We've Been Here Before

I'm all over the place today--maybe because it's day 9 of the Shelter in Place, maybe it's the New Moon in Aries, maybe it's all those things and a million more, maybe it's none of them (see what I mean??).

Last night I caught a glimpse of a scarf my Godmother sent me last year. She's an artist, an eccentric, a French Canadian, a mother and I've only met her one time. In the Catholic tradition your Godparents are the keepers of your spiritual and religious life. As I type this I'm hit by the fact that the keeper of my spiritual life is an artist. I don't think that's a coincidence. I pulled the scarf out of a pile, a swirl of blues and greens a replica of a painting she'd done printed onto textile. Her name is one of mine, my second middle name Sylvie. I don't really know her very much but she has continued to reach out my whole life. Sending me art, jewelry, little notes in her long script all in french. This scarf was the latest in a laundry list of items. I'd forgotten about it. I'd forgotten about my spiritual advisor. Maybe now is the time to remember.

This morning I did my morning pages, set my intentions, scrolled through Instagram and then settled down to check on my Grandma. She answered "Hello, Minnie!" I laughed thinking she was referring to all the Disney Parks content I've been sharing. Turns out she set my ringtone to a Mickey tune--that made me smile. After checking on the normal stuff, "What have you eaten today?" "Did you take your medicine?" We settled into talking about a project I had suggested to her a few days earlier. A project I've been wanting to start for years. "You tell me stories from your life and I'll write them down,"  I proposed. Today we talked names, of her parents, her grandparents, her siblings. She doesn't even have one picture of her mother who died when she was 12 back in 1953, just 3 years after my own mother was born. My mind raced at that fact, recalling the entire movie of "The Photograph," playing my own version in my head, my sojourn to Mississippi to find her mother's family--hoping to find just one picture of my Great Grandmother Camie Ducksworth who's name written on a little piece of paper with a drawing of a field of flowers hangs on the wall above my alter, watching over all of us. I'll find a picture of her one day, the woman who gave birth to 9 beautiful Black babies, 2 that didn't live at all and 7 that lived various lengths, 3 that still live today including my perfect Grandmother.

Tears are springing to my eyes when I write that. I'm humbled when I think of humans and the long line of other humans we are connected to, whether by DNA, love or a mixture of the two. Being mixed hurts in those moments. The moments when I realize I can call a white great aunt on my mom's side who has neatly done genealogy charts saved and ready to dive into going back generations to France. While the history of Black people I hold in my bones drifts off with the memory of the last one to know them--like the saddest part of Coco--they stop existing when we stop remembering them.

Today is the New Moon in Aries, the first sign of the Zodiac, the beginning of the astrological calendar, the beginning of a new moon cycle. And again I am reminded of cycles, I am reminded that energy is not created or destroyed, I'm reminded that we have been here before (in economic crisis, in social unrest, in a global health crisis) and we will be here again. The memory of the people that lived it all before us is in our matter. We are looking outside for so much, on the internet, to experts and I'm trying to look inside right now. I hope you are too.

My love affair with #DisneyStyle

Hi friends! I wrote the piece below for a digital magazine back in September--never submitted it and thought I'd share it here. On Instagram I've decided to take part in Courtney Quinn's #ColorMeParkHopper challenge. An excuse for me to fill my feed with cute photos of me at various Disney locations. It's a goal in this time of no goals and another thing I can do to avoid writing my book!

Anyway--check it out if you want. I'll be posting pics every day through March 31st. I'm hoping the below piece can validate what some folks might be feeling right now: depressed, anxious, hopeless, scared while reminding us of the power that we have to give ourselves feelings of joy through imagination, story, music and art. We could all use a little magic right about now.

___________

It’s weird how depression puts a fog over things that you don’t even realize was there until it’s gone. For the past year that’s how I felt, like I was walking half asleep through a fog that was my life. I felt out of control, I cried all the time and I couldn’t see a way out of it. I went to therapy every week and ugly cried, my eyes swollen with the force of tears rushing to my ducts faster than they could fall and make way for a new wave. And then there were moments of joy, the way it comes like a tiny firefly in a dark cave, just enough to quicken your heart, fill your soul with hope and wonder. Of memories of a time when living wasn’t this hard or painful. But then it would disappear just as quickly as it came, into a dark void. And then came the concerned looks, the “are you okay?”s from acquaintances that don’t actually care to hear the answer. People who I wasn’t ready to share the honest answer with anyway. The worst of them came from people I loved, people who loved me. Those questions were answered with a well of tears or a deep breath or the exasperated shrug of someone who has run out of words to describe how not okay they are.

And life goes on, you go to work, you make meals, you go to birthday parties and watch your favorite shows and shower (once you realize it’s been way to long since you’ve done that). In preparation for what I knew would be a difficult emotional year Mary and I bought annual passes to one of our favorite places: Disneyland. I know what you’re thinking, the monopoly, capitalist, sexist, racist company that has been taking our money fueled be taking advantage of our emotional states. Yes, that one. We love it. I could probably write a book about my love affair with Disneyland and Disney in general but that is not this post so I’ll just have to ask you to trust that there are good reasons and move along. These Disneyland trips peppered the year with pre-scheduled whimsy. What would we do on these trips you might ask?

We put together outfits and we took pictures.

That is pretty much it and it was glorious.

I’ve never been a big fashion girl. Raised by a practical mother that prioritized comfort over trends and lives in a big body that makes access to affordable fashionable clothes basically impossible, it was never modeled. We didn’t have a lot of money growing up, but in that military family, has a couple credit cards and military discounts, healthcare and housing-- kind of way. I’d beg for Nike’s in September and get an on sale athletic pair (not Jordans or anything actually cool) 6 months later on discount and on a credit card. Then I'd be shamed for ever wanting them in the first place. That’s been my style—things that I thought were cool and maybe were slightly off trend but adjacent enough to not make me a total reject.

But when it came to these Disneyland trips—the outfits had to be center stage!

It was a whole look from head to toe, including necessary changes sitting neatly folded in a rented locker (you gotta get the locker guys) for the inevitable SoCal nighttime drop in temperature. After the first trip it became increasingly clear that we needed more stuff!

More t-shirts, different bottoms, more purses, fanny packs, earrings!

And I know what you’re thinking—this is why Disney is the devil. But there was something exciting in it for me. When I put on those outfits I felt more like myself than I had felt in years. I was transported into my childhood self, still filled with wonder and hope and a deep belief in magic. I believed in Santa until like 12 and made up several theories as to why he was real and everyone else (including adults) were sorely mistaken. I was excited to dress for those days, to lay out all of my options and do a little fashion show with Mary & Erika the night before. The three of us figuring out how we might coordinate or even match (the dream!). I think my little 90’s baby gay heart pretty much exploded when on one trip we donned the same Mickey spaghetti straps and matching jean jackets with patches we had collected over our past trips (pictured below). I had my best friend and my best girl beside me and we were matching—this is the thing that 90’s teen movies are made of!

