The Dead Joke, Too or How Funeral Director Families Spend Thanksgiving

We stood at the top of the "Italian District" in Mount Calvary Cemetery, surrounded by D'somethings and Name-O's as far as the eye could see. The cool, November breeze whipped the ruffles on my skirt and made the flowered arrangements surrounding us bend and sway. I stood just off to the side of the small clan, feeling as if I'm intruding on something sacred. I had never had the joy of meeting Ronald A. Kent in his time on Earth and I wasn't exactly sure if I belonged in front of his grave, the soil not quite settled, the grass still patchy and new.

"Do you want me to stay in the car?" My voice sounds like a stranger, smaller than I've ever heard it.

"No, of course not," Tyler takes my hand in his and gives it a big squeeze. "You're going to be family."

And with that, he pulls me closer, completing the half-circle. We are truly an eclectic bunch.

Walter, Tyler's father, bookends the group, toeing the small memory stone bearing his father's name. His voice is gruff as he complains about how far it's sunken in and the sun bounces off of his tanned face. He is so much like a bear, lumbering more than walking as he shifts his weight from one broad shoulder to the next.

Beside him is Aunt Concetta, a sweet woman with an air of desperation in her laughter. Her eyes are always wide, as if constantly expecting some grand surprise, a trait that is somewhat unsettling in a cemetery.

Standing directly in front of her husband's plot was the family matriarch, Miss Grace. She was a bird-like woman, thin and frail, leaning heavily on her walker. She listens half-heartedly as her son explains the little intricacies of the burial process, like how Ron was buried two feet lower do to a large stone at the head of the grave. These are things she's heard a million times before, and I have a feeling that the information is just for me.

Beside me to my left stood Aunt Linda, the youngest and the kookiest of the group. Her first reaction to standing beside her father's grave is to whip out her iPhone and turn on the ghost radar app, which supposedly takes electromagnetic fields and "translates" them, just like those machines on Ghost Hunters and whatnot.

"I told Daddy we'd be here," she said simply, giving her mother an affectionate pat on the back.

And then there was Tyler and I, his leather jacket draped unnecessarily around my shoulders (chivalry never died with him). He stood tall, head held high, simply allowing himself to think. I took that moment to realize just how similar he was to his father, from his deep brown hair, his tanned skin, to his bearish gait. I wondered, for a moment, if that was what Ron looked like, and if that was what my future son might look like.

And then, shattering the contemplative silence, was Aunt Linda's high laughter. We all looked over at her, head thrown back, hands shaking. We waited for her to catch her breath, to wipe the tears from her carefully lined eyes.

"It..." She gasped for air again, holding up her phone. "It says 'heavy'."

We glanced back to the grave, wondering if there was some legitimacy to this 99 cent download. And then we got the joke. Perched on top of his father's final resting place was Walter, stomping about the ill-growing grass. He stopped, his shoulder slumping in defeat, but his smile growing larger.

"Yeah, I know Dad, I'm fat..."

We all laughed, a chorus echoing off of Mount Calvary. And in that moment, I felt like I really did belong.

Book Review - "S'Mother: The Story of a Man, His Mom, and the Thousands of Insane Letters She's Mailed Him" by Adam Chester

At it's simplest, Adam Chester's "S'Mother" can be summarized as a story of an over-protective single mother. When I first began reading, I had a fairly good idea of what it was I would find within its 170 pages. Honestly, I expected a story I'd heard (and shared) many times before; the 'my-parents-are-crazy-look-how-they-messed-me-up' narrative. While it certainly contained some of those melodramatic elements, it was the dark (and often inappropriate) humor and the sense of genuine love underneath all the bitching that kept me reading through the tears in my eyes.

While Chester explains that his mother had always been a little kooky, the real insanity gold didn't begin until his freshman year at USC. With thousands of miles between him and his Miami-based mother, the expectation of freedom wasn't terribly farfetched. But as anyone with... well, a mother knows, Pooh-Pooh (a nickname used humiliatingly often) quickly learns that distance has absolutely no effect on the level of how damn annoying they can be. Joan Chester's first two letters are innocent enough: "Wear a coat", "Call me more", "Dry your dishes before you put them away". Honestly, they read as a bit boring. It's the third letter, however, that finally managed to capture my interest:

   Tues.

