticed until then, were covered with headphones. In addition to making the devil child deaf in one ear, she proceed to hit his arm and shake him until a confused, angry, and (looking back on it), hung-over face emerged from the cotton tar pit. "What?" he responded, glaring at Alisha, wiping drool from his mouth. His tone said "I would kill you, but I'm too tired". He shifted his glassy gaze lazily around the theatre looking utterly nonplussed. His eyes said "I don't where the Hell I am, or how the Hell I got here, but I want some answers now...and maybe an Irish coffee" as they wandered around the room and came full circle back to Alisha."Can my friend Caitlin borrow your disk man for a sec?" she asked nodding towards me. He pulled himself a little further out of his hoodie, to expose a tired face that looked to worn for his age and a head full of gelled up greaser-type hair. I felt my eyes darting uncomfortably from the floor to Alisha to Chris several times as I felt his angry judging eyes sizing me up. Finally I let my eyes rest on Chris challengingly as if to say "I don't care how many bats’ heads you've bitten off, I want that CD player" He raised his gaze to mine and at the very instant of their connection I felt as if my world had just collapsed. The universe had folded and unfolded and divided into an even greater infinity. My brain said "look away, this boy is trouble" but I couldn't stop staring; a jet of electricity soared through my body from head to toe tickling every minuscule sensor from the hairs on my head to each tip of my innocent fingers. My brain screamed "stop staring, this is weird, I think he's trying to steal your soul!" But I couldn't stop. His eyes were like emeralds only greener. His eyes were like opals only more iridescent. His eyes were like an ocean at midnight, only more luminescent. His eyes were like lightening, only brighter, lovelier, and ten times as dangerous. At this point my brain was shrieking "FOR THE LOVE OF BRITNEY AND ALL THAT IS BROADWAY LOOK AWAY WOMAN, LOOK AWAY!!!"

It was only when Alisha leaned over and whispered "good god, that boy is wrecked" in my ear that my soul returned from outer space, the air made its journey back into my lungs, my brain ceased its withering and emerged shaking violently from a far corner of its encasement. And finally my eyes said their blue goodbyes and fell a million miles once more to the cold tiled floor of what I once knew to be just the little theatre. After I felt a sufficient amount of nano-seconds had passed since their departure, my eyes darted back to Chris, and then swiftly away again. I had broken our staring match, but apparently he had failed to deduce that it had come to an end. He sat there staring at me intensely. Even when I glanced back in his direction and glanced back down again to check that he really was still looking, his eyes did not disappoint me. His eyes never disappointed. They are the only thing about him to this day that don't; that won't.

But yes, he was still staring carefully finishing his inspection. After what seemed an eon, but what was, in reality, a minute or less, his gaze still set on me, he answered Alisha with a coy "yea, she can borrow my disk man". He removed his headphones from his ears, and the disk man from the pouch of his hoodie and handed them over with a slight, mischievous, James Dean sort of smile. It was the smile that shook me wide awake. In an instant, the life changing experience I had felt was completely obliterated; the creation of a whole new universe was eradicated with that one stupid smile. I know that smile. Guys begin to smile like that as soon as they learn how; just after their voices change and just a little before they start sneaking playboy into their Captain America comics.

I mustered as much of a smile back as I permanently broke the look that had lasted just a little too long between us. I put the headphones on and replaced his Social Distortion disk with the Wicked soundtrack and pushed play. Listening to this music was all that I could do to distract myself from my our uncomfortable encounter until class began. About 526 years later my Ms. Nielson strode into the theatre with perfection, as always, and the bell which marked the start of class sounded throughout the building. Salvation had come.

