tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-45333612039447790022024-03-05T08:21:56.918-08:00Shvayg ShoshOne body-image advocate's transformation from zaftig to svelt.Shoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05387285193776811352noreply@blogger.comBlogger51125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4533361203944779002.post-51893969207696467982019-08-27T12:14:00.000-07:002019-08-27T12:16:04.409-07:00Jeans<br />
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I proudly shared my #TransformationTuesday photo today on Facebook. Everyone oohed and ahhed. Everyone has been great with my overly posting pictures. What I didn’t post yesterday? When I put on those jeans this weekend, I smiled in shock, and then, I cried. There are so many moments in this journey that I’m heartbroken.
I don’t know where to start. I don’t know how to explain that I can’t stop looking in the mirror. I can’t explain how it breaks my heart and makes me cry. I can’t handle the response: but you were beautiful before. It’s still you.<br />
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<b>Bullshit. I fell down some deep hole before, and I was a reflection of that hole—my choices, my body, my being stuck.</b><br />
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<b></b>I had no idea what my life could be like. I had no idea what I could be like. I never imagined any of this was possible or that it would ever matter to me. My identity was so wrapped up in protecting and upholding the idea that I was good enough the way I was that I rejected the possibility of otherness.
It’s still so complicated. It’s 1000% about looking hot in a pair of jeans and nothing about looking hot in a pair of jeans. I am tiny and fit and strong. I never believed I could be any of those things. My own body image proud rhetoric never allowed me to believe that...because if I believed that, then I would be failing all the fat girls who I wanted so badly to feel good and beautiful and worth it. I still want that, and I still think I’m failing them and feel like I was failing myself.<br />
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My body now isn’t simply a reflection of society’s desire for thinness. My body now is a reflection of strength. It is a reflection of pushing my body to limits I didn’t know were possible. It is a reflection of flexibility and muscle. It is being one with my body and finding a place where my mind clears. My identity is now wrapped up in the path to that strength. And it makes me sad that I missed out on that for so long. It makes me sad that I missed out on this body. And, I don’t mean this thin body, I mean this body that can DO things. I climbed up the rock wall and did the monkey bars at the park with my daughter the other day. We have back-bend contests. I walk over a mile a day back and forth between the train station and my office. It is thoughtless walking filled with a mix of Taylor Swift Radio, podcasts, or chatting on the phone with my boyfriend. Never once did it even kind of make me tired.<br />
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A mile used to be hell. A mile used to be torture. A mile should never be hell.<b>
That is the shit that was wrong with my before picture.</b> Not my fatness. Not society’s need for thinness. Not my lack of health problems. The problem was my disconnection from my physical body. My inability to do things. My idea that I would never be fit or that being fit made me someone I didn’t want to be. But I am that person. The energy I always poured into intellectual pursuits is now also poured into my body.
Do you know how tired I used to be?
I’ve always been upbeat and bubbly, but I am energetic at all times. This energy has changed me. It has given me more drive. It has given me a bigger need to control my environment. It has pushed me to constantly be doing and acting.<br />
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Being a tiny hot white blond girl has certainly changed how others respond to me and I struggle with that. But having this energy has changed how I respond to others and to life.My body happens to look a certain way when I lose weight and gain muscle. I get that. I get the privilege more now than ever and I struggle with that privilege. The reflection in the mirror shocks me every single time. When I share these pictures with you, it isn’t simply--look at this thin girl! It is Who the fuck is this person? Do you see this person? Is this person real? Was this person always here?<br />
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I can’t stress enough that we can say that are insides and outsides aren’t reflections of each other, but they are. My inside has changed with my outside. How could it not? I can do a one-handed push-up, Fat Shosh wouldn’t have wanted to talk to someone who could do a one-handed push-up. And my life has made a 180 degree turn in the past year and a half: a real relationship, new house, new job...I will always question if I got all of this because of thin privilege or because changing helped create a different person inside who was ready for these changes. I know you’ll tell me it is the latter...but I’ll always wonder.<br />
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The wondering is hard. The wondering is where I am stuck. It is the place people will tell me not to worry about and I'll want them to stop. How can I not wonder? I have a whole new life. I have a whole new EVERYTHING. Where does the weight part end and the other part begin?Shoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05387285193776811352noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4533361203944779002.post-9143092126227361322018-11-02T09:46:00.000-07:002018-11-02T09:46:01.597-07:00Becoming Anne Frank<br /><br />My literary hero <a href="https://www.facebook.com/dara.horn.92?__tn__=%2CdK-R-R&eid=ARDGp3odaIyezJ5fRnje-M2wzrt-Yy6DyDOXgHXcDOjbII7z9pqykBmC4PV54IH7pdIL7CEMPKZZ0bUd&fref=mentions">Dara Horn</a> wrote <a href="https://www.smithsonianmag.com/history/becoming-anne-frank-180970542/?fbclid=IwAR3X8lEWn5pzD5iAyIG1vvCEl75rlPDN-4Wc0WZO4INliaJgrDRAg2e2OrA#mYcaWxdUdWEMyokK.01" target="_blank">Becoming Anne Frank</a>: Why did we turn an isolated girl into the world's most famous Holocaust victim before Pittsburgh...it is beautiful and prophetic and reminds us of one thing: somehow people only seem to care about us when we are dead.<br /><br />Us being Jews. This reached into my very soul and made me want to howl.<br /><br />Is this what it takes to see us? Is this the only way? Do we only have real meaning to you when we are dead?<br /><br /><br />You know we walk among you every day and we live. You know we have always been worthy and we always deserve to be seen...really seen not just as relics of a seemingly ancient genocide that isn't actually ancient. <div>
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We aren't relics. We are people and despite your assumptions about us, it continues to be hard to be other. It continues to be wearisome and tiring to walk among you on the outside. It isn't over. It's never been over. It makes you feel better to think we are some magical success. And yes, America is a gift to us. America has afforded us a life...but so had Germany and frankly, despite what you think you know about life before the Holocaust, so did Poland. <br /></div>
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But that life hangs by a thread, and we live knowing that we must continue to be okay to you. You must find us acceptable. You must like our jokes. Our language must make you giggle. We must mold ourselves to work within your rules and your boundaries and your culture and your religion. We must understand that Your God is the center and ours is only the beginning that somehow lost it's way. We must know that self-determination and peoplehood is only acceptable if we don't want a whole plot of land. We must acquiesce that at the end of the day we are truly cheap and secretly wealthy. Half of us are dead, but someone we still control you. <br />These are truths we live with. We've always lived with. Your swastikas and graffiti. Your bomb threats and your beatings. Your British Labour Party and your burning old ladies in their Paris apartments because we are not enough. We are other. We are not you.<br />Unless we are dead.<br /><br />Take this moment and learn about us. Get to know us. Really get to know us. The real us. The living, breathing, upstanding, outstanding us. See what we've done for the world. For history. We are survivors. We continue to exist despite everything. Find out our history, our worldview, our religion. Learn how we differ from each other. See our diversity. Understand why Chanukah has nothing to do with Christmas or why Easter might make us cringe with a bit of fear. Accept that Jesus is not part of our theology and he doesn't have to be. Love us without the but....learn the actual history of Israel not what some radical politician with a personal agenda has to tell you. Let us sit at your progressive table. Help us fight the right that holds us up as evil vermin.<br /><br />We are so much more than dead, but you need to see us...really see us live.</div>
Shoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05387285193776811352noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4533361203944779002.post-54174979227588505192018-08-16T13:00:00.000-07:002018-08-16T13:00:15.411-07:00The Shame of Body Acceptance <br /><br />Last week, a friend posted a tweet that read: <div>
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<b>Reminder: When you congratulate someone on their weight-loss, you may be complimenting them on their eating disorder.</b><br /><br />An argument ensued. Basically, women argued that commenting on someone’s weight is never good. I wanted to let it pass by, but I couldn’t. Their logic was that you never know why someone lost weight, so you don’t want to be rude or hurtful. I get that. But then, there was another layer: the idea that we should never comment on looks. The idea that the outside holds too much power and commenting on looks just adds to that stifling domination of society. We should love ourselves as we are.<br /><br />Okay. Yes. We should love ourselves. Loving ourselves is huge. I’ve always advocated for that. But what does it mean to love ourselves? How can we, on one hand, be proud of our bodies and deny our physicality? Be proud of you, but don’t ever comment on looks. Your body is beautiful, but there is no such thing as beauty. It’s an either/or scenario. Either you are proud of your body as it is, or you are falling into societal expectations. Is it really an OR situation? Can’t you be proud of your body and still want to be appreciated for your looks? Can’t you be proud of your body and change? <br /><br />As time goes on, I am increasingly uncomfortable with the Body Acceptance Movement. It’s not actually body acceptance; it’s fat as a political statement. It isn’t even fat as beautiful. If it was also about beauty, then why not comment on our looks? Are we only allowed to comment on your beauty if your beauty remains unchanged? Oddly, I think the radical end of the Body Acceptance Movement isn’t just saying that fat is beautiful, which it very much can be, but that fat is the only kind of beauty. It is setting up a mirror-image scenario to society’s obsession with thin.<br /><br />Little did I know that while I was arguing my way through Facebook that I had accidentally posted on the original poster of the tweet, <a href="https://thebodyisnotanapology.com/" target="_blank">The Body is Not An Apology: the power of radical self love.</a> How right up my alley! Who better than me to celebrate radical self love? <br /><br /><br />According to their mission statement:<br /><br /><i>The Body Is Not An Apology is an international movement committed to cultivating global Radical Self Love and Body Empowerment. We believe that discrimination, social inequality and injustice are manifestations of our inability to make peace with the body, our own and others. Through seminars, retreats, workshops, personal transformation projects, media, art and community building, The Body is Not An Apology fosters global, radical, unapologetic self love which translates to radical human love in action in service toward a more just and compassionate world</i><br /><br />I love this idea! Where do I sign up?<br /><br />I may love the idea, but I quickly learned that they did not love me. Apparently, I had done something in my writing that angered the group: I talked about my weight-loss surgery. After a back and forth with a woman who compared weight-loss surgery to getting a haircut (I won’t even go down that road right now), I explained my own surgery. Eventually, the moderator jumped in:<br /><br /><i>For folks on this thread we would first ask you to revisit our community agreements. Comments that are insulting/name calling will not be tolerated . TBINAA respects the right of folks to make decisions for their bodies, however we as an organization do not support weight loss surgery as we see it as part of a larger weight loss industry that reinforces the structural violence and body Terrorism of fatphobia. Hence TBINAA is not an appropriate space to promote weight loss surgery or to share comments that propose causality between weight and health. We appreciate you honoring the standards of this digital space.<br /><br /></i><div>
Let me repeat the important part: </div>
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<b>“we see it [weight-loss surgery] as part of a larger weight loss industry that reinforces the structural violence and body Terrorism of fatphobia.”</b></div>
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<br /><br />Now, I’ll be the first to argue the horrors and bullshit of fatphobia. I’ll be the first to share stories of being invisible and being used and not being able to physically sit comfortably in the world. And is the answer to that phobia to lose weight? No. Being thin isn’t THE answer. Because as with everything else there isn’t one answer. It is so much more complicated and nuanced than that.<br /><br />However, in their desire to shed the world of the evils of fatphobia, they have created a new kind of shame—the shame of changing your body. The shame of having autonomy over your body. Because if you are forced to remain fat in order to fulfill some ideological stand then you lose autonomy.<br /><br />Yesterday, a random women stopped me to compliment me on my legs. I wonder if the Body Acceptance Movement thinks I should feel shame for that too? I have these legs so I can stand on my tiptoes and do weird sorts of squats in <a href="http://purebarre.com/" target="_blank">barre</a> class. Is that shameful? Should I be more proud of my belly that remains my belly? Should I be worried that my butt is now more muscle than fat? Should I be thanking God that my face is still full or the backs of my arms wobbly? Or should I wish my arms still held fat so they'd wobble in a different way? Are my non-scale victories no longer valid either? Instead of breathing a sigh of relief when I fit perfectly inside a booth, should I be angry that it's not accommodating for bigger bodies? When pulling at my now-too-big size large black Old Navy dress, should I be wistful for the XXLs I could not actually fit my large body into? Should I disdain sitting cross-legged? Should I be angry that I'll fit in the roller coaster ride or that I can tie my shoes? Should I miss those long naps because I was so fucking tired all the time? Should I revel in the fact that I know my body still doesn't fit today's standards or that when I walk into barre class, I'm the biggest one in the room? Do they feel better knowing that I don't know what to say when people ask me how much more I want to lose? Or that I'm pretty okay with myself at the moment and losing more seems unbelievable? Are they smirking because I miss my boobs and now feel self-conscious because of them?<br /><br />When I fight to be good enough, I still don't know what that means or what that looks like.<br /><br />Goals in barre class are easy to measure. I know what I want my body to be able to do that it can't do now. My outside? Not so much. I scrutinize myself in the mirror far more than I used to. I spend more time wanting to hide from feeling unattractive than I ever did when I was fat. I'm convinced my eyes have gotten smaller and swollen. I am horrified when people are relieved that my tattoos still look good. Where would they have gone?<br /><br /><br />We all walk around with feelings of shame. Why would a movement that claims to promote radical self-love shame people for making changes to their body? Why can’t I take my body back? To me, my surgery was the ultimate act of radical self-love.<br /><br /><br />And yes, my fat came from years of disordered eating and lack of self-care. It was deeply psychological. Does that mean every fat person suffers the same? No! Would I have needed surgery if society said it was okay to be fat? Yes. This isn’t about society. This is about me.<br /><br />And frankly, if you want to know the truth, despite the fact we preach that your outside and inside have nothing to do with each other, they have everything to do with each other. They are entwined. They are linked. They are one. And when someone comments that I’m the same person inside no matter what I look like on the outside, they are wrong. There has been a fundamental shift inside me.<br /><br /><b><i>My body feels sacred in a way I’ve never felt before. I feel more sacred.</i></b><br /><br />Does everyone need to lose weight to feel sacred? No. But, again, this is about my personal experience. This is what I needed to truly get in touch with my body and myself. Does it have consequences that speak to society’s issues with bodies especially bigger bodies? Yes. And I struggle with that. I will always struggle with that. However, just because I struggle with it, just because the world is not perfect, does not mean that I should be shamed. It does not mean that we should be bullied if we want to change our bodies.<br /><br />We need to accept all bodies at the place where they are. They doesn’t mean they have to change but it doesn’t mean they can’t change.<br /><br /><br /><b><i>I changed to honor my body. I changed to honor my inside.</i></b><br /><br /></div>
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So ask away. Comment. Tell me I look different. My god, you are blind if you haven’t noticed the </div>
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change. And just because you change doesn’t mean the before wasn’t beautiful. It just means the after is beautiful in a different way. It is good to acknowledge. It is good to celebrate.</div>
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Shoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05387285193776811352noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4533361203944779002.post-6610459603543940752018-06-08T12:07:00.001-07:002018-06-08T12:07:04.181-07:00The Fat Bus<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Yesterday was six weeks. I’m slowly trying to consume my very first veggies in two months. Part of me wants to take the tiny bites I’m supposed to take; the rest of me wants to shove the whole plate in my mouth and ask for more. Then it comes on...the pain. It feels like a rock is bouncing from the bottom of my stomach to the middle of my throat and then finding a home right before it decides to expand in all directions. Oddly enough, it isn’t totally different from when I’m hungry. The line between begging for food and running from it is very thin. </div>
