Dear Internet,
What does it mean to be jealous? Is it simply to wish that you had what someone else has, or is it deeper than that? Is it as easy as wishing you had someone else's playground toy, or is there something more to it?
I think that that easy definition is something that is better associated with envy rather than jealousy. Envy is defined as "feeling discontent with regards to another person's advantages," whereas jealousy is "feeling resentment with regards to another person's advantages." It is my personal opinion that these are two very different things. Someone else can have something that we want, and that can be all, and we can envy them--feel that we are not content with knowing that they have it and we don't. But jealousy is a different ballgame, I think. Jealousy is all-consuming, it's uneasy, it makes you question yourself and every second of every day you've ever had, wondering if you should've been jealous all this time or if you're silly for being jealous in the first place. The hardest part about being jealous, that I think envy fails to require, is the resistance to feeling it at all. Whenever I feel jealous, I always try to make myself feel differently. It's not a sensation I like. It makes me uncomfortable to experience jealousy, as if I'm being silly or irrational, and I do what I can to avoid it. But the more I avoid it, the more prevalent it becomes.
I've found myself becoming jealous a lot lately. Whether it's simple envy: wishing I could dance as well as another girl in my class or wondering why my body doesn't have the stamina to safely work out every single day, to full on jealousy: not being able to take my mind off of moments that happen to those I love that I will never know about, wishing that I could have just an ounce of insight...it's been happening more and more.
I wish it would stop. So I'm now faced with a question: what do I do to get jealousy out of my mind so I can continue to live my life in peace? Is it something that I just have to live through, or is there a way to expedite the process so that I can carry on with my life?
I think that jealousy is a perfectly natural thing (although there are theories that it may be culturally conditional), and perhaps it's something that I will have to continue to experience. Besides, once I stop being jealous about one thing, I'll likely become fixated on another thing, and then another, and then I'll be jealous of those who aren't jealous, or of those who have time to watch Netflix when I don't, and it will go on and on. I think what I really need to do is simply confront it. Look it in the face, acknowledge that it's there, and then move on. Just let it be. Will this work for me? Has it worked for anyone? I'm not sure, but I hope so.
Stay tuned, Internet.
-mk.
Thursday, October 27, 2016
Wednesday, October 26, 2016
The Power of Intimacy.
Dear Internet,
I was recently given an assignment where I have to bring in something nobody in my class knows about me and tell it as a story to my classmates as a way to express a belief I have that I live my life by. The thing can be anything--happy, sad, depressing, funny, whatever--as long as it's something that nobody else in the class knows.
I really like this assignment, and I'm excited about it, but I'm running into a problem with it: I can't bring myself to talk about anything that isn't tragic or sad or depressing in some way. Why is this? What is it about the happiest moments of my life that nobody knows about that make them so I do not wish to share them with somebody else, while I'm perfectly comfortable sharing the sad things?
When I ask myself this question, I always tend to think of that old children's story about the rainbow fish. If you aren't familiar, I'll give you a quick summary. A rainbow fish is really beautiful and has these incredible sparkly scales that everybody else wants, but he refuses to give any of them away and therefore has no friends because everybody thinks he's selfish. Then one day, he decides to share his sparkly scales with everyone so that they all can have a bit of sparkle, and everyone is really happy and decides to be his friend because they all share in his beauty as opposed to him hogging it all for himself. So I have to ask, am I being the greedy rainbow fish for not wanting to share the incredibly happy intimate moments of my life with others?
I'm not so sure. In an odd way, there's something easier about sharing the darkness in life in assignments like these, because it seems like you're revealing something easier to hide than the happy things in your life. In a sense, this makes it feel like you were more successful in completing the assignment. It feels as if there's a greater impact than there would be if you were to share a happy moment. But the happy moments have had a greater impact on me. So why don't I share those?
I think it's because, like the rainbow fish with his sparkly scales, I want to keep them for myself. I'm afraid if I shared their glitter with others, they would lose their sparkle for me. They would become less special to me if I gave them out like business cards to everyone I knew, going on and on about how wonderful they were. I would have less to hold on to when I feel lonely or sad or afraid or can't fall asleep at night. They wouldn't feel quite as powerful as they do when I just have them for myself.
So for now, I'll keep those moments to myself. Because what good would my memory be of the happy moment where I was standing in a dorm room, tears in my eyes, when I was told--
--Actually, you don't get to know.
That memory shines brighter when I keep it all for my own.
-mk.
I was recently given an assignment where I have to bring in something nobody in my class knows about me and tell it as a story to my classmates as a way to express a belief I have that I live my life by. The thing can be anything--happy, sad, depressing, funny, whatever--as long as it's something that nobody else in the class knows.
I really like this assignment, and I'm excited about it, but I'm running into a problem with it: I can't bring myself to talk about anything that isn't tragic or sad or depressing in some way. Why is this? What is it about the happiest moments of my life that nobody knows about that make them so I do not wish to share them with somebody else, while I'm perfectly comfortable sharing the sad things?
When I ask myself this question, I always tend to think of that old children's story about the rainbow fish. If you aren't familiar, I'll give you a quick summary. A rainbow fish is really beautiful and has these incredible sparkly scales that everybody else wants, but he refuses to give any of them away and therefore has no friends because everybody thinks he's selfish. Then one day, he decides to share his sparkly scales with everyone so that they all can have a bit of sparkle, and everyone is really happy and decides to be his friend because they all share in his beauty as opposed to him hogging it all for himself. So I have to ask, am I being the greedy rainbow fish for not wanting to share the incredibly happy intimate moments of my life with others?