    Adam -

    Don't have anything to do with your paternal grandmother -

    Love,

    Mom

While Chester's need for chronology is understandable, I would have suggested he start from that letter, as it is by far the most interesting of the first ones. It's quirky, mysterious, and just plain odd compared to the usual maternal pleasantries. And yet, it is the letter that first accurately portrays Joan Chester and how "usual, maternal pleasantries" just aren't her thing. 

Throughout the next twenty plus years, the letters only get stranger and stranger. The most intriguing letters, from a reader's point of view, are the ones that quite literally seem to pop out of nowhere, often sent alongside whatever happened to jog the idea in Joan Chester's mind. Some particularly beautiful gems include:

   Sat.

   Adam -

   Do me a favor -

      Please don't eat sushi!

      Thank-you -

   Love,

   Mom (complete with a newspaper clipping worm-infested sushi)

Or this lovely piece, scrawled on a postcard of a man getting shot at:

    #1.

  Hi!!

  Here I am in NYC now!

  Love to all -

  Joan Chester

  6 Charles St. - 1D

  NY, NY 10014

And then, of course, my personal favorite letter, which happened to be nothing but a dime taped to a piece of lined, yellow paper. To "normal" people, this would be considered beyond strange, but it probably had some sort of special meaning to Joan Chester. 

Whiles the letters on their own provide an interesting read, it is Chester's commentary between the pages that give us true insight into what this book is truly "about": the unconditional love family has for each other. Without  the background information Chester provides the reader, many of these letters would just read as insane. While, on the outside, it may seem as if he's trying to drag his mother under the insanity bus, the background information almost serves as Chester trying to justify her acts. In a way, he is standing up for her while trying to bad-talk her. And, really, that's the strange dynamic of families. 

Scar Stories

Right Eye:


When you're five-years-old, the whole world is a game. Candle wax is lava and you are the ice queen who can calm it's burn. The swimming pool is the deepest ocean you'll ever swim.  And the hardwood floor of your best friend's living room is a ginormous ice rink. You slip down to just your socks and hold Baby Brother's hand and spin and spin. Then he lets go, and your feet give out beneath you.


And just like in every game, there's danger. A spell, a demon, or just an unfortunately placed table. One slip, one slice, and you're given a permanent reminder that while you're dreams are big, you're still human and you can, in fact, bleed.


Right Wrist:

When you're twelve-years-old, you're far to obsessed with your looks. It's because everything is changing. When the hell did you grow tits? Is that what a waist looks like? And, holy shit, what the fuck is that on your wrist?! That bulb - that thing. That's definitely not supposed to be part of the maturation process... No, you're just special, in that absolutely ridiculous 'your-body-misplaces-fluids' kind of way.


Anesthesia, intravenous fluids, and the only thing unique about you is the neat little line along the natural curve of your hand.

Right Hip (pretty messed up pattern going on now) and Left Collarbone:

You were seventeen when someone first complimented you on your beauty marks. He said all the big stars had beauty marks, like Marilyn Monroe (he also said he was related to her, but you don't know if you believe him anymore). It was a sign that you were meant for greatness, something far bigger than your small town. You were also seventeen when a doctor first introduced you to the "c" word. More anesthesia, more scalpels, more stitches.

The tests come back clean, but the stitches on your hip pull, leaving this ugly half-dollar mass of too-shiny skin. One more reminder that something beautiful has the power to destroy you.

Adventures in Teaching

I had absolutely no idea what to expect from my lesson on Tuesday (aside from the certainty that something would go absolutely wrong).

The look on classmate's faces when I pulled out Jack Attack varied from excited to nervous to just plain indifferent. Strangely, the nervous faces increased when I told them all to close their eyes. Something about making yourself just a little bit more vulnerable to others frightens people. Add the fact that I'm asking them to write about feelings and all that other emotional crap, it's no wonder some people were nervous. Imagine being the one having to sing for everyone! But, that is another post entirely...

The reactions to the task I provided was rather diverse as well. Some looked excited to revisit their memories, while some people looked close to tears, damn near terrified. Truth be told, I still get close to tears sometimes when I lose myself in my "Sunshine" memory. I don't blame anyone who allowed themselves to feel to the point of overwhelmed.