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<br /><br />Drinking is its own beast. You have to take little sips spread out over the day. Sip...sip…………..sip. The days are getting hotter. I’m so much more active. And, frankly, sometimes, like all of us, I start getting dehydrated. So, what do I do? I swig. I gulp. I refuse to sip. Sometimes I screamed out, “I’m sorry tiny tummy!” The pain is intense. The pain is overwhelming and it is immediate. I do it at Brew Haha; I do it in bed; I do it at Barre. In Barre, I stare at the ground and pray I won’t throw up. The carpet doesn’t seem equipped for such things. At home, I writhe in pain or worse, in public I run home home, so I can writhe in pain curled up on my bed praying for sleep. Drinking too fast goes away as quickly as it came on. I recover. I move on and I attempt to not repeat my mistakes for at least an hour. <br /><br /><br />Food is an entirely different story. When it came to the liquid diet and the pureed food, everything was so slow and deliberate that pain from the act of eating was few and far between. I would just get full really quickly, and I’d stop. My stomach was raw and healing, and it wasn’t a mind fuck. And while my stomach will be raw and healing for quite some time, once I hit soft foods, I found it impossible to regulate time. Setting a timer for a half an hour felt absurd, and I started wanting to run out of the house quickly. And, frankly, things started tasting good (which, of course, is a whole other issue), so taking so much time got harder and harder. Food is a guessing game. Somethings work. Somethings don’t. Somethings allow me to walk around pain-free for a few hours, while others trap me in my room for hours. I have to stop everyone’s day because the pain completely overtakes me. <br /><br /><br />As you all know, in this very short period time (eight weeks, including my pre-op liquid diet), I’ve lost weight and inches. I’ve gained energy. I’ve gained the ability and desire to challenge myself physically which comes with perks: a whole new world of clothing. I’m finally able to walk into any store and not feel filled with shame. Yes, let me say that again: I can walk into any store without feeling shame. I can try clothes on and while not all of them will fit me or look good on me, some will. I went from a 3X to a Large. I’m 5’1,” and I was pushing a size 22. You all know the list of things I could not do. And now, I can do them. I’m going on a plane next week and have to keep reminding myself that I won’t need a seat belt extender. And as much as I remind myself, I won’t believe it until it happens. I will be scared out of my mind until the moment that seat belt clicks. <br /><br /><br />And this is just the start. I have no idea what will happen next. I have no idea how small I’ll get, but every single moment is a huge victory. Every single moment is worth fighting for. This is all encompassing. This is intense. This is completely and utterly life changing. It’s emotionally invigorating. And it’s exhausting. <br /><br /><br />But none of this is the really hard part. The hard part kept creeping up in the past week or so, when I was shopping no less. We all know I document everything. God forbid you don’t join me on my shopping trip. I snap pictures. I make comments. And most likely, two hours before or even five minutes before I was writhing in pain. Have I made that clear enough yet? Are you sure? Should I make videos of the pain too or make my bed a Facebook check-in spot, so everyone knows that this shit fucking hurts? <br /><br /><br />Why am I suddenly getting angry? Why is my tone shifting? Because while I was having the exhilarating experience of shopping in the ladies section at Target and other places, I had the audacity to refer to them as regular or normal sizes. I had the audacity to get excited and feel beautiful in this smaller body. I made the mistake in celebrating my shifting appearance in a new section of the store...the much bigger section of the store that isn’t shoved in the back or hidden up the stairs or worse not there at all. I actually explored the whole second floor of Nordstrom yesterday knowing I could try clothes on if I wanted. <br /><br /><br />This isn’t a commentary about the fashion industry. If you haven’t figured out by now that I find it disgusting that plus-size women can’t simply walk into any store. They need to get with the program. They need to get with the times. They need to get with so much. We all know I feel this way. My brain hasn’t been sucked out of my head along with my fat. I haven’t suddenly become a fat shamer. I haven’t suddenly thrown the body image movement out the window. Are new ideas starting to form in my head? Sure. Of course. Am I ready to talk about them? No, I can’t even articulate them to myself, let alone an audience. <br /><br /><br />What I don’t understand is the desire to make me have to stand for something right now. The need for every one of my posts about my own very personal, very difficult, very life-changing experience to have to be a commentary on life in general. I am nothing right now. As I keep saying, I’m at the starting line right now. I can’t speak for anyone or anything but myself right now, and half the time I can’t even speak for me. <br /><br />In my bariatric women’s support group many of the women don’t even share the fact they’ve had surgery. They hide their experience because they are afraid of other people’s judgements. The core of me finds this shocking. How could you keep such a big secret. Aren’t you proud? Don’t you want to sell t-shirts? But, they aren’t me, and I’m not them. This is all so incredibly personal, and when you try to make it some sort of universal political statement it loses its truth and it’s power. Maybe if I knew how to stay quiet for 2.5 seconds than I wouldn’t feel pushed. Maybe if I kept things to myself then I wouldn’t feel like I’m somehow not throwing Fat Shosh under the bus or all the girls I wrote for when i wrote about the importance of body acceptance. <br /><br />But here’s the thing. I’m not throwing Fat Shosh under the bus. Fat Shosh threw Fat Shosh under the bus for a million different reasons and in a million different ways. Some of which had to do with weight and some of which had to do with other things. I acted out. I made bad choices. I made very strange bedfellows. I spent so much time sleeping. I spent so much time accepting behavior from men because they fucking could. I spent so much time crying. And, yet oddly, I never once looked in the mirror and thought...nope...yuck. And yes, you can tell me a million times over but you were beautiful. But I wasn’t...not at the end. My bad choices were seeping out of my pores. I was 38-years-old and I’d made myself into an easy target for a lot of things. <br /><br />But Shosh! Shosh! But Shosh nothing. I couldn’t keep living like that. I couldn’t keep making those choices. YES, I’m sorry if this offends your sensibilities, but I could not keep walking around the word squeezing myself into bigger and bigger clothes. I couldn’t keep throwing on make up and dying my hair pink in the hope that no one would notice. It didn’t actually feel good. You get that right? Being the pink-haired girl with the funky plus-size dresses didn’t actually feel good. My tattoos didn’t help me fit on the roller coaster ride, and my cleavage certainly didn’t help guide me into a lasting a positive romantic relationship. <br /><br />Why not? I can’t say I really have the answer to that. Like I said, it’s only been six weeks. I have so many half thought-out theories. I have so many revelations. I have such higher expectations. <br /><br />And if I want to walk into a clothing store and revel at the fact I fit into size large shirts, let me revel. I deserve to revel. Everyone deserves to revel.</div>
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Shoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05387285193776811352noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4533361203944779002.post-72016241395437248142018-04-22T14:56:00.000-07:002018-04-22T14:56:02.312-07:00The Fat Girl<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">For once in my life, I’m doing what I’m supposed to be doing. I’m following directions. I’m pleasing people. I’m being a good girl. My intensity for once is understood. Because of my diet, it is forgivable...<br /><br />However, this morning, I’m scrolling through Facebook, and I come upon Rachel Wiley’s performance of her slam poem,<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mFQ7zqn6j18&feature=youtu.be"> The Fat Joke</a>:<br /><br /><i>"The old joke goes: patient walks into the doctor’s office, says ‘It hurts when I move my arm like this, what should I do?’ and the doctor says, ‘So don’t move your arm like that,'” Wriley says. “Fat Girl walks into doctor’s office, says ‘Doctor, it hurts when I move my arm like this,’ and the doctor says, ‘Have you considered weight loss surgery?'</i><br /><br />It goes on about every experience Fat Girls have at the doctors. It is every experience I’ve had. I remember when I was pregnant with my daughter, I called my OBGYN practice and specifically had to ask for a doctor that wouldn’t use my weight against me during my pregnancy. Otherwise, I would have to, in essence, prove that I was fit to safely grow a baby. It infuriated me. It saddened me. It made me want to fight harder for my right to walk in the world as a Fat Girl.<br /><br />I’ve been Fat since I was 21. Anyone who’s met me after college, has a tendency to say: </span><div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Really? You weren’t always...bigger?” </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Which is almost as fun as when people find out my family is thin: </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Your parents are thin? REALLY?” looking at me with shocked expression. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Conversely, my 20th high school reunion is coming up at the end of June, and if Facebook wasn’t in existence, they would have certainly noticed the large change in me.<br /><br />I didn’t know I wasn’t the Fat Girl in high school. I actually spent an entire summer at camp wearing jeans to hide...what? I’m not even sure. Ironically, I wasn’t comfortable in my skin until I was Fat. It was a combination of a lot of things: age, motherhood, and husband who always made me feel beautiful and desired. And also, frankly, rebellion. I’d been told the whole time growing up that I was Fat when I wasn’t actually Fat. So, once I was Fat, it became a big fuck you. <br /><br />For almost twenty years, I’ve walked in this skin. I’ve gone up and down. Although, when I was married, I basically stayed the same. And, despite all our other problems, I had a husband who always wanted me. I had no reason to think I wasn’t beautiful or desirable. When I was separated, I immediately fell into a relationship, then another one, then back to the first, then a series of many many many dates over the course of a Summer and so-on. And, I realize that confidence comes from more than your ability to get a date, but I never felt unworthy.<br /><br />However, after my divorce, my weight moved up little-by-little. And then, after my heart surgery, my surgeon said that she’d be happy if I lost thirty pounds. I deeply respected and adored her, so, without any negative feelings, I agreed. Thirty pounds would in no way make me thin, slender, slightly curvy. Thirty pounds would keep me Fat, curvy, thick, plus-size, chubby, whatever word helps you sleep at night.<br /><br />What did I do to lose those thirty pounds? What motivated me? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Instead of losing thirty, I gained a little more than thirty. If we’re being honest, I gained thirty-seven. How? Why? When? What? I can’t point you in any direction that might satisfy your curiosity. Fighting for custody of my children, searching for a new job, grieving the loss of my baby, a new psych med, apathy...sure, I suppose.<br /><br />Yes, when I looked at a picture of myself, I would wince. Yes, I had my moments. But, I continued my body-positivity fight. I continued to feel beautiful and worthy. And, as we all know, it never stopped me from dating. I always wanted others to feel just as worthy.<br /><br />At least on the outside. As I’ve written before, negative thoughts starting popping into my head. I secretly wanted to lose those thirty pounds, which by now had become...well, you can do the math. Life had become harder for me. Feeling normal became harder for me. And, as we all know, the hard started pulling against my confidence. And, I made this huge decision, a decision that shocked my friends, my therapist. A decision that made my family a little more enthusiastic than I would have liked. And as with all things: pregnancy, grad school, writing, falling in love, I jumped in with both feet. Six months of nutrition counseling, clearances from a pulmonologist, a cardiologist, a psychiatrist, my regular doctor, and of course, the always fun endoscopy. I talked about it constantly. I was confident in my decision. I took people’s support in stride. I lost ten pounds. I was on my way.<br /><br />Then, BAM, the liquid diet! </span><div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Every single emotional issue I’ve ever had seeped out of my pores. Even my blessed psych meds couldn’t control the intensity. The starvation makes you both angry and high as a kite. Manic really. At least, at first. And, as I saw the numbers on the scale move further and further down, every single moment of starvation, of sadness, of pain, of anger, of obsession felt worth it. I wanted to write it in the sky, so I wrote it in a series of Facebook statuses.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />And then, as I said, when I sat on my bed this morning, fighting off anxiety and boredom, I came across The Fate Joke. I felt every single moment of it. Every line. Every sway of emotion. That was me: </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I am the Fat Girl at the doctor’s office. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I am the Fat girl at the coffee shop. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I am the Fat Girl with her children. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I am the Fat Girl trying on clothes. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I am the Fat Girl on a date.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I know what you may be thinking: </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><i>Yes! Now you don’t have to be The Fat Girl anymore. Hooray!</i></b><br /><br />Hooray!? <br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Hooray!? </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />Fuck you. <br /><br />Fuck you. <br /><br />Fuck you.<br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I am starving myself. I am mutilating my body...poking holes in my belly to pull out 90% of my stomach. 90%. For what? The high blood pressure I don’t have? The diabetes I’m not even close to having? My non-existent high cholesterol? To know that when I’m thinner I don’t actually have a round face? <br /><br />You ask me a million questions I don’t have the answer to: </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">What will you look like when you’re thin? </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">What will happen to your tattoos? </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">What will it be like when you can date cuter people? </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Do you think you’ll need a tummy tuck. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And, of course, what will happen to your boobs? </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />I have no fucking clue. I do know that I already date attractive people (whatever attractive means). I do know that I’ll just get more tattoos. However... As my favorite poet Sarah Kay says in her poem, <i>The Type:</i></span></div>
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<i><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><a href="https://genius.com/Sarah-kay-the-type-annotated#note-2126547">You are a woman — skin and bones, veins and nerves, hair and sweat.</a></span></i></div>
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<a href="https://genius.com/Sarah-kay-the-type-annotated#note-2126547"><i><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">You are not made out of metaphors, not apologies, not excuses.</span></i></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I am not here to stand for something for you. I am not here to prove that Fat Girls shouldn’t walk around in this world. I’m not here to make you sleep better at night because I’ve finally found the solution to my horrible problem.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />I feel a huge amount of guilt. I had coffee with my beautiful friend the other day, who happens to be plus-size. She told me that I made her feel like she could have confidence. It was amazing to hear, but it was also a gut punch. What the fuck am I doing? Part of who I am and what I stand for is body acceptance. And I get it, we should accept all bodies, and I will just have another kind of body. But I want you to accept the Fat Girl. I want you to know she is worthy of your love. That she is worthy of your respect and admiration. I want you to know that she is beautiful. I want you to know her confidence shouldn’t be shocking.<br /><br />Deep breath.<br /><br />My best guy friend and I were talking today. He went through his own weight-loss journey. He has to be one of the most thoughtful, measured people I know. I was telling him all of this—going over my fears from every angle—the fat girl joke, my confidence, my new found obsession with my scale, losing weight, not losing weight, people’s comments, people’s silence.<br /><br />Finally, he said to me that I’ll have to learn that I am the only one with autonomy over my own body. Everyone else’s desires, comments, ideas, feelings, suggestions are just noise. I have to silence it and listen to my own needs, my own wants, my own desires. The silencing and turning inward is almost a spiritual experience. Until I can do that, I’m going to be stuck.<br /><br />So, for now, my fear will whirl around. My confusion will whirl around me. My anger will whirl around me. My confidence will whirl around me. For now: </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I am still the Fat Girl. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I am the evolving girl. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The changing girl. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The waiting girl. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And I guess, that’s okay.</span><br /></div>
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Shoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05387285193776811352noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4533361203944779002.post-57500148344077758122018-04-20T15:22:00.001-07:002018-04-20T15:22:48.520-07:00Liquid Diet: My Weirdest Fear Incarnate<span id="docs-internal-guid-900f7ddd-e503-0de5-bb18-7a10954e69f9"><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">THE DAY BEFORE:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I’m scared. I want to throw up. I want to put my head between my knees; except, I can’t put my head between my knees. Could I ever? I have no idea. I also want to be able to sit in a chair or on the floor with my knees pulled up to my chest. If I pretzel myself in the right way, I can kinda, sorta, get one knee against my overly ample bosom. I’ve been feeling selfish and annoying</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">—</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> writing cute little status updates about my surgery or my impeding liquid diet. Then, I feel unsure about your enthusiasm. The body-celebrating confident plus-size girl wants to know why the fuck you are cheering. Wasn’t I good enough? Aren’t I good enough? Don’t you know I have zero health problems...oh, okay maybe a little sleep apnea that one kind man described as the sound of me drowning. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I have weird fears</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">—fears about not losing weight. Fears about skin. Fears about my tattoos. Fears that I’ll fall in love after this surgery, and I’ll never know if that person would have loved me before.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Yep, That’s my biggest one. That’s the one I should probably keep on the leather couch with the perfectly placed pillows as my pretty southern belle therapist asks me where I think that comes from. We all want to be loved for who we are at this very moment. We want to be good enough. We want our round tummies and big butts and boobs to be admired, maybe even worshiped. And, we all know, I’ve never had a problem dating. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Despite society’s constant stream of messages that I’m not good enough, a good amount of living, breathing, flesh and bone men (and some women), have always thought I was good enough. Good enough share a meal with. Good enough to laugh with. Good enough to sleep with and Good enough to be seen holding my hand in public with. With the exception of one person, I have never felt shame naked in front of someone I’m seeing. And yet, I’m scared. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I’m scared this theoretical person will see before pictures and be utterly thankful for my surgery and good timing. God forbid that they might fall for my confidence or my humor or, deep breath, my mind. God forbid they might fall for whatever positive way this surgery changes me. Because as a good friend reminded me, it will change me. I can’t, at this point, besides the physicality and lack of physical limitation, imagine how. Then again, I can’t imagine seeing my formally sharp chin and cheek bones in the mirror. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">DAY 8</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Where are days one through seven? Well, I figured enough Facebook statuses kept you updated on my liquid diet. Every day has been a different feeling. Well, I should say, every day or couple of days has been a different feeling. At first, everything felt intense, so incredibly intense. If you know me in person, you already know that I’m already an intense person. This magnified it by a million. It made me grumpy and angry. It made me want to punch people. It also landed me into the land of huge disappointment... </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">As I said earlier, I have this fear of falling in love after surgery and never knowing if they would have loved me before I lost all the weight. Everyone knows that I’m constantly dating—sometimes for fun, sometimes for sport, sometimes for loneliness, and sometimes to actually find someone. What I never tell anyone, or hardly anyone, is that I’ve had a crush on the same guy for about four years. Give or take. It usually went away when I was in serious relationships with women or when he moved away for awhile. In all this time, I've never pursued anything with him. I’ve never been shy about such things, but I just didn’t want to go after him. I wanted to leave him there safely in my mind where he couldn’t hurt me or disappoint me as a human being. I kept our relationship strictly, shall we say, professional? Basically, I never wanted to break the fourth wall. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Of course, as with all things, my best friend knew about this crush. Our social circles vaguely cross and it being Delaware...well, everyone knows everyone in Delaware. So, on night two of my liquid diet— the part where grumpy and intense are revving up to destroy the world— we went to one of our favorite spots to watch live bands. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">We were sitting at a table near the back next to the stage talking. Then, my best friend gets really quiet, looks at me, smiles, and says, “Isn’t that him?” </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I swivel in my chair.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">”Where?”</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Outside.”</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">So, I look (stare, peer, throw my entire body against the glass..whatever)...there he is...standing alone cigarette in hand. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I am cool. I am calm. I am collected. I am hungry. I am intense. I want to hide in the bathroom. I want to scream into the air. Did I mention I was hungry? It’s not that I’ve never broken the fourth wall with him: he’s given me pointed advice on my terrible break-up with my evil ex-girlfriend. We’ve waved to each other at shows. We’ve said hi in public. But an actually real, out of the professional realm conversation? Never. He’s so awesome in my head. Why ruin that? </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I try to look cool at my table. I involve myself in conversation with my best friend and the lead singer of the next band up. I drink my seltzer. I play with the straw. Then, I look up again. He’s standing in the middle of the room, still alone, beer in hand swaying ever-so-slightly to the music. I look at my best friend. “I am breathing,” I mouth to her. She laughs and playfully rolls her eyes. I look back at his direction, and he meets my eyes. He nods raising his bottle toward me. I smile and sorta kinda wave. I see this man almost every day, and yet, out of context, I want to hide under the table, which is a little hard when you are sitting at a high top. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Don’t be ridiculous.” My best friend says. “It’s just hello.”</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“She’s right,” I think to myself, “it’s just a smile.” </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And then, suddenly, I get a simple and obvious idea in my head...I’m going to buy him a drink. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Now, I need a plan. Because I am about to break that damn fourth wall. I am about to break four years of keeping him in my head. I am, so they say, making a move. Now, I have to watch him without him knowing that I am watching him. (Remember, I am starving at this point, so everything is in intense slow motion). I am 17 all over again (sorry, I’m about to call you out), and Carson is standing at his locker before Social Psychology. Now, the question is: how do I know when he needs a new beer? Do I wait until then? Do I make my way across the room? Does my cleavage look awesome? Have my pink curls become unruly? Why didn’t I wear my red chucks? I am so uncool. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Then, he turns and walks toward the front door, which is blocked from my view. He is going outside for another cigarette. Perfect. I can see him from the window (nothing creepy-stalker about that...in fact, nothing creepy stalker about any of this). I wait. I try really hard not to stare. After a few minutes, I make my way towards the bar. I look down at my cleavage for the millionth time (my safety blanket) and sorta stand somewhere between the front door and the bar. I pretend to pay attention to the music. Because when you are in my heightened state of starvation or just a typical Friday night in my head, everyone seems to be staring at me...waiting for me to make a fool of myself. Finally, he comes back in walking that casual laid-back walk of his. I quickly move closer to the bar. I am next to him. “Hey,” I say.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Hey. How’s it going?”</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“It’s good. Enjoying the band?”</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Sorta...the musicians are good. But…” He trails off.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“The lead singer kinda sucks.” I finish his sentence. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Yes. Exactly.” He laughs</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Get some voice lessons dude.”</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Yeah, it’s like he really wanted to start a band, so he got all his talented friends together, but forgot to bring his talent to the table.” </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I laugh. “ They do have some lit suspenders.” (did I just say lit? What am I? 13?)</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“They sure do.” </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">There is a pause in the conversation. He moves a little closer to the bar. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Hey,” I say before he moves any closer.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Yeah?”</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Can I buy you a drink?”</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Wow, sure.”</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“What are you drinking,” </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">He shows he bottle to me. Either he flashes it too quickly or I can’t think hard enough. “I’ve never tried it before. It’s good. I think I’ll get it again.”</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Cool, lead the way.” I follow him. He orders his drink. I get another seltzer and I pay. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">At this point, he could have thanked me and walked away. He could have thanked me and stayed for a few minutes, and then taken any excuse in the world to find a better place to stand. But he didn’t. He stayed with me. We bantered; we talked; we had real conversation. It’s hard to explain when the person you’ve had a crush on for years turns out to be….well, an actual worthwhile, intelligent, funny, thoughtful person. It’s hard to explain when the person you’ve had a crush on for years laughs at your jokes and doesn’t move away ever-so-slightly when you touch his hand. It’s hard to explain when they lean in closer to make a snide remark about the bored looking bassist in the last band or the odd choice of cover songs. It’s hard to explain when you’re starving in so many ways and detoxing. It’s hard to explain when every feeling you’ve ever had about yourself, your life, your history is just starting to bubble up to the surface on this crazy path you’ve chosen to take. Intensity. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">So, combine my intensity with the intoxicating experience of feeling like the person you kept yourself away from for so long because they could never live up to your expectations actually lives up to your expectations.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">We all have a list of what we want in another person. I’ve probably shared that list a million times. It was like with every turn of our conversation, I could check off another item on my list. And no, I was not checking off my list in the moment, but when I played it back in my head, I certainly did. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Usually, I never follow the damn list. The last guy was not an intellectual, but I tried to stick it out because he was a nice guy. And as my favorite new quote basically says, describing someone as a nice guy is like saying the restaurant was good because it didn’t make you sick. The guy before him showed his narcissistic colors almost immediately, but I gave him one too many chances because he was so damn smart, and when he wasn’t being mean, was actually funny. Plus...he promised to custom build my kid a BMX bike. I’m not proud of that one. I’ve at least learned to put the kibosh on conservatives immediately (with the exception of the gorgeous Latino who wore cuff links to work, who ended up breaking it off with me when he noticed the pink pussy hat in my bedroom).</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But, there I was, completely, unexpectedly finding myself in a night-long conversation with a man who fit. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Fuck. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">When the night was over, we left at the same time—our cars parked less than half a block away from each other. We stood around outside talking with my best friend and her boyfriend and probably a few other people I can’t picture. He kept saying he was leaving. I said I was leaving, but he hadn’t made a move to actually leave yet. So, this is when my brain went from being fully present to questioning. Do I just leave? Do I wait for him? Do I walk with him to his car? Do I find a way for him to stop at my car? I don’t really want him to stop in front of my car because everyone else is still standing outside the bar, and that would be awkward. It happened much faster than I can get all these thoughts down. I got to my car. He walked to his car. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I screamed, “Hey, I had lots of fun. We should hang out.” </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Sure!” He yells back</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And then, because I can’t freaking help myself, I scream back, “Of course, don’t feel obligated.” </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Who says that? Why would I say that? Can I not be weird for three seconds? </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“I wouldn’t,” he yells back...then we get in our cars. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>What a lovely story! Wow Shosh! That’s so awesome. You must be so excited. See, the universe dropped him in your lap at the perfect time, so you’d never have to question whether or not he would have liked you before your surgery. Yeah Universe!</i></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Ah yes, can I not be weird for three seconds? Can I not be starving and dizzy and grumpy and angry and….intense….very very very intense? </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Because normal girl might listen to her best friend and just wait it out. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">A normal girl might not Facebook message him the next afternoon telling him that I had fun that night. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And a normal girl might not have brought her daughter into his work the next day so he could make her the only tea that makes her feel less shitty. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">A normal girl might not have asked him what he was doing on Sunday night.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">A normal girl might not have gone back the next day with her daughter in tow (after he messaged her that said daughter left a toy at the shop). Maybe Miss. Normal wouldn’t have asked again about that night. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But the thing is, I did. And when I went in Sunday afternoon, he said that he was working on some band “stuff” online, and he might go out drinking after. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I, of course, jumped right in, “Hey, if you need a sober drinking buddy…”</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">He laughs (he laughs a lot),” Yeah, sure, if I go out, I’ll write you.”</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Yep, you know how to reach me.” </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I smile sweetly, take my daughter, and walk out the door.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Of course, after he texted about the toy the day before, I texted back. He texted back. Then I texted back with my overabundant wordiness. One text about my daughter’s excitement over his name. Then a subsequent text about the failures of auto-correct. Another text a few hours later, connecting something I saw to our conversation the night before. And then a third text on Sunday evening, asking how his music stuff was going. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Guess how many of those texts he read? I know you’re waiting with baited breath. ZERO. After telling me my daughter left her toy in the store, he never read another text from me. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Guess how awesome my Sunday night not drinking with him was? Yep, never happened. He never read my texts. He never texted me to say he was going out….fuck, he never even texted me to say he wasn’t going out. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It was a whole lot of nothing. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Was I overly-excited? Was I too intense? Did I come on too strong? I have no idea. I have gone over this from every angle with any friend who will even pretend to listen. Of course. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I am completely raw right now. I feel like every nerve is exposed. I did the one thing that, for once in my life, I had actually stuck to NOT doing. Me, of all people. The girl with no shame. The one who goes after whatever with full intensity and intent. I held back for all those years. But, I was hungry, and I couldn’t fucking help myself. And I’m still hungry. The world is still intense. I’m still battling every demon that brought me to the point where I have to starve and then mutilate my body in order to gain some semblance of control. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Even now, I refuse to find another place to do work, so a week after that night, I’m back sitting at a table in my coffee shop with him behind the counter. He made me my tea just the way I like. We bantered. I made him laugh. There is no sign that any of this mattered to him. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">My friends, of course, have lots of theories. He’s got other things on his plate. He’s not attracted to me chubby but might come around when I’m thinner (that’s a whole other post for another day). Or he’s simply not attracted to me. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I am pretty sure that it’s simply not that deep. Just that he’s a good guy who happens to possess many of the qualities I have on my list, who was just being nice and social to a long-time customer who bought him a drink. Yes, he didn’t have to stick by my side all night. Yes, it didn’t feel one-sided. However, what do I know? What does anyone know?</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I do know that I lost my stable fantasy that never hurt me for a reality that doesn’t seem to care either way. That sucks. And either way, I’m hungry and I’m so fucking hurt. </span></div>
<br /><br /></span>Shoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05387285193776811352noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4533361203944779002.post-81205143347051284692017-08-04T12:15:00.000-07:002017-08-04T12:19:20.876-07:00My Body and the Great List of Why<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I’ve been the first one in line for the body positivity movement. I’ve walked around in a world obsessed with thin, proud of my plus-size body. I felt like I was an example of how you didn’t have to follow society’s standards of beauty. My makeup, my clothes, my numerous dates were a big fuck you. My low blood pressure, lack of diabetes and low cholesterol have also been a big fuck you.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But, there’s always a but, isn’t there? I don’t know when it started. It’s not like I never thought about losing weight. I’ve tried it all. My follow-through sucks. But it doesn’t always suck for the reasons one might assume. I get it in my head that I’m perfectly content with myself. That I can can continue on my own path. And for a really long time, this was true. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But then secretly, despite all my rhetoric, something changed. What felt like minor inconveniences became embarrassments. It wasn’t simply being unhappy with myself in pictures (which I am). It wasn’t simply the way I seem to have lost my neck (which also didn’t help).</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b><i> It was the fact that my body was getting in the way of itself. </i></b></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Little things like crossing my legs to bigger things like holding my daughter in my lap or sitting in a booth to much bigger things like not being able to buckle up on an airplane. Yes folks, it’s gotten to that point. I’m that person who takes up the kind of space that threatens people. Although, I’m not one to shrink into the corner even if I am taking up space.</span></div>
<b id="docs-internal-guid-f74f757e-ae71-47a0-b959-fbc3c796f773" style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Two incidences happened almost exactly a year apart. Last summer, I was at Six Flags with my girlfriend, her sister and my son. We spent the day riding roller coasters. Then we got to the big wooden coaster I’d been waiting to ride all day. We waited in line, got to the front, climbed into the seats, and buckled our seatbelts….well, she buckled her seatbelt. I attempted to buckle mine….over and over again. It simply didn’t reach across my body. In front of everyone, I had to climb out of the seat (luckily my girlfriend also climbed out) and go down the exit stairs. When I got down the stairs, I burst out crying. I was horrified. I was lucky to have my girlfriend there. She was so kind and non-judgmental. She held me until the worst passed. </span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">This summer, I went to a punk show in Philly with my best friend. It was 90 degrees outside. We got there too early, so we decided to get something to eat. He chose a cheesesteak place half a mile away. Big deal. Right? Wrong. My body no longer wants to walk half a mile with any semblance of self-respect. I am slow. My hips and butt hurt when I walk. But, I sucked it up. As we walked, he walked ahead of me, I pretended I was just taking my time staring through the windows of the funky Fishtown shops. When in reality, I was forcing one foot in front of the other as I sweated in the oppressive July heat. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Then it happened. We were crossing the street and I looked down. My bright pink converse was untied. UNTIED. I literally had no idea how I was going to tie my shoe. We got across the street and stopped in front of a bank. Best friend waited for me as I stared down at my shoes. Fuck. I was hot, wearing a dress, and tying my shoes had become a difficult endeavor even under the best of circumstances. So, I finagled my body into some strange shape, tried to bend over and half-attempted to tie my shoe with little success. I stood back up and we started walking again. Of course, two blocks later, I had to do it again. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Once we reached the cheesesteak place, I was relieved to see that it was sit-down. However, now that my shoes were somewhat properly tied, I was faced with yet another challenge: sitting in a booth. My body hates booths. My stomach shoves up against them uncomfortably, embarrassingly. A friend told me to sit sideways in the booth. Works like magic until I think about the fact that I have to sit sideways in a booth. Once we walked the half mile back to the show, in the heat, the room was crowded and unconditioned.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b><i> I didn’t want to admit to my best friend that his favorite activity was making me miserable. </i></b></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Or really, I was miserable while standing in the middle of the show. The show would have been fun if I attended it in a different body.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Since the first incident, I made a secret plan for myself. Either I lose the weight by the time I’m 40, or I’ll look into bariatric surgery. A year went by, I tried my normal routine of walking, eating better, weight loss protein shakes, staring at my old Weight Watchers app, stopping, starting, stopping, not caring, not thinking about it...round and round and round. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