I don't know why I feel such a need to give every single detail about that moment. Perhaps because it was the mark of a turning point in my life. Up until I met Chris, everything around me I can only describe as pink and glittery. This doesn't mean that I lead a charmed life. My mother had just died three years prior, but even though that left me with enough emotional issues to fill up ten million of my therapist's journals, I still believed that life, and fate, and people, were mostly good. I tried my very best to get good grades, and, I will reluctantly admit, that I looked down upon those who did not. I liked pop music, I believed I would be a world famous entertainer, I loved wearing pink girly clothes and bopping along to the A*Teens as I perfected my look every morning. Basically every Disney movie ever created was my motivation and inspiration to find my own happily ever after. I was, at this time in my life convinced for the second time, that I was one step closer to having it. His name was Warren, and while I was a Junior in High School, just on the verge of being able to operate a vehicle with a licenced driver present in the passenger seat, he was a Freshman at Stony Brook University. His major? Physics. As much of a flake as I tried to be during my teenage years, I could never truly hide the fact that I was much more interested in brains than looks. Warren's intelligence and fierce scholastic aptitude drew me like a surfer to the sea. It also didn't hurt that despite his intelligence and lack of anything close to a fashion sense, Warren was a very attractive guy. He had naturally tan, soft, flawless skin, that I swear would glow every time my fingertips came in contact with it. His lips were full and pouty and gave him that Bob Dylan sort of brooding look, but when they parted into a smile, which was often, a friendly warmth emerged and saturated the world in complete comfort and sun. He didn't have a bad body either. Though he had terrible asthma, as, of course, only a stereotypical science could, the boy sure could run. But the thing I noticed first about him, and the thing that made me say "I love you" a mere nine days into our relationship, were his eyes. They were indescribable. They too, were green. But a richer, friendlier, handsomer green. They made me think of underwater everglades and the glow of a planetary nebula, out in the furthest imaginable corner of space. I got lost in them so easily, and never cared to find my way home. Warren was just wonderful. He was sensitive and sweet, dorky but cool, intelligent, but so relaxed. I don't think I've ever laughed so hard, so often with anyone else. I still look back on our relationship as one of my best, romantic, friendship, or otherwise, and to this day I am still painfully aware of the wonderful thing I gave up, when I gave him up. I'll never forget him ask so honestly, so calmly, "do you have a thing for Chris?" and my reply, a confused, guilty and reluctant "yea". He accepted it so well, and though that wasn't the end of our relationship, I'm sure Warren, the practical person he is, was making a mental preparation. The end of our love was the start of my descent; a rough but swift descent I decided to make when I decided to cut my warm, happy safety net with Warren, and take my chances with Chris. Among the many coincidences and ironies of this situation, was the fact that Warren and Chris lived right down the street from each other, but hadn't spoken in years until I bridged that gap. Until Warren sadly, but humbly passed the torch. Until Chris lazily, carelessly, and barely caught the torch, then dropped it in a muddy puddle along the path to his next and fleeting flame.

However, at this point in time, I knew nothing of what was to come, and life was still pink and peachy. As drama class ended, I gently replaced the Wicked soundtrack with the disk covered in dancing skeletons. With a raised eyebrow, and one more attempt at a smile, I muttered a "thanks" and avoided Chris's eyes, (though I could feel them burning into my head) and handed him the disk man. "Anytime" he cooed slyly, and sauntered towards the door. As I exited the room after him, I couldn't help but notice the eccentric fan club that had gathered by the door in anticipation for him. I heard shouts of joy as his friends, who apparently lived at Hot Topic, greeted him with many different forms of his first and last name such as "Mayer", "May May", "Chris Lightening" and many others. As random students passed in the hall, even the most normal, respectable, and well-to-do, they smiled and waved enthusiastically at "May May" and savoured his each and every slight response as if he was the new teen dream. Finally, as he and his posse gathered their assorted skull and punk rock paraphernalia, the last of his adoring fans bid him farewell. He removed his sweatshirt and threw it in his bag, and shortly thereafter unrolled his tight-fit black t-shirt to reveal a pack of cigarettes. He popped one in his mouth and rolled the rest of the Marlboro reds in his shirt sleeve and dove back into his sweatshirt. One last very normal looking girl ran over, gave him a hug and ran off to class. I watched, confused and disgusted as I watched the posse of misfits walk as warriors in the battle for rebellion outside to the courtyard to have a smoke. I stared, bewildered after him. How could it be that this miscreant had such an overwhelming rating of approval? But there it was; as I gazed after the rebel soldiers, I saw, just as I made to break eye contact with the backs of their heads, The Famous Chris Mayer, cigarette between his lips parted in a perfect scowl, turn his head towards me, remove a comb from his back pocket, slick back his hair, and give me a troublesome, haunting wink.
I was 16. I had never drank, never smoked, never had sex, and had never done any type of drug. But Hell, I was hooked on Christopher Mayer.