My classmates looked much more relieved when I asked them to write about their songs. More specifically, I asked them to write about their memories, because they were what was truly important about this experience. No memory was too heavy or too insignificant; the fact that they exist make them meaningful.

Overall, I would say it was a rather enjoyable experience. The responses were mostly positive, making me feel as if I had made the right decision towards my lesson.

A Lesson in Personal Nomenclature or The Ways That Ellen is Me [Revised Essay]

Ellen: An English variation of the Greek Helen, meaning "bright; a shining light" [according to one of the twenty-something name books I own]

---

The only reason I was named "Ellen" was because my great-grandmother had a stroke 30 weeks into my mother's pregnancy. She teetered between this world and whatever comes next for another six weeks, when I made my early arrival. My parents spent those weeks agonizing and stressing and hen those gender-defining words pierced the air, it just felt right. If she died, at least they would have one more "Ellen" around.

That bitch (and I mean that in the most affectionate way possible) stuck around until I was 17. I'm pretty sure she did that on purpose. 

My name was an accident, a rushed decision that seemed like the right one at the time. If my grandmother had been healthy, who would I have been? Grace, Paisley, and Mary had all been in the running, all had just as much of a chance of making it on those cute little Winnie The Pooh birth announcements. But I don't know if I believe in accidents. 

"Ellen, your smile is just illuminating...."

"Mrs. Hill, your daughter is just aglow with new ideas...."

"You, my dear, are a light in a very, very dark world. Don't ever change that..."

No, that can't be an accident... There has to be something more, something much deeper than the seemingly random happenstance that is a name. All the books I've collected over the years tell me the same thing. "Light". Sometimes "airy", often "uplifting". One even called me "gentle". I don't know if I'd go that far, but whatever. Some websites went into huge analyses of the definition of an "Ellen". But like every word, the meaning is nothing without context. So where do I become an "Ellen"?

I was Ellen when I was eight and my brother's friend woke me up in the middle of the night. He was four and he'd gotten sick in the bathroom. I wiped his tears, quite literally gave him the shirt off of my back, and tucked him back into bed. 

When I was ten and my father was cuffed and taken away, I was Ellen, too. Not because of how, even then, I could feel the cold burn of sorrow seep into my veins, but because of how my heart ached for my brothers. They needed me.

And when I sing at the top of my lungs, til my throat goes raw, I'm Ellen. With my eyes closed, heart racing, and applause in my ears (real, I-mean-it applause), I become myself. 

And it is in these moments that I start to think that it is not a matter of becoming an "Ellen", but becoming Ellen. More than a name, but the heart that beats way too fast inside this tiny chest. I'd like to think that "Grace" would have still studied for Spanish exams by watching foreign horror movies. "Paisley" would have totally knocked back her Prozac with a Red Bull. And the funeral director's son would have still fallen ass-over-tea kettle with "Mary". 

Second Hand Clothes, First Hand Life

I'm no stranger to the outdated aisles of the Goodwill (the G Dubs) or the Salvation Army (SA Boutique, Sally's, Salvo...), to blue-ticket sales and buy one-get one deals. Every government-funded welfare child is familiar with the scent of mothballs, like stale sweat in an aged room. The trepidation when you pull into the parking lot, the quick glances from left to right, making sure no one you know sees you go in. That frantic search for American Eagle and Gap needles in the JNCO and Bugle Boy haystack.

Back then, I wore those clothes with shame and resentment. My friends had the entire mall to find their personal style in. Jessica was a Tommy Girl, prim and preppy, while Anna was the sporty Aeropostale girl-next-door. Even Roxie, as ill-allotted as her family's money was, was able to come out of the Arnot as a Hot Topic mall goth. But who was I? The combined effort of people I'd never met. People who pitied little charity cases like me.

Today, I walked to class in a pale blue Victoria's Secret hoodie I purchased for $5 at Goodwill. The cuffs are stained from numerous washings and the screen-printed lettering along the front is beginning to peel. It's a few seasons old and while I could easily afford a new one, I'm content with this one. I learned long ago that I am not my clothing, but my clothing becomes me. Frankly, the idea that my clothing was worn by someone else doesn't frighten me like it used to. This sweatshirt is not perfect, but it's only because it was loved. The previous owner could have just tossed it out, but they chose to share the love instead.

My clothing becomes me and we both get a fresh start.

