Today I want to pay homage to the women in the media who inspire me everyday. Warning: if reading this you think it's a bitchy rant against men, you may be a closeted misogynist.
Growing up, I went through a lot of phases. There was the phase where I wanted to be short and petite like the other girls. There was the phase where I probably had an un-diagnosed eating disorder. That was during the phase where I hated my body, and sometimes myself. There was the phase where I hated everything in my wardrobe and couldn't figure out how to dress like the other girls. There was the phase where I thought putting out empowered me as a woman.
Those aren't the sort of phases I want my daughters to go through. I want them to struggle with: should I be a politician or CEO? Or maybe I'd be happier as a kindergarten teacher. On that note, I'm going to be a great mom so maybe I won't want to be a teacher if I have kids to take care of at home...
And that's why I'm glad for so many powerful amazing women who inspire the hell out of me everyday. I'm a little ashamed my path to understanding my femininity in a male-"dominated" (in quotes to remove the power from the word as this is not an essay to disempower my sex) world took so long, but only because I've always known who I was. It just took me a long time to learn how to reconcile who I am with what society expects me to be. And as smart as I am, it's a little sad.
That's why I want to note a few women who I am grateful can be role models for women struggling with this very topic. Let's start with Ellen. It's recently been a point of, well, hilarity, that nearly every time I receive a text after dinner that starts: "what are you doing?" my answer involves "Ellen...You Tube...."
Here is a woman who is pretty, funny, rich, powerful, famous, and married to a gorgeous specimen of a woman. She also happens to be openly gay, smart, kind, and inspiring. When she came out she lost her job and couldn't get work for quite some time. Even today JC Penny's decision to name her their spokeswoman resulted in a ferocious and ignorant backlash from women who feel that as a gay woman she has nothing in common with them and their values. And STILL her message, everyday on her show, is "be kind to each other." Kindness which she demonstrates and inspires in others. With as much as she's worth of course there's no reason she shouldn't be donating to charity, but she gives not just money but also time and goodwill. After everything she went through she has come to the conclusion that kindness is what she wants to stand for. She's a marvelous woman.
Adele? Top of the charts? Not your average blonde pop star running around in underwear. A fully clothed, voluptuous WOMAN in every sense of the word who has not followed an already paved road but trampled her way into the music scene with a sound that stands out from the din of the crowd. She's not filling our head with mind numbing beats and ridiculous tabloids. She's gotten to where she is because she's talented and smart and because she taps into our very souls with her words and her sounds. She's not selling us sex and club beats, nor I believe is she wrecking her life with drug and alcohol abuse. She's offering us an understanding into something we couldn't quite put words to before. My students request Adele all the time. I happily oblige.
When I saw Pina I was amazed by some of her female dancers, old enough to be my mother, sometimes topless, still moving with more grace and beauty then I can ever hope to possess. And they looked phenomenal onscreen. Their bodies were the bodies of women who hadn't pumped steroids or silicone into their skin. They were pure beauty.
Millions of women around the world everyday do what these women do. I mean, we could start with Michele Obama (mom-extraordinaire, first lady, gorgeous, annnnd MUSCLES.) Kathryn Bigelow- first woman to receive an academy award for best director. (I don't care if she won "because James Cameron pushed for her." She won. And she's a chick. Suck it.) Uhh...Gabrielle Giffords? The name alone shows the strength our gender possesses. We could also talk about teachers, artists, managers, doctors, directors, producers....my point is: there are women topping the internet who aren't Snookie. And they didn't get there by following trends. They got there by being themselves, knowing themselves, being strong, and NOT succumbing to to the role men (and often other women) have relegated them to.
Recently, women's rights seem to be a topic of conversation again. It infuriated me for quite a bit. I mean, it will infuriate me forever. I'm enraged and horrified by the front row seat abortion takes. Or less controversially yet still at the forefront- BIRTH CONTROL???? Or women in the military...(le sigh.) We don't need to talk about my political opinions. It doesn't matter. What matters? So many other important issues should be on our agendas. There are so many things going on in the world, in our country, in our cities, and even in our neighborhoods that need our attention. And this is what we're wasting our time on? A panel of men sitting around telling women what their rights are. Why? Why, when so many phenomenal women are rocking the world, and so many horrible problems deserve our attention, is this an issue?