A Self-fulfilling Prophecy of Sorts

2008-02-07T03:21:00.000-05:00

The life of an essentialist could be said to be a very secure and definitive one. An essentialist knows who he is, what he is here for, and what path he is destined to choose. He is certain of his place in the world. Throughout the Harry Potter books, however, Harry's life was filled with anything and everything but certainty. This was, in part, caused by the Sorting Hat itself, which may at first glance seem like the epitome of essentialism. However, look a little deeper, and one will find that the Sorting Hat is just the beginning of an existentialistic journey that will last a witch or wizard's lifetime.
When Harry Potter first arrives at Hogwarts, he knows next to nothing about the four houses or the Sorting Hat. All he knows is what people, such as Ron and Hagrid, have told him, which is primarily that he would not want to end up in Slytherin. "There's not a single witch or wizard who went bad who wasn't in Slytherin. You-Know-Who was one"(Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone, 80). The Sorting process in relation to Slytherin has a lot to do with the illusion of the Sorting Hat being very essentialistic. When Hagrid says "there's not a single witch or wizard who went bad who wasn't in Slytherin" he did not say "there is not a single witch or wizard in Slytherin who didn't go bad". For the most part, Slytherins are percieved as dark and evil witches and wizards, but just because one becomes a Slytherin does not mean that is his fate. He may just simply be very ambitious, but would perhaps not go to the sinister lengths a Malfoy or Lord Voldemort would to get what he wants. When Harry is sorted, the Sorting Hat has a particularly difficult time deciding in which house he should be placed. The Sorting Hat finds that Harry is a combination of all the houses, stating that he has "plenty of courage...not a bad mind either...there's talent...and a nice thirst to prove yourself"(121). All these different qualities show that not everyone at Hogwarts has one specific place they are supposed to be, but they may have one or two characteristics that stand out more than others. The Sorting Hat then uses those qualities for simple tradition's sake and to help the new students form some sort of identity. When the Sorting Hat questioned where to put Harry all Harry can think in his head is "Not Slytherin, not Slytherin"(121), to which the Sorting Hat responds "Are you sure? You could be great, you know, it's all here in your head, and Slytherin will help you on the way to greatness, no doubt about that-no? Well, if you're sure-better be GRYFFINDOR!"(121). Harry is very relieved to hear that he has not been chosen to be in Slytherin, however, the point that Harry misses, which turns into a reoccurring theme throughout the novels, is that he was not "chosen" to be anything. In his own mind was the power to be and choose whatever he wanted. The Sorting Hat says it all itself; "it's all in your head". There was no predetermined house which he was destined to be in; every path in his life can only be paved by himself. The reason the Sorting Hat had such a trying time sorting Harry was the same reason it had such an easy time sorting Draco Malfoy. From the time of his birth, Draco Malfoy was probably bombarded with Slytherin culture and the pure-blood way of life. Draco knew not only that he wanted to become a Slytherin for reasons of his own, but that he was a Malfoy; he was expected to be nothing less than Slytherin. It is possible that Draco's experience with the Shorting Hat has much to do with a simple self-fulfilling prophecy. Draco chose his own path, the Sorting Hat merely read his mind and granted his wish, just as it did by not placing Harry in Slytherin. That is ultimately the purpose of the Sorting Hat; to tell a witch or wizard what she or he is best suited for based on his or her own mind. It may be a rough guide to help students become situated at Hogwarts, but it never actually assigns any witch or wizard with his or her disposition, destination, or station. Throughout the novels, Harry has many opportunites to become a dark, or at least a seriously selfish wizard. The fact that he ultimately does not give in, has nothing to do with destiny, and everything to do with Harry's free will.
In the second novel, Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, Harry finds himself alone in Dumbledore's office with the Sorting Hat. Curious as to whether or not it had made the correct choice by placing him in Gryffindor, he tries on the hat. Recalling that Harry had been difficult to sort, the Sorting Hat says "I stand by what I said before...you would have done well in Slytherin"(206). Harry tells the hat that it is wrong, but throughout the novel he discovers he can speak Parseltongue, the language of Salazar Slytherin himself, and is said to possibly be the heir of Slytherin, and continues to worry about whether or not his fate will be to end up similar to Voldemort.
However, when Harry faces the Basilisk in the Chamber of Secrets, Fawkes the Phoenix, drops the Sorting Hat and it produces the sword of Godric Gryffindor for Harry's protection. This moment seems to symbolize Harry making the choice to be a Gryffindor, as opposed to a Slytherin, for, as Dumbledore later states, "Only a true Gryffindor could have pulled that out of the Hat, Harry"(334). Though Dumbledore does call him a "true Gryffindor", it is clear that this was Harry's decision, not the absolute decree of the Sorting Hat. Harry had made his place in the wizarding world what he wanted it to be, not followed a written out map for his life. Harry admits to Dumbledore that the Sorting Hat only put him in Gryffindor because he asked it not to put him in Slytherin, to which Dumbledore replies "Exactly...which makes you very different from Tom Riddle. It is our choices, Harry, that show what we truly are, far more than our abilities"(333). As far the Sorting Hat was concerned, life was literally what Harry had made it.
An existentialists view is usually that nothing has meaning until one gives it meaning, there is no one road by which to travel. The Sorting Hat appears to be a false idol which grants young witches and wizards with a sense of security, identity, and destiny. It is only the wisest, or at least the most introspective students who will discover that the Sorting Hat is simply there to provoke their own thoughts, feelings, and choices which will shape the rest of their free, yet still uncertain, lives.