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<b><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>When you’re a body positive chubby girl who feels pressure to be the ultimate chubby girl role model, it’s hard to look in the mirror and give yourself permission to dislike your body.</i></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></b></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But, if I’m honest, I don’t recognize myself anymore. There have always been things that I don’t like, but I’ve never been utterly displeased when I look in the mirror.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">A couple weeks after the show, I had a conversation on the phone with my sister. I can’t remember the exact conversation. But I do know that we talked about body image. And for the first time, I said it out loud.</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b><i> “I think about getting bariatric surgery.” </i></b></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> While I’m sure she’s not surprised that it might be a good option for me, she certainly never thought it was a road I would want to go down. But that night, unable to sleep with Best Friend snoring next to me, I thought, “What am I waiting for? Why 40? Why not now?” And in that moment, I knew for sure that what I wanted and what I needed. </span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It’s oddly empowering to be so honest with myself. To come to this realization without anyone else’s opinion.The world I grew up in and the world I live in have always told me that my body wasn’t good enough and that my self-confidence was an anomaly. In turn, the voices in my head remind me how self-confident I am as if I’m failing my confidence if I give into the outside world, I’ll be turning my back on my true self. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i><b>But this is my true self. This is the body I have to exist in-- not the body others look at, think about, react to or judge. </b></i></span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">So now, I start the process. I already spoken to friends who’ve had it, got approved by my cardiologist, signed up for my informational session, and had my surgery consult. This is far from an easy fix. This is the hardest choice in fact. But I’m strong. I’ve powered through two c-sections and recovered from two open heart surgeries. I can do this….</span></div>
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<br />Shoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05387285193776811352noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4533361203944779002.post-80442164797177352972016-10-04T13:03:00.000-07:002016-10-04T13:03:44.672-07:00Receiver of the Slain <div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">She stares up the stairs. He looks down at her with his cold blue eyes, well, at least they feel cold to her. She wouldn’t even know if his body felt warm. Standing on the landing, he stops, covers his mouth and coughs. His eyes widen, his hand full of blood. It drips from his mouth, slides down his chin and onto his stiff white collar shirt. Isabel stands frozen at the bottom of the stairs. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Thor,” she manages to whisper. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And then he tumbles down the steep steps his large athletic body limp, blood trailing. Life suddenly moves in slow motion. Somehow she dials 911. Somehow she kneels down over his body. What do you do when someone you hate is lying on the floor bleeding? Isabel wants a flicker of love and hope to course through her veins, but she is numb. She isn’t a monster. She helps. She opens the door for the EMTs. She watches as they wipe away the blood to administer CPR. She is in the ambulance. At the hospital. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">She is listening to a doctor. She wonders if she should fall to her knees. She has blood on her hands. She feels like Lady MacBeth. Except Lady Macbeth felt guilt. A blood clot, they tell her, filled his lungs. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">"</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">He must have had symptoms, Mrs. Erickson." </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">"Dr. Erickson-Fink,"</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;"> she wants to correct him with his white coat and sympathetic face. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">“I’m sorry. There was nothing we could do.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Thor and his light eyes and blond hair and broad shoulders is dead. His anger is dead. His silence is dead. His cold unforgiving stares- dead. His late night texting with god knows who- dead. And relief washes over her-- blood still covering her hands and her clothes. Tears flow down her face as she sinks to the ground. A nurse reaches out to comfort her. Isabel cringes. Isabel feels like sin. Isabel feels lightened and guilty. Someone takes her arm, lifts her up. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Do you want to see him?” </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Does she want to see him? She closes her eyes and tries to remember what it was like to love him. She tries to remember when his breath on her neck felt like heaven. Instead her brain shifts to the phrase she’s uttered over and over again in her head all these years, “I wish he would just hit me, and then maybe he’d feel bad.” And now he’s dead and they expect her to view his lifeless body. Hasn’t his body always been lifeless? Or maybe just loveless. She wants to scream and run and tell someone the confused tangled thoughts invading her mind. She puts her hand over her eyes. She knows she looks like grief. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Do you want to call someone. His parents, perhaps?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Isabel looks up, wanting to laugh. Thor was alone in America. She used to believe he was alone because his family was heartless. Now she knew that he was heartless. "Was that too dramatic," Isabel wonders. "Does shock bring drama?"</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Soon, she is whisked into his hospital room. The room is cold and white. He is cold and white. She sucks in her breath. For a moment Isabel wants to touch him to take her husband in her arms and breath life back into him. He was already almost not her husband anymore. And now, she is a widow. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">A nurse interrupts her thoughts. "Mrs. Erickson?"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Isabel.”</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Isabel, you can spend as much time as you need dear." </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And then what?” This isn’t a movie where people know what to do. Where people have plans. She is unprepared. His body still lies there. “Cover him up!” she wants to scream. “Leave me alone. Leave me alone. Leave me alone!" Thor. I worked so hard to be brave enough to leave you. I almost worked up the courage. Thor, I can’t remember loving you. I want to feel love right now. I want to feel horror that another human being has dropped dead in front of me. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">She slumps to the floor again. Isabel doesn’t want to see him again. She wants him to be taken away. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">She wants to be alone. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">She is totally alone. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span id="docs-internal-guid-3525a9e5-9139-4bab-a298-31211d005c81"><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">She is free. </span></span>Shoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05387285193776811352noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4533361203944779002.post-31225813859989236732016-02-11T08:47:00.001-08:002016-02-11T08:47:49.735-08:00My Body Cleanse<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Last month, a friend, whose book I am editing, shared with me a new cleanse system she is following: a regimen of two shakes a day and one healthy meal, a host of extra vitamins and two cleanse days per week for the first two weeks. Something about her enthusiasm struck me. And for some reason, I wanted to jump on board. She was happy to guide me. There was something inside me that screamed- I can do this! The question, of course, is why. Why do I want to jump on board. Is it about health? Is it about weight? Is it about body image? Am I giving in? Am I selling out? Am I? Am I? Why Why why? </span></div>
<b id="docs-internal-guid-3d06f4ec-d12d-7db2-eb68-7ef52acc09d0" style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I struggle with this issue on many levels. My most public fight is the body-positive feminist in me who dreams of opening a plus-size boutique and fights for women like me to know they are beautiful despite what society might say otherwise. But my private fight is with my history, the long line of disordered eaters in my lineage, my own defiant eating, my holding onto the weight of rebellion, of grief, and of the struggle to feel normal. I walk around with the feeling that I am beautiful in spite of not because of my body. I walk around with confidence and horror; pride and shame. </span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b><br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The most private answer to why is that I want another baby. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Bam, I said it. Now, it’s out there in the universe. Besides being single (which isn’t a factor that would necessarily stop me from getting pregnant), I don’t feel that my body is in a place to get and be pregnant. I’m not asking for much from my body. I’m not asking to be skinny or even non-plus-size. Just….different. </span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Another piece of the conversation is my heart. People jump to what they think is the obvious reason: my heart. Yes, I just had open heart surgery. Yes, there are people who are overweight that need open heart surgery. My surgery, however, was about structural deformities that I was born with. There is no plaque filling my arteries, my blood pressure is not high, and I don’t even high cholesterol. Why am I even telling you this? Because I am sick of justifying my weighted existence. I am sick of people who think they have the answers to my questions. </span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I have mixed feelings about my body image. On one hand, I am beautiful, I have great style, and as everyone knows, I am never lacking in the dating arena. But then it happened...that moment every fat girl dreads-- being called out by a stranger. Not a total stranger. My best friend’s new boyfriend. I met him for the first time on New Year’s Eve. It was a great night. Or, so I thought. He had one huge problem with the whole night: me. Everything about me irked him: from my cleavage to my clothes to my open conversation. But what irked him the most was my fat. I can’t recall everything my best friend relayed to me, but the gist of it was that he couldn’t understand why I was fat. Why was I occupying so much space? (Frankly, I think every way I occupied space bothered him and not just my weight). </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">She quickly dumped him, but his words stuck with me. They occupied the deepest weakest part of my being. Some dumb, immature, grown up man who cared for no apparent reason (if we had been on a date and he wasn’t attracted to me, that is a completely different story. That I can understand and that doesn’t hurt me) had pointed out my biggest fear--- like he’d unraveled some deep dark secret. I suddenly felt the space I was occupying. My normal confident shell cracked ever so slightly. (okay, maybe more than slightly). </span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">So, then my friend comes along with this shake program and suddenly, I’m like, fuck it. Why not? </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Except after a pretty successful two weeks the culture of the program gets under my skin. I am in awe of the results pictures in our support group, and there are things I really enjoy reading and sharing, but it really isn’t a support group. It’s a virtual pep rally, and I’ve never really been one for pep rallies. I’ve come across real issues. The cleanse drink for the two consecutive cleanse days makes me violently ill. It’s gotten to the point that I can’t even think about it without getting nauseous. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">While my friend has been amazing about it, the group as a whole just seems to think I should work harder at it. Suck it up. Drink it anyway. My body thinks it poison and I should drink it so that I’ll get skinnier faster? Is that healthy? Then there is the fact that you aren’t supposed to eat for two days. Just drink the drink. Last night, I couldn’t do it, so I ate some veggies, and guess what? I felt like I’d failed. Eating veggies made me feel like a failure. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Am I setting myself up for disordered eating? What kind of example am I setting for my kids? </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">That’s the one I struggle with the most. I didn’t have someone to teach me healthy eating. I was taught to fear food. And to not eat in front of my children seems like a terrible idea. If I should change anything, it should be modeling a positive, healthy, and smart connection to food. </span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I have no really answers right now, just a million questions I’m throwing out into the universe. I have no intention of giving up the program. For the most part, I really enjoy it, but I need a little more reality with my cleanse. I need someone else to say- this sucks! I’m miserable. I’m confused. I’m struggling. and I want the answer to be...me too. me too.</span></div>
Shoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05387285193776811352noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4533361203944779002.post-82286087661699853412015-04-16T20:36:00.001-07:002015-04-16T20:37:38.896-07:0038 weeks<p dir="ltr">I want to write her name in the sky.<br>
And watch it blow away in the wind.<br>
 <br>
I want to scream her name with joy<br>
Pronouncing every syllable <br>
Savoring each sound like fine wine <br>
Or rich chocolate cake.</p>
<p dir="ltr">I want to fold perfect paper airplanes filled with each letter <br>
And fly them into space.<br>
 <br>
I want her name in a bottle <br>
Across the sea.</p>
<p dir="ltr">I want her name to mean something in this world.<br>
I want to know it is more than a whisper from my mouth <br>
Or a dream inside my head.</p>
<p dir="ltr">I want the idea of her to be <br>
Honored and exalted. <br>
  She is holy and her name is holy <br>
 <br>
Her name is my love <br>
Her name is forgiveness<br>
Redemption<br>
And light<br>
Her name is my devotion <br>
my loss <br>
my grief <br>
my pain <br>
my wonder </p>
<p dir="ltr">Her name is my secret </p>
<p dir="ltr">My heart is broken but when they cut it open, no matter how they poke and prod,<br>
her name will remain in my swishing heartbeat <br>
in the oxygen that fills my body<br>
Lifting my exhaustion.<br>
<br>
It is her name that pulls at my heart <br>
Making it beat faster </p>
<p dir="ltr">She's the angel that pushed me down to earth with my broken heart <br>
The only sign of her remaining in the indentation <br>
of her fingertip above my lips.<br>
Her fingertip that <u>erased</u> my memory <br>
leaving me with a lifetime of searching for the answer <br>
to some foggy thought I can't quite catch </p>
<p dir="ltr">She's the piece that will mend my broken heart <br>
not enough for perfection, but enough for life <br>
So, she doesn't have to save me again </p>
<p dir="ltr">Her name is a blessing <br>
She is my blessing <br>
May her memory be a blessing</p>
Shoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05387285193776811352noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4533361203944779002.post-26092557445254042032015-03-31T06:06:00.001-07:002015-03-31T06:06:59.181-07:00Liberation Theology<p dir="ltr">When I was editor of the Jewish VOICE, I wrote a <a href="http://editions.us.com/jewishvoice_0414/files/mobile/index.html#42">reflections</a> article on my problems with Passover. As Passover approaches, I thought it would be good to share.</p>
<p dir="ltr">Liberation Theology<br>
By Shoshana Kohn, Editor</p>
<p dir="ltr">I spent a long time staring at a blank page.  Why? Because as a part of a greater Jewish community, I realize that we are hold our own beliefs and these beliefs mean everything to us.  However, I think most of us struggle with something in Judaism, and if we don’t talk about it, and share it, we may never get over that struggle.  So, let me start by saying, while you, dear reader, may not agree, I, Shoshana Kohn, am a Biblical skeptic.  Therefore, as I grow older, I find myself more and more troubled with Passover.  <br>
When it comes to historical fact and the bible, the academic world is very complicated. We know King Solomon was real. We know there was a Kingdom of Israel and a Kingdom of Judah.  Clearly, we know there was a Babylonian exile. However, other stories are historically murky.  The Exodus is one of the best examples of historical murkiness.  According to Prof. Israel Finkelstein in his book The Bible Unearthed: Archaeology's New Vision of Ancient Israel and the Origin of Its Sacred Texts: <br>
There is no evidence that the Israelites were in Egypt, not the slightest, not the least bit of evidence. There are no clues, either archaeological or historical; to prove that the Israelites built monuments in Egypt, even though the biblical description of the famine in the Land of Israel may be accurate. We know from archaeology that there was a migration of Canaanites to Egypt in the first half of the second millennium BCE, that these migrants built communities in the area of the Nile Delta, and that the Egyptians afterward expelled them from there. Perhaps that is the ancient memory, I don't know.<br>
Many other archaeologists would agree that there is no physical evidence in the Sinai: no bones, no food refuge, no trash, and no tools— nothing that proves a people wandered through the desert.  More so, the Egyptians didn’t speak of us in their stories. So, archeologically speaking, it didn’t happen. <br>
Of course, this begs the question: just because we aren’t aware of the evidence, does it mean that it doesn’t exist?  I would argue that the scope and breath of the investigation is so great that the archeologists are pretty spot on. Think of slaves in America: the books, the sales receipts, the physical remnants of slave labor throughout the south; the evidence goes on and on.  While yes, the story of the Hebrew slaves happened thousands of years ago, however, we know the kinds of records the Egyptians kept: the elaborate burials, the pyramids, and yet, the Israelites aren’t part of their narrative. Someone might argue that they wanted erase the narrative, but we possess too much information about the history of Egypt to assume something has gone missing. <br>
Frankly, to me the greatest wonder of the Torah is that an intricate, complicated piece of literature has sustained itself all these years. Its power is in its stories. Its humanity, its characters, its life lessons. It is not simply a roadmap to how to live our lives, but a mythology that speaks to the very essence of what it means to be human. We grapple with those tales together. We analyze these characters we argue their words, their actions, their motivations. It is a millennial long conversation that keeps going.</p>