In college I was deeply upset that as a female dancer in a female dominated field, men still held a disproportionate number of power positions. Just like today, many women are infuriated and saddened that men are still trying to overturn Roe V. Wade, and limit our access to necessary services provided at places like Planned Parenthood.
You know what ladies, I think we're overreacting. (I mean, of course we're not! The last thing we should do is let men undo centuries of feminist work! But hear me out.)
These issues are on the table because we're winning. A male friend recently informed me that because of some "crisis of masculinity" women shouldn't be in powerful positions in the church. Apparently powerful women are some sort of threat for men? (Original. Really.) I'm not going to deny the validity of said "crisis." I deny that your crisis is going to be solved by cutting us back down. We have some very powerful voices out there who are demonstrating for us what a woman can be. She can be an involved mom and a first-lady. She can be gay. She can be smart. She can direct men onscreen and earn respect doing it. She can dance like a pro 4 months pregnant in an (albeit plagiarized) chart-topping music video. She can run a solid presidential campaign and serve as Secretary of State even after her husband's very public infidelity. She can dance until the day she dies, whether on a small stage in Wuppertaul or at the Superbowl.
I posit that we shouldn't be afraid of these men. The fact is they are afraid of us. And that's why they're fighting so hard to hold onto this issue. They need to control something. The fact is we're not scared. We're angry. And we have a lot to offer the world. (And, just in case we need back-up, we have a lot of angry men on our side too.)
Today, I'm grateful that I've learned what it means to be a woman. Really learned that my gender has no determination on my worth in the world. And I don't just know it because someone told me, or kind of know it and then still dress specifically to find a husband. I know it because I feel it in every ounce of my body. I'm so proud of the strong women around me. And I'm proud that my daughters can grow up with such phenomenal role models.
Bring it boys. We're happy to play ball. There's still a long way for us to go but you may as well give up. Because frankly, we're going to win.
Sunday, February 19, 2012
Monday, February 13, 2012
Happy Valentine's Day to All the Naked Hearts
For people like us, who wear our hearts on our sleeves, life is a little harder.
If our protector is wounded?
We weren't born with any emotional armor
We are exposed.
We don't know how else to exist but like this,
With our naked hearts.
For us, we exist to love.
We follow our hearts into battle, not because we are brave or stupid, but because we are our hearts.
We experience life through our feelings, so when our feelings enter the war zone of love, we have no choice but to follow.
Trying to stay behind is futile for
What are we without our big hearts but a shell,
Hollow,
Empty.
And how can we protect ourselves?
We are vulnerable.
We look at someone and we tell ourselves to keep our distance.
But like a magnet drawing us close, we are beyond control.
We tell ourselves we'll stay strong.
But when our muscles shake and our knees buckle, what choice do we have?
Once we've entered the field of battle every word is the stroke of a sword, and every smile is an overhead blow.
And we were left armorless to die.
We try to slip through the crowd undetected,
Or we lay still pretending we're dead.
We may be hurt and bleeding, unable to lift our heads or our arms from exhaustion or pain,
But still eventually our bruises heal and our bleeding stops.
Sometimes we may scar, and our scarring is like an armor.
Thick and grotesque, it protects us for a while.
But scars fade and so too does our protection.
Are we like a videogame character, unable to die,
Destined to live death after death?
When at last someone takes our heart into their hands, and protects it for us, then are we safe?
Is this is the only way we are safe, when another has control of our heart?
But what then, if we are betrayed?
If our protector is wounded?
If our heart is taken away from us and we are left with none?
Then at last can we live free of our love that drives us forward, exposed and naked?
Without our hearts we are nothing.
Either we change or we seek until we at last have recovered our hearts
And are free to die again.
When you are like us, and your heart leads you, you are defenseless.
Be kind to we naked hearts, for once we are cut, we never really stop bleeding.
Friday, January 20, 2012
Bed of My Youth
Last night as I was laying in the dream-awake state, fantasizing about some mundane detail of tomorrow, I woke myself up. Not all the way up, I just startled myself back into a lazy consciousness and for the first time in years I didn't know where I was.