It wasn’t too long until I brought that feeling home. Wearing the jean jacket to work anytime I didn’t have important meetings, lovingly clasping rose gold plated and cubic zercona Mickey earrings onto my naked lobes. I had found the joy in dressing, in loving an aesthetic so much because of how it makes you feel. And #Disneystyle (that’s what the bloggers call it) made me feel light and happy. It made me feel like dreams could come true and if you were kind and good, life would unfold beautifully in front of you with a gold shining path and birds singing a song just for you. It’s a different kind of armor. Protective in the way it lights up the parts of me that the world has tried to beat out of me: the silly parts, the childlike parts, the part that isn’t productive or self-sacrificing. And as I’m slowly coming out of the depression fog it is still helping me. Helping me to feel confident and happy so that I can meet whatever new challenge comes with childlike wonder and curiosity. Because at the end of every Disney movie there is a HEA (Happily Ever After) and although I know that life doesn’t work exactly like that, aren’t we all moving towards those HEA moments? Those days, months or years (if we’re lucky) that feel like we’re in the delightful time after the carriage rides off in the sunset. We all deserve those moments—those of us surviving in marginalized bodies even more so.

When I put on my patched jean jacket and my Mickey & Minnie earrings I feel that sense of HEA, even for a moment and I know I can go back to that feeling inside myself when things feel too big or hard or scary.

Equal Parts Light & Dark

It's the Spring Equinox. Right now.

I was reminded yesterday by my favorite astrologer Jaliessa Sipress that we are all on this spinning rock together waiting to die. Which is part "YIKES, too far!" and also "YES, PERSPECTIVE." I'm comforted by the cycles of nature. The way that Spring always comes no matter what. That the equinox gives us exactly the same amount of sunlight and darkness no matter where or what you are on this planet. What a metaphor in this very uncertain time. A metaphor for balance, for waiting, for the consistency of nature. It feels like everything is out of control and then I walk outside of my house with my little dog in tow and it is like every walk I've had before. I hear birds, I see the newest neighborhood blooms, the wild strawberries are starting to pop up starting with little white flowers and everything is beautiful.

And I get it--right now you may be thinking "Bre has really lost it on this existential journey!" Honestly, I have lost "it." I've lost the go-go-go. I've lost the need for productivity (kinda--I'm still an American).

These past 8 months I have been living very similar to how a lot of people are living right now. Quietly at home, trying to stay busy, contemplating life, having long conversations with people I love on FaceTime. This pandemic has not really changed my day to day very much. I'm struck by the reality that last March I dreamed of a moment just like this one: quietly writing on my laptop in my home office, listening to Frozen 2 on the iPod doc (yes you read that right) that I got for Christmas from my parents back in 2009. What seemed impossible to me then is here now, maybe even a little mundane. Getting here has not been easy. Honestly, the only reason I can write this blog without guilt on a Friday afternoon is because we are in a Pandemic, I'm not allowed to leave the house, can't apply for "more sensible" jobs and Mary is busy working on her own thing.

Over the past week I have been inspecting my Begonia (lovingly repotted and gifted to me from my grandmother) waiting for it's little buds to pop into an adorable little bloom. And today they are opening up so sweetly.

3.12 

3.20

I'm not sure where I'm going with all of this--just know that I'm here contemplating life with you if you are doing the same. I'm sitting in deep gratitude for all that I have and humbly making this little offering to you. I hope you'll rest today, this weekend, for the rest of this uncertain time and beyond. I hope you'll journal about Spring and cycles and the unknown. I hope you'll put on music and close your eyes and just listen, don't you remember doing that as a young person? We never do that anymore. I'm sending you so much love, joy and care.

What I'm Reading

The Highly Sensitive Person in Love by Elaine N. Aron, Ph. D.

How to Do Nothing by Jenny Odell

Marlee Grace's Newsletter

Alex Wolf's Newsletter

What I'm Listening To

H.E.R. on repeat

Frozen 2 Soundtrack on repeat

Lauren Ash Intuition Meditation on Insight Timer

My Modern/Jazz Dance playlist (Frank Ocean, Sade, Selena Gomez, Khalid, SZA & more)

What I'm Watching

Frozen 2 (Disney+)

The Bachelorette Season 13 (Tubi)

Hearts Beat Loud (Hulu)

Virgin River (Netflix)

Gilmore Girls (Netflix)

What I'm Doing

Gala Darling COVID-19 EFT Tapping 1 & 2

Meditating

Napping

Petting my dog

FaceTiming with adults and babies and animals

Dancing

Watering my plants

Pandemic at the Disco

This morning while writing my Morning Pages (3 long hand written pages of whatever comes to mind) I wrote the following:

Day 2 of official Rest & Chill as i like to call it. It actually is not day 2 but when I'm reading this back in 30 years it (probably) won't matter what the date is--unless something super crazy happens in the next few days and then my grandchildren are reading this after I'm dead and are all: "OMG, (or some space slang term) Grandma was just rambling about how she was bored and over watching TV when _________ went down!" If that's the case, it is March 19, 2020.

And that's when it hit me. I need to bring back the blog! I've been off Instagram for the past several days and I realized that although it's helping keep me from feeling maj anxious, I'm feeling sad that I'm not connected to all my internet pals. Enter the beautiful 2000's version of Instagram--BLOGS!!! I've been watching old episodes of MTV's Awkward with Mary on Hulu and in every episode Jenna types away her biggest fears and her daily triumphs. I figured since I have a lot of totally free time on my hands (shoutout to Paper Source for closing the store & still paying us for the next two weeks!) I can fill it with a fun project.

So get ready for some funny (hopefully), random, helpful (maybe), inspiring (!) content in this little corner of the internet that is not sponsored by Squarespace. I'll be posting some lists of the things I'm watching, reading, listening to, doing (like my Instagram Syllabi). I'll try to post some more article-type content (like BEDJ from a million years ago) and the age-old Live Journal type content because let's face it if you've made it to this link you're my friend and we can't go get coffee or to yoga (Betty) or to Disneyland (Erika) so this will have to suffice in between FaceTimes.

What I'm Looking Forward To in The New Year: Good Trouble

Last year ended a show that’s been a part of my life for the past 5 years. It showed me an example of what my life might look like in the future and reflected a lot of things about my life in the present: The Fosters

When I was a little girl up into my teen years all my dreams ended at college. It’s as if my imagination couldn’t get past this experience because nobody I knew intimately had done it. I don’t think I dreamed much about having a family of my own. I didn’t obsess about my wedding or the perfect partner. I just focused on being a good girl, making my parents proud and getting to college.

At one point I remember saying that I guess I would marry a guy in the military. All I knew about adult life was military life. I figured being a military wife like my mom would probably be a good idea given that the military provides a built in infrastructure of health care, housing and community. I understood even as a very young person that these things were vital to a “good” adult life.

Once I got to college I started meeting new people. Adults that had very different lives than my parents: professors, staff at the University and the parents and siblings of my new friends. The life of a military wife was swiftly swept off the table.