I'm not so sure. In an odd way, there's something easier about sharing the darkness in life in assignments like these, because it seems like you're revealing something easier to hide than the happy things in your life. In a sense, this makes it feel like you were more successful in completing the assignment. It feels as if there's a greater impact than there would be if you were to share a happy moment. But the happy moments have had a greater impact on me. So why don't I share those?
I think it's because, like the rainbow fish with his sparkly scales, I want to keep them for myself. I'm afraid if I shared their glitter with others, they would lose their sparkle for me. They would become less special to me if I gave them out like business cards to everyone I knew, going on and on about how wonderful they were. I would have less to hold on to when I feel lonely or sad or afraid or can't fall asleep at night. They wouldn't feel quite as powerful as they do when I just have them for myself.
So for now, I'll keep those moments to myself. Because what good would my memory be of the happy moment where I was standing in a dorm room, tears in my eyes, when I was told--
--Actually, you don't get to know.
That memory shines brighter when I keep it all for my own.
-mk.
Monday, October 24, 2016
"You Don't Look Crazy Enough."
Dear Internet,
What does mental illness look like? Is it tall and blonde with crystal blue eyes? Is it short and pale and fun to hang out with on the weekends? Maybe it's funny and easy to talk to, with perfect hair and a dazzling smile. Does anybody really know?
I think the reality is, mental illness can look like anyone or anything. It can look like your mom or your best friend or even like you, whether it's you crying or eating dinner with friends or opening a Christmas present. That's what's so terrifying about it--mental illness can look like anyone doing anything. So what did a teacher of mine mean when, while directing a piece where a character is suffering from a mental illness, she said to me peer "you don't look crazy enough. You need to act a little crazier." A classmate chimed in "Yeah, a person with a mental illness would look a little more off. Not so normal."
As I sat there in my chair, astonished that such things were said so casually, it took everything I had not to get up and walk out of the room. What does that mean? What is crazy supposed to look like?
This is all a part of the stigma around mental illness--this idea that it's supposed to look or be a certain way when, truth be told, mental illnesses are not always visible. They hide in the cracks and crevices of the humans that walk among you every day, sealed under facades of makeup and cute clothes and comfortable shoes. They wear what a normal person wears, talk how a normal person talks, only it's as if that person were wearing a backpack full of boulders, trying to carry around their illness from place to place, hoping that at some stoplight they'll finally get a break. People with mental illnesses don't look a mental illness. They look like people. They have pet peeves and pets and grocery lists just like you have. So why would someone say that in order for someone to have a mental illness they have to look or project their illness out in a certain way?
Furthermore, why does a person with a mental illness have to be categorized as crazy? When I looked up the definition of crazy, it gave me "mentally deranged." When I looked up the definition of deranged, it used it in a sentence: "the mentally deranged gunman."
Wait.
Hold up.
It is unnecessary and inaccurate to assume that all people with a mental illness are on the same level as someone as violent as a gunman. Mental illness does not equal violence like that. Depression, anxiety, eating disorders, these are all mental illnesses, and I do not have enough hands to count the number of people I know intimately, myself included, who have struggled with a combination of all three. Roughly one in five teenagers will experience depression before they are adults. Anxiety impacts a quarter of all teenagers, and a third of all teenage girls. Roughly half of teen girls and a third of teen boys will use unhealthy measures to try and lose weight at some point in their teenage years. Are those the people my teacher knew she was speaking of when she referred to someone with a mental illness as generally crazy? I would hope not. In fact, I'm positive that she had no idea that she was saying something so hurtful in that moment. And that's part of the problem.
It is time that we educate ourselves on mental illness, particularly because, as I mentioned before, there are so many people who we all know and love who struggle every day with them. It is careless of us to be so careless about the language and tone we use when we speak about mental illness, or to assume that everyone in a room has no experience with mental illness so that the carelessness can take place to begin with. We have to take the time and listen to those around us and what they are going through. They must know that they do not have to stay silent about their experiences, that there are people listening to them, caring about them. And we can no longer stifle their voices by calling them "crazy" or telling them that they don't look crazy enough for what we think their illness is supposed to look like.
Let us all be more careful, friends. We have no idea what it is people are going through.
-mk.
If you'd like to learn more about depression, anxiety, or eating disorders, please visit:
The National Institute of Mental Health
Anxiety and Depression Association of America
The National Eating Disorder Association
To learn about the many other mental illnesses out there, please visit:
The National Institute of Mental Health Home Page
What does mental illness look like? Is it tall and blonde with crystal blue eyes? Is it short and pale and fun to hang out with on the weekends? Maybe it's funny and easy to talk to, with perfect hair and a dazzling smile. Does anybody really know?
I think the reality is, mental illness can look like anyone or anything. It can look like your mom or your best friend or even like you, whether it's you crying or eating dinner with friends or opening a Christmas present. That's what's so terrifying about it--mental illness can look like anyone doing anything. So what did a teacher of mine mean when, while directing a piece where a character is suffering from a mental illness, she said to me peer "you don't look crazy enough. You need to act a little crazier." A classmate chimed in "Yeah, a person with a mental illness would look a little more off. Not so normal."