<p dir="ltr">And yet, at Passover, I take pause because through the recitation of the liberation from slavery, these stories morph from myth into historical fact. We recite so that we never forget what it meant to be slaves. However, in my mind,  I fear we have created a liberation theology without liberation.<br>
This stops me dead in my tracks. How dare we call ourselves slaves when we live among the grandchildren of slaves? How dare we call ourselves slaves when women and children are sold into modern slavery?</p>
<p dir="ltr">But then- where did many slaves gain courage liberate themselves? The Exodus from Egypt. It is our story that we cultivated over time, our stories that we told and retold over thousands of years, that we, the People of the Book, upheld, carried, passed down over generation after generation. It is our stories that even with the creation of a new religion among other nations, was kept alive.<br>
Why? Because it struck them just as it struck us: as worthy, as life giving, as strength.<br>
No, we weren't slaves in Egypt, but we've been captives and wanderers, we've been tortured and broken- only to rise up again and again. We use our book to build community. We use our book to build a great democratic nation-whose own strengths and weaknesses are a reflection of the stories that have come before.<br>
When Harriett Tubman led slaves through the Underground Railroad, they called her Moses. When slaves secretly learned how to read, they read the Bible, and in it they saw a people, not only yearning to be free, but a people who found their way to liberation.<br>
Our stories are a light to the nations not because they are fact, but because it doesn't matter if they are fact. They are power.<br>
As we sit down at the Passover table, we are giving our children the power of these stories. And maybe, just maybe, we can keep using our stories to bring about liberation until no one else needs to be freed. </p>
Shoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05387285193776811352noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4533361203944779002.post-67687705380554995092015-03-02T15:15:00.000-08:002015-03-02T15:15:55.663-08:00This Is 35<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">This morning I read an article on Huffington Post, <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/lindsey-mead-russell/this-is-38-this-is-midlife_b_3451293.html" target="_blank">This is 38</a>. It didn't sit right with me. Not because her reality wasn't truthful, but it was so different than my own reality. So, on the edge of my 35th birthday, I thought I'd write my own version. (</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>And, a note to the grammar police, I decided to write 35 instead of thirty-five.</i></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">)</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>This is 35</b></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;">35 is rejections you thought would be over by now keep coming. It is losing the job that looked so impressive on paper. It is realizing that you hated your boss anyway. It is wondering where that perfect job you worked so hard to have will jump in your lap. At 35, looking towards 40 is much more appealing than looking backwards at 30. Being 25 sounds awful. Getting carded is no longer fun; it’s just confusing. </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Being 35 means leaving your old life and starting another. It means ex-husbands and anger. Missing children and sadness. It means that being the First Wife is a much happier life than being the Forever Wife. 35 means finding the friends you only dreamed about, feeling comfortable in your own skin, and learning you don’t have to talk to everyone- especially the ones you dislike. 35 is the great art of saying no.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Happiness is nothing like you imagined it. Sorrow is more likely to come from the days and days without your children than being stood up for a date. It also means that you still stay out late with your friends, drink too much sometimes, but feel much worse with a hangover. </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">35 is learning the curves of someone else’s body. It is the kind of confusion you missed in your twenties because you were already married. It is wondering if you’ll ever have another baby because time is ticking away and you can’t wrap your head around someone new and baby-worthy. It is waiting for the other shoe to drop. It is cowering and crying and praying that next fight won’t come with silence, punishment or cruelty. 35 is not knowing what better looks like. </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It is nights on the couch drinking wine with your best friends. It is brunch and bookstores. It is wondering why your new girlfriend doesn’t realize turning the heat up to 75 costs a crazy amount of money. It is breathing deeply, so you don’t get mad. </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">35 is letting your daughter sleep in your bed and overindulging your son with inappropriate video games. It is staring at wife number two unable to see why she is appealing. It is the realization that you wasted too much time worrying about the pretty girls. </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20.7000007629395px; white-space: pre-wrap;">It is knowing she is nothing like you. It is wondering if he secretly hurts her too. </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;">It is hearing your three-year-old call some other woman mommy because she’s too young to remember life without her. </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It is wondering what you ever saw in him. It is a door slammed in your face. A fight on the lawn. It is a judge. It is battles. It is freedom even when the freedom feels hard and scary. </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It is seeing your parents in a whole new light. It is losing your last grandparent. It is arguing with your sister about your childhood and laughing at your ridiculousness. </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;">It is a large empty house that echoes when you walk. It is paying teenagers to shovel your sidewalks and jumping your car with your own cables. </span></div>
<span id="docs-internal-guid-95be6b91-dcac-be5d-14cc-cc1f1d350a8f"></span><br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It is wishing you hadn’t waited so long. It is bringing women together. It is knowing you aren’t alone. It is staring death in the face and living life anyway. It is numbness and madness. Desperation and exaltation. It is wonder and relief. Pain and chaos. It is shame and the need for forgiveness but not knowing where to start. It is desire and redemption. </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">35 is trying to figure out who the fuck you are and striving to find who you want to become. Because becoming isn’t over. Becoming is just beginning. 35 isn’t old. It isn’t an ending. It is just the beginning of joy.</span></div>
Shoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05387285193776811352noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4533361203944779002.post-28866025229215430522014-10-15T20:56:00.002-07:002014-10-15T20:56:42.029-07:00LonelyHe is tall and slender with a crooked nose, big eyes, full lips, a steady professional job, and a neatly button-down shirt. His ordinariness is so extradinary it makes my heart ache. He belly laughs at my goofy, well-timed joke. His wedding ring laughs at me when it bumps against the table.<br />
<br />
I am unsure what hurts more: the baby at the next table or him.<br />
<br />
Both of them hold someone else's joy and on another day, in another week, in another year, neither would grab my attention with such strangling unyielding force.<br />
<br />
And oddly, it's his force that pulls me more than the baby. Because, well, through all of this, my lack of a partner has left me emptier than I've ever known I could be. Even while pregnant, the loneliness grabbed me and pulled me down forcing the howl out of my throat.<br />
And don't tell me about the kind of loneliness you feel when your partner isn't really your partner. I know every nook and cranny. I know every sharp edge.<br />
<br />
But I can gather as many family and friends around me as I want. And they can give me strength, but this loss is mine and mine alone. There is no other hand to hold, no other heart that's broken, no one to even feel annoyed at because they aren't grieving the way in want them to grieve.<br />
<br />
I don't even know how to grieve.<br />
<br />
But I know how to want and wish. And that ordinary looks so good. It looks safe.<br />
<br />
And I am no longer numb.Shoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05387285193776811352noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4533361203944779002.post-24164230473401929572014-10-09T11:36:00.002-07:002014-10-09T12:22:29.457-07:00Numb<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>A few months ago, my friend <a href="http://justjasmineblog.com/" target="_blank">Jasmine</a> posed on a question on
her Facebook wall: What makes you Howl? Right now, the last thing I want
to do is howl. Right now, all I want to numbness. Numbness and an empty
head. This, of course, is asking a lot
from me...</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At the end of a long summer of unemployment and dating, I
found myself still single, still unemployed, and newly pregnant. After a moment of hesitation, a scan on one
internet site on the abortion pill that after ten seconds left me in tears, I
knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that I was having baby number three. Unlike my other two children, this child
would be mine and mine alone. While the
complications of my current life would make this a challenge, my parents,
sister, and close group of supportive female friends allowed me to see that
this task would not be impossible. Secretly,I was delighted. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Secretly, because for the first time in my
life, I was completely taken over by an unfamiliar emotion: fear of what other
people would think. More specifically,
fear of how my tight knit Jewish community would react. While many find me
quirky and endlessly entertaining, my lack of social currency and refusal to fit in can be a hard pill to swallow. I've mostly accepted this reality. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As the weeks went on, the nausea enveloped me and the muscle memories of my other pregnancies made it hard to hide my newly pregnant belly. However, every ounce of me felt the need to hide. I stopped going to my coffee shop
filled with Jews, avoided my married friend’s morning walk around the new
walking loop at the JCC, and stayed away from any place I might run into people
from my community. My secret happiness was overshadowed by this constant worry
of their judgment. When Rosh Hashanah rolled around, I stood over the Torah to chant. All I could
think, “They know I’m pregnant. They can see my belly.” So, of course, I lost
my place. After attending a Jewish funeral filled with much of the community and Yom Kippur, I was convinced it must be obvious. Scenarios of shame ran through my head.
Gossip. Quiet whispers. Disapproval. All things I've never cared about before filled my head and overtook my joy. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And yet, in reality, no one I actually told ever tried to take
my joy. My friends and family were completely supportive and kind. They allowed
me to feel happy. But the shame filled me. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then on Monday morning, after noticing light spotting, I called the doctor. They sent me in for an ultrasound. I was sure that it was nothing. It felt like
nothing. I still looked pregnant. I still wanted to throw up. I was just being
overly cautious. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When the nurse rolled over my belly, she said she was having
a hard time getting a good picture. She
changed to a transvaginal ultrasound, kept looking, and then said, “There’s no
sign of movement. No heartbeat.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I tried
to get her to try again. I asked her to get someone else to look. She measured
the baby and said it must have stopped growing at 8 weeks 5 days.
It had been a while. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A physician’s assistant came in and gave me the sad
speech. The one that makes you want to punch people in the face. The speech
that tells you that it’s not your fault and that it happens all the time. And I
can try again very soon. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
Try again very soon. That’s the big fat cosmic joke of it
all. I’m an unemployed single mother. I have no partner or independent wealth.
This was a happy accident. But, trying again soon is an impossibility. My third child will have to
wait until undetermined time in the future that I cannot even fathom: a time
where I either have a partner or am in a position to realistically and smartly
do this alone. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And I wasted all that happiness on shame. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On Tuesday, my best friend drove me to the surgery center
where I had a D and E to remove the fetus. She drove me home. Then brought me
dinner. Two other friends stopped over that night to bring me movies and
pumpkin pie. Then three more friends visited me the next day while I had to
stay home resting. All anyone brought me
was love and kindness and good words, and sympathy. No one made me feel that
this wasn't a loss or it’s better this way because of the complications of my
life. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And I realize now that my shame was misplaced. My fear unnecessary.
I hid for nothing. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Because miscarriage is so common, we are all told to keep
this secret until everything is safe. But the thing is, nothing is actually ever
really safe, When you are walking through life without a partner, doing
something that usually requires a partner, it’s very lonely. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So now, for the moment, while I understand that my usual
self would howl and scream and cry uncontrollably, I sit on a plane on the way
home to the safely of my parents and my childhood friends. I<br />
cannot howl. I am
numb and I pray that I can sit inside this numbness until I am ready. </div>
Shoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05387285193776811352noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4533361203944779002.post-30820031611217182982014-08-12T13:44:00.000-07:002014-08-12T13:44:13.176-07:00Tattoo Tuesday: Am Yisrael Chai<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="color: #333333; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Last January, my friend Galit Breen published an article on<a href="http://www.allparenting.com/my-life/articles/969707/how-do-jews-feel-about-tattoos" target="_blank"> Jews and Tattoos</a>. I was lucky enough to be a part of it. Today, I've added more ink to my body. Like everything I do, my ink has everything to do with my Jewishness...</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="color: #333333; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I
am a tattooed Jew. Most of my</span><span style="color: #222222; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> tattoos
define my Judaism. I reject the prohibition against tattoos. I am not
committing idolatry nor am I debasing my body by making it more
beautiful. I am a Reform
Jew. I am the mother of two children whose father is not a Jew. I am a Queer
Jew. I am a Jew who loves, honors, respects, intellectualizes and questions my
people and my religion every second of every day. My Jewishness is at the core
of my very being, and my tattoos reflect my identity. The tattoo on my
leg is Eve, naked in front of a tree, holding an apple with a Torah scroll
wrapped around her body. The words- <i>Etz Chaim</i>- tree of life are
above her head. Frankly, it’s a lot of information to unpack. For me, Eve
is the most important character in the entire Torah. She represents what it
means to be human at our very core- and by eating from the fruit of the tree of
knowledge, she gave us our own humanity. While we’d love to see the world
wrapped in goodness- it simply is not all good. The world is a complicated
place. We are complicated creatures. We were never meant to stay in that
metaphorical garden of perfection. The Torah scroll is wrapped around
Eve’s body because it is a book filled with complicated creatures: imperfect
heroes, confusing villains, authentic parents, arrogant children, selfless
friends, loving leaders, lecherous lovers, upright kings, and wavering
prophets. We are all these things. God is all these things. My
tattoo reminds me of the beauty of this humanity every day. And when people see
it, I get to talk about my Judaism. I get to tell the world that I am a
Jew, which leads to the tattoo on my right wrist- it is the Hebrew words:
<i>Hineni</i>—here I am. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><i>Hineni</i>
is mentioned in the Torah many times- the first in the Akedah when God asks
Abraham to sacrifice his son Isaac. It’s another one of those complicated
stories that speaks to the very core of our humanity. In it, God calls out to
Abraham and Abraham answers, “Hineni!” Here I am.</span><span style="color: #222222;"> It is the start of a test, a
downward spiral, the breaking up of a family, a lesson in morality, a lesson in
parenting, a physical walk up a hill that leads to the most horrific moments
in Isaac’s life. And yet, Isaac does not die—He lives. Here I am: three
words that remind us that there is life underneath it all. That despite pain-
we live.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNfsONd_muVEav9SdoFUFGCOYFsZns9IYnG0Kvl4QUuWtwvz-_c3YbNftMvMEZ_gVltTKIJBuZgRWbGwaMrgqfYXNquSQyyXlX3fPcMXskIjMNNU2JImRgjhMvBVYy8lOCmF91DpgE0gI/s1600/2014-08-12+16.16.11.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNfsONd_muVEav9SdoFUFGCOYFsZns9IYnG0Kvl4QUuWtwvz-_c3YbNftMvMEZ_gVltTKIJBuZgRWbGwaMrgqfYXNquSQyyXlX3fPcMXskIjMNNU2JImRgjhMvBVYy8lOCmF91DpgE0gI/s1600/2014-08-12+16.16.11.jpg" height="320" width="185" /></a></div>
<span style="background: white; color: #222222; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Today, I found myself again, sitting in a chair with a needle coloring my arm.
I sat in that chair from a place of great privilege: the privilege of being an
American Jew in the comfort of my small East Coast city with a strong Jewish
community and, frankly, rather apathetic citizens. I am safe. I am not
questioned. I am not harassed. From a great distance, I watch from friends and
family run to bomb shelters to protect themselves from Hamas' twisted revenge
fantasy. I pour over articles explaining over and over that Israel has every
right to defend itself. I am stunned by the acts of Antisemitism spreading
like black plague through Europe. I am saddened by the far left's inability to
see the truth. But, most of all, I am helpless. </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #222222; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">When
people ask where my name comes from, I don’t tell them it’s Hebrew or even
Jewish, it’s Israeli. My name is a challenge. Inside of shying away, it
announces who I am—even more, who my people are. But, I don’t walk around with
a name tag. As</span><span style="color: #222222; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span><a href="http://blogs.timesofisrael.com/author/eitan-chitayat/"><b><span style="color: #346f99; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">Eitan Chitayat</span></b></a>,
so brilliantly wrote in his article in <i>the Times of Israel</i> <a href="http://blogs.timesofisrael.com/im-with-yellow-star/#ixzz3ACrUow2F">“Down
with the Yellow Star</a>,” while we no longer walk around with Yellow Jewish
Stars, there is something empowering about taking their power back:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 16.8pt; vertical-align: baseline;">
<i><br /></i>
<i>“I want to wear a yellow star above my left breast
where each and every Holocaust victim was forced to don one. I want to
walk around with a yellow star on every solitary piece of clothing I own.
On my American Apparel V-neck, my Nike sweatshirt, Ralph Lauren sweater, my
Champion hoodie, my Diesel button-down, H&M jacket, Adidas jersey and Gap
blazer. I’ll wear it at the beach on my bare chest if I have to. </i><br />
<i>I want to walk down the streets of
Paris and confront <a href="http://youtu.be/ORUypX4JQJs" title="france"><span style="color: #346f99; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">people like this</span></a>.