But once I graduated nothing really replaced it…for 5 years I had no vision for my future. I understand that might sound dramatic but it really is true—I didn’t know where to go after college, what I was supposed to do, how I could achieve something different with no models and few mentors other than professors (who I couldn’t completely emulate as no PhD program would have me).

In 2013, the year Mary and I got married, The Fosters premiered. The story of an interracial lesbian couple and their MANY children. It was marketed to teens (never a deterrent for me and Mary) but instantly spoke to me.

For the next 5 years I would watch in awe as two women loved each other fiercely, held the lives and hearts of their children so tenderly and grew their own careers and passions. If you asked a teen what The Fosters was about they might talk about the kids of the show 5—YES 5 teens that spanned a range of races, sexualities, genders and abilities. They’d say that it was Callie, Jude, Brandon, Jesus or Mariana that they related most to—or a mix of all of them. And as much as I loved to watch the teen drama of the 5 Fosters kids from failed romances to first queer loves and best friend fights it was their moms that changed everything for me.

I finally got to watch something that rang true for me—all of me. The queer, multiracial, black woman who cares about young people and wants so much to contribute in some way to moving the needle of progress forward. 

That was Lena, with her big hair, long limbs and huge heart. 

This blog continues to be about representation even though that wasn’t the initial reason I started it. But media has been everything to me. TV, pop music, YA books, magazines, movies were my babysitters and my best friends and 90% of what I listened to, read about, watched had NOTHING to do with my life. As an adult I thought that would matter less but I can tell you definitively that it does not.

And so without realizing it I started to picture Mary and I in our cute bungalow with our collection of babies sitting at the kitchen island for dinner, folding them into a mama sandwich when being a kid becomes too much to bear, running around in the morning making sure everyone has what they need for a busy day at work and school. All of these images playing to The Fosters theme song 

“It’s not where you come from, it’s where you belong. There’s nothing I would change. I wouldn’t have it any other way. You’re surrounded by love and you’re wanted, so never feel alone. You are home to me, right where you belong.” 

And still with those dreams in my head I feel sad for those 5 years before I found The Fosters. Those years that I didn’t know what I was supposed to be doing—where I was running from my queerness, trying to prove I was good enough to have a career, a partner, an adult life. It wasn’t the glamorous mix of parties, hook-ups, happy hours and promotions that every piece of media said it would be. It was scary and I sucked and I was lonely.

In comes Good Trouble—The Fosters spin off that premieres in just a few days! The story of Lena and Steph’s daughters post-grad trying to figure out what the hell being an adult is all about in all it’s messy, non-glamorous, you suck at your job and nobody cares about you glory. I mean, it’s kinda glamorous because the main actors are super hot and their costars are super hot but you get what I mean. I can’t wait to watch them try to figure life out.  And of course watch their mamas cheering them on. You guys I literally can’t wait. After watching the full trailer a few weeks ago Callie’s voice declares “We’re Adams-Fosters, we don’t give up” and I totally lost it.

“We’re Adams-Fosters, we don’t give up” 

I guess that’s the new dream—raising amazing adults who go out there, fuck up, have fun and know that their mamas are always there.

A Letter to My Teenage Self

I see you little baby.
I see you trying so hard to be a good girl, the best girl, a perfect girl.

I see your lonely heart, your deep desire to be truly seen and understood.
You queer baby forcing intimacy with best fiends who don't feel as deeply in your relationship as you do.
Conversations center around boys you don't care about but are pretending to. Foreign creatures who don't see you and don't care to.

Boys don't know your brilliance. It scares their closed hearts, you feel too much for teens that feel too much but keep it bottled up inside.
You're so brave the wear your heart is exposed. The way you want so hungrily.
Later you'll learn to cover that up, when you realize it remains too much for most.
But it will be everything to some, hold them close because they are here for you, the real you--not the dulled out version you've created to make everyone else comfortable.

One day you'll want to feel and shine as brightly as you do now.

I see you with your big boobs and your big hair. Taking up space and feeling wrong in all that bigness.
Spread out sweet girl.
Wear the low cut shirt and the short skirt, take your hair out of the minimizing bun and feel the sea breeze blow through every strand.
Smile at how it shines golden in the sun.

Know that you don't have to be better than other people to be worthy of everything you want. You are enough exactly as you are.

I know nobody looks like you--no women in your life have the life you want.
One day you will find mamas, aunties, sisters that inspire you.
Some will look like you, others will have your same spirit and others will be so different that they teach you that difference is not wrong.
They will teach you how to be unapologetically bold, that being bad feels so good and that not saying everything on their heart doesn't mean they don't feel it.

One day you will know love. Complicated, overwhelming unbelievable love. It will be different than the movies. But it will be precious and new and revolution.

I know you feel like you don't matter, nobody understands you or cares about you.
The world is a much more confusing and sad place than your parents told you it'd be.
No amount of A's you get or friends you have will change that.
Just know that the world is also a beautiful and joyful place and it needs your fire.
I need your fire.

Be strong girl, you have everything you need inside of you. Follow your light.

For Philando, Dae'Anna & the Rest of Us

Almost a year ago I took a business trip to a conference at Disneyland. As I walked off the plane and checked my phone for the usual social media updates I saw the name Philando Castile appear over and over on my timeline. As I read the accounts of Philando's murder my mind started swirling, my breath was quick, my heart racing, I was physiologically triggered. I boarded the Disney Express airport shuttle with white families and their children excited for a fun adventure but I was in a daze. I sat down in my seat and cried. Then I opened my work laptop and wrote the next part of this blog. 

July 7, 2016

I must have been about eight or nine years old when I had a dream I would remember my entire life. A dream that became an important part of my black identity, something I would look back on when I searched my brain for what makes me black with white skin and blond hair. I woke up from this dream crying real tears, one of those dreams that felt so real that you were shook up for hours, or as it were, forever.

My mother and I stand in a deserted field, in our direct eye line is my father tied up to a burning cross, KKK members surrounding him, laughing, taunting him, looking on me with disgust.

This was a real fear of mine. Even as a multiracial child growing up in multiracial melting pot Hawaii. I knew from day one that the world hated us, hated me for my proximity to us, even though I could pass as one of them.

I think a lot about how white folks are always trying to protect their children from the world, from violence, pain, war, the tough stuff.  I wish every day that I could have been protected from those things so that I didn’t have to wake up crying in the middle of the night terrified that the KKK would murder my father in front of me. AT. EIGHT. YEARS. OLD.

Today it’s not the KKK although they’re there too, four-year-old Dae'Anna watched her dad get murdered by a racist right in front of her face. My worst nightmare was a reality today for one of my sisters. She’s not the first and I know she won’t be the last.

It’s always there, the fear of violence for being all the things: black, queer, a woman. Social media has thrown these fears into our faces on a 24 hour cycle and I’m never surprised. My first reaction is always angry that anyone has been delusional to ignore that this shit been happening. Angry at the people who ever walk down the street confidently not terrified that someone isn’t going to decide they will be beaten, raped, or killed that day. 