There was a spot of light, or was it my imagination, on the wall beside me. For a moment that spot was the window in my old bedroom on Powell Street. A pink canopy (the canopy Mom and I argued over endlessly, her saying it was too childish, me liking the cocoon it encompassed me within) rests protectively over me as I sleep. The windchime hangs in front of the air vents, jingling in the central air, and the Degas hangs menacingly at the foot of my bed, the figures of ballerinas strange in the night light. I sleep alone with Puff and two pillows in the single bed. My door is never shut because Mom is afraid of carbon monoxide poisoning, and she'll peek in on me and open the door a little wider before she goes to bed late at night. I'm still a child nestled like an egg between Mommy and Daddy, still unable to conceive of a life outside of this bedroom. There is a lifetime of firsts ahead of me, if they can sneak in beneath the lace roof over my head and penetrate my child's sleep. My heart and body are unbroken, untouched as my mother's watchful eyes rest on me, peering through the darkness until she is satisfied I am safe in my sleep.
I woke up knowing I wasn't in my parent's house. I haven't slept in that bed in 8 years- it and my canopy are long gone along with the pink innocence I slept enveloped in. But for a moment last night, in between dreaming and waking, I thought I was in the bed of my childhood in the home of my parents. When I finally broke through the confused haze I remembered the blue attic roof and the wide empty bed I share with the cat, my fears, my tears, and occasionally a man, under a sea foam green duvet. The Degas sat beside me, but its figures have lost their menacing touch in the last ten years. Then I drifted off again, a woman once more, caught up in mundane sometimes innocent fantasies about tomorrow.
There was a spot of light, or was it my imagination, on the wall beside me. For a moment that spot was the window in my old bedroom on Powell Street. A pink canopy (the canopy Mom and I argued over endlessly, her saying it was too childish, me liking the cocoon it encompassed me within) rests protectively over me as I sleep. The windchime hangs in front of the air vents, jingling in the central air, and the Degas hangs menacingly at the foot of my bed, the figures of ballerinas strange in the night light. I sleep alone with Puff and two pillows in the single bed. My door is never shut because Mom is afraid of carbon monoxide poisoning, and she'll peek in on me and open the door a little wider before she goes to bed late at night. I'm still a child nestled like an egg between Mommy and Daddy, still unable to conceive of a life outside of this bedroom. There is a lifetime of firsts ahead of me, if they can sneak in beneath the lace roof over my head and penetrate my child's sleep. My heart and body are unbroken, untouched as my mother's watchful eyes rest on me, peering through the darkness until she is satisfied I am safe in my sleep.
I woke up knowing I wasn't in my parent's house. I haven't slept in that bed in 8 years- it and my canopy are long gone along with the pink innocence I slept enveloped in. But for a moment last night, in between dreaming and waking, I thought I was in the bed of my childhood in the home of my parents. When I finally broke through the confused haze I remembered the blue attic roof and the wide empty bed I share with the cat, my fears, my tears, and occasionally a man, under a sea foam green duvet. The Degas sat beside me, but its figures have lost their menacing touch in the last ten years. Then I drifted off again, a woman once more, caught up in mundane sometimes innocent fantasies about tomorrow.
Monday, January 16, 2012
Birthday Musings
Well. Here it is. I'm about to turn 26 and in spite of being happy I am in fact nowhere near where I wanted to be at this age. And I just can't help being a little upset about it.
Yes, yes, I KNOW. That's life. I actually do understand that. In spite of all my forward planning, and all my contingency plans, it didn't work out how I wanted it to. Ok fine. It's all fine. So I'm not going to have the performing career I wanted. So instead of being engaged with plans for a family I'm single. So I got a cat not a dog. So I'm still dirt broke. So I'm working 5 jobs that are apparently leading to nowhere. So I haven't left the country since 2009. It's all good, it's just different. But the reason I get so depressed after 3 beers is because plans have been the bread and butter of my existence until now. And now I have no plans, just the moment I'm in. For a woman who writes daily to-do lists, this is not a comfortable situation to find oneself in.