Outside the White house near <a href="http://pamelageller.com/2014/08/video-attack-muslims-attack-pro-israel-marine-dc-pro-terror-demo.html/" title="white house"><span style="color: #346f99; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">these friendly haters confronting an ex-marine</span></a>. In <a href="http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2638282/Three-people-shot-dead-anti-Semitic-attack-Jewish-Museum-Brussels-man-backpack-opened-fire-fled.html" title="Brussels"><span style="color: #346f99; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">Brussels</span></a>, the <a href="http://www.aleteia.org/en/world/video/black-flag-of-isis-flies-in-netherlands-6413642232758272" title="Netherlands"><span style="color: #346f99; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">Netherlands</span></a>, the <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ov00rNamNig" title="berlin"><span style="color: #346f99; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">mosques of
Berlin</span></a>, in streets of <a href="http://bcblue.wordpress.com/2014/07/31/video-palestinian-supporters-shout-heil-hitler-during-calgary-for-israel-rally/" title="calgary"><span style="color: #346f99; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">Canada</span></a> – and England especially – <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZMSM5vvAmYs" title="galloway"><span style="color: #346f99; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">to meet this
idiot</span></a>. I’d like to go to campuses in the States, like this one at
the University of California, San Diego <span style="color: #346f99; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;"><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8fSvyv0urTE" title="San Diego">to talk to this
girl here – I’ll be wearing my yellow star.</a>"</span></i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeCQ9urhP7360vmyNYCS6bA3xTYjHVpmv4NCHG6OorlLQvt04huwLaZH48eqwYqy0VywG9Nfnu9JoBttE-4H0B9nOLxdFQfGBmU_4kSxQKd-Q7b7ggZYBRNiIT5OhL_pBuzLZ56vx9Wn0/s1600/20140812_161701.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeCQ9urhP7360vmyNYCS6bA3xTYjHVpmv4NCHG6OorlLQvt04huwLaZH48eqwYqy0VywG9Nfnu9JoBttE-4H0B9nOLxdFQfGBmU_4kSxQKd-Q7b7ggZYBRNiIT5OhL_pBuzLZ56vx9Wn0/s1600/20140812_161701.jpg" height="320" width="180" /></a></div>
<br />
<span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; padding: 0in;"> My name is my yellow
star. My tattoos are my yellow star. Before I even read the article, I too
wanted something that anyone that saw my arm immediately knew- SHE IS A
JEW. </span> <span style="border: none windowtext 1.0pt; mso-border-alt: none windowtext 0in; padding: 0in;">I wanted a tattoo that forced strangers to ask- what does your
tattoo say? So, I searched for an image that spoke to me. I searched for something
that screamed out my Jewishness and my peoplehood and my love of a far away
land </span> <span style="border: none windowtext 1.0pt; mso-border-alt: none windowtext 0in; padding: 0in;">whose right to exist is questioned whether
it’s sitting quietly or defending its citizens.</span> <span style="border: none windowtext 1.0pt; mso-border-alt: none windowtext 0in; padding: 0in;"> While looking for images, I came across graffiti in Israel:
a large Jewish star with the words, Am Yisrael Chai underneath. The People of
Israel Live. The star is blue. The words are blue and, because it is graffiti,
the paint drips. It is the graffiti of a modern city. It is the graffiti of
pride. It is graffiti of defiance. And, now, it is graffiti down my arm that screams to the whole world: I am a Jew. I am alive. I am proud. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; padding: 0in;">So, today, I sat in that chair as
blue ink sliced through my arm and from the pain and noise of the needle came a
Star of David and the words,<i> Am Yisrael Chai</i>. I love my Judaism. I love our
stories, our mythology, our truths, and our sense of justice. I love our
people. And my love is written all over my body for the whole world to see. </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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Shoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05387285193776811352noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4533361203944779002.post-3123486202107271362012-07-09T21:45:00.001-07:002012-07-09T21:45:16.199-07:00Jealousy's Funeral<br />
<span xmlns="">I'm staring at the coffin, plain, wood, filled, when she walks into the sanctuary. I can feel her as her heels pad softly against the flat brown carpet. The weight of the air shifts. Particles gather around me, closing my throat. All I can smell is my wife on her clothes. It's as if their pheromones mixed together just to taunt me. My body heaves forward. I try in vain to blow out stale fearful air, but her presence suffocates me. The word lover whispers in my ear from some unknown voice as I tightly close my eyes. I'm sure the congregation thinks I'm holding back tears for her. I am. I'm not. I don't know. I've never felt jealous in my whole life. I've never understood the nights my wife would cry in our bed or on the floor because she felt I was keeping some dark secret. For her, jealousy lived just under the surface, a constant threat to our marriage. Her crying pissed me off so much; I fantasized about hitting her, just to shut her up. Every time I thought we we're okay, she'd start to question me. We were trapped in a constant cycle.</span><br />
<span xmlns=""><br /></span><br />
<span xmlns="">Yet somehow, we had an open marriage. Well, open for her. Women came and went from her life. I had one rule: she had to tell me. Sometimes, we'd be driving in the car or sitting in bed, and she'd ask, "Don't you worry?"</span><br />
<span xmlns=""><br /></span><br />
<span xmlns="">"About what?"</span><br />
<span xmlns=""><br /></span><br />
<span xmlns="">"These women? Don't you worry I'll fall in love?"</span><br />
<span xmlns=""><br /></span><br />
<span xmlns="">"Fall in love?" I found this question laughable. "I'm confident in us. You won't fall in love." I never believed for one minute that she'd fall in love with these women. Why would she? Women were her friends. She could easily fuck them and keep that friendship. It never crossed my mind she'd fall in love.</span><br />
<span xmlns=""><br /></span><br />
<span xmlns="">I open my eyes and tilt my head back to look over my shoulder. She's taking a seat in the pew a few rows back. I see a tear running down her cheek. "Why are you crying?" I want to scream. "You can't cry. She's my wife. My wife! This is my grief. Why are you here?"</span><br />
<span xmlns=""><br /></span><br />
<span xmlns="">My heart beats faster and faster. I know why she's here. I know that it's her grief too, and I hate it. I hate that I let this happen. I hate that I have to share. I hate that I can't fucking breath. I hate that she had to die for me to feel this.</span><br />
<span xmlns=""><br /></span><br />
<span xmlns="">I look at the coffin. I look back at her. She cocks her head to the side and gives me a sad smile. My heart speeds up more. I blow out air. I stand up.</span><br />
<span xmlns=""><br /></span><br />
<span xmlns="">Everything goes black.</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://yeahwrite.me/65-open-summer/"><img alt="read to be read at yeahwrite.me" src="http://yeahwrite.me/wp-content/uploads/2012/07/red_retro_64.png" /></a>Shoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05387285193776811352noreply@blogger.com23tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4533361203944779002.post-5773398476228854712012-06-25T19:33:00.002-07:002012-06-25T19:33:58.204-07:00Resurrecting Levine<i><b><span style="color: #990000; font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></b></i><br />
<i><b><span style="color: #990000; font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></b></i><br />
<i><b><span style="color: #990000; font-size: x-small;">This story was part of a writing challenge proposed by my American Jewish Lit professor in grad school. After reading <a href="http://books.google.com/books?id=Kl_AvUtJ1EgC&lpg=PA32&dq=The%20Angel%20Levine&pg=PA31#v=onepage&q=The%20Angel%20Levine&f=false" target="_blank">Bernard Malamud's short story</a> from 1955, "The Angel Levine," about a Jewish black angel who saves an old Jewish tailor in order to get his wings. The story looks deeply at Jewish identity, posing the question: what makes a Jew? </span></b></i><br />
<i><b><span style="color: #990000; font-size: x-small;">In turn, my professor asked, "where did this angel come from? What was his life when he was alive? Was he born Jewish?"</span></b></i><br />
<br />
<br />
<b>Resurrecting Levine</b><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<br />
I grew up during the Harlem Renaissance,
the son of an entrepreneur who made his money opening speakeasies in Jungle
alley. Jazz musicians, homosexuals, bohemians, and upper class whites flocked
to his establishments. In 1926, when I
was four-years-old, we moved to a Hamilton Heights brownstone. At the time
(although much has changed) Hamilton heights was a desirable neighborhood for
affluent whites, and my father’s success with his speakeasies sprinkled
throughout Harlem allowed us to live among whites. I remember the whiteness of my neighbor’s skin
was odd to me. It’s not that I’d
never seen white folks; I just always assumed they were curious creatures with
stringy hair and colorless faces. Our first week in our house, I watched the boy
next door kick his pale legs against the steps. I’d never seen a white boy with
shorts on before.<br />
<br />
“Mama! Mama!” I screamed out into our shiny new kitchen. <br />
<br />
She came running into the living room. “What
Levi?” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Look Mama. Look at that boy.
What’s wrong with him?” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“What do you mean, what’s wrong
with him? He’s sitting on the steps. Whew, boy. You scared me.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“But, Mama. His legs…he got white
leg disease.” My mother just stared at me trying not to laugh.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Child, that boy is not diseased.
Look at his face. What color is his face?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I paused and studied his light
brown hair and pale pale skin. “White.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“ So, if his face is white, what
color are his legs?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Brown.” I answered confidently. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She cocked her head to the side
and let out a laugh. “Why would a white boy have brown legs?” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Cuz everyone’s got brown legs
Mama. Everyone.” I replied stubbornly folding my arms around my body.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You think Miss Wineblatt’s got brown
legs?” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yes.” I answered defiantly, now
secretly embarrassed by my fears. I suppose my mother’s employer, a wealthy
Jewish society lady, did not have brown legs.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Despite my father’s success, Mama
insisted on working. My mother, a
proponent of Prohibition, found the speakeasies distasteful, so even after my
father provided a comfortable home for us, she stayed attached to an old Jewish
spinster on the Upper West Side. Mama worked for crumbling Miss Wineblatt for
as long as I can recall. She cleaned her
apartment, did her cooking, and helped her shop. I was never sure who needed the other one
more. My father begged Mama to act like a respectable lady and stop living at
the beck and call of some old Jew.
However, Mama refused. Miss
Wineblatt was getting on in age, and Mama couldn’t bear the thought of Miss
Wineblatt stumbling though her vast apartment alone. Plus, she didn’t need no women of ill-repute,
who hung around Pop’s lap-joints, ruining her days. At least, Miss Wineblatt had some class. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Miss Wineblatt’s class, in my
young mind, was questionable. Her
clothes never seemed to fit and I swear I’d see her drool into her lunch as I
watched her eat. Plus, Mama and Miss
Wineblatt fought constantly. “Oh Mother
Wineblatt” she’d scream, “You gotta listen to me when I talk!” She’d scream in a bellowing voice when Miss
Wineblatt insisted on doing anything independently of Mama. “You can’t be
wondering around this apartment, half-dressed, someone might see you. “ </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I do whatever I want to do
Ella.” Miss Wineblatt would scream back. “You’re always pushing. I maybe be
old, but I’m not dead yet. You should be so lucky that I die.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then she’d look over at me with her wrinkly
face, and place her tiny vein-filled hand on my cheek. “Look at this boy. Levi,
such a boy. With a good Jewish
name. You should be home with him, not
pushing me around.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I winced when she
said my name. Even at four, my name got strange looks. Levi did sound like a Jewish boy and not a
black boy from Harlem. However, after years of working for Miss Wineblatt, Mrs.