Prejudice

2007-12-22T08:30:00.000-05:00

All my life I have never understood prejudice. I have never understood the act of hating someone simply because they are different. Racism? Nope, don't get it. Anti-Semitism? Well, being that my mother was Jewish and I was raised celebrating both Jewish and Christian holidays that would be a "No" as well. Don't get it. Gender discrimination? One of my pet peeves. Having my period once a month is enough to prove I can handle just as much pain as a man can. And yes, men can cook...and clean...and be good with children. Most of them can do it better that I can. Crazy. I know. Hating people for they're sexuality...I have a lot of gay friends, and I'm bisexual so you figure that one out. Basically, I just flat out did not understand discrimination when I was growing up. I would see it. I would see people with different colored skin acting nasty to each other. I would see overweight people having a hard time finding cute clothes. I would see people avoid the mentally handicapped like the plague. I would see pictures of girls wearing hardly any clothes on the cover of every magazine, yet found nothing that objectified men in the same way. When I was 8 my family and I came back from a trip to Disney World to find our house covered in spray paint graffiti saying "Fuck Jews!" "Go Home Jews!" and drawings of swastikas all over our house. It was right there in front of me, but still, I didn't get. And I didn't want to get it. I figured that whoever filled up the emptiness of their lives with pointless, bitter hate didn't deserve to be understood.
Ironically that's where my own prejudice stemmed from. My parents were never very clear or forceful about which religion they wanted my brother and me to follow, because they didn't really believe in it themselves. They believed in God, believed that something was watching over us, believed that though we had control in our own lives, sometimes life was just in fate's hands. But we never went to church or temple except for weddings and funerals. We just celebrated a few Jewish and Christian holidays. And while I appreciated the freedom of this, as I grew older, I found myself lost. My mother died when I was 13 years old. When she was alive it was more than enough for her and my dad to say that God was watching over us. It didn't matter which God, just so long as something good was out there. But when my mom died that left me bitter and questioning everything I had ever known. I suddenly felt that if there were a god he/she would never have let this happen. So I numbed myself and told myself that I believed in nothing. In the meantime, I met many Christians, who strongly opposed my viewpoints, such as Pro-choice or just being a Jew. Their opinions and beliefs were often thrust upon me, which I didn't appreciate, but went along with for a while because I didn't know what else to do. I went to a few of their youth groups but instantly felt even more lost and out of place than I had before. This was not what I was searching for either. I realized that I didn't believe in nothing, and I definitely wasn't a true Christian either. I mean people kept telling me that I was responsible for killing their lord some thousand years ago. Mean while I was about 15, I wasn't interested in killing anybody, at this point in my life I just wanted to read my teen magazines, dream of becoming a wildly famous pop-star and hopefully find out just what the Hell I was looking for.
When I was 18 I moved to the city to sell my soul and become famous. I started feeling numb again. It didn't help that everyone around me was at least 2 years older and already a bit hardened from the city and other worldly travels. Well, what I found in the end, after about a year of being there, was this: It was all such bullshit. I was never going to be as skinny/pretty/socialite-ish as I needed to be to make it in this town. I was not one of the few lucky people who could live in the city and strive to be a famous actress while still retaining my sanity and my conscience. The homeless people that I used to feel for so much I now didn't even make eye contact with. My new attitude was "they're probably fakes or alcoholics anyway" so I grew even colder. I knew it was time for a change before I lost myself completely.
So I moved back home to Long Island to take a year off to rediscover myself. Find out who I was, who I wanted to be, and how to get from point A to point B. Now, a little over a year later, I feel a lot more like myself. No more starving myself to be thin, no more wearing boots and heels all the time. No more schmoozing with people I don't even like. No more ridiculous acting methods. No more "starving" for my "art". No more dramatic bullshit. Just me, the beach, some good, down to earth people, and a community college, where I'm re-learning what I had completely forgotten since my mom died; I'm really smart. And I'm really strong. And that's so much more important than being pretty. I still haven't figured out exactly what religion I am yet, but I do know that more than anything else, I believe in the power of Mother Nature and the universe. I believe that something more powerful than I am is out there, I just don't know what. I adopted my mother and father's "hippie" values, believing that all humans are equal, that the power of love is more important than the love of power, and that the world does not belong to us, we belong to the world. Hate is futile, and we should be using our intelligence to form loving alliances, not needless hate groups.
Unfortunately, as together as it may seem I have it now, I realized the other day that maybe I need to do even more re-evaluating than I had initially planned. I recently took a trip into the city with my boyfriend, who had never lived there. He saw all the homeless individuals begging for help. He looked at them, looked at me, gave me a puppy face and said "those poor people". He wanted to help. I hadn't given it a second thought. I hadn't even given it a first thought. After living in the city for a year, and seeing these people everyday and knowing I couldn't help all of them, I followed everyone else's attitude which was "I'm just not going to help any of them". I thought they were just scary and homeless. Prejudice. Then the other day I was driving home from school and got stuck in a ton of traffic. I was very frustrated and annoyed, and the driver in front of me was moving very slowly, and had decided to stop at a light as it turned, not red, but yellow. "You had time to make that light!, What are you retarded?!" I thought. Prejudice. And then I saw it. A bumper sticker that had something to do with Christianity. I didn't care what it had to do with Christianity. All I cared about was that now I had real justification to hate this driver in front of me. I remembered losing a close friend over the fact that I didn't believe what she believed. I remembered coming home to a house where my childhood toys were covered in swastikas. I remember being told time and time again that I needed to be "saved" and that I was going to Hell. I saw that bumper sticker, and I remembered these things and it was all I needed to use it against this person, whom I didn't even know. Whose face I couldn't even see. And without even thinking I said it. "Oh, you're a Christian. No wonder. Asshole." At that moment I flashed back to a movie about the discrimination towards blacks in the South. I remembered the way the uneducated, hateful, racist man had called the black man "n*gger". How full of hate. What fire in his eyes. How he didn't even know why he hated this man so much. What, because his skin was a different color? Yet, there it was. That despicable word. "n*gger" And I felt my heart sink. The same way that word had been said in the movie, was the same way I had said the word Christian. So full of prejudice. So full of pointless hate. Prejudice.
I went home that day and I cried. I realized that after this year of advocating that there should be love not hate and that all people were equal, I couldn't even follow my own beliefs. I was just another cause of the all the bad that was in this world. I was bitter. I hated or feared groups of people based a generalized opinion. I had let one or two bad encounters with people who happened to believe in a certain something, or lived a certain way, form my overall opinion on all who shared those views. After "finding myself" and convincing myself that "all you need is love" I found that I was just as filled with hate as everyone else. Something needed to change. And I realized that something was me.
It's been a mere few weeks since this happened and since I came to my realization. I've been trying to empty my mind of all the preconceived notions I have about any group or type of people. I may not be there yet, but I hope the day comes that I can meet someone that has viewpoints completely opposing mine, someone who I should theoretically not be able to get along with at all, and I hope on that day I can say "I don't believe in what you believe in, but maybe you can help me understand". Or better yet "I don't believe in what you believe in, you don't believe in what I believe in. We are totally different. But who cares. Connection comes before opinion. So let's put our opinions aside, and be friends." I pray that maybe someday, the world will see a happy day when difference is embraced, and prejudice is told as a fairytale, or recounted in history books, as a thing of the past.