This is as far as I can see: Pray car lasts until Fall 2013. Attend an MFA program somewhere in the continental US. Following degree, pray for a job and a husband. Once a job is acquired, if no husband is to be found, seek other possibilities for obtaining a child.
That's a lot of praying for a Christmas Catholic.
When taking trips I am never content to let the GPS guide me. I can't handle only knowing a turn or two in advance. I want to know the whole trip, from point A to point B, and then I'll deal with the middle details after I've seen the whole route. The problem when turning that trip into a metaphor for life is that life happens in the middle details. It's not that I can't live for the present it's that I want to know the ending before I read the book. I eat dessert first. I always ask people to spoil the ending of movies for me. To date, this has always worked out for me.
But no one has seen this movie yet and no one's serving dessert and there is no map, just road signs. And it's all right. It truly is. And it will all be all right. But for now I'm deeply unsettled and finding it difficult to let go and just let life's current carry me where it will.
It's hard for a control freak to let go. (And before you go judging me for trying to control, understand this: because I'm a control freak I'm great at my job. I just suck at relaxing.)
We were driving from Chicago to Virginia with a Brit in the back seat, no GPS, and crappy Google directions. We ended up driving through bumblefuk Maryland. Rolling hills, tiny corner grocer's.....our English friend was giddy with glee as he got a peek at "real America." And our horribly diverted path ultimately took us to our destination, but we had more fun along the way. And this is how life is. These diversions, road blocks, detours, etc that are put before us are gifts.
This doesn't solve the problem that I have no clue where my ending destination is any more and I'm a little scared.
But I look forward to the wisdom I will acquire when I pass this juncture and learn to accept that worrying about the unknown is a waste of energy. And I look forward to being a more patient, less stressed Christine on January 18 2013.
Happy birthday to me. Let's drink to gray hairs, crow's feet, and the journey.
Yes, yes, I KNOW. That's life. I actually do understand that. In spite of all my forward planning, and all my contingency plans, it didn't work out how I wanted it to. Ok fine. It's all fine. So I'm not going to have the performing career I wanted. So instead of being engaged with plans for a family I'm single. So I got a cat not a dog. So I'm still dirt broke. So I'm working 5 jobs that are apparently leading to nowhere. So I haven't left the country since 2009. It's all good, it's just different. But the reason I get so depressed after 3 beers is because plans have been the bread and butter of my existence until now. And now I have no plans, just the moment I'm in. For a woman who writes daily to-do lists, this is not a comfortable situation to find oneself in.
This is as far as I can see: Pray car lasts until Fall 2013. Attend an MFA program somewhere in the continental US. Following degree, pray for a job and a husband. Once a job is acquired, if no husband is to be found, seek other possibilities for obtaining a child.
That's a lot of praying for a Christmas Catholic.
When taking trips I am never content to let the GPS guide me. I can't handle only knowing a turn or two in advance. I want to know the whole trip, from point A to point B, and then I'll deal with the middle details after I've seen the whole route. The problem when turning that trip into a metaphor for life is that life happens in the middle details. It's not that I can't live for the present it's that I want to know the ending before I read the book. I eat dessert first. I always ask people to spoil the ending of movies for me. To date, this has always worked out for me.
But no one has seen this movie yet and no one's serving dessert and there is no map, just road signs. And it's all right. It truly is. And it will all be all right. But for now I'm deeply unsettled and finding it difficult to let go and just let life's current carry me where it will.
It's hard for a control freak to let go. (And before you go judging me for trying to control, understand this: because I'm a control freak I'm great at my job. I just suck at relaxing.)
We were driving from Chicago to Virginia with a Brit in the back seat, no GPS, and crappy Google directions. We ended up driving through bumblefuk Maryland. Rolling hills, tiny corner grocer's.....our English friend was giddy with glee as he got a peek at "real America." And our horribly diverted path ultimately took us to our destination, but we had more fun along the way. And this is how life is. These diversions, road blocks, detours, etc that are put before us are gifts.
This doesn't solve the problem that I have no clue where my ending destination is any more and I'm a little scared.
But I look forward to the wisdom I will acquire when I pass this juncture and learn to accept that worrying about the unknown is a waste of energy. And I look forward to being a more patient, less stressed Christine on January 18 2013.