Happy Skalloween!

Ska music was my first little tip-toe into the vast world of punk rock. The name is directly onomatopoeic to the style, sounding like the drag of a drum stick on a cymbal before they clamp shut. Ssssska. You can hear the blaring trumpets and the walked bass. As an English nerd, I can completely appreciate it.

The Bug Jar is the perfect place to put on a ska show. The relaxed bar with bat-people decorations hanging from the dramatic cobwebs and the local art priced upon the scrawled-upon walls (professing everything from lost loves to political commentary) help to set the mood. But it's the actual venue, a room no larger than the cramped computer lab I type away in, that sets the tone. The DJ stood cramped in a phone-booth sized corner, and the musicians nearly step on each other as they fight for room on the tiny stage. A couch and dining table sit on the ceiling, as if waiting for Spiderman to come home from work and crack open a cold one.

The acoustics in the room are both phenomenal and shitty, wrapping me in the cacophony of horns and drums and guitar. The people dance and mingle amongst themselves, enjoying their private little parties. And then, from where, I'm not sure, two scrawny boys in their skinny jeans and mohawks are on the floor. They cross their arms at the wrists, like the X's marking their hands, and hold onto each other. And they spin. Round and around and around, laughing and smiling and tripping over themselves. How beautiful the world must have been for them at the moment. And then, the skanking begins, a bizarre mix of the Running Man and Tae Kwan Do.

And that's why I love ska, the beautiful love child of punk anger and reggae's one love.

I Was a Teenaged (and then some) Zombie.

I wake up as Ellen, knowing that today is the day it ends. My mind will leave me, my senses will numb, and by night's fall, I will be nothing but a snarling, drooling, lurching monster. I will never again hear my mother's voice and her prayers will do me no good. I'll never feel the soft fur of the calves in the field or smell their sweet breath. Today is the day I will die. Figuratively, of course.

With each layer of makeup, I become more and more detached. With the white base, I become more sluggish, movements slow and labored. The grey around my eyes leaves me feeling as gaunt as I become, hollowing my cheeks and cracking my hands. Green at my temples bring the decay, my body falling apart. Teeth grime and cough syrup-tasting blood and my transformation is done. Close my eyes. Open up. I'm not myself anymore.

I'm out of the cab and amongst my people. Glazed eyes take in the tattered clothes and crumbling bodies and the chorus of undead moans welcomes my arrival. One of us! One of us! Gooble gobble! Gooble gobble! Us freaks belong together.

And maybe it's my mind getting too deep into a "roll", but I can't out shuffle the idea of being dead. I'm back with the demons of my adolescence, a time where the black-tar vomit of too many pain pills was a friend and the idea of my heart giving out under too much fear seemed like a wonderful escape. And how I'm not that girl anymore.

But everyone relapses (which is a term I hate, because it makes it sound like I willing became an anxious wreck again) or just has a bad day. The brain hiccups, the serotonin levels dip just a little and things get a messy again. These are the days where I immerse myself in the walking dead, the people who I once envied. And, in some ways, the people I once was.

If more people did this - surrendered the need for control for one moment and just acted silly - would their be as many muzzles pressed against temples? How much skin would remain intact and how many pills would go unswallowed? The power of pretend is unfathomable to me at times, but it's there.

This play time is far from some FDA approved treatment. But when I wipe away the makeup and see my face once more, it works. I survived. That's enough.

The Weight of the World and Other Podiatric Burdens

Feet are not supposed to be pretty and mine are no exception. 

They are long and wide, lacking the daintiness which is considered feminine and beautiful on someone my height. My toes match, long and stubby all at once, like carrot sticks or the roots from potatoes. The baby toe on my right foot (the tattooed one, not your right) doesn't quite reach the ground, permanently tangled from a break a few years ago. The nails are dirty, visible even with the polish. When they're stripped, the surface always looks a little ruddy, permanently stained by years of lacquer. The heels are cracked, the balls are calloused, and the arches are bruised. They are scarred and marred and bruised and broken.

I have tried to make them beautiful. I have used lotions and pumice stones and keep the nails as trimmed and polished as I possibly can. I have spent hours in The Chair, hobbling away with a masterpiece on my swollen flesh. The tattoo helped, but, in the end, it still has the misfortune of being on the hideous canvas that is a foot.