Prejudice. Pointless.

Please, Don't Feed The Models

2007-12-18T19:27:00.000-05:00

Imagine a young, beautiful, innocent girl. She hardly ever eats and her stomach is constantly aching and growling with hunger. She knows that there is no way to feed this hunger without losing the world around her. When she does eat, it most likely is not much. She may have a piece of fruit or some carrots. She constantly has people barking at her and degrading her, shoved from person to person as just a body, nothing more. No, this is not an image from a third world country, or any holocaust; it is the life of today’s high fashion model.

For many years now many people have casually associated models with eating disorders, primarily anorexia nervosa. It is not a fact of the modeling world, but more of an unspoken secret. Unfortunately for fashion, the secret is now out, and healthy changes in the modeling and fashion world are long overdue. Weight minimums and health tests are just a couple of the ways senseless deaths and encouraged eating disorders can be avoided. Of course, there are flaws in these plans, and now, over a year after the eating disorder-related deaths of several models, not much has changed. It is clear that something is wrong with today’s models and beauty standards, and something must be done to change the scary skinny face of fashion.

Since the appearance of the super-thin, British model, appropriately named “Twiggy”, the world of fashion and the general public have had a fascination with being skinny. Over time models have become thinner and thinner, and though some have questioned the strategies behind the models’ ability to keep so svelte, not until the past year or so has the ugliness of the modeling industry been brought into the open and challenged. Still, contrary to the days when voluptuous women such as Marilyn Monroe and Bettie Page were the sex symbols of the world, thin is in and it has a way of sticking. According to an article from USA Today, most runway models are 14-19, with an average age of 16 or 17. Many are 5-foot-10 or 5-foot-11 and weigh 120 to 124 pounds and wear a size 2 or 4. Kelly Cutrone, owner of People’s Revolution says “If we get a girl bigger than a size 4, she is not going to fit the clothes. Clothes look better on thin people. The fabric hangs better.” According to the Metropolitan Life Insurance Company, women around the height of 5’10 should be anywhere from 133-144 pounds, in order to be considered to have a “small frame”. That is at the very least 9 pounds more than these runway models are said to weigh.

The fashion industry seems to benefit from these types of girls because they are young, want a career, and are willing to stay quiet and do as they are told. Another benefit is that unlike the muscular, super-celebrity Cindy Crawfords of the early 90s, today’s runway models are “far from being treated like superstars, you are more likely to see today’s so-called ‘supermodels’ being trodden on and barely earning a second glance as the fashion editors and buyers hurry to the next show”(Liz Jones). What this means is that fashion designers get to pay girls less and treat them worse to do the same thing people used to be idolized and respected for. There is little respect for the models who remain nameless, skeleton-like clones, literally being used as human hangers, for that is truly what most of these girls are seen as. Surely the clothes do “hang better” off of these super-thin girls, so it seems that the fashion designers get a fairly good deal off of girls with barely any body mass. In the place of curvaceous, high profile celebrity-type models taking over the runway and drawing more attention to themselves than to the clothes are tall, thin, pale looking girls who all look alike. These new models draw no attention to themselves. The clothes get all the attention, and literally hang off of them as they would a hanger or mannequin.