As I sat there in my chair, astonished that such things were said so casually, it took everything I had not to get up and walk out of the room. What does that mean? What is crazy supposed to look like?
This is all a part of the stigma around mental illness--this idea that it's supposed to look or be a certain way when, truth be told, mental illnesses are not always visible. They hide in the cracks and crevices of the humans that walk among you every day, sealed under facades of makeup and cute clothes and comfortable shoes. They wear what a normal person wears, talk how a normal person talks, only it's as if that person were wearing a backpack full of boulders, trying to carry around their illness from place to place, hoping that at some stoplight they'll finally get a break. People with mental illnesses don't look a mental illness. They look like people. They have pet peeves and pets and grocery lists just like you have. So why would someone say that in order for someone to have a mental illness they have to look or project their illness out in a certain way?
Furthermore, why does a person with a mental illness have to be categorized as crazy? When I looked up the definition of crazy, it gave me "mentally deranged." When I looked up the definition of deranged, it used it in a sentence: "the mentally deranged gunman."
Wait.
Hold up.
It is unnecessary and inaccurate to assume that all people with a mental illness are on the same level as someone as violent as a gunman. Mental illness does not equal violence like that. Depression, anxiety, eating disorders, these are all mental illnesses, and I do not have enough hands to count the number of people I know intimately, myself included, who have struggled with a combination of all three. Roughly one in five teenagers will experience depression before they are adults. Anxiety impacts a quarter of all teenagers, and a third of all teenage girls. Roughly half of teen girls and a third of teen boys will use unhealthy measures to try and lose weight at some point in their teenage years. Are those the people my teacher knew she was speaking of when she referred to someone with a mental illness as generally crazy? I would hope not. In fact, I'm positive that she had no idea that she was saying something so hurtful in that moment. And that's part of the problem.
It is time that we educate ourselves on mental illness, particularly because, as I mentioned before, there are so many people who we all know and love who struggle every day with them. It is careless of us to be so careless about the language and tone we use when we speak about mental illness, or to assume that everyone in a room has no experience with mental illness so that the carelessness can take place to begin with. We have to take the time and listen to those around us and what they are going through. They must know that they do not have to stay silent about their experiences, that there are people listening to them, caring about them. And we can no longer stifle their voices by calling them "crazy" or telling them that they don't look crazy enough for what we think their illness is supposed to look like.
Let us all be more careful, friends. We have no idea what it is people are going through.
-mk.
If you'd like to learn more about depression, anxiety, or eating disorders, please visit:
The National Institute of Mental Health
Anxiety and Depression Association of America
The National Eating Disorder Association
To learn about the many other mental illnesses out there, please visit:
The National Institute of Mental Health Home Page
Tuesday, October 11, 2016
The Bad Boy.
Okay, you're pretty, your face is a work of art, your smile could probably light up New York after dark. Okay, you're cover boy pretty, stamped with a beauty mark. But it's such a pity a boy's so pretty with an ugly heart. {G.R.L.~"Ugly Heart"}
Dear Internet,
What is it about bad boys that girls like so much? I don't mean boys that wear leather jackets and ride motorcycles and stay out five minutes past their curfews to get their semi-negative reputations. I mean genuinely bad boys. Those boys who make unwanted sexual advances and make inappropriate, objectifying comments about every woman in their lives. The boys who get reputations for being abusive towards women and they actually are. What's interesting about these boys isn't that they look like hard rocking 90s punks with tongue piercings and a too-fast car, but that they don't look this way at all. Instead, they're clean-cut with perfectly coiffed hair and expensive clothes with cool lines that hug their well-exercised biceps. They seem like the nicest people you could know, until you realizes that they're simply...not. Yet somehow so many women still find them to be attractive and a valid option for a romantic partner...why?
I googled "why girls like bad boys" and got extensive explanations of how girls who are attracted to bad boys had terrible relationships with their fathers and subconsciously hope to recreate that same relationship in their romantic life. While I guess this could make sense--there is a common saying that girls are bound to fall like guys like their fathers--I'm not sure that this is really the reason girls seem come running when a bad boy comes around. There are lots of girls I know that are attracted to this breed of man who have perfectly fine relationships with their fathers. Google also told me that girls like the sense of adventure that comes with dating a bad boy (or even with simply being attracted to one). This may be true, but I feel like there's something more to the psychology of liking a guy that we simply know isn't right for us (or, as Taylor Swift would say, a guy we know is trouble when he walks in). What could it be?
I asked a friend of mine what she thought about this, and she said that she likes bad boys because she thinks that nice guys are too boring. They don't "challenge" her enough emotionally or intellectually, which is something she likes in a relationship. She likes competition, and in a relationship she likes feeling that a guy can meet her at her competitive level and then go one step further--something she says she's only found in "bad" boys. I think she could be on to something--are girls attracted to the bad breed of boy simply because they're more interesting than others? But what is so interesting about a relationship that is bound to end in disaster?
Which leads us to what I think may be the key to answering this question...perhaps what's so alluring to a girl about a date headed for a downfall is the hope that she will be the one to turn the boy around. Perhaps she, out of all of the other girls in the world, can take a bad boy and finally make him good. It may just be the secret desire of nice girls to make others just as nice that motivates the attraction to someone of an entirely opposite demeanor. This seems to be a common intention, but how often does it actually work? I would like to think it works often, but the reality is that the success rate of "making a bad guy good for the weekend" (thanks again, Ms. Swift) is small. Besides, the ratio of girls trying to make bad boys good to the number of actual bad boys is probably 20:1, at least.