That terror is a slow burn, I barely notice it anymore. The reason I don’t show cleavage because my teacher in high school called home to say my breasts were disruptive to other people’s learning. I guess the discomfort I would feel in learning for the rest of the year for making me feel like my teacher was looking at my breasts didn’t matter to him. The reason that I barely touch my wife in public, especially if we are wearing make-up and heels, because the second we look like any semblance of a girl-on-girl fantasy someone might decide they want to rape us. Or kill us because our love of each other means that men are obsolete and not the center of the universe. The reason I stayed my brothers keeper, 10 years his junior, I fearfully reminded him to “stop yelling” because people might feel threatened by his 6 foot plus black body.

And over the years that fear does something to you. It keeps you from living, keeps you from seeing yourself outside of the gaze of other people. I was once told by one of my white cousins during a conversation about oppression that I seem like I'm "carrying the weight of the world." To that I say yes, it feels like that sometimes. 

It would be nice to get some help carrying it all, but you didn't mean you would help, you meant I should simply stop carrying it. If only that were possible.

_____________________________________

Yesterday morning I did the same social media scan that I always do but this time for my work's Twitter account. I was killing time before an all team meeting we had planned for the majority of the work day. And there on the left side of the screen under the heading "What's Trending" was the verdict for Philando's murderer. Usually I would turn to my all Black team and immediately inform them of this news. We would close our office door and feel our anger, pain and outrage together, something most Black folks have to wait another 8 hours until they get home to do, we are lucky. 

But I didn't do that yesterday. Instead I clicked out of Twitter and I swallowed hard. Swallowed all that pain and fear. Swallowed mourning and hopelessness. Swallowed history and my own heart. 

I couldn't bring myself to turn to my team and open up that place we as Black people keep locked away. It's the place that will swallow us whole and we may never get out of, the place where we feel all of the things that being Black people in this country means, all of the nuances for us individually and all of the pain of our people collectively. 

Later on last night Mary and I went to a Queer Hip Hop event and before the performer came on stage wearing a leather vest and boxing shorts the event organizer took a moment to acknowledge the news of Philando's murderer being acquitted. And as he stood there speaking words of sadness mixed with words of joy for the kick off of SF Pride I did it again. I pushed Philando into that dark place and reminded myself that we still survive. I watched my Queer Black brother tear the stage all the way up and I felt the type of joy/sadness combo that's hard to explain.

And this morning I decided to open up that dark place, let it feel and give it some light. 

For New Grads, Recent Grads & Pretty Much Anyone Who's Ever Graduated

It's that time of year when our feeds are flooded with photos of people achieving more than us. This is also known as graduation season. 

Nothing makes you feel old and unaccomplished like a 25 year old getting a PhD and managing to have amazing hair in one of those stupid hats.

Last week I attended the college graduation of one of my old students at my Alma Mater USF. Beside feeling like an ancient relic, I also felt a rush of happiness with a mix of not so happy memories of life after graduation. As I walked through the sea of students hugging their families I couldn't help but remember that amazing feeling RIGHT after the graduation ceremony.

You know the feeling when you're in your cap and gown and taking pictures and everyone is happy and you're so excited because this is the moment your life will REALLY start.

And about an hour after that, the reality sets in. 

The reality of having your entire family drive you completely crazy, of the fact that you are going to have to say goodbye to all these people you've grown to love and finally the reality that you have to actually do something, make a choice for what's next in your life. I'm telling you, graduations give you all the highs and then take you down to some low lows.

And we never talk about that. We're all, "you're so amazing! you're doing great!" which is true, but there's a whole other part that comes after graduation. After everyone around you has built you up and celebrated you and told you how great you are. It's the disappointment that comes when life doesn't actually miraculously change and become this amazing beginning of a rom com montage of fashionable work outfits and glamorous latte runs while on a call with the London office.

Change is scary and when people around you are banking on your "success" (or rather what success means to them) there's a lot of pressure to make the right decisions.

I've had 3 major graduations in my life and each one of them opened up another chapter of my life, but those chapters weren't really what I expected. Things were harder than I'd thought they'd be and lonelier. With the magic of social media you can forever compare yourself to other people doing "better." Unfortunately, nobody after they've just graduated from anything is posting "I am at a job I'm not sure I like and I am so sad and unfulfilled." Even though that's probably what they're feeling. So you find yourself feeling so confused and wondering what the point of going to school was because maybe you're not in the place you wanted to be. Plus it feels like everyone you graduated with is doing amazing and that just adds insult to injury.

So from one former graduate to new graduates everywhere I want to say things may just be disappointing for a while. You may not land the job or the fellowship you wanted, you may feel the weight of those student loans, you may just miss the high of getting an A (I seriously miss this).

And in those moments I want you to try and remember that feeling of complete confidence and joy you felt during that post-ceremony photoshoot. 

Remember that you are all of those great things people told you on that day and more. 

Remember that your accomplishments aren't the measure of your worth. 

Remember to trust your passions and your gut. 

Remember that if you make a wrong turn, you can always right the ship. 

And as I sit here 4 years after grad school, 9 years after undergrad and a whopping 13 years from high school graduations wondering about my own life, my own career journey and passions,  I'll try and remind myself of all those things too.

Congrats Class of 2017, you're gonna be great.

Sad Realization: I Will Never Be a Video Ho

Since as long as I can remember I've been singing and dancing in the mirror mimicking the pouty faces, sultry eyes and gyrating hips of pop stars and girls in the background of hip hop videos.

By 5th grade I was bossing my friends into triangular formations and barking "ka ka pop's" at them like a real adult choreographer. My parents couldn't afford the dance lessons I spent pretty much all of my childhood begging for so I had to make do with what I had, my own imagination and a stellar collection of Spice Girl CDs.

Dancing in the mirror & in front of my mom holding our video camera sufficed until I was a Freshman in high school and finally started taking lessons at a studio. 14 is practically 100 in dance years and it SHOWED. I had musicality and could pick up choreograph okay but what took me months to perfect was already written in the body memory of my classmates who had been taking lessons and doing double pirouettes since they were 6 (see Dance Moms).

On top of the fact that these girls had like 10 years of professional lessons on me they were also ALL Asian. I know that doesn't really seem like a big deal but let me tell you that you never forget the feeling of being an awkward in 5'5 limby, untoned body with Double D breasts and a oblong frizzy-kinky bun (nobody ever taught me how to make that cute with styling baby hairs and using gel to slick the frizz back) standing next to 15 5 foot tall, toned, long straight black haired, perfectly tanned beauties. NEVER. It's the same feeling I got when a (white) boy I liked told me that he wasn't into me because I wasn't Asian...NOT GOOD. Dancing with that group didn't make me feel beautiful or sexy (when a dance called for it), it just made me feel gross and not good enough.