Feet are not supposed to be pretty.  They are our support system and our guide, the part of us that is the most physically connected to our experiences. 


My feet are my two-part autobiographies.


The peeling skin tells of the pebbled paths I wander at night, of Alumni Walk during my first week on campus. How the dewy grass licked my toes and kissed my ankles and helped me find my way home. The scars sing the water's melody, of the crayfish that lurk beneath Chemung County creeks. The slick rocks send me splashing, catching my feet and leaving their marks behind. The arches hold bruises so my face and pride wouldn't have to, pounding pavement and initiating evacuations. Each purple and green tell the world how I survived and of how he'll never catch me.  


And my ship, the sails flapping in the wind, keeps the story moving along.

What's In a Name? [Workshop Essay]

I went back to Horseheads (speaking of names...) this weekend to celebrate my mother's 50th birthday. As part of the reminiscing, "we're-all-getting-older" process, she pulled out our old year books. While she sat getting misty-eyed over the aging Equestrians, I thumbed through all the messages people had scrawled across the back pages. All the phone numbers I never called, all the promises of continuing friendships that never happened, and all the names of "frenemies" whose faces had slowly faded over the course of four years.

My favorite message lies in the cracked spine of my freshman year, from a senior I knew only through mutual friends and over-congested movie nights. Friendly, but not really a friend:

Ellen,

You, my dear, are a light in a very, very dark world. Don't ever change that.

~ A

I'd laughed the first time I'd read it; my name is derived from the Greek word meaning "light" (as in weight, not  what spews out of a lamp when you turn it on. But, for the sake of this piece, we can look at both meanings). At fifteen, the sentiment was nice, and extremely appreciated, but it was just there, I suppose. A beautiful coincidence. But then, over the next few years, I found myself hearing it over and over again. Classmates said I "shone". Teachers noted how I "illuminated" new ideas. And friends told me how the days seemed just a little bit more bearable when I was around. 

What if there was something more to behind being "light"? Could something as simple and random as my name have any impact on what made me me? Did names impact the outcome of others, or was this a phenomenon reserved only for "Ellen"s? 

All the baby name books in Barnes and Nobles (and Waldenbooks and Borders...) and all the websites told me the same thing. "Light". Sometimes it went on to explain further; airy, gentle, uplifting. Deeper research lead to personality profiles for all the "Ellen"s of the world. According to Kablarian's, having the name "Ellen" guarantees these traits (I have bolded those which I agree with/would apply to myself):

- A friendly, approachable, and generous demeanor

- Good-natured, though prone to being blunt and sarcastic

- Naturally talkative, finding it easy to meet new, varied people

- Sympathetic to the plight of others

- Very firm in ideas, though needs encouragement to actually act upon them

- Respond quickly to affection and praise

- Artistic and creative, primarily in the arenas of music (especially vocal performance), sewing, or interior decorating

- Struggle with emotions

- Prone to depression, liver ailments, and diseases effecting the bloodstream

Other than pretty much being told I'm dying of leukemia someday, the list didn't seem half-bad. What really astounded me was how incredibly accurate this analysis was. But there are thousands of "Ellen"s in the world (it's an old-fashioned name, so that might be dwindling); what the hell could make us all so similar? It couldn't have been a shared history. I only knew two other Ellen's growing up: my great-grandmother, born the only surviving daughter to Slovakian immigrant farmers in 1907 and a girl five years my senior, the middle between a boy and a girl. They were the products of happy marriages, while my parents were falling apart.

Then I started to wonder how I might have been different if my parents had gone with some of the other names they had considered. Would a "Grace" still care about the needs of others? Would a "Paisley" still have loved to sing until her throat went raw? And would one more "Mary" in the family (if my parents had gone with it, I would have been the 4th) still feel anxious in a crowded room?

I'd like to think that, if I happened to be anything other than "Ellen", I would still be Ellen; not the name, but the soul that lives within. It can't be my name that creates me, because I'm pretty sure I'm the only "Ellen" that used REC and El Orfanato to help study for her Spanish speaking exams. I'm probably the only "Ellen" that pounds birth control and Prozac each morning with a 12 ounce Red Bull. I'm the only "Ellen" who finds romance in a funeral home reception hall. Onward and onward, forever and ever, amen...