With all of this in mind, why do girls still think that they could be the one to make that boy they know that their mother wouldn't approve of the man of their dreams? I blame the media for this--particularly movies. Films like She's All That and John Tucker Must Die show the baddest of boys finding that one girl that turns their world--and their behavior--around, much to the envy of the other girls they know. Suddenly, seeing this happen in a film or hearing about it in a song makes the probability of this happening in one's own life seem to much better than it actually is. Plus, when a situation like this is glorified on the silver screen, it becomes a goal, something to strive for, rather than something to run away from.
So here we have the perfect storm: the bad boy being desirable enough to want to change, the desire to make a bad boy good, and the validation from the surrounding world that, if you follow through with this desire, it could actually work. So what do we do? As girls, with the tendency towards this desire, do we run from it? Do we lean into it? I'm not sure. A part of me says run, but I know that most girls will roll their eyes when I say that and go back to dreaming about Danny with the dark eyes and the darker past. I think that the best way to go about dealing with this kind of fatal attraction is to actually acknowledge it, accept it, and then...let it go. Allow it to float away with all of the other hundreds of thousands of thoughts we have every day, and simply move on. For it is the lingering and the obsession, not the thought itself, that becomes the danger.
Girls need to learn to simply let the bad boy go. It would be such a pity to lose a girl so pretty to an ugly heart.
-mk.
Dear Internet,
What is it about bad boys that girls like so much? I don't mean boys that wear leather jackets and ride motorcycles and stay out five minutes past their curfews to get their semi-negative reputations. I mean genuinely bad boys. Those boys who make unwanted sexual advances and make inappropriate, objectifying comments about every woman in their lives. The boys who get reputations for being abusive towards women and they actually are. What's interesting about these boys isn't that they look like hard rocking 90s punks with tongue piercings and a too-fast car, but that they don't look this way at all. Instead, they're clean-cut with perfectly coiffed hair and expensive clothes with cool lines that hug their well-exercised biceps. They seem like the nicest people you could know, until you realizes that they're simply...not. Yet somehow so many women still find them to be attractive and a valid option for a romantic partner...why?
I googled "why girls like bad boys" and got extensive explanations of how girls who are attracted to bad boys had terrible relationships with their fathers and subconsciously hope to recreate that same relationship in their romantic life. While I guess this could make sense--there is a common saying that girls are bound to fall like guys like their fathers--I'm not sure that this is really the reason girls seem come running when a bad boy comes around. There are lots of girls I know that are attracted to this breed of man who have perfectly fine relationships with their fathers. Google also told me that girls like the sense of adventure that comes with dating a bad boy (or even with simply being attracted to one). This may be true, but I feel like there's something more to the psychology of liking a guy that we simply know isn't right for us (or, as Taylor Swift would say, a guy we know is trouble when he walks in). What could it be?
I asked a friend of mine what she thought about this, and she said that she likes bad boys because she thinks that nice guys are too boring. They don't "challenge" her enough emotionally or intellectually, which is something she likes in a relationship. She likes competition, and in a relationship she likes feeling that a guy can meet her at her competitive level and then go one step further--something she says she's only found in "bad" boys. I think she could be on to something--are girls attracted to the bad breed of boy simply because they're more interesting than others? But what is so interesting about a relationship that is bound to end in disaster?
Which leads us to what I think may be the key to answering this question...perhaps what's so alluring to a girl about a date headed for a downfall is the hope that she will be the one to turn the boy around. Perhaps she, out of all of the other girls in the world, can take a bad boy and finally make him good. It may just be the secret desire of nice girls to make others just as nice that motivates the attraction to someone of an entirely opposite demeanor. This seems to be a common intention, but how often does it actually work? I would like to think it works often, but the reality is that the success rate of "making a bad guy good for the weekend" (thanks again, Ms. Swift) is small. Besides, the ratio of girls trying to make bad boys good to the number of actual bad boys is probably 20:1, at least.
With all of this in mind, why do girls still think that they could be the one to make that boy they know that their mother wouldn't approve of the man of their dreams? I blame the media for this--particularly movies. Films like She's All That and John Tucker Must Die show the baddest of boys finding that one girl that turns their world--and their behavior--around, much to the envy of the other girls they know. Suddenly, seeing this happen in a film or hearing about it in a song makes the probability of this happening in one's own life seem to much better than it actually is. Plus, when a situation like this is glorified on the silver screen, it becomes a goal, something to strive for, rather than something to run away from.
So here we have the perfect storm: the bad boy being desirable enough to want to change, the desire to make a bad boy good, and the validation from the surrounding world that, if you follow through with this desire, it could actually work. So what do we do? As girls, with the tendency towards this desire, do we run from it? Do we lean into it? I'm not sure. A part of me says run, but I know that most girls will roll their eyes when I say that and go back to dreaming about Danny with the dark eyes and the darker past. I think that the best way to go about dealing with this kind of fatal attraction is to actually acknowledge it, accept it, and then...let it go. Allow it to float away with all of the other hundreds of thousands of thoughts we have every day, and simply move on. For it is the lingering and the obsession, not the thought itself, that becomes the danger.
Girls need to learn to simply let the bad boy go. It would be such a pity to lose a girl so pretty to an ugly heart.
-mk.
Tuesday, September 27, 2016
So You Agree? You Think You're Really Pretty?