But I loved dancing so I persisted, just like those Women's March memes covering the internet, I was so brave you guys. For 3 years I took jazz, hip-hop, and voice lessons at the same company and by my senior year could KINDA do the splits and could FINALLY do a clean double pirouette. But at that point I looked an my priorities, I weighed my options. I could go into Senior year still being a mediocre dancer/singer and spend 3 days a week at the studio with girls I didn't have anything in common with (the studio was an hour bus ride away from my house & I didn't go to school with my fellow dancers) or I could actually hang out with my friends, join the school paper I'd been dying to write features for and just chill the fuck out before I was off to my REAL life in SF.

The thing about that decision was that I knew I'd never ACTUALLY be good. And if I couldn't be really good then what was even the point? In the years between then and now I have pined for dancing and singing. I watch music videos and So You Think You Can Dance and I wish that that could be my life for just a second.

So today I decided to try out a dance video tutorial and have some fun for old times sake. Some things have changed since high school, one being that I grew into myself and started feeling WAY more beautiful and sexy. So when I chose a sexy Hip Hop number to Tinashe's Superlove I popped on a crop top, let my hair down and got ready to WORK IT and go "full out" as the dancer folks say.

See video below if you would like to imagine me in my living room struggling with this choreo.

OMG you guys it was kind of a disaster. The first 2 set of 8-counts DESTROYED me. Somehow indulging in this bit of "me time"  left me feeling like a red faced, awkward 14-year old girl AND an old woman...AT THE SAME TIME.

HOW???

My body creaked and cracked, my heart raced and my breath was short---and not in a good way. In a way that I was realizing my own mortality and feeling like I have WASTED so many years of being a hot 20-something video girl that I will never get back!

In college I used to joke about quitting school, losing 20 pounds, learning how to do my make-up like a Kardashian and heading to LA to stand in line to grind in front of video casting directors. I still feel I could have made it--I have huge boobs, I'm racially ambiguous, have long hair AND can grind pretty good if I do say so myself.

And NOW IT'S TOO LATE!!!

I went out with some friends a few weekends ago in leggings and a tied up T-shirt a-la Hotline Bling girl and people were LOSING IT! I had never experienced the kind of "YOU LOOK SO GOOD" compliments from people who actually are looking at me through sexy glasses (read-not straight girl compliments that are semi-useless). And for a moment that night I thought maybe I could still realize my video girl dreams.



But today I was QUICKLY reminded that I am over the hill in the entertainment world. I guess I'll have to settle for my life as a non-profit worker and just daydream of being a video girl when I'm watching Rihanna's Rude Boy for the millionth time.

Moana & Longing for Connection

As a child my mom tried to get me to join a Hula class and learn the beautiful dance of the Hawaiian people. I wanted to dance ballet. I clung to french words, pink tights and graceful gestures for my long limbs.

Then when I was 13 I accompanied my friend to her Tahitian dance class and I was mesmerized. I was intoxicated by the drums, they seemed to fill me all the way up and all I wanted was to move my hips to their rhythm like the beautiful women I saw with their long black hair flowing, their rapid hips and their graceful hands. I begged my parents to let me join and weeks later I was enrolled. I skipped TGIF (a serious sacrifice) to let those drums fill me up once a week and let my budding womanhood come out and play for an hour. An hour where my body was for myself in all it's movement and sexuality, an hour where I wasn't afraid of how I looked only how isolated my hip movements were and how much they moved with the beat.

A year later I went back to classical styles and started a jazz class but I always practiced my fa'arapu alone in my room, my CD player blasting the recording of a drum session. And one day I returned to Polynesian dancing, kind of by accident. When I began to learn the moves and vocabulary of Hula I experienced a new kind of joy. The ancient kahiko dances with their precise movements and melodic chanting made me feel connected to something bigger than myself. As I spoke Hawaiian words I felt reverence for a people who had endured so much. Reverence for the land that was stolen and the culture and language that they fought to get back. The same moves I was dancing and the words I was chanting along with my teacher were all banned in their birthplace for decades by foreigners.

Colonizers were brilliant that way. You create a kind of confusion when you cut people off from their culture, their ancestors, their language, their way of life. When you make people forget the essence of themselves, what makes them special and connected you can manipulate them. Today Hawaii's culture has been co-opted by the US. I grew up watching the mostly white casts of Save By the Bell and Full House travel to Hawaii and do horrible offensive renditions of Hula while wearing synthetic grass skirts, their blonde tresses flowing in the ocean breeze. My childhood brain was always confused by how different Hawaii seemed on TV when the Hula I saw looked nothing like that. When I began dancing myself I searched all over the island for the perfect leaves for a head piece or skirt, the skin on my fingertips frayed from the weaving and intricate knots I had to tie, the feeling of disappointment when I opened the fridge to see that my plumerias were brown on the edges, a sign that I would have to go pick a fresh batch before my performance even though I had a mound of homework and needed to detangle my hair. All of that is erased when all people see on TV is actors waving their arms around like idiots in plastic shit.

But something inside always tugged at me, something reminding me that as beautiful as it was and as connected to it as I felt, it was not mine. I am not Hawaiian or Tahitian and the only reason I was on this island at all was because the US had decided that Pearl Harbor was a strategic place to put a Naval Base. So I don't talk so much about all of this anymore, I stuff it down and only quickly mention I grew up in Hawaii before saying that my family isn't from there and I'm actually really from California.

Then every once in a while something triggers that connection and I am in a sea of tears longing for mountains and seas and flowers and bare feet. Tonight that trigger was Moana. I had resisted watching for as long as I could but when my (part Hawaiian) nephew donned a custom made Moana outfit for his Baby's 1st Lu'au I knew I'd have to watch it eventually.

As Moana sang of her island home and her longing for the sea I was reminded of the unbelievable story of the Polynesian people. A story of faith, courage and connection. I all of the sudden missed the ways my hips swayed to a Hawaiian song, the way my fingers waved gracefully and the repetitive rhythm of a Kaholo, my feet knowing exactly what to do next.

Then I was instantly filled with sadness. Sadness for MY people, for Black people. Our language, our dances, our customs, diverse and beautiful and connected to our souls were ripped away. Out of our resilience and resistance we created new culture, new language, new connection and for that I am always proud. But there is something about seeing people dance the same dance that their ancestors danced from the beginning that takes your breath away. I don't know that we'll ever have that in the same way as other people who were colonized on their own land do. It's a different story. I guess I hope I can feel some sense of connection to culture that belongs to my ancestors while also appreciating the gift that the Polynesian people gave me in Hula and Tahitian dancing.

For Love Stories Not Told on Valentine's Day

Love. What a wondrous, complicated, exhilarating experience to love and be loved.

On Valentine’s Day there are so many messages about how love is supposed to look, who is allowed to be in love and what you should do or act like if you are “in love.” 

As half of a queer, femme, interracial married couple let me tell you, it can be hard to find examples of our love. To this day I come across articles and listicles about love and marriage that are only about how love exists for straight couples. Although some things may be transferable most things just are not. 