Happy birthday to me. Let's drink to gray hairs, crow's feet, and the journey.
Friday, December 23, 2011
Reflections: 2.011
2011 could have been better, to say the least. Since I'm one who counts my curses before my blessings I will start there:
-Thousands of dollars were spent on ankle surgery
-$700 total was stolen from me-The boyfriend of 4 years said the "over" word
-Half the year I sat alone in my apartment icing, the other half I exhausted myself working 7 days a week
-One of my cousins passed out of this world
-I found out which of my friends aren't going to be there for me when I need them most
-Not one, not two, not three, but FOUR flat tires
-Two leases ended- resulting in two stressful moves
But counting my curses first means I end on a good note. I'm not as dark as I may seem. Ultimately I want to count my blessings, and to be grateful for the wonderful things that came out of the pandemoniac year:
-I finally put a ring in it (my nose) -Nick and Lizzy tied the knot
-Pat and Suzanne exchanged vows
-While sitting at home waiting for my ankle to heal I found new hobbies
-Physical therapy started teaching me how to take care of my body for long term dancing health
-Tomatoes, basil, and parsley were all grown successfully
-While teaching at Blue Lake I got to work with fantastic kids and coworkers,
*met wonderful inspiring people*relaxed on the beach
*saw my family
*discovered kombucha
*found my color
-Meat was finally removed from my diet (if not strictly)
-I saw the Grand Canyon
-Fuser moved in with me (at the moment he's eating a printer cord...)
-I still get to invest in the person I love with my whole heart. And every day I am grateful that- in spite of all that's happened - we found and maintained love in the discord-Every day I get to wake up and combine two of my lifelong passions- teaching and dancing
-I blogged!...even if it's not so good
-My financial situation went from "barely scraping by" to "scraping by"
-Some amazing new friends came into my life, and they understand me without needing explanations-I decided what path my career will take next and started looking at graduate schools
-My new apartment is wonderful and the landlord's wife has cooked for me on occasion
-Logan Square is a great place to live and drink
-I was in a movie (fuck yeah)
-"Christine Hands" appeared in numerous dance programs as "performer"
-My choreography was presented at four different professional venues-Rudolph Nureyev's Swine Lake, colored nail polish, Lula's Cafe, Bacardi Orange, Game of Thrones
-Everyone in my family is healthy enough
-Let's talk about the amazing friends who never stopped answering the phone no matter how many times I called in hysterics
-I made a hat among other projects
-This year I stayed cool in air conditioning
-Nearly all my bills are paid off
-I acquired an I-Phone-My Jessie and Brian came to visit
When I'm worried and I can't sleep, I count my blessings instead of sheep. And I fall asleep counting my blessings.
The world's falling apart, everything crumbling around us, but for every curse I've got 4 blessings and for every loss I've gained something new. So though I'm looking forward to a better 2012, I want to end the year with a touch of gratitude. Happy New Year to my friends, enemies, and everyone else.
Wednesday, November 23, 2011
I expect the first thing my mother will say when I come home for Thanksgiving is that my clothes don't match
Today I'm coloring myselfwith a box of crayola crayons
mustard yellow tights
carrot orange fingernails
golden toenails
peacock blue socks
fire hydrant red sweater
eggplant purple hat
charcoal gray coat
maroon skirt
cream white sweater
bark brown boots
I'm a clashing blinding colored explosion
And peeking out from my layers of clothes
is a pale face
chameleon eyes reflecting the brightness
of my saturated canvas
enlivening my inner spirits
with an outer expression
of my joyful rainbow
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
Older
Cheeks are sinking in
Imperfect skin around eyes
A frozen frown here.
two chiseled lines inbetween my eyebrows
three long lines zigzagging across my forehead
every year more expensive make-up
every year the youthful glow fades from my face
every year I look more beautiful
Do you remember college parties?
Do you remember my fat cheeks and tight skin?
I always wore some stupid outfit- never quite in sync, yet never quite making my own fashion statement. Just lost in my wardrobe.
We would drink and drink. Now, if I drank that much, I would end up in the E.R.
Relationships were always painful and pointless, but so simple and uncomplicated.