Dear Internet,
A few days ago, a friend of mine looked at herself in a dance room mirror with a grimace. "I'm so pissed," she announced, "because I was so skinny my senior year and now I'm just...not." I stared at her slim frame, trying to find the fat she was talking about. I came up empty. Another friend began to chime in with her own self-criticism: "I know, right? I'm pretty sure I've gained like, 10 pounds in the past week. I mean, I just feel massive." They both turned to me expectantly, waiting for me to have some negative comment about my own appearance, but all I could manage to get out was "I haven't weighed myself in two years, so I don't know how much weight I've gained, really." And then...silence.
Now let us be very clear about something. I am not a small person. I will never be the skinniest girl in the room--it's not how my body was built. I used to spend long hours in mirrors tearing myself apart for this fact, until I realized that, no matter what I did, it would always be just that: a fact. And so I began the journey to acceptance. I started living the healthiest, happiest lifestyle I can. I make kale salads and finish them off with homemade chocolate chip cookies. I exercise every day and get as much sleep as possible. I no longer rely on makeup to make me feel happy with my appearance. I feel more comfortable with myself than I ever have in my life. So why, in this moment, did I suddenly feel that it was a requirement to look in the mirror and declare something I hated about myself?
There's a famous scene in Mean Girls just like this, where all of the girls stand in front of a mirror and declare the things they hate about the way they look. One girl finds herself unable to say anything, and she's seen as self-centered and vain for it. But why? Why is it that girls can't say that they look and feel beautiful, regardless of what they're wearing or how much time they spent on their hair that morning, without being seen as self-obsessed? Is this some sort of standard we've set, that girls must give up their humility to acknowledge their own attractiveness? And is this standard the reason that so many have fallen victim to eating disorders, body dysmorphia, and severe anxiety over their own appearances?
I would like to believe, for the sake of girls everywhere, that the answer to all of these questions is no, but I fear that it's the opposite. For as long as I can remember, it's been sort of cool to think you're unattractive. You instantly became prettier if, when someone told you you looked pretty, you denied it. A simple "thank you" instantly became a sign that you were admitting that you identified as attractive, and therefore that you were incredibly self-centered and vain. But what if this isn't the case? What if, in accepting the compliment, you are not confirming your vanity but instead confirming your confidence in the part of yourself that others could see? Nobody self-deprecates if someone tells them they have had a good idea, or seem nice or smart, so why do it when someone tells you they like the way you look? Why look in the mirror and tear yourself apart as if that's the expectation, when you could accept your appearance and move on to the things inside of you that could change the world?
I hope that the girls I was with in the big dance mirror chose to go home and look at themselves as if they were queens. I hope they took the time thank themselves for all of the wonderful things they do in this world with their bodies as vehicles for the impulses of their dreams. Because in reality, the way they weigh in on a scale doesn't matter. The way they weigh in on the world does. And I know they won't want to do it lightly.
-mk.
A few days ago, a friend of mine looked at herself in a dance room mirror with a grimace. "I'm so pissed," she announced, "because I was so skinny my senior year and now I'm just...not." I stared at her slim frame, trying to find the fat she was talking about. I came up empty. Another friend began to chime in with her own self-criticism: "I know, right? I'm pretty sure I've gained like, 10 pounds in the past week. I mean, I just feel massive." They both turned to me expectantly, waiting for me to have some negative comment about my own appearance, but all I could manage to get out was "I haven't weighed myself in two years, so I don't know how much weight I've gained, really." And then...silence.
Now let us be very clear about something. I am not a small person. I will never be the skinniest girl in the room--it's not how my body was built. I used to spend long hours in mirrors tearing myself apart for this fact, until I realized that, no matter what I did, it would always be just that: a fact. And so I began the journey to acceptance. I started living the healthiest, happiest lifestyle I can. I make kale salads and finish them off with homemade chocolate chip cookies. I exercise every day and get as much sleep as possible. I no longer rely on makeup to make me feel happy with my appearance. I feel more comfortable with myself than I ever have in my life. So why, in this moment, did I suddenly feel that it was a requirement to look in the mirror and declare something I hated about myself?
There's a famous scene in Mean Girls just like this, where all of the girls stand in front of a mirror and declare the things they hate about the way they look. One girl finds herself unable to say anything, and she's seen as self-centered and vain for it. But why? Why is it that girls can't say that they look and feel beautiful, regardless of what they're wearing or how much time they spent on their hair that morning, without being seen as self-obsessed? Is this some sort of standard we've set, that girls must give up their humility to acknowledge their own attractiveness? And is this standard the reason that so many have fallen victim to eating disorders, body dysmorphia, and severe anxiety over their own appearances?
I would like to believe, for the sake of girls everywhere, that the answer to all of these questions is no, but I fear that it's the opposite. For as long as I can remember, it's been sort of cool to think you're unattractive. You instantly became prettier if, when someone told you you looked pretty, you denied it. A simple "thank you" instantly became a sign that you were admitting that you identified as attractive, and therefore that you were incredibly self-centered and vain. But what if this isn't the case? What if, in accepting the compliment, you are not confirming your vanity but instead confirming your confidence in the part of yourself that others could see? Nobody self-deprecates if someone tells them they have had a good idea, or seem nice or smart, so why do it when someone tells you they like the way you look? Why look in the mirror and tear yourself apart as if that's the expectation, when you could accept your appearance and move on to the things inside of you that could change the world?