So for today I’ll share this love story with you. One that doesn’t look like the kind in the movies or the kind that people look to for guidance, an old wrinkled man and woman holding hands on a quiet park bench. I’m sharing it because it is just as worthy as all of those other loves of being shared and because maybe it can contribute to a larger conversation that can open up the different ways love exists for all of us.

2005

Our love has always been sacred. From the first moment I saw you at 19, a little ball of light and laughter bouncing through the USF cafeteria. You saved my number in your phone as "Bre BFF" the first moment we met and in doing so conjured the most transformational friendship I have ever had. 

2012

One late night you texted me like you had a million times before, this time with a winky face just to make me feel the weight of the unspoken. That our closeness was on the verge of changing everything for both of us, to morphing into a romantic love that would turn us into a different kind of us. 

You kissed me on your bed 2 days before we went to a Justin Bieber concert. Later you said how normal it felt, I went back to Boston with your smell on me and dreams of our babies and a lifetime of adventures. There was no going back after that, I knew I'd be yours forever.

2013

We stayed up late one night and painstakingly wrote (while listening to 98 Degrees Christmas album) what we wanted this relationship to be. We started with acknowledging out ancestors and our collective work in pursuing justice by wrapping different colored ribbons around the handle of a small broom. 

During American Slavery Black couples would jump over a broom to signify their marriage and commitment to their community.

They wrap the gold ribbon to honor the enslaved Black people whose marriages were never legally acknowledged.

They wrap the pink ribbon to honor the Lovings who fought for the legal acknowledgment of their marriage and interracial marriages therafter

They wrap the purple ribbon to honor the LGBTQ people who fought and continue to fight for marriage equality.

Finally, they wrap the red ribbon to signify their solidarity with these communities.

We ended with the commitments we needed with room to grow and change and forever be ourselves. Today I am reminded of the power of love and the power of our love, queer, grounded in friendship, challenged by difference, showered in laughter and pushed to be fully honest. Our love is revolution every day.

I commit to always being your best fried, to have fun and laugh.

I commit to putting myself first. I will not allow you to lose yourself in our relationship.

I commit to being honest, even when it’s hard. To always putting effort into our 

relationship and to being open to changes that our life together may bring.

Finally, I commit to supporting you, caring for you, loving you and expressing my love in ways you can receive it.

For the Love of Writing

In graduate school I spent 6 months pouring my heart out for my Master's paper. I wrote about my life, the complicated experience of being a multiracial Black woman. I wrote about my family, my friends, childhood enemies and the women who saved me. It was very akin to that quote about writing where you're bleeding on the page.

This blog hasn't been quite as personal. Many of them were barely edited, apologies for the typos and general lack of commas. I did this project to prove that I could and to remind myself what it was I loved about writing. I was reminded that it's writing from my experience that I love the most. Quirky noticing and painful memories that helps me explain the systems of inequality we live in every day.

"B in the Borderlands" is meant to be a play on words, it's meant to reference my first initial and a state of being. A reference to Gloria Anzaldua's famous book that brings forward that which is usually hidden and ignored. The in-between, the intersections, the borderlands. When I came to terms with my Bisexuality I remember sobbing heavily, yelling out to the universe "why do I have to have another one of these identities?" The kind that don't make sense to people, the kind that aren't seen fully. I'd already struggled through navigating a multiracial identity and couldn't bear to feel that on another plane.

But here I am, in the borderlands just the same. 

I've tried to ignore the pull to confront these things in my writing. The need to write my experience felt like a vain quest for validation, more of our fame obsessed culture creeping in, my need to be the center of attention. But the more I write, the more I share myself--my borderlands I hear from the friends that have been kind enough to read, that it resonates with them too. I remember that so much of what we know is based on our experience and the experiences that have been shared with us. We are a country of people hearing the stories of those with power and not listening to the quiet voices of those on the margins.

I cannot speak for everyone but my ability to put my experience into words is a gift and a responsibility.

Infoglut & Social Media Overload

Last week I took a break from Facebook. 

I found myself becoming overly obsessed with the amount of likes each of these posts were getting. Then, I found myself being triggered over and over again. I figured that it was time to cut my loses and deactivate for the first time since I opened my account in 2004.

This is how we live now. It's the way we connect with each other, both people that we have no business staying connected to (elementary school pen pal) and people we need to stay connected to (mom). I've taken several social media breaks (which I jokingly referred to as "cleanses") in the past for days at a time. But this was the first time I left Facebook entirely and let me tell you it felt weird.

I switched the Facebook energy to Twitter and was instantly WAY more informed on a bunch of things. I was reminded that Facebook is limited in so many ways and I had been relying on it for things it was never meant to do. It was nice to be in a space with a little less, less characters, less pictures, less everything. Twitter is how I found out about the protest Saturday and where I went to watch it all unfold in real time. Note: this is not a Facebook vs. Twitter post even though it's kind of starting to sound like one.

We are surrounded by so much stuff, information, opinions, images, facts and figures. I can only describe it as "noise." In therapy I've been working on listening to my own voice and trusting that. Let me tell you, in the current social media landscape that is VERY difficult to do. For those of us that have trouble finding out voice it's a hard task to be bombarded by other people's thoughts and feelings before we have fully figured out our own. Not to mention the consequences of how those thoughts and feelings if shared will be received by our network.

I'm so grateful for the space social media has created for me. I'm able to stay connected to people I love and people who's opinions and work I respect. I'm able to stay up to date on the latest news and information. But with that comes a kind of exhaustion, reading word after word starts to feel like sitting in a room where people are screaming things at you "I liked this movie!" "My baby walked today!" "The country is shit!" Individually these things aren't bad, it's nice to see a baby walk for the first time or feel validated in one's worries about the state of things. But when you mesh them all together in a feed with pictures and ads and doodads it's pretty mind numbing.

I'm back on Facebook now but I'm also trying to stay on Twitter because I remembered how much I enjoyed it. Add Instagram and the occasional Snapchat peruse and I'm back where I started. There's no handbook for this. No handbook for figuring out the uncharted waters of the emotional impact of information at our fingertips. For now I'll just continue to check in with myself and take breaks when I need them, deactivate if I feel like it and get totally sucked into my phone if I feel like it.

In this political moment I'll take more breaks and add to the conversation even if I don't get the likes I wanted.

Perspectives from a (kinda) Child of an Immigrant

I don't know when I stopped referring to myself as "French Canadian and Black" and made the shift to "Black and white."

It was easier somehow to tell people what they wanted to hear when they looked at my hair, then at my complexion and then search my face for other features that might give them a clue.

I stopped saying French Canadian because it didn't feel like it counted. Like when white people say they're Irish and Scandinavian but that's like from five and six generations back. The real thing they wanted to know was what my race was, so I gave it to them straight. French Canadian isn't a race and nobody even knows what it is anyway.

I always had to explain to people that the French "landed" on North America too but were beat out by the English for what is now known as Canada, save a little province called Quebec. Quebecois or French Canadians are the decedents of those colonizers who refused to assimilate into the British ruled Canada. It's a cool history of resistance until you think about the fact that all European colonizers were stealing the land from indigenous folks and claiming anyone got anywhere first is complete crap. Another reason I'm conflicted in my Quebecois pride.