The emaciation of today’s supermodel has been pointed out by some people, but it still remains something that is talked about by few. It would seem to much of the general public, the terms “eating disorder” and “modeling” often go hand in hand. But to try searching those two words together in a bookstore or library catalogue is futile; the two terms never meet; there is no information on the two subjects combined. When interviewing Ikon model Justine (name has been changed), who has had problems with eating since about 6^th grade, it was made clear that this is a topic that is greatly avoided in the fashion world. When asked if she has met other models with eating issues she replied “it’s not really a conversation I’ve heard actually, there’s also coke and adderall, a lot of girls utilize those substances I’m sure”. When asked if the agencies knew about the drug use, she replied “That’s not really a conversation a model has with her agent or booker. I’m sure they assume but if the girls are booking jobs and they have no proof, they don’t really care. If they cared they could drug test. That would never happen”. Basically the modeling and fashion industry ignore or deny the existence of eating disorders; as long as they get what they need from the girls, the problem does not exist. Justine has been to Renfrew, a rehabilitation and education center for eating disorders, twice and has been made to see nutritionists as well. She also has the beginning stages of osteoporosis, known as osteopenia, as a result of being underweight. “Basically, my parents pay my rent and tuition and then there’s the fact that I do have osteopenia, the beginning stages of osteoporosis, kind of unavoidable when you want to have a BMI of 15 point something for a few years”. Despite all that, she says that today, she feels pretty healthy, however she is still 5-foot-8 and weighs only 105 pounds. She says her “boyfriend and occasionally her parents” worry about her weight if she gets to be “under 100”. She says it is not really something she worries about. “Worry about losing my boyfriend, that’s about all.” She says that she has never felt pressure from her agency to keep thin “because I’ve never not maintained my weight, but I’ve heard other girls get lectured for being too thick”. When asked what size is considered “too thick”” she said “depends on he booker you’re talking to…there’s one Asian guy who I would say is 5’8, 115 and needs to lose at least 5”.

Apparently, males in the modeling industry have some of the same worries that females do. Brian (name has been changed), Public Relations major at New Paltz, and Hollister store model was asked about his own personal issues with the pressure to look good. “I used to go to Hollister’s web site and stare at the guy in the background and that was how I stopped myself from eating, or told myself to keep working out”, Brian says. When asked if he knew anyone else that will look at pictures of supermodels for inspiration he said “mostly girls which is actually really, really bad. My media ethics professor is also a writer for the Poughkeepsie Journal and she did a piece on eating disorders and how they effect older women and she talked to people who worked at one of the eating disorder facilities where like, really bad cases go and they told her that pictures of super thin models are what patients try most desperately to sneak in”. If this is the case, these skeletal images are clearly having some effect on the people who see them.

For some time now, doctors have worried about the negative effects that these super-thin media images may have on people, mainly young girls. In the PBS film Dying to be Thin, it is stated that “It has become a self-fulfilling prophecy. The popular television show ‘Friends’ played on anorexic chic in an ad that was soon pulled.” The ad to which is referred to is a billboard with a picture of the three female leads of “Friends”, all very thin, hugging and smiling. Above them was the caption “Cute anorexic chicks”. An advertisement making light of such a serious disease is not only distasteful, it can also be very dangerous. In the movie, Dying to be Thin, Doctor Ruth Striegel-Moore goes on to explain that “In some ways we all have distorted views of what is beautiful and repeated exposure to a particular image teaches you to like that particular image and we have become so used to seeing extremely thin women that we have learned to think that this is what is beautiful”.

What may have been considered very thin ten to fifteen years ago is today’s media norm. Everyday the public is bombarded with images of celebrities and models alike, most of which appear far thinner than the average adult female. Some of these celebrities have been surrounded with speculation of eating disorders, however, this seems to only heighten the public’s fascination with them. In an interview for the Journal of Gender Studies with women who had eating disorders, one woman noted “The media criticized Posh Spice for losing a lot of weight, yet, at the same time, they also used pictures of her going to fabulous occasions in stunning dresses with superstars, so there must be nothing wrong in the media’s opinion with being too thin if they show pictures like that”. As sad as that perspective is, there is plenty of truth to it. People, especially females, constantly eat up whatever the magazine covers show, and what they show for the most part is very thin, very glamorous women. Though Victoria Beckham, or “Posh Spice” has in the past been criticized for her thin figure, these days people have become not only accustomed to her body, but many women are now in pursuit of making theirs just like hers. Victoria Beckham just recently released a book called “That Extra Half an Inch” which is filled with her beauty secrets. By the look of book stores, stacked with shelves of the book in the front of the store, the response is frighteningly promising. It is a disappointing but accurate reflection of today’s society, in which a book of fashion tips sells better than a novel.

An article in New Statesman included information from “a study of 3,200 young women carried out in February this year (2007) by Girlguiding UK, over half of 16-to 25-year olds said the media made them feel that ‘being pretty and thin’ was the ‘most important thing’”. Many people empathize with this feeling as is evident in interviews and studies of the effects of the media. “ ‘There’s no question younger girls are getting this message’ says Murnen, who has studied this for 15 years. ‘We have done studies of grade-school girls, and even in grade 1, girls think the culture is telling them that they should model themselves after celebrities who are svelte, beautiful and sexy.’ Some girls can reject that image, but it’s a small percentage: 18% in Murnen’s research” (USA Today). Sarah Murnen was quoted again in Current Events saying “The promotion of the thin, sexy ideal in our culture has created a situation where the majority of girls and women don’t like their bodies”. In an article in the Informer a student was quoted as saying “Girls think that because they are not stick thin, they are not beautiful”. Kathy (name has been changed), a girl who faced anorexia, said she “definitely noticed that the media is always the first to point out that someone is gaining weight” and when asked if she thought the media images had an effect on people she said “absolutely, without a doubt- I notice how they claim they’re trying to make it better, and they’re making it worse”. With so much evidence, it still remains difficult for the fashion world, or even the normal world, to admit that there is a problem.