Ella Anderson grew to love the foreign sounding names the Jewish community bestowed
upon their children. She thought Levi was lovely and respectable, so that‘s
what she named me. Pop might have
argued, but he’d found if he let Mama make her own decisions, she’d stop making
decisions for him. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Read on next week for Part 2</i>.</div>
<a href="http://yeahwrite.me/63-open-challenge/"><img alt="read to be read at yeahwrite.me" src="http://yeahwrite.me/wp-content/uploads/2012/06/red_retro_63.png" /></a>Shoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05387285193776811352noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4533361203944779002.post-51557535788419376212012-06-11T20:17:00.000-07:002012-06-11T20:17:36.769-07:00Hanging<br />
<br />
For years, I taught Elie Wiesel's Holocaust memoir, <i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Night-Oprahs-Book-Club-Wiesel/dp/0374500010/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1339469652&sr=8-1" target="_blank">Night</a>, </i>in my community college classroom. <i>Night</i> is the story of Elie and his father's life inside the Auschwitz and Buchenwald concentration camps during the Holocaust. It is spare, heart-wrenching, and honest. He tells the tale of a people moved from humanity to degradation and the unraveling of relationships caused by such inhumanity. Many times, broken relationships were that of fathers and sons, but they were also broken relationships with G-d. Elie struggles to hold onto his relationship with his own father while, at the same time, despairs over the violent breakdown of his relationship with G-d.<br />
<br />
While teaching, my students and I found ourselves stopping at the same passage:<br />
<br />
A young boy is arrested and hanged by the Nazis for not giving up his superior who was planning a revolt. The entire camp stood helplessly by as they watched this young boy die slowly. While death surrounds them everyday, the boy's death beats them down. His hanging even shakes the guards.<br />
<br />
Beyond my classroom, this passage propelled me into my graduate research. However, the one piece missing from the conversation was the perspective of this Jewish boy slowly dying as his Jewish community powerlessly watches.<br />
<br />
So, I wrote what I imagined his was thinking:<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst">
<b>Hanging</b><br />
<br />
Swinging from nowhere</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
Darkness engulfs me. </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
They are forced to
watch me </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
Hang here </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
Swing here </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
Choke here</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
I listen to their cries
below me. </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
Muffled, anguished</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
“Where is God?” an old
man screams</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
Shouts </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
Prays</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
Withers</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
Their empty eyes stare
at me </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
Begging me, </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
Looking to me for
answers </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
To their ancient riddle</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
Their timeless prayer</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
“Where is God?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
Is he inside our dying
bodies? </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
Is he in our enemy’s large,
animal hands?</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
Is he in the men
watching their sons </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
Turn into monsters?</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
Is he in the elderly languishing
</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
Back into children?</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
A teenager’s eyes meet
mine: my tongue hanging from my mouth. </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
My lungs silently
gasping for breath</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
He is skin and bones
and hope and horror</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
He is change and sorrow
and fear and life</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
He is my future, my
past</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
He is my language, my
story, my epitaph</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
He is my God; He is my
people</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
He is my reason for
hanging</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
“Where is God?” they
shriek</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
Watching me hang here</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
My people ache</div>
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<a href="http://yeahwrite.me/61-open-challenge/"><img alt="read to be read at yeahwrite.me" src="http://yeahwrite.me/wp-content/uploads/2012/06/red_retro_61.png" /></a>Shoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05387285193776811352noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4533361203944779002.post-30029262195178502452012-05-25T20:08:00.001-07:002012-05-25T20:08:18.225-07:00The Great Rabbi Speaks<span style="font-family: inherit;">The other night, I was putting the Great Rabbi to bed. He's a bit fearful of the dark, so I've put a rooster nightlight in his room. As he was climbing under the covers, he said that he wanted to talk about the Guardian rooster. So, I told him to tell me about it: </span><br />
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i><b>The rooster guides me through the dark shadows of the wicked.</b></i></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">" Huh?" I thought. Did he really just say that. So, I asked him if he wanted me to write down what he had to say about his Animal Guardians. </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;"> He asked me to share it on my blog. So, here it is word for word. It is unedited. I did not change any words. I did not write any of it. All I did was transcribe his words:</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">My Dear Animal Guardian</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">By The Great Rabbi</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">The Rooster guides me through the dark shadows of the wicked.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">The Lion guards me from the medieval</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">The mighty Whale will guide me through my dreams</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">And my destiny.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">And the Dog will guide me through the cities,</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">the states</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">the countries</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">the continents</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">And the religions</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit; line-height: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">And the Mankind will guide me through my life.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">And G-d will guide me through my world</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">And my universe.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit; line-height: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">The brave Penguin will guide me through the Greek snow,</span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Ice, water, earth and metal gods.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">And Myself will guide me through my home</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Through my hope</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Through my friends</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Through my love</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Through my school</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">And again, through myself.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">The Gorilla will guide me through venom, bad feelings and any bad chances of life.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">And I forgot, what about the books?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">They guide me through almost every single thing in life. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></div>Shoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05387285193776811352noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4533361203944779002.post-61185670393056184742011-01-14T12:04:00.001-08:002011-01-14T12:04:42.664-08:00Day in My Life<span xmlns=''><p>Since Gwyneth Paltrow and her oh-so-successful friends offered such lovely insights into their hardworking days on Gwyneth's website <a href='http://goop.com/newsletter/112/?utm_source=Goop+Newsletter&utm_campaign=ba4427f2b8-Goop112_01_13_2011&utm_medium=email'>GOOP</a>: insights filled with weekly blowouts, personal trainers, nannies, and organic food. <br /></p><p>Insights like: <br /></p><blockquote><p>I really make a point of sitting down with my children—even if it's for 15 minutes. A great time saver is to make steel cut oatmeal, put it in a ceramic bread loaf pan and slice it each morning, add a drizzle of maple syrup, milk and 45 seconds in the microwave—healthy breakfast in seconds and I can make it last over 3 - 4 days! In the summer, I start the day with a protein smoothie, which can be made in minutes (a handful of organic berries, a large scoop of Greek yogurt, a squirt of flaxseed oil, 2 scoops of protein powder, organic pomegranate or cranberry juice and blend)."<br /></p></blockquote><p><br /> </p><blockquote><p>Or <br /></p></blockquote><blockquote><p>I have the benefit of an amazing assistant, without whom I could not make it happen (Thank you, thank you, Diane). My day is packed back-to-back from the moment that I arrive until the moment that I leave. When I'm driving to a meeting, I bring a call list with me so that I can quickly return calls. On a Friday afternoon, I'm given the list of outstanding calls/topics/decisions that I need to make over the weekend.<br /></p></blockquote><p><br /> </p><blockquote><p>Or<br /></p></blockquote><blockquote><p>Find a great salon that understands time pressure and can accommodate your schedule. I have a great salon near me that I can go to at the end of the day to have a facial, manicure and pedicure at the same time. I'm in and out in 70 minutes. Not relaxing but efficient. Same for other appointments. I have acupuncture at 9.30pm at night. It's a wonderful end of the day.<br /></p></blockquote><p> <br /> </p><p><span style='font-family:Times New Roman'>Or<br /></span></p><blockquote><p>We sit on the bed and read, and I demand my usual cuddles. <strong>Jen l</strong>eaves at 6:30, so I try my best to juggle the three monkeys and keep them all in one piece till bed time <br /></p></blockquote><p><span style='font-family:Times New Roman'><span style='color:#444444; font-size:14pt'>Jen is the NANNY.</span><br /> </span></p><p><br /> </p><p> I thought I'd share A Day in the Life of a Part-time College Instructor/Part-time Graduate Student/Full-time Big Mean Mama.<br /></p><p><br /> </p><p>While, in my dream world, I'd sleep until 10 without guilt or lately, my day begins at 5 am with the ear piercing alarm, meant for my husband. Of course, due to his insistence on early rising, he is already up; ready to face the world, so I am forced to hit the alarm. For years, he had an alarm that never went off, or if it chose to go off, it filled the air with soothing sounds of birds and ocean waves. He found it lacking. I found it perfect. Just as I think I might go back to sleep, sounds of angry killer bees swarming through the house fill my oh-so-tired ears. I'm sure, at some point, I was able to ignore my husband cycling on his trainer in the dining room, but now, I just long for the warmth of spring and outdoor biking activities. (Love you Giant Gentile, you sure look cute on that trainer! Keep up the good work) <br /></p><p><br /> </p><p>I finally get up around 6:20, to go downstairs to pack The Boy his healthy, kosher, dairy, peanut-free, lunch, and two snacks. We keep getting notes telling us to pack more food. My child is not going to up to Everest; I don't know why he needs so much food--especially, because they put his uneaten food in his lunchbox at the end of the day. Gross. (This is why we are on lunchbox number two.). Then I run upstairs to get The Boy up for school. "Is it Saturday?" He always asks. "No, it's not Saturday." If it was Saturday, I wouldn't be trying to get you up at 6:30 in the morning. Instead, you'd be up on your own at 5:30 tormenting your Dad with Cartoons and the constant, "Daddy? Daddy? Daddy?" The only time he's up on his own on the weekdays, is when he's had an accident, and he's trying to hide it by changing his pjs. " I didn't have an accident. I just wanted to wear these jammies and put the sheets in the hallway." Unlike, Gwyneth's child Moses who jumps lovingly into her arms upon waking, my child hides like a teenager under the covers. "The light! It's burning my eyes. Turn it off Mama. Turn it off." I am completely incapable of handling this situation with grace and ease. Instead, my voice gets high and shrieky. I simply cannot help myself. (He often returns the favor at 8am on Saturdays by jumping on my back and begging me to get up and buy him Dunkin Donuts. Shhh, don't tell the organic flax seed oil police) <br /></p><p>We are often late getting out the door. Although I like to blame my tortoise-like movements of my child, I am also the cause of this lateness. I don't organize myself the night before. I don't make lists. I don't put notes in pretty folders. I don't put my laptop in my bag or my keys in the right spot. I run around after I am supposed to already be picking up for carpool. Thank G-d, for Tuesdays and Thursdays, when The Boy gets picked up. The carpool used to be rather hellish, but that situation has been rectified. (okay, so we kinda got kicked out part of carpool, because I can't always get along with other people's children). The children stay silent as long as I promise to keep NPR in the front seat. <br /></p><p>Lately, I've been dropping off at school, parking in the parking lot, and going to the Gym. Another joy of living in the American Shtetl: one stop-shopping. Except on the days I teach, there is no real excuse for me to not to go to the gym. It's in the same building as his school! So, now I go. However, it's a huge time-suck. Between my big mouth, my refusal to go in the stretching room in the presence of any meathead law school students, and my desire to blow-dry my hair (myself! Okay fine, so I paid a little money and got a straightening treatment, but I don't do it every week. In fact, when I got my hair straightened and highlighted, it had been 8 months since I'd done anything. ANYTHING. I certainly don't have a massage/pedicure/manicure/facial in the same 90 minutes. Who are these people? I digress). So, yes, I usually get there at 8, and I'm not out until 10. I could be cleaning the living room! <br /></p><p>Once, I finally get out of the gym, I go to my office/local coffeeshop where I know all the regulars and the details of the barista's dating lives. I drink far too much English Breakfast tea, and two days ago my mouth turned numb from the sunflower petals in my tea. Who knew? I could probably write an entire blog about the goings-on at the coffee shop. From the creepy retired men that troll the young baristas to the priest that silently sits behind me as I write about Jesus. I'm waiting for him to talk to me, but he never has. I Facebook, and worry too much as I write. I grade papers, do research, and type too many long quotes. The Shtetl follows me there: moms from the JCC, Rabbis, and congregants. It's distracting, but not as distracting as the silence of my house or the call of my tv. <br /></p><p>When I'm not writing in the coffee shop, I'm teaching. I don't have my own office. I don't have normal hours. Some semesters, I teach one class, while others I teach four. Red and I eat lunch together hiding in the adjunct mailroom. We giggle like teenage girls. I give ignorant dating advice (I've been with the Giant Gentile since I was 19. I know nothing about dating), she reminds me not to eat all the good parts out of my salad. We are on the outskirts and we like it. My teaching varies. Sometimes my students amaze me and sometimes I spend half the time sighing with frustration. I already caught a student texting today while I was lecturing about not texting. I finally did the math and including summers, I've taught here 20 semesters! <br /></p><p>I've been trying harder to go home for a few hours in the afternoon to straighten the house. I lack a maid and a nanny and all those special goodies of the privileged. I also lack the domestic skills of a Type A personality and the sense of obligation of a Stay-at-home Mom. I wish I had both. Everyone wishes I had both. <br /></p><p>I pick up The Boy later than I should. My dinners are usually uncreative. I've generally forgotten to run an important errand, so I find myself rushing into the darkness while my little family watches TV (big bad tv). GG puts The Boy to bed. He usually falls asleep on the floor while he reads to him. Some nights, I run off to board meetings, girl's nights, or rehearsals. <br /></p><p>I have no time saving tips. I'm behind on my writing. I think about food too much. I spend too much time on Facebook. I can't stop checking every news app on my IPhone. I do have one Fashion Tip that helps me every day of my life: cleavage hides everything. </p></span>Shoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05387285193776811352noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4533361203944779002.post-57348440857398801712011-01-09T11:45:00.001-08:002011-01-09T11:45:48.787-08:00Love Letters to a Nameless Wife<span xmlns=''><p><span style='font-family:Times New Roman; font-size:12pt'>NPR has a short story contest called <a href='http://www.npr.org/2011/01/08/132744031/three-minute-fiction-round-6-laughing-and-crying'>Three Minute Fiction</a>. I always forget to enter or I miss the deadline. Yesterday, I looked over the contest to see what I needed to write: a short-story in 600 words where at least one character tells a joke and another character cries. Before I started to write, I thought I'd try to find what I've already written. I usually write on my graduate school laptop, so most of my files are research files or papers I've written. Why would I have a story with my graduate papers? One of my favorite professors, who teaches Jewish Thought, loves to make his grad students write stories instead of papers (awesome for a girl who thought about getting an MFA in creative writing before turning her attention to Jewish Literature). <br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Times New Roman; font-size:12pt'>Anyway, because of my worship of wordiness, I can't find one story less than 1,000 words. I guess, I'll have to start from scratch. However, I did find a goodie from my course on Job. If you aren't familiar with Job or you've forgotten the details, I suggest you take a peek at the real story---<a href='http://www.cliffsnotes.com/study_guide/literature/Old-Testament-of-the-Bible-Summary-and-Analysis-Job.id-103,pageNum-53.html'>CliffsNotes® </a>, (yep, there are </span><span style='color:black; font-family:Arial; font-size:9pt'><strong>CliffsNotes® </strong></span><span style='font-family:Times New Roman; font-size:12pt'> for the Bible!) <a href='http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Book_of_Job'>wikipedia</a>, the actual <a href='http://www.chabad.org/library/bible_cdo/aid/16403'>Torah</a> (or <a href='http://www.chabad.org/'>Chabad's</a> version. For all their social shortcomings, I'm a big fan of Chabad's online Torah) or the <a href='http://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=job%201:1-1:5&version=KJV'>King James Version.