I hope that the girls I was with in the big dance mirror chose to go home and look at themselves as if they were queens. I hope they took the time thank themselves for all of the wonderful things they do in this world with their bodies as vehicles for the impulses of their dreams. Because in reality, the way they weigh in on a scale doesn't matter. The way they weigh in on the world does. And I know they won't want to do it lightly.
-mk.
Thursday, September 22, 2016
Why New Yorkers Aren't Afraid of ISIS.
Dear Internet,
The other day, an article was published entitled "Things New Yorkers are More Afraid of Than ISIS." The article, inspired by a slew of tweets, provides list after comical list of things that the residents of New York are supposedly significantly more afraid of than the threat of the terrorist group ISIS. These things include falling air conditioners, your friend becoming a member of an improv troupe, being hit in the face by a flying cockroach, or being stuck with your ex on the subway. The lists are hysterical, reflecting the resilience of New Yorkers with a friendly wink. But something about these lists struck me as slightly off-putting, especially since they were published the day after a pipe bomb exploded in a dumpster in Chelsea 3 blocks from where I live, and another bomb was discovered just a few blocks from there before it could detonate. It shook me to the core, and when I saw these articles I had to ask: am I a bad New Yorker if things like this are number one on my list of fears?
*****
I'm not exactly a going out person, so when my roommate and I decided that we were going to get dressed up and go somewhere fun, we were stoked. We spent an hour doing hair and makeup, excited to have some place to be going. As we were putting the finishing touches on our meticulously crafted looks, however, we heard about the bomb. The next thing we knew, we were at a friend's, sitting on the floor and blankly staring at the news on the television screen. Within minutes we were in pajamas, our plans of going out swallowed by bigger, more important things. We did our best to contact friends and family members to let them know we were safe before they could see the news that anything had happened at all, and reached out to those we knew who may have been near the explosion to make sure they were all okay. It was, to be honest, terrifying. I'm not used to being so close to tragedies such as these, so when it happened, it seemed to make everything else going on seem completely insignificant. Suddenly, the drama with our roommates or the quality of our curls was petty compared to what was going on in the world around us. We were scared. If we had decided to go out just an hour earlier, how could things have been different? Would we have been near the bomb? These are the things we asked ourselves as we stared in amazement at the news, waiting for answers we would never receive.
But were we bad New Yorkers for being so afraid? Are there really hundreds of other things in the city scarier than threats of terrorism occurring just blocks from where you live? I'm not so sure. Even funnier to me than these lists of things to be more afraid of in this city than ISIS is the idea that there are things to be more afraid of. Perhaps that's what makes these lists so amusing for me: there really isn't anything scarier than terrorism in the city, but it's simply more fun to pretend there is, isn't it? Perhaps it isn't that we do not fear these things at all, but that we are so open about fearing them that we allow ourselves to be in on the joke of these articles.
The community in New York City has a deep resilience unlike anything I've ever seen before. The second word of a bomb going off got out, my phone started to blow up with texts from close friends and mere acquaintances asking if I was okay. Everyone started to check up on each other--and I mean everyone. I don't think I could say that the same thing would happen in every place. When this happened, the people of New York started to rise up to protect one another to ensure that tomorrow we could go on living our lives as we did yesterday. This is the magic of Manhattan that so many talk about but can never quite put their finger on. The reality of these silly articles, I've begun to realize, is that they actually have a sense of truth to them. It is my personal opinion that everyone has terrorism on their number one list of fears, especially when it starts to hit so close to home. The difference for New Yorkers, a difference that the tweets of lists of fears use satire to put their finger on, is that we keep on living. When things like this happen, we may stay in the night of, but the next morning, we go outside. We go for quick jogs and grocery runs and brunch. We hug friends we see on the street and avoid catcalls from desperate men on park benches. We fear these things without allowing them to interfere with how we live. And that, I think, is something for the terrorists to be afraid of. They use their violence and ignorance in the hopes of scaring us to stop our lives and stay inside.
Unfortunately for them, we will be going out.
--mk.
The other day, an article was published entitled "Things New Yorkers are More Afraid of Than ISIS." The article, inspired by a slew of tweets, provides list after comical list of things that the residents of New York are supposedly significantly more afraid of than the threat of the terrorist group ISIS. These things include falling air conditioners, your friend becoming a member of an improv troupe, being hit in the face by a flying cockroach, or being stuck with your ex on the subway. The lists are hysterical, reflecting the resilience of New Yorkers with a friendly wink. But something about these lists struck me as slightly off-putting, especially since they were published the day after a pipe bomb exploded in a dumpster in Chelsea 3 blocks from where I live, and another bomb was discovered just a few blocks from there before it could detonate. It shook me to the core, and when I saw these articles I had to ask: am I a bad New Yorker if things like this are number one on my list of fears?
*****
I'm not exactly a going out person, so when my roommate and I decided that we were going to get dressed up and go somewhere fun, we were stoked. We spent an hour doing hair and makeup, excited to have some place to be going. As we were putting the finishing touches on our meticulously crafted looks, however, we heard about the bomb. The next thing we knew, we were at a friend's, sitting on the floor and blankly staring at the news on the television screen. Within minutes we were in pajamas, our plans of going out swallowed by bigger, more important things. We did our best to contact friends and family members to let them know we were safe before they could see the news that anything had happened at all, and reached out to those we knew who may have been near the explosion to make sure they were all okay. It was, to be honest, terrifying. I'm not used to being so close to tragedies such as these, so when it happened, it seemed to make everything else going on seem completely insignificant. Suddenly, the drama with our roommates or the quality of our curls was petty compared to what was going on in the world around us. We were scared. If we had decided to go out just an hour earlier, how could things have been different? Would we have been near the bomb? These are the things we asked ourselves as we stared in amazement at the news, waiting for answers we would never receive.