Hangovers couldn't get us fired back then.
Remember random hook-ups? Drunk on the carpet? Alcohol is not performance enhancing.
I remember waking up with two other girls asleep in my double bed, Becky's make-up smeared all over my pillow. I still sleep in the same bed; now I wake up with the cat curled up at my feet, and the alarm reminding me that only God and orthodox Jews get a Sabbath.
I remember junky apartments and wrecked carpets, cheap beer and lost nights of glorious abomination.
I remember Luke Skywalker puking on my kitchen table one Halloween.
Where did that silly girl go- with the damaged red hair, dark roots fading into gnarled locks of fake strawberry blonde? Dancing on a chair with her arms over her head laughing in her boots and bare legs with that jean skirt I've long since shrunk out of when the baby fat fell off and she sallowed into me.
Sometimes I miss her a little. Her goofy drunken escapades- smile so wide her mouth threatened to turn inside out. And that stupid picture with two cigs in her mouth, sunken eyes displaying days of binge drinking when the first boyfriend who stuck around for more than 6 weeks stopped sticking around.
But I love the new wrinkles inbetween my eyebrows. I love the hollow place where the baby fat used to sit on my cheeks. I love being older. I love wanting for things that require the maturity and perseverance of age. I love working, and the solace of my space, my things, my clean linoleum floor, and working professional's apartment with the family below me.
I love the deep, meaningful pain of real loss and the complicated mess of relationships when the word "marriage" can hold real promise, and real terror.
Still, sometimes when I'm heading home at midnight on a Saturday, I think about Sunday mornings drinking a gallon of kool-aid, reading Faulkner in my bathrobe, waiting for the hangover to dissipate in that drafty old house with no insulation.
We were all living in dumpy shitholes drinking shitty beer eating shitty food and having shitty sex.
And now we're older.
Imperfect skin around eyes
A frozen frown here.
two chiseled lines inbetween my eyebrows
three long lines zigzagging across my forehead
every year more expensive make-up
every year the youthful glow fades from my face
every year I look more beautiful
Do you remember college parties?
Do you remember my fat cheeks and tight skin?
I always wore some stupid outfit- never quite in sync, yet never quite making my own fashion statement. Just lost in my wardrobe.
We would drink and drink. Now, if I drank that much, I would end up in the E.R.
Relationships were always painful and pointless, but so simple and uncomplicated.
Hangovers couldn't get us fired back then.
Remember random hook-ups? Drunk on the carpet? Alcohol is not performance enhancing.
I remember waking up with two other girls asleep in my double bed, Becky's make-up smeared all over my pillow. I still sleep in the same bed; now I wake up with the cat curled up at my feet, and the alarm reminding me that only God and orthodox Jews get a Sabbath.
I remember junky apartments and wrecked carpets, cheap beer and lost nights of glorious abomination.
I remember Luke Skywalker puking on my kitchen table one Halloween.
Where did that silly girl go- with the damaged red hair, dark roots fading into gnarled locks of fake strawberry blonde? Dancing on a chair with her arms over her head laughing in her boots and bare legs with that jean skirt I've long since shrunk out of when the baby fat fell off and she sallowed into me.
Sometimes I miss her a little. Her goofy drunken escapades- smile so wide her mouth threatened to turn inside out. And that stupid picture with two cigs in her mouth, sunken eyes displaying days of binge drinking when the first boyfriend who stuck around for more than 6 weeks stopped sticking around.
But I love the new wrinkles inbetween my eyebrows. I love the hollow place where the baby fat used to sit on my cheeks. I love being older. I love wanting for things that require the maturity and perseverance of age. I love working, and the solace of my space, my things, my clean linoleum floor, and working professional's apartment with the family below me.
I love the deep, meaningful pain of real loss and the complicated mess of relationships when the word "marriage" can hold real promise, and real terror.
Still, sometimes when I'm heading home at midnight on a Saturday, I think about Sunday mornings drinking a gallon of kool-aid, reading Faulkner in my bathrobe, waiting for the hangover to dissipate in that drafty old house with no insulation.
We were all living in dumpy shitholes drinking shitty beer eating shitty food and having shitty sex.
And now we're older.
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