I grew up in a bilingual household until about the 1st grade. Mostly, bilingual although my when my English-only speaking father was home from months out to Sea he complicated things. It weird to say that because I feels like the phrase "bilingual home" is reserved for other families that don't have a white french-speaking mother. My first two years in school I attended a French Magnet in San Diego. I remember moving to Hawaii halfway through 1st grade and staring at the kids as they asked me things in English and Hawaii Pidgin. Every morning we said the pledge of allegiance and I didn't know it in English. This is a common experience for bilingual children and for many children of immigrants who may not speak English in the home. But I still pushed back against the idea that this is my identity, because my mom is white and JUST Canadian so it doesn't really count.

When I moved to Hawaii the experience of having an immigrant parent was pretty ordinary. My best friend and I would joke about how our moms (her's Japanese) always had trouble understanding each other over the phone, both speaking with different accents of a language neither of them grew up speaking. When people would ask my mom where she was from I'd always stare shocked. That's not a question white people get asked very much and she had been speaking English since she was 16, I didn't even notice she had an accent.

Several years ago my mom's youngest sister was the first one in their family to become an American citizen. My mom talked about following suit and I exclaimed "NO! You don't want to be a citizen of this trash country!" Partially selfish (I want the option of dual citizenship in case the shit hits the fan, as it is now), it felt like an American passport would make my mom just another American white lady and I couldn't stand the idea of that.

The privilege of not wanting my mother to have an American passport is not lost on me, it's one that not many folks have.

This President and his administration aren't going after my mom. My commonality with child of immigrant stories stops at the fear of my parent being deported. Because race matters in this conversation. If you look at the list of the 7 "banned" countries it's rare that people who look like my mom (blonde and blue eyed) would not be stopped for "extra questioning."

In this time it's important for us to remember that in most cases whiteness trumps all and as we share stories and signs that say "we are all immigrants" I hope we'll remember that:
1)Blacks folks who are the decedents of slaves are not
2)Native folks who have been here all along are not

3)Not all immigrants are affected my xenophobia the same. Collapsing the nuanced experience of people who have come to this country in a multitude of different ways erases the fact that my mom and a green card holder from Sudan are not treated the same.

Practicing Self-Love by Acknowledging Limits

Today I went to a protest. More on that in a much longer post tomorrow because it's all I can do to keep my eyes open right now and I want to really write about that experience. However, there was something I realized while my body was slowly losing every bit of energy after a few hours without sustainable food.

My body is limited.

Even writing that feels like a failure. But I will practice radical self-love by holding this truth and loving myself fully. I'm hypoglycemic and that means that every few hours I HAVE to eat. Depending on how much energy I'm using (mental and/or physical) the amount and frequency with which I need to eat could be more. This fact coupled with my peanut allergy means that access to food I can eat isn't always available.

I've known this for a little over 3 years but that doesn't mean I've really accepted it. People that know me expect that I travel with snacks and always have a healthy meal brought from home for lunch. This is how I try to prevent my body from betraying me and limiting me. But there are times when I push it because "everyone else can" and because eating in a corner while everyone else is having fun makes me feel weak and like a frail oversensitive weirdo. When the lunch meeting goes too long or I have an after work hour event to attend with no real break for dinner I panic, freeze and then keep it moving. Only to be met with intense hunger pains and lightheadedness 30 minutes later because I ignored what my body was telling me. 

This changes the way I exist in a way I'm still frustrated with. It wasn't always this way, I used to be able to go a full day without eating anything but cereal. I would excel at my classes, ace the test, take incredible notes with barely anything fueling my body. And that almost makes it worse, the memory of days when I didn't have to think "how many snacks can I fit in this bag?" or "is there going to be a fridge there for my lunch?"

Today it happened again. As I packed my bag for the protest that same wash of panic came over me, how long will we be there, how long will this half a tuna sandwich, almonds and popcorn sustain me? The panic hit me again when the protest speaker exclaimed hours later "we're not leaving until all the detainees are released!"

As I walked out of the terminal exhausted and starving I felt the same guilt I always fell: I should be stronger, the detainees don't have food, they're tired from traveling, I need to be more. Luckily I had a community of people with me making sure I took care of myself and showering me with words of love and concern for my health. 

Tonight I'm trying to take in those words of love from my friends and family. 

I'm trying to remind myself that this body is worthy of care and love even with its limits because it's the only one I have and it is enough. 

Fergus Friday

It's finally Friday in what seems to be the one longest week in my adult memory. In my exhausted state I proceeded to cook dinner, walk my Fergus and watch an early 2000's Rom Com. After all of that I still had nothing to write about. But after taking Fergus on her last walk and trying to keep her from barking at the recycling (her favorite pastime after 9:30pm) I had the most fun playing with her. I was once again reminded what a gift this little quirky four legged creature is in my life.

Dogs are also good for dressing up in family costumes

I never wanted a dog. I grew up allergic to the world and with parents who gave me pretty solid reasons for not having a dog. The fact that a dog would mean we couldn't stay out for long or go traveling on a moments notice (both things my family DID NOT DO, I might add) seemed like it wasn't worth the trouble. When Mary and I got together she talked endlessly about a dog and I told her that I would get a dog if I could name it Fergus.

Fergus was a dog puppet on a French Canadian children's show I watched on recorded VHS tapes sent to me by my Canadian relatives. I always liked the name and it seemed like a pretty solid compromise. So one summer after we had been married for 2 years and living in our apartment for a while we started the hunt for a dog. Since I'm technically allergic to dogs we had a short list of "hypoallergenic" breeds that we were limited to and were committed to adopting. A few weeks into the search Mary found our Fergus at a tiny rescue in Gilroy. After a short phone call with the "foster mom" I took a day off work and we drove the 2 hours to pick up our first fur baby.

Now if you've read anything about Fergus on this blog or know her personally this next part will sound very "on brand." We arrived at a random house in Gilroy and were let in by an older white woman who explained that "Bunny" (Ferg's foster name) was pretty skittish and didn't really do well with people. She suggested that we sit on the ground tossing treats and not making any sudden movements towards her. In perfect Fergus (then Bunny) fashion she proceeded to peer at us from the safety of behind a giant couch. She smelled those treats and would inch closer and then without us doing anything to startle her, she would dart back behind the couch. I was instantly in love. We forced her, terrified and very dirty into a too small for her crate (we were given different measurements) and we took our baby home.

Pets change your life dramatically. Depending on the species, that change could be more or less severe but there's something about co-existing with a non-human animal that changes the way you look at things. Dogs for example are very in the moment (or so that's what scientist claim). They are sad when you're gone and happy when you're there. They're mad when you accidentally step on them (sorry Ferg) and then seconds later they're back to loving you forever. It's hard to live with something that operates that way and not have it rub off even a little.

