I am addicted to the ocean and though Grammy said to come back from my walk before dark, after the sun sets right before our eyes and the only lights left are those twinkling condos in the west and iphone flashlights, I will my ankles to move but they remain grounded in the sand. You can see the whole sky out here, almost the entire earth in all directions. This is how it was supposed to be, I think. I stand in the ocean and let its moody waters cleanse me. Walk Between Worlds by Simple Minds and Forward by K. Michelle massage my heart. I want to believe that God is here in the vastness. Something created this, all of it, and put me here to witness the great becoming and unbecoming of the blue, how the waves claim their individuality for a second before dissolving into their universe. I want to believe that the ocean is a part of me too. I want to bottle up this security, this eternity, this faith that there is a reason why I am exactly where I am right now, and take it with me to the city.
I’m a little bit— okay, a lot— in love with Glennon Doyle these days. (Sorry, Abby Wambach). In search of some soul soup, I started listening to the Super Soul Sunday podcast. Every Sunday or so, Oprah Winfrey invites all these spiritual leaders and visionaries to her house under the oak trees and asks them scary questions like, “What does God mean to you?” and “Walk me through the most traumatic thing that’s ever happened to you so we can all learn how to be this Hulk strong,” etc. There’s researchers, comedians, priests, nuns, old presidents, TV anchors, the Office stars, and pretty much anyone who ever struck Oprah a certain way because when you’re rich and famous you can sap wisdom from anyone you want.
If you believe it is okay for the state to tear children away from their families,
If you believe that it is a sin if you are not heterosexual and do not present as the same gender you were born as,
If your interpretation of religion is too narrow to include women’s leadership and sheer existence,
If you support the criminalization of breathing while Black,
If you think that children are to be seen and not heard,
If you do not actively speak out about the sale of weapons used to slaughter children in schools,
If you do not believe that mental illness is something physical and real,
If you have ever called any group of people by a name that diminishes their humanity,
If you are not outraged by the systematic erasure of Black history,
If you support Donald Trump still,
If you are complicit in the systematic oppression of immigrants, LGBTQ peoples, women, African Americans, youth, the mentally ill, Muslims, or any other group that has been systematically oppressed,
I cannot be your friend anymore. I cannot support your platform or what you are about. I cannot be about what you are about.
The week that the news scrambled to memorialize Kate Spade and Anthony Bourdain and hotline numbers began to populate my social media feed, I took my dog Daisy for a walk, carrying the YA Queer Romance book We Are the Ants by Shaun David Hutchinson.
How do I begin to describe how I was feeling that day, sitting at the edge of the rock with my ankles dipped in the lake as Daisy waded a foot in to cool down, trying not to fall? How can I explain the indescribable fury I felt toward a journalist I barely knew for giving up? Why did it feel like personal betrayal when I heard that Kate Spade, someone whose name had never passed under my radar before, did not seek professional help because she felt it would be bad for her brand?
I started writing posts for Dear Future Daughter a little over two months ago through an anonymous blog titled And She Will Recover. At the end of a rough and fast year, I knew if I wanted to heal, I would have to return— as I always have— to writing. I needed to process, build up my community, and for myself and others to know that we were not alone.
As many of you know, I’m introverted and deeply feeling [read: reserved and dark], which generally means that small talk makes me want to throttle people. Since I would hate for someone to meet their untimely end simply for trying to talk to me about the weather, I need to find some ways to communicate with people on a deeper, darker level.
But Dear Future Daughter isn’t meant to be a website filled with pages and pages of my own rants about Shonda Rhimes murdering my best friends and people who irritate me. This is a community and a platform for you. Tell me what it is that turns you into a shaken-up ziploc bag of vinegar and baking soda. Tell me what turns you into a pitiful puddle of raw feel. Tell me what you think about politics, about mental heath, about religion. This is the space to shout it out loud. Carve out a piece of your messy, bloody heart and hand it to me on an aluminum pan, for heaven’s sake! It’s why I’ve made a pitch form here. Continue reading “Prologue: To my readers, with love”
The other day, I was hiking with my dog and we stopped at a lake. It was perfect. Cicadas were chirping. A duck even landed right in front of us. I was thinking about Kate Spade and Anthony Bourdain, how Kate once said to someone that she wouldn’t get help because it did not go along with her brand. And I was reading We Are the Ants by Shaun Hutchinson. It’s a YA/Romance/Science Fiction mash-up about this kid Henry who is given the choice to save the world from ending but doesn’t want to because he’s bullied and his boyfriend killed himself months ago and everything sucks.
But there’s this boy he’s slowly falling in love with. He asks him, if you knew the world was ending and you could stop it, would you? He looks at Henry strangely, and Henry says, “‘What if I don’t give a shit about the world?’
“That would be fucking sad.’
“‘Because the world is beautiful.'” Continue reading “We Hold Each Other. Tightly.”
To the kid in the corner of the party venue breathing asthmatically because you broke your plastic spoon scooping ice cream and the devil incarnate stole your seat to force you to dance and the guy you like is about to leave and you would go talk to him but everyone would be watching you and what would you say you’re an idiot for sitting in the corner and oh God, someone’s looking at you—
To all the socially anxious,
I see you.
I finished finals Tuesday. It was a bit of an ordeal, as documented by my increasingly disoriented Instagram story at the time.
Luckily, after, I gave my dog Daisy a bath and we took a nice, leisurely walk in the park. It was beautiful, especially when Daisy accidentally fell into the lake while she was wading and I was meditating and I laughed and laughed.
According to a report by the Department of Agriculture, it costs approximately $233,610 to raise a child, which was enough for my mother to buy 4 porsches or pay off all her student loan debt, but instead she decided to almost give her life and all the blood in her body for me to live a little,
To see the stars and make them my own
And she must have believed that there is goodness enough in this world for these verses to grow that there is strength enough in these verses for these verses to grow.
Will she still believe in goodness when I’m gone? Continue reading “Anthem, or Thirteen Reasons Why Not, or Things I Tell Myself on Dark Nights”
I had a roommate named Sadie* (the girl of the mountains, aka ping-pong extraordinaire)
Crafting dark fairy tales out of the air
(of blood feet glass slippers love broken eyes dreams yellow hair beans and hope and hope and hope and hope and hope and hope)
My childhood memories would never be the same.
We talk parallel universes and black holes, quantum physics and time travel, paradoxes and the nature of fire. We travel the universes in our minds while our bodies are confined to an 11 x 12 room.
Then I ask her if she is glad she didn’t die.
She asks me if I am glad I didn’t die. Continue reading “Sadie”