Being one of the universe's "lights" is just an added bonus, really.

Nerds, Music, and Love in the Capital City.

I placed iTunes on shuffle and slung the thick strap over my shoulders, the Telecaster wobbling on my knee. He spun the drumsticks, fresh from the package and not yet chipped to his liking, between calloused fingers and paused to readjust the practice pad between his legs. It's not the one he usually uses, still laying haphazardly in the back seat of the Jag, but it does the trick. One pad to tap a rhythm, one hand to strum a chord. Perfect.

Skip, skip, skip. I love my music, but not all of it is jam-able. We play along to a couple tracks, blathering on about the woes of bar chords and missing high E strings. We pause to simply listen to some tracks, punctuating our conversation with hard cider and too-dark beer (he tastes like coffee grounds when he kisses me). One song inspires us to look up another, to deviate from the ordered path shuffle tried to lead us down.

He disappears into one of three closets and returns with a grey, pilled suit jacket, nipped perfectly in the waist. He fakes a limp on his way back to me and takes the guitar from my hands (I've had House on the brain for about a month). It makes me smile. My own curmudgeon doctor. As drummer's fingers, with their rigid angles, strokes over thick strings, he smiles at me.

"You should go as androgynous!Wilson for Halloween."

I kiss him, those disgusting wheaty lips, and I think I'm in love.

Viva la SlutWalk!

I'll be completely honest: I've caught a glimpse of a girl in a revealing top or a short skirt on a day when I'm feeling absolutely shitty about myself and found that word passing through my thoughts. I've watched the girls with stars in their eyes and liquor in their veins teeter on sky-high heels from the latest party and found myself thinking 'they're just asking for trouble'. We all have. We're all guilty. 

I'm by no means a societal expert, but I am an expert in my experiences. And my experience is telling me that we think these things because society has told us that it's okay. In high school, a friend of mine was involved in an incident involving her, a pair of shorts, and a boy who couldn't keep his hands to himself. When she went to the principal to address the issue, she was advised to stop wearing those shorts. The boy was never even called into the office. 

It was wrong then, but I just kind of assumed it would get better. Over time, people are supposed to learn from their mistakes and get smarter. Or something. How silly of me, of course it didn't change. I think it actually got worse. With every new sexual assault reported on campus, I kept hearing the same damn thing.


"She deserved it"


"She shouldn't have been drinking."


"She should've known better than to wear that."


Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit! What about the guys who get raped? Were their tits hanging out too much? Or kids who are sexually molested? Their Cinderella nightgowns were too short, right? And let's not forget the girls in cultures where women can't drink/wear revealing clothing/breathe without someone else's approval. Totally their fault, duh.

Honestly, I was starting to lose some faith in humanity. And then, through the magical world of Tumblr , the phenomena of the SlutWalk was revealed to me. Women and men taking a stand against the absolute asshattery that is slut-shaming and victim-blaming in one of the best ways they know how. Taking to the streets, spreading the world, forcing others to address the issue. It's worked for Civil Rights, Gay Rights, Women's Rights... Sounds good to me. 


The movement started in Toronto, after a misguided (read: asshole) police officer offered the suggestion that "women should avoid dressing like sluts in order not to be victimized". People gathered together with their signs and their proverbial balls on their sleeves, ready to fight to the good fight. "Sluts [heart] consent", "consent turns me on", "my dress is not a yes", and "causes of rape: [ ] alcohol [ ] short skirts [X] rapists" are amongst some of the absolutely brilliant statements being made. 


Rochester had their first walk on April 15th and I've been keeping my eyes peeled for the next one. I know a lot of people won't see the point in it, but every small bit of help makes a difference, right?

Music and the Fate of Modern Girls: Workshop Essay!

A couple years ago, for her daughter’s 10^th birthday, my boss purchased tickets to a Taylor Swift concert. I’d heard the name before and knew she was supposed to be some sort of country prodigy, but, seeing as I don’t listen to the radio much, I had no idea what any of her songs actually sounded like. As a lover of music, I’m willing to give anything a try. A nice Google search gave me a list of her singles and a couple rounds in piracy (rest in peace, Limewire) provided the material. All that was left was to get one step closer to being some mother’s “cool” coworker.