But were we bad New Yorkers for being so afraid? Are there really hundreds of other things in the city scarier than threats of terrorism occurring just blocks from where you live? I'm not so sure. Even funnier to me than these lists of things to be more afraid of in this city than ISIS is the idea that there are things to be more afraid of. Perhaps that's what makes these lists so amusing for me: there really isn't anything scarier than terrorism in the city, but it's simply more fun to pretend there is, isn't it? Perhaps it isn't that we do not fear these things at all, but that we are so open about fearing them that we allow ourselves to be in on the joke of these articles.
The community in New York City has a deep resilience unlike anything I've ever seen before. The second word of a bomb going off got out, my phone started to blow up with texts from close friends and mere acquaintances asking if I was okay. Everyone started to check up on each other--and I mean everyone. I don't think I could say that the same thing would happen in every place. When this happened, the people of New York started to rise up to protect one another to ensure that tomorrow we could go on living our lives as we did yesterday. This is the magic of Manhattan that so many talk about but can never quite put their finger on. The reality of these silly articles, I've begun to realize, is that they actually have a sense of truth to them. It is my personal opinion that everyone has terrorism on their number one list of fears, especially when it starts to hit so close to home. The difference for New Yorkers, a difference that the tweets of lists of fears use satire to put their finger on, is that we keep on living. When things like this happen, we may stay in the night of, but the next morning, we go outside. We go for quick jogs and grocery runs and brunch. We hug friends we see on the street and avoid catcalls from desperate men on park benches. We fear these things without allowing them to interfere with how we live. And that, I think, is something for the terrorists to be afraid of. They use their violence and ignorance in the hopes of scaring us to stop our lives and stay inside.
Unfortunately for them, we will be going out.
--mk.
Sunday, September 18, 2016
Don't Tell Me I'm Pretty, I Don't Want to Know.
Dear Internet,
Imagine this: a girl is walking down a Manhattan avenue early on a cloudy morning. She's on the phone, but is talking using headphones because if she held the phone up to her ear it would get drenched in the sweat from her recently finished run. Her hair has frizzed in the humidity, pony tail half fallen, remnants of mascara that her makeup wipe missed the nights before ashy under her eyes. Her shirt is darker than it was when she left the house, a different hue from the wet of her sweat, and her walk is wobbly from today's awareness of tomorrow's sore legs. She is speaking to her mother, when a man steps in front of her path, attempting to stop her. "Hey pretty," he growls, "come on over."
When this happened to me this morning, especially in the wake of a pipe bomb that went off just blocks from my home last night, I felt like my skin was covered in spiders. It was like someone had stepped inside my body without my permission, or had put me blindfolded on a roller coaster with a vertical drop nobody had warned me about. My voice wavered as I spoke to my mother, my steps quickening on the pavement towards a soon-to-change walk sign at the nearest cross walk. I wanted more than anything to be anywhere else in that moment, but there I was, frozen as I willed my body to scurry away from the man's outstretched, grimy palm.
This is what it means to be a girl in New York City. It doesn't matter what you're wearing, or what time of day it is, or what situation you happen to be in. If you're alone, or even with a friend or two, as I was a few days ago when a man announced to us that he was going to "fuck you and then fucking kill you" as he chased us down a few blocks of our normal walk home, you are a target for catcalling.
When you google the word "catcall," what comes up is a definition: make a whistle, shout, or comment of a sexual nature to a woman passing by. But this definition doesn't seem like enough to me. A catcall is much more than a simple whistle or shout. It goes far beyond a compliment (as some have told me I should take these catcalls) into the realm of the invasive. It takes an ordinary moment to the extraordinary, feeling as if somebody has crawled under your skin and made themselves a home there without your permission. It sinks your heart into your toes. It makes you want to turn around and fight and run for your life all at once. It's the most unwelcome feeling in the world, and I've heard these types of sentiments about catcalling from everyone I know who's been catcalled.
There is not a woman in this world who, when asked how she met the love of her life, will respond "Well, he shouted that my red lipstick made him know exactly what he wanted to do to me from a street corner, and in that moment I just knew he was the one for me." (Yes, I've had that screamed at me on the street.) So why do men still catcall women? What is it about screaming obscenities that they know will make women uncomfortable that's fun for them? Do they intend to invade the woman's privacy, or do they genuinely think they're giving a compliment?
In my opinion, it has nothing to do with the woman at all, and has everything to do with the man wanting to boost his ego. How low does your self esteem have to be before you feel comfortable screaming a sexual obscenity at a stranger walking past you on the sidewalk to get their attention? I can't imagine that the man who told me I was pretty and to come over to him this morning actually thought that it would work out for him. On the contrary, he may have been so desperate for attention that he thought that stepping in my path and saying something he knew could upset a girl in a big city would get him noticed. I once walked past a drug addict on the street as he begged me to give him my wallet. When I refused to look his way, he screamed that the skirt I was wearing, that was blowing in the wind to reveal the shorts I was wearing underneath, made me look like a major slut. He knew this wouldn't get him the money he wanted--why would it? But he had to believe that saying something like this to someone he didn't know would get him noticed, would get a rise out of a stranger purely for his own enjoyment. And as unfortunate as it is, I don't think catcalls will ever stop. There will always be some guy out there hoping to get a rise out of a girl just to see what she'll do, just to see if maybe he'll finally be noticed.