Since we got Ferg I've started to appreciate the little things more. She's forced me to appreciate going outside and getting fresh air because I'm forced to do it 3-4 times a day. If you had told me two years ago that I would be taking a 20 minute walk first thing in the morning every day I would have laughed in your face. But now that's the routine and I actually enjoy it (most of the time). She's just so happy to play and to be loved and doted on. That energy is so infectious.

There's a laundry list of things I wish I didn't have to worry about or do now that I have a dog but that's the other lesson in having a pet. You're not the only one that needs stuff. On top of that laundry list I also wish I could understand what she's barking at, upset with, scared of and a multitude of other dog emotions I don't get. Another lesson, every one (or being in this case) communicates differently. Sometimes that can be frustrating but sometimes it can teach you a lot to try to see things from another perspective.

So there's my little love blog to Fergus, my first ever dog. She's taught me a million things already and I'm sure she'll continue to amaze, challenge, love and shade me for the rest of her doggie days.

Please enjoy this weird video of her Name Sake below:

On Not Being Fine

So we're closing in on the end of week one of #TrumpsAmerica and let me tell you, I am EXHAUSTED. 

Every day, hell every few hours there's a new assault on my communities and the communities I'm in solidarity with and that shit is getting old, real quick. And this is JUST THE BEGINNING.

And this thing keeps happening, a thing that happens probably 5-10 times a day, people ask me "how's it going?" or "how are you?" It's what you say in passing in the kitchen to that person filling up their water bottle or passing you in the hall. As nice as these people might be and however pure their intentions are, that is a loaded question. It has always been a loaded question because the socially acceptable response is "good" or "fine" usually with a little smile and reciprocating ask. I am advocating for a cease and desist of this "pleasantry." Here's why:

I AM NOT FINE. 

I'm certainly not going to be fine for the next 4 years and let me tell you, a lot of shit has happened to me in the past year and a half that made me very not-fine on any given day. For a lot of 2016 I was on the verge of tears pretty much every other day. What happens when you ask me how I am is that I don't think about myself, I immediately think about you. How you're going to react if I honestly answer this question or how I don't want to tell you about the fact that I'm on the verge of tears. So instead of being honest with myself I lie, I smile and say "good!" I become an actress for keeping up appearances sake and not making anyone feel uncomfortable.

Here's what I suggest, let's stop asking people how they are unless we REALLY have the time and energy to know. Let's start saying, "nice to see you" or "how 'bout them ((insert professional sporting team here))." I don't want to lie anymore and I don't want to have to feel guilty about bumming you out because I'm only trying to warm up my oatmeal and I really don't want to talk to you at all.

One last thing. I am advocating for us getting real about our feelings in this moment. I understand that there's work to be done and that we need to keep moving forward. I'm not saying we stop doing that. But if you're feeling hopeless, just feel hopeless while you're being a good friend or clicking the donate now button on the Standing Rock Legal Fund page. I have spent a lot of the weekend and the week feeling guilty about not feeling hopeful and ready and positive about the fight ahead.

Feeling shitty and then feeling guilty about feeling shitty is DOUBLE SHIT. 

So if you're hopeful and ready that's great, but please let the rest of us feel upset, sad and deflated. It doesn't mean we aren't doing the work too or that we'll get stuck that way, it just means that right now, that's where we're at.

I Can't Have Sex Until Marriage, So Let's Get Married.

Today marks 15 years since the release of the epic film A Walk to Remember.

Besides the fact that these days I've been feeling ancient because things I have actual memories of are having 10 and 15 and 20 year anniversaries, this one is particularly important to me. In case you didn't know, I have LOVED Mandy Moore from the moment I watched her do bad choreography in front of a lime green 2000's VW bug. Consequently that was also my high school and early 20's dream car. But I digress.

For anyone living under a rock in 2002, A Walk to Remember was an romantic tale of a "bad boy" who after nearly killing his friend in a dare is given a weird punishment that includes being a part of a school play. Obviously he is WAY too cool for this play and is not interested in anything about it until a weird homely girl who doesn't talk peaks his interest somehow. After she throws a few snarky comments his way and gets a make-over for her role in the play (by make over I mean they make her wear a gown and curl her hair) he falls deeply in love with her. Of course, he gets her to like him too, as boys in these movies do, by stalking her and forcing her to hang out with him. About 45m into the movie you find out that she is DYING of cancer. PLOT TWIST! So naturally the whole thing ends with them getting married before she dies. Did I mention they were seniors in high school?

Now that I've made this movie sound ridiculous I will tell you how UTTERLY obsessed with it I was. I had a giant A Walk to Remember poster on my wall and I listened to the soundtrack like every day. If you haven't noticed I was really big into soundtracks. I watched the DVD over and over and could probably recite most of the movie and tell you so many fun facts about the movie, like how the costume director just got like 3 random outfits from Good Will to be Jamie's (Mandy Moore) wardrobe. I have watched the Director's commentary multiple times so I'm rife with useless details like that.

But despite all of that love I can recognize now, as adult that this movie is FILLED with horrible messages about gender, love and relationships. First of all, the fact that the main character is a pretty awful person doesn't keep him from convincing the most ethical and caring girls to like him. Seriously? He literally almost killed his friend and she's like I mean no big deal you're cute. Then there's the fact that the message this whole things sends to young women is that if you are pure and chaste and a total weirdo that reads bible versus to cute bad boys they will like you. THAT IS NOT TRUE! I mean, I never tried it but I work with teenage boys now and I can tell you I don't think they would look twice at a girl that wears the same outfit every day.

Next I will dive into that trope I'd like to call: "I can't have sex until marriage so let's get married tomorrow so we can have sex." A Walk to Remember did this WAY before Twilight did it but the concept is the same. Jamie was a preachers daughter who obviously was a chaste virgin and couldn't even do any heavy making out. In one scene they're kissing for like 1 minute and she's like "hey now!" and he's like "oh yeah sorry." For what, kissing her for more than like 2 seconds? So weird. They tried to play off the whole getting married thing by making it about her bucket list and how she wanted to get married in the church her (dead) mom and (alive) dad got married in but we know the REAL deal. That bucket list item was "fuck a hot bad boy." Also why is everyone dead? What are the chances that a mom dies and then her daughter dies like 17 years later? What kind of curse is on the women in this family and where is the prequel where we find out?

Finally, why are there so many films about dying girls finding love? Why do girls have to be dying to be in loving relationships? It's like the only way to make a teenage boy act like a caring partner is to give his girlfriend a death sentence. Also, why is romance the only important thing that dying girls could possible want to experience? Why didn't Jamie just quit school (why are you still going to school if you're dying?) and travel a bunch or write a Memoir and then go on a fancy 20 city book tour? It's like dating a teenage boy is the thing you wanna spend your last days doing? Dream bigger 18 year old girls!

Either way, I can't recommend this movie highly enough. It's a classic that also has an amazing movie song by the one & only Mandy Moore. Enjoy the video below which is very confusing because you can't tell if Mandy Moore is being Mandy Moore or Jamie, her character in the movie.