Brian, from New Paltz says that part of the problem is that there is no real, hard evidence. “I think the problem is that there’s no way to prove that ads are causing eating disorders, how can you prove the impact of an ad? And usually what the ad is doing, and what the creators are trying to do, is create subconscious desires, so of course nobody is going to say ‘yeah that ad made me want to lose 20 pounds’ because it’s not something they’re aware of.” These types of technicalities are those which many against the use of super-thin models recognize and which many in the fashion world are banking on. In an article in Live Science, Benjamin Radford notes that “there is no way to physically ‘screen’ models for anorexia” and that “anorexia is a complex psychological disorder; young women can no more ‘catch’ anorexia from seeing thin models than they can ‘catch’ depression from watching an actress cry in a film”. This much is true, however, just because you can not “catch” an eating disorder does not mean that repeatedly seeing underweight models will not eventually spark a person to develop strict diets, which over time can progress to obsession over food, which often results in a full blown eating disorder. In Guernsey an article about one woman’s starvation diet of 500 calories a day in order to reach a super-thin model size, Dawn Porter, despite being told by some stylists, fashion designers and modeling agencies that “the size zero craze was a myth and people were not really starving themselves to be that skinny, she soon discovered that to be painfully, or perhaps deliberately naïve”. “Deliberately” would be the key word in that sentence, being that most fashion designers get away with using models that often suffer eating disorders, simply because of the “don’t ask, don’t tell” nature of the industry.

Of course there is the stable argument that not all models are anorexic, and not all fashion designers are neglectful, scheming people out to get what they want no matter what the price. There are many models who are born naturally tall, naturally lean, naturally gorgeous, and just what agencies have in mind. As far as the designers go, it is never easy being an artist, and they are simply doing what they need to do for the love of their art, and for what pays the bills. It is very possible that many are simply unaware of the severity of the situation with some of the skinny models today. Of course, as mentioned previously, even if a model does have an eating disorder one can not “catch” an eating disorder from these models. However, aside from the effect they have on everyday people, the pressure to be thin often has destructive effects on the models themselves. Though agencies and designers would never walk right up to a model and tell her to stop eating, to lose weight or to maintain a low weight, as was the case with Justine, is often encouraged. If by chance a model does have an eating disorder resulting in her slim figure, the silent approval of the designers and agencies is all she needs to feel that what she is doing to her body is “okay” or “normal”.

Aware of the dark side of the fashion industry, some models and even companies who advertise in fashion magazines are now speaking out against this kind of treatment of models. The famously loud-mouthed, self proclaimed “world’s first supermodel”, Janice Dickinson, has often been greeted with disdain from viewers of shows which she is a part of such as America’s Next Top Model. However, she is one of the few models that has personally come out into the open about the pressure in the modeling world to be thin, and about her own experiences with the drugs and eating disorders that helped her and other models get there. In her book Everything About Me Is Fake…And I’m Perfect she recounts how she “basically swore off food for the better part of two decades. That left me really, really hungry all the time. I chose to starve myself in my quest for perfection. What made it even worse was that I was a workout maniac” (36). She says “You’ve got to be less than a size 0, size wise to fit into those plus-priced designer clothes. I honestly believe that Valentino designs his clothes to begin at a size I would call a negative 12. Models know the drill when it comes to fitting into these outfits: you just ignore your aching stomach and drink water to kill the hunger pains” (37). As if that were not poison enough, she recalls being told by designer Calvin Klein that “models aren’t supposed to think” (49).

In Dying to be Thin, former fashion model, now plus-size model Kate Dillon talks about her struggles with anorexia, the day she was told to lose weight and her break from the world of skinny modeling. “I look beautiful; you would not look at that picture and see somebody who was feeling bad about themselves or someone who hadn’t eaten in two weeks. I mean I look at my face, my face looks so hollow and my eyes look like they’re bulging out and I just look so weak. That was the day that they told me to lose like ten or twenty pounds and I kind of knew that was crazy. I remember thinking ‘From where? Twenty pounds!? How am I going to lose twenty pounds?’ And I remember thinking ‘I don’t have to do this. What have I been doing the last couple of years?’” From the painful internal struggles of models who have felt the effects of the pressures, to those simply sitting on the outside, looking in, the scary skinny trend seems to be having a more vast effect. “When Frederique van der Wal, a former Victoria’s Secret model, attended designers’ shows during New York’s Fashion Week this month, she was ‘shocked’ by the waiflike models who paraded down the catwalk. They seemed even skinnier than in previous years”. When even models have the notion that something is wrong, chances are, something probably is. A 1996 New York Times article reported that “Giles Reese, the British Marketing manager for the Omega Watch Corporation, a unit of the SMH Swiss Corporation, said that his company would cease advertising in the British edition of Vogue, saying that its emphasis on ultra-thin models, typified by two features in the June issue, could encourage young women to develop eating disorders”. The company eventually reversed their decision, but just the idea of an advertiser willing to give up such great publicity shows just how serious this condition may be. In addition, the article was published in 1996, over ten years ago. The models have only got skinnier since then.