But as women, how can we minimize the catcalls we get? The short answer is, we can't, really. The best we can do is refuse to give them the satisfaction of the acknowledgement that they crave. Instead of hiding under big sweatshirts and hoping nobody yells about the exquisite bodies and minds we are hiding underneath, we must go out in the sunshine in the vibrant colors of the clothes that make us feel the most ourselves. We must wear our skin as if it were a satin glove that cannot be bothered by the touch of those that don't deserve it, and let our hair down as we have always wanted it to be. We must walk the street free of the fear that we don't belong there, and hold our shoulders higher than those who will try to make us feel small. We are bigger than them. We are stronger than them.
So hey mister, why don't you move your ass over.
This is my goddamn street, too.
-mk.
Imagine this: a girl is walking down a Manhattan avenue early on a cloudy morning. She's on the phone, but is talking using headphones because if she held the phone up to her ear it would get drenched in the sweat from her recently finished run. Her hair has frizzed in the humidity, pony tail half fallen, remnants of mascara that her makeup wipe missed the nights before ashy under her eyes. Her shirt is darker than it was when she left the house, a different hue from the wet of her sweat, and her walk is wobbly from today's awareness of tomorrow's sore legs. She is speaking to her mother, when a man steps in front of her path, attempting to stop her. "Hey pretty," he growls, "come on over."
When this happened to me this morning, especially in the wake of a pipe bomb that went off just blocks from my home last night, I felt like my skin was covered in spiders. It was like someone had stepped inside my body without my permission, or had put me blindfolded on a roller coaster with a vertical drop nobody had warned me about. My voice wavered as I spoke to my mother, my steps quickening on the pavement towards a soon-to-change walk sign at the nearest cross walk. I wanted more than anything to be anywhere else in that moment, but there I was, frozen as I willed my body to scurry away from the man's outstretched, grimy palm.
This is what it means to be a girl in New York City. It doesn't matter what you're wearing, or what time of day it is, or what situation you happen to be in. If you're alone, or even with a friend or two, as I was a few days ago when a man announced to us that he was going to "fuck you and then fucking kill you" as he chased us down a few blocks of our normal walk home, you are a target for catcalling.
When you google the word "catcall," what comes up is a definition: make a whistle, shout, or comment of a sexual nature to a woman passing by. But this definition doesn't seem like enough to me. A catcall is much more than a simple whistle or shout. It goes far beyond a compliment (as some have told me I should take these catcalls) into the realm of the invasive. It takes an ordinary moment to the extraordinary, feeling as if somebody has crawled under your skin and made themselves a home there without your permission. It sinks your heart into your toes. It makes you want to turn around and fight and run for your life all at once. It's the most unwelcome feeling in the world, and I've heard these types of sentiments about catcalling from everyone I know who's been catcalled.
There is not a woman in this world who, when asked how she met the love of her life, will respond "Well, he shouted that my red lipstick made him know exactly what he wanted to do to me from a street corner, and in that moment I just knew he was the one for me." (Yes, I've had that screamed at me on the street.) So why do men still catcall women? What is it about screaming obscenities that they know will make women uncomfortable that's fun for them? Do they intend to invade the woman's privacy, or do they genuinely think they're giving a compliment?
In my opinion, it has nothing to do with the woman at all, and has everything to do with the man wanting to boost his ego. How low does your self esteem have to be before you feel comfortable screaming a sexual obscenity at a stranger walking past you on the sidewalk to get their attention? I can't imagine that the man who told me I was pretty and to come over to him this morning actually thought that it would work out for him. On the contrary, he may have been so desperate for attention that he thought that stepping in my path and saying something he knew could upset a girl in a big city would get him noticed. I once walked past a drug addict on the street as he begged me to give him my wallet. When I refused to look his way, he screamed that the skirt I was wearing, that was blowing in the wind to reveal the shorts I was wearing underneath, made me look like a major slut. He knew this wouldn't get him the money he wanted--why would it? But he had to believe that saying something like this to someone he didn't know would get him noticed, would get a rise out of a stranger purely for his own enjoyment. And as unfortunate as it is, I don't think catcalls will ever stop. There will always be some guy out there hoping to get a rise out of a girl just to see what she'll do, just to see if maybe he'll finally be noticed.
But as women, how can we minimize the catcalls we get? The short answer is, we can't, really. The best we can do is refuse to give them the satisfaction of the acknowledgement that they crave. Instead of hiding under big sweatshirts and hoping nobody yells about the exquisite bodies and minds we are hiding underneath, we must go out in the sunshine in the vibrant colors of the clothes that make us feel the most ourselves. We must wear our skin as if it were a satin glove that cannot be bothered by the touch of those that don't deserve it, and let our hair down as we have always wanted it to be. We must walk the street free of the fear that we don't belong there, and hold our shoulders higher than those who will try to make us feel small. We are bigger than them. We are stronger than them.
So hey mister, why don't you move your ass over.
This is my goddamn street, too.
-mk.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)