First up, “Tears on My Guitar”. A pretty voice, a fairly simple guitar line, but some of the most melodramatic lyrics I’d ever heard:

“He's the reason for the teardrops on my guitar

The only thing that keeps me wishing on a wishing star

He's the song in the car I keep singing, don't know why I do…”

Whatever. She was in her teens when she wrote it. Every girl goes through that heartbroken, lovesick girl phase. I switched to something from a year later, “Love Story”:

“Romeo, save me, they're trying to tell me how to feel.

This love is difficult but it's real.

Don't be afraid, we'll make it out of this mess.

It's a love story, baby, just say, "Yes".”

Maybe I was just crazy, but the entire thing seemed a bit… well, contradictory. A young girl trying hard to rebel against what is being told of her, yet relying on the words of someone else in the end. If she doesn’t have to follow what the ominous “they” say, why does she need to follow what “Romeo” says? Why does she need his help to escape from it. They couldn’t all have been this bad.

But they were. Every single one of them was full of the same, melodramatic, and downright demeaning lyrics. This was what young girls were being taught these days? That the only way to be happy was the find the right man, to have him whisk you away from all of your troubles, and to not be “that girl”, whatever “that” may be. It just all seemed so back asswards to me. Even her songs of supposed “empowerment” demean other women, those who fit into the standard ideal of what is beautiful.

No, not every girl is the “perfect” woman. But since when was it okay for these different types of girls to be pitted against each other? It’s hard enough to be a girl when you have society and the outside world at your back, but to have your own kind shooting you down, too? That is the message that we’re trying to give to our girls?

When I was ten, I had Gwen Stefani telling me that someone could be “Just a girl” and try and break from the norms. Destiny’s Child was telling me that I could make it on my own and that I didn’t need anyone else to achieve my dreams. The Spice Girls were even telling me that if someone wants to love you, they need to love every part of you (especially your friends). These were women who taught me to stand up for myself, dream as big as I possibly could, and then dream a little more.

I’m nowhere near starting a family of my own, and there’s absolutely no guarantee that I will have a daughter. But if I’m ever so lucky, I am genuinely concerned about who will be the good role model for her. I’m not looking for someone perfect (because who in the music industry ever is). All I want for my future daughter and the girls of tomorrow is to find someone who will give them the right messages.

Fairy tales are what you make them. You don’t need a man (or even a woman) to validate how special you are. And if you want to run away on your “white horse”, hold onto the reins for yourself.

Horror Fan: I'm Doing it Wrong

We file into the theater in an amoebic cluster, inappropriate jokes and raucous laughter echoing down the dark hallway. We are fifteen and sixteen and have finally been given parental permission to join the ranks of mall rats, and seeing the "scariest movie of the year" seems like the most logical way to kick-start our new freedom.

Even the poster intimidates us, so plain and yet so striking. A wide, bottomless eye stares out at me through a shroud of black, stringy hair. If not for the text spattered across the strands, I'd have sworn she was coming from the wall itself (in retrospect, it was probably done that way on purpose). I stare at the poster for what seems like forever, letting it all sink in and nearly jump in my skin when my shoulder is tapped. It's about to start and, like proper mall rats, we need to get front and center.

It's everything we expected and even more that we didn't. Violent deaths, houses with large, ominous windows, and plenty of dark corners for creatures to spider-crawl out of. We jump and assuage nervousness with forced laughter, and they tell me they'll never look at my cat the same way again. It's over far quicker than we would like it to be and we begrudgingly rejoin the ranks of obedient children.

I'll later hear that we all had trouble sleeping that night. Some swore they heard the low, throaty gurgle of the strangled wife, while others told me of the yowling boy that haunted their dreams. But, for me, it's different.  While the images had been beautifully frightening, I find myself overwhelmed no by fear, but by sorrow. They were fictional characters, but the anguish they felt was so real. How terrible an existence it must be, to be doomed to relive your pain for all of eternity, through no fault of their own. I pitied them, more than I had pitied the living (real or otherwise), and I shed my tears for them, like most would for the melodramas.

It is that bizarre reaction that keeps me coming back to the theaters, that strange desire to feel what they do. To watch these poor souls, forever trapped and lonely, and praying to whatever god will listen that I don't end up like they do. I no longer sit front and center, tucking myself away in the back row, where I can jump and yelp and even cry in peace.