In the wake of the deaths of three runway models due to complications of eating disorders, many countries are now re-evaluating the safety and health of these models. One of these models was Ana Carolina Reston, a Brazilian model who at the age of 21, carried only 88 pounds on her 5-foot-8 inch frame. Her diet consisted of apples and tomatoes and her BMI was 13.4. In response to this type of tragedy, some places such as Madrid, Brazil, and Argentina, models with a BMI (Body Mass Index, which is a measure of height and weight) of lower than 18 are being banned from walking the runway, and many other locations plan to set similar laws (Current Events). Countries such as Great Britain, notorious for the super-thin trend, and the United States are having more trouble making that sort of screening legal. One of the many reasons is that skinny seems to sell. As a culture, we have become used to seeing incredibly thin women, so that is what we ultimately strive to become and look at as beautiful. In his interview, Brian applauded the efforts to make the normal body type appear more beautiful. “Dove has been trying to do that with their ‘campaign for real people’ and I think it’s been pretty successful, but even that will never be as successful as Abercrombie or Hollister because people have a fascination with unattainable beauty”. This is one of the core problems with this particular issue. The general public are supposed to be the change they want to see. The problem is they can no longer see straight because they have been so blinded by images of the ultra-thin. The public are their own worst enemies in this respect. They feel the pressure to be thin, but they keep buying into it, so the fashion industry and the media keep selling it.

Another issue is making proper judgments on which models are anorexic, and which ones are not. In the Live Science article Benjamin Radford goes over the process in which models would be “screened” for anorexia. “The women would be asked a series of questions, which- like drug use or any other topic the model may not want to admit to- could easily be evaded”. Even the BMI test has flaws. A person may be very tall but naturally thin, and produce a BMI that is too low to be allowed to be in a runway show. That person may not be anorexic or have an eating disorder of any kind; unfortunately these laws would stop them from getting a job. Even if these screenings were flawless, in the United States, there is still a major complication. Radford continues to explain that “in America such measures might be illegal. An employer can’t fire someone from a job or discriminate against that person because he or she has a disease”. This is the trickiest detail of all. Even if testing was flawless, it is true that denying a model a job due to anorexia, or any other discriminatory factor, would be completely illegal as well as offensive. However, technically, this means fashion designers are not allowed to turn away normal-sized or overweight women from modeling jobs either. They get away with it by using a simple phrase “You do not have the right look” or “You are not what we are looking for”. In a perfect world, the problem would be fixed by looking at the girls that are clearly sick and far too thin and turning those same phrases on them instead of the healthier girls.

Unfortunately, this is not a perfect world, and the problem remains unresolved. It is not as if models everywhere are dying everyday due to anorexia, but anorexia does have the highest death rate of all the psychological diseases. Even if no one was dying, that is still not reason enough to let girls continue to suffer in silence with their disorders constantly being reinforced. There must be action taken to stop this kind of image from being responded to with positive feedback. Even though, in the United States we could not fire the models for being anorexic, there would be no reason not to still have doctors backstage at the fashion shows to perform health exams on all the girls. If found that any girl being used in the fashion show was ill, or dangerously underweight, there could be large fines imposed on the fashion designer, the casting director, and the modeling agencies. It should become law that there must be medical assistants and psychologists backstage at shows and photo shoots, and an inspection from the Board of Health to make sure that designers are adhering to the laws. If these laws are broken and companies start losing mass amounts of money due to underweight, unhealthy models, they might think twice before using them for an ad or for a show. Perhaps at the casting, girls should be required to present health records so that even if the model were anorexic, and she was accepted, that would mean the designer or casting director had knowledge if there were any type of problem. Besides the threat towards the designers and agencies, models should be educated about eating disorders. Maybe there would be a positive improvement if eating disorders were no longer a “dirty little secret”. If there were psychologists and medical doctors at shows or photo shoots or even castings to talk to the girls about the dangers of eating disorders, perhaps it could become less of a problem.

Extreme as it sounds, progress has never been made without an extreme change or a war waged. If given the choice to wage war on the fashion industry or one’s own health, the obvious answer is the fashion industry. The bottom line is this: nothing will change until we demand change. They will never stop selling unless we stop buying. We will never be healthy while it is fashionable to not be. We are the cause, but we are also the potential cure. The war has been waged. Which side are you on?