</a><br /> </span></p><p><span style='font-family:Times New Roman; font-size:12pt'>The most important concept to remember for my purposes is that in the story of Job, his wife has no name and has only one line (and now, I'm quoting from my Jewish Publication Society Tanakh app on my IPhone): "Dost thou still hold fast thine integrity? Blaspheme God, and die." When most people quote the line, they say, "Curse God, and die" Multiple interpretations exist out there that explain what she meant by the line. It is her only line. Job retorts, "Thou speakest as one of the impious women speaketh. What shall we receive good at the hand of God, and shall we not receive evil?" After that, she is never mentioned again. Thus, my professor asked us to write a story answering the question: What's up with Job's wife? The story below is my answer:<br /></span></p><p><br /> </p><p><span style='font-family:Times New Roman; font-size:12pt'><br /> </span></p><p><span style='font-family:Times New Roman; font-size:12pt'>Love Letters to a Nameless Wife<br /></span></p><p><br /> </p><p><span style='font-family:Times New Roman; font-size:12pt'>I never intended to stray, but Job left me for hours, then days, then weeks to oversee the grounds, the flocks, the sheep. And there I was, left with ten children. Do you know what it's like to be in charge of ten children? Job and his holiness-- He just doesn't want to be in the house. He wants to look good for all the neighbors. He's all about image really. He looks good for the servants, for the flock, he even tends kindly to the wild beasts. You should see him, going on about the greatness of wild goats, and lions. Levithans even. Have you ever met anyone who's actually come across a leviathan? Hogwash, I say: just a big story to keep the people down here fearful. <br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Times New Roman; font-size:12pt'> All I was to him was a baby maker. I bore him child after child. When those children started grow instead of paying more attention to me, he went off to their feasts: more opulence, more reasons for him to brag about his great piety. "Oh, look at me. Job. The great one. Look at all my children. Look at how they exalt the Lord." Exalt the Lord, my ass. They exalt their father's money. Job sees none of this, of course. He doesn't see his thieving children, or his lazy servants, or those animals he insists on feeding leaving their mess and their newborn babies all over my yard. More than anything, he doesn't see me. I'm not sure if he ever saw me. We had one of those typically arranged marriages. He came from money. I came from money. I had a nice dowry and an even nicer face. Now that I look back on it, I don't remember ever really loving him or even lusting after him. He was always so pious, and yet, so selfish. <br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Times New Roman; font-size:12pt'>My thick black curls, olive skin, and big…eyes, did attract attention. It always attracted attention. When I was young, my father came to me over and over with marriage proposals. However, none of them were good enough. My father wanted more for me. He wanted riches for me, and he also wanted piety. (Heaven knows why, I can't remember him ever acting piously) But that Job of Uz, he was a prize. It wasn't even worth putting up a fight. <br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Times New Roman; font-size:12pt'>With all my servants, I was a lady of leisure. I really had nothing to do but make babies. When I wasn't making babies (who by the way, I just gave up to the nursemaid), I was, bored. So boring this life was. <br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Times New Roman; font-size:12pt'>While Job and my children ignored me, Job's friends, did not--especially Eliphaz, Bilad, Zophar, and the young one Elihu. (he was a catch; he may be young, but I still had my beauty.) When Job was off in the fields, or helping the poor, or visiting our children, his friends were visiting me. They never came all at once. However, each of them found excuses to visit. Eliphaz, an older gentleman would visit to make sure I was safe. He said he worried about me alone in the house. He'd say to me:<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Times New Roman; font-size:12pt'> "In thoughts from the visions of the night, When deep sleep falleth on men, fear came upon me, and trembling, and all my bones were made to shake. A form before my eyes told me I must see you. I must make sure you are protected from forces outside your door. They say your children are far from safety, but I do think, my dear, that you are the one far from safety. Alone in this big house. Alone in the wilderness. Affliction may not cometh not forth from the dust, neither doth trouble spring out of the ground. Evil forces surround the world, and you are left unprotected. Let me protect you." <br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Times New Roman; font-size:12pt'>So, I let him protect me. Job never worried about my safety. He never worried about my loneliness. All he worried about was his precious God. Eliphaz, worried. And eventually in the darkest of nights he'd whisper, "Neither shalt thou be afraid of destruction...Neither shalt thou be afraid of the beasts of the earth. For thou shalt be in league with the stones of the field; And the beasts of the field shall be at peace with thee. I will seek unto you and unto you I will commit my cause."<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Times New Roman; font-size:12pt'>Who can resist such words? With Eliphaz, I felt protected in a way I've never been protected in my life. He brought light to the darkness of my night. He redeemed me from the famine of loneliness. <br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Times New Roman; font-size:12pt'>But then, Eliphaz was seized with guilt and slowly he visited me less and less. It didn't take long for Bildad to come to my house. With Job gone more and more, I was left to deal with a small legal matter. Job's father left the son of his servant to us and the servant did not want to serve. I could do nothing. It was the law, but Job, in his infinite kindness, did not want to force the servant, so he left, went to the house of our third youngest son. He would pray at the altar of God, and God would decide. Of course, the servant wasn't waiting for God and I certainly wasn't waiting for Job. I called Bildad. "You dear, would never pervert justice." He assured me. "You are pure and upright and the law is on your side. Tell this servant, apply thyself to that which their fathers have searched out. For we are but yesterday, and now nothing. Job's father gave him the servant's son, so he must serve you. The father's will it. The matter is done. Let's concentrate on better things. This man of yours has found himself on a path where he forgets you. You should be the joy of his way and out of the earth his love should spring." <br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Times New Roman; font-size:12pt'>Then, he looked deeply into my eyes and whispered, "Let me fill your mouth with laughter and thy lips with shouting." And I let him.<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Times New Roman; font-size:12pt'>While Bildad was wise of heart and mighty in strength, he too was seized with guilt. Many a season passed and my life was filled with children, servants, and Job's piety. A third time Job left me, our eldest son wife's had given birth to a boy. I begged to go, but Job felt it was best that he visit alone. He didn't want our daughter-in-law to feel uncomfortable. Angered by Job's decision to leave me at home, Zophar came to check on me. "He has mocked you, and he should be ashamed. Does he ever try to find the deep things about you? The measure of your worth is longer than the earth and broader than the sea. Maybe if he didn't pass you by and he shut up for a moment he would not be such an empty man. He is a wild ass and you are steadfast and you shall not fear. Forget your misery. In your darkness, let me show you morning. I can make you secure. I can give you hope. Thou you shall lie down and none shall make you afraid." And so I did.<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Times New Roman; font-size:12pt'>My three valiant men, more worthy of affection than my pious absent husband, gave me much joy in my loneliness. They filled my days with words and my nights with wonder. For husbands should know, it is their faults when wives do fall. And fall I did. I fell and fell again. <br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Times New Roman; font-size:12pt'>Though, let me tell you truthfully, none of these men made me fall the way young Elihu made me fall. He must have watched these men visit my house. For in a time of quiet, he'd sneak in my kitchen, sit at the table and tell me, "Hear my words. These men may seem older and wiser than me. However, if they looked upon the heavens, and beheld the sky, they would see what is higher than them. Who is a better teacher than love? Do these men really enjoy it the right way? I hear your voice. I listen attentively to the noise of your voice, and the sound that goeth from your mouth. Your flesh is tenderer than a child's. You bring me back to my life. Your presence redeems my soul. I look at you and behold the light. You've brought my soul back from the pit." <br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Times New Roman; font-size:12pt'>I would go to bed at night, and he would come to me in my dreams. <br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Times New Roman; font-size:12pt'>But, alas, those dreams soon became nightmares. Instead of sweet nothings, my sweet Elihu came to speak curses in my dreams. He haunted me with pain. I'd wake up chilled and stiff and frightened. Visions of flesh dripping off bodies, and haggard hungry men filled my vision: whirlwinds of death and destruction consumed my night. The man I loved stood laughing over the pits of hell as I fell deeper and deeper in darkness. I'd wake up drenched in fear and sweat. <br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Times New Roman; font-size:12pt'>And so, I ended it with Elihu. The dreams were too much: the guilt too overwhelming. When Job came home from our sons, I threw my arms around him, thankful for his piety; grateful for his presence. But then, just when I thought I could give up my own passions, the messenger came from my eldest son's house, and all was lost…<br /></span></p></span>Shoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05387285193776811352noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4533361203944779002.post-81620117297322884432011-01-07T12:55:00.001-08:002011-01-07T12:55:50.000-08:00Pay Attention or I’m Failing You<span xmlns=''><p>When I first started teaching writing, my friend, The Stable Goddess, gave me her syllabus. I loved how candidly it was written. Over the years, I've changed little bits and pieces. I always add important statements to my "welcome" lecture, but I've never written these statements down. Quite frankly, they've always struck me as too mean to put on paper. However, despite my constant lecturing, no one ever listens to the added details. Thus, the big bad monster finally wrote it down:<br /></p><p>Much of this class works like a writing workshop, you are here to write even when I am not lecturing.<br /></p><p>Pressing matters should be e-mailed to me. If you miss class, you may e-mail me your assignment. However, I will grade only hard copies of your work. <br /></p><p>Your attendance is graded. According to the college's official policy, if you miss <a href='http://grammar.quickanddirtytips.com/grammar-how-to-write-numbers.aspx'>5</a> classes before the withdrawal period, I have the right to recommend you drop the class. More importantly, at the end of the semester, if you've missed 8 classes or more, I have the right to fail you. <br /></p><p>If you know you are missing class, tell me. You don't need to tell me why: missing class is missing class.<br /></p><p>[<em>sidenote: I didn't have the nerve to write this, but I always say: "You can't BS a BSer. Don't waste your time making up a story. I know you are lying. It is a mistreatment of my time and a waste of your time. When I was in college, I wanted to go on Spring Break with the Giant Gentile, but his spring break was different than mine. We went to Florida. However, I told my professors that I was going to Amsterdam. My King Author in Literature prof (who also taught <a href='http://www.emptymirrorbooks.com/beat/beats.html'>Beat Literature</a>) gave me a list of great places to buy pot brownies. (I don't tell my students that) My Women and Religion prof told me to write a paper on my religious experiences in Amsterdam. I spent a day of my vacation researching Amsterdam. I wrote a great paper. I got an A (actually a 93 because I failed to mention God in my religion paper). They didn't know I made it up, but I'll know you're making it up. You can only attend so many funerals…]</em><br /> </p><p> If you find yourself missing class for extended periods of time, no matter what the reason, come speak to me--not showing up for weeks or months and then randomly wandering into class is not acceptable. Doing all the work but never coming to class is also not acceptable. <br /></p><p>You are responsible for what transpires in class whether you are present or not. Utilize Blackboard, this Syllabus, the School Syllabus, and a good study buddy to get caught up. I reserve the right not to repeat entire lectures to absentees. If you are absent the day a paper is due, you are still responsible for getting the paper to me on time. Never show up after an absence and ask me, "What did I miss?"(this is an exact quote from either the Stable Goddess or my adorable boss). A calendar is provided under Course Information to allow you to view the assignments. <br /></p><p>In this class, EVERY DETAIL COUNTS. Your little mistakes reflect poorly on the content of your work. Pay attention to your work. <br /></p><p>Always proof your work before handing it in. Get someone else to read your work. Visit the Writing Center. Red and Slick Willy will be happy to help you. Remember, they are not a proof-reading service. They are there to help you get your ideas straight and make sure your writing flows. Make an appointment before the assignment is due. They will not read over your assignment on the day it is due. <br /></p><p>Most of all: do your own work. Do not pay someone to do your work. Do not ask your best friend, girlfriend, father of your child, tutor, the dude who sits next to you, or your mother to write your papers for you. Plagiarism and academic dishonesty are taken very seriously. Do not copy other people's work without citing. Do not make up information. If you are citing a study, a statistic, or quoting a person, it must be real. You cannot write a paper based on false information. It takes more work to cheat than it takes to do the work. It takes me less than thirty seconds to figure out you are plagiarizing. It takes only a few phone calls to figure out you are making studies up or getting other people to write your papers.<br /></p><p>FINALLY- We are in a computer classroom. Be responsible. I can hear you clicking away while I'm talking. I can hear you laughing when I'm not being funny. I know you are on Facebook. I know you are tweeting about how bored you are. I see you checking your e-mail. Most of all, I can see you texting. I can see your Bluetooth and your mouth moving. If they really care about you, they know you are in class. If it is a true emergency, they can always call the English Department. Someone will come find you. <br /></p><p>Then it goes on to the assignments. Am I too mean? <br /></p><p><br /> </p></span>Shoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05387285193776811352noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4533361203944779002.post-81332067130780153512011-01-05T09:28:00.001-08:002011-01-05T09:50:08.953-08:00Inside the Fitness Shtetl<span xmlns=""><p>Sometimes, I feel bad for my feet. They are creamy, pretty, and small and they are trapped below an oaf of a woman. Sworn for life to drag her around- upholding the brunt of her body weight. It makes me feel sad for them.<br /></p><p>For many reasons, besides my feet, I'm back at the gym again. Yes, I've done this before. I'm pretty generic. The weird part about the gym is that I actually like it. I forget that I like it. I've never stopped going to the gym because I hate it; I've stopped going because I get sucked into it. Like this morning, I got there at 8 and I didn't walk out the door until 10! Why can't I just jump on the elliptical for a half-hour, get off, and get on with my day. Instead, I find myself lost in my music (nothing makes me work harder than the Glee version of <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E46BhMIRujI">Teenage Dream</a>), lost in conversation with JCC employees, other moms, or my rabbi friend. (I'm such a name dropper). While I puff away, I'm saying no to chairing another committee or discussing how to best advertise our next Israel speaker. I ran into three other board members. In short, I work out in a <a href="http://www.jewishvirtuallibrary.org/jsource/judaica/ejud_0002_0018_0_18416.html">shtetl</a>. Whoever says that Shtetl life isn't alive and well doesn't spend their days in and around my JCC. I run into Jews in the grocery store, Target, and as most of you know, my favorite coffee shop/office, and now, of course, the gym.<br /></p><p>I've been at the JCC gym on and off for 8 years. No matter when I go, I'm harassed by the <a href="http://www.hadassah.org/site/pp.aspx?c=keJNIWOvElH&b=5571065">Hadassah</a> Lady. Just imagine a tiny lady with a high pitched Philly accent—"Come on dear, just join there's a special you know." There always seems to be a special: $ 36 for three years, a $100 for life. There is no real reason not for me to join—well, accept for the fact that, at this point, I have no intention of being active. However, last night, as she pushed away at the elliptical next to me, she shrieks, "It's just a 100 dollars. I know you have an extra 100 dollars." Her skinny exasperated face looks at me with earnest. "Actually, Hadassah Lady, I don't have an extra hundred dollars."<br /></p><p>"But, but…" She interjects, clearly a bit embarrassed. "Wait, didn't you say that your mom would help you pay?" Of course, at some point, years ago, I did tell her that. She's clung to this fact, and now she is using it against me. "Why don't you just talk to her?" She cocks her head in an attempt to look sweet and caring. I get off the machine and walk over to the spray bottle and paper towels. As I'm spraying my paper towel, I hear Hadassah screaming my name at the top of her lungs from across the gym. "You know dear… "Mind you, I'm still across the very crowded room filled (for once) with people with real jobs, whom I've never seen before. "When I was young, I didn't have an extra hundred dollars either." Thanks, thanks Hadassah Lady for screaming that out for everyone to hear. What I really wanted to say at this point was that it wasn't that I didn't have the extra hundred dollars; I just wasn't going to spend an extra hundred dollars on Hadassah. I wanted to walk out of the gym, far far away from Her, but I had to clean off my machine. So, I trotted back over, trying my best to hold my tongue. She smiles down at me with kindness? Condescension? Manipulation? Then, she opens her mouth one more time, "It is so nice that you are at the gym again. You have such a gorgeous husband and such a pretty face. Won't it be great when your body matches it?"<br /></p><p>If anyone ever asks how I can chair a committee on Israel, but refuse to join Hadassah, it's because I'm poor and fat.<br /></p></span>Shoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05387285193776811352noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4533361203944779002.post-34823218658040193292010-12-23T06:58:00.001-08:002010-12-23T21:41:05.382-08:00Merry Christmas to the Members of the Shul<span xmlns=""><p><span style="font-size:10;">Recently, a synagogue newsletter wished a Merry Christmas to interfaith families. As a member of an intermarried family, I was upset. As a member of a synagogue, I was upset. By definition, a synagogue is a Jewish institution and as a Jewish institution it does not wish congregants Merry Christmas. It is not what a synagogue is about. We are Jewish: period. Clearly, in our personal lives, we wish people Merry Christmas and that's great; however, the synagogue does not celebrate Christmas. The greeting also presumes that because one of the spouses or partners isn't Jewish than the family will be celebrating Christmas. Not all interfaith families celebrate Christmas. I said, earlier, we are an intermarried family and we do not celebrate Christmas. Most importantly, I work very hard at making my child feel comfortable in a world where everyone else celebrates Christmas. I don't want to have to feel like I'm fighting against my synagogue as well.<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size:10;">Of course, I wrote this all in a complaint letter. The answer I received basically stated that it was really meant to be a Christmas greeting to the families who do celebrate Christmas. Huh? It's still okay to wish the interfaith families who do celebrate Christmas a Merry Christmas from the synagogue? Because, while I'm worried about my child--the bottom line is that we are synagogue and we don't wish our members Merry Christmas. What members do in their personal lives is their personal lives, but we are a synagogue. If we wanted to be welcoming to Christmas, we'd be a <a href="http://www.uua.org/">Unitarian Church</a>. We can put Christmas in all the secular glory and Santa Claus that many Americans see it as, but it is Jesus' birthday, and we are in not in the business of Jesus.<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size:10;">I know I sound harsh, but this whole conversation worries me. (this is something I've been thinking about for a long time.) We spend so much time worrying about including everyone that we forget that we are first and foremost a Jewish Institution and while our members come from diverse backgrounds--we can't forget our Jewishness. Other institutions exist out there, like the <a href="http://www.firstuuwilm.org/OurPrinciples.html">Unitarian Universalist Church</a>, that were created to be an all inclusive organizations--we aren't them. We are open to having intermarried families; however, we exist to give them a safe Jewish place where they can learn to express themselves Jewishly. We are there to lend extra support to families when they feel that having only one Jewish parent doesn't give the foundation their child needs. We are there to teach the non-Jewish partner about Jewish culture, Jewish celebrations, Jewish history, Jewish prayer, and Jewish spirituality. We are there to welcome into our Jewish arms inside a Jewish context. While we understand that the non-Jewish partner or family has other faith traditions and we are happy to learn about those traditions outside the synagogue--our synagogue is not the place to celebrate those traditions. We wouldn't expect a church to give up Jesus for the day to make the interfaith families at a church feel more comfortable. Being progressive and liberal and open doesn't mean we make ourselves less Jewish in order to make people feel more comfortable.<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size:10;">This conversation extends far beyond Christmas. Reform congregations all over American are constantly looking at their ever-changing demographics. They are looking for a way to make the synagogue an open, progressive, and diverse community. They are opening their arms to interfaith families. Their intentions are good and noble and just. However, I worry that somewhere along the way; we've lost perspective about who we are. Somewhere along the line we've forgotten that we aren't just creating a safe community devoted to making this world a better place, we are a safe JEWISH community committed to making this world a better place through our Judaism. If we want to keep the Jewish part of ourselves, we cannot be afraid to draw lines. We welcome interfaith families as members, we have Jewish weddings where one partner isn't Jewish, we welcome the non-Jewish partner on the bima during their child's bar or bat mitzvah. We welcome them at services. We bless them. However, the water starts to get a bit murky when our desire to be open starts to break away at the Jewishness of the organization. I can't say I know exactly where that line is. Do we let non-Jewish partners serve on the board? Maybe. Should we be open to welcoming children of intermarried families into our religious schools even if they already attend a Christian Sunday school? I would argue no. Do we continue to fight for Jewish weddings for intermarried couples? I say yes; however, those weddings aren't a gateway into a mishmash religious life. They are a gateway to a Jewish life. Clearly, as a Jewish community we do not proselytize. By asking the non-Jewish partner to participate in Jewish events, we aren't asking them to become Jewish. However, families need to know that if they are choosing to join a synagogue—they are choosing to be part of a Jewish community. If we don't clearly define that community in Jewish parameters, then as our Orthodox brothers and sisters warn, we will lose ourselves.<br /></span></p></span>Shoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05387285193776811352noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4533361203944779002.post-18412612225436781562010-08-12T07:31:00.001-07:002010-08-12T07:31:53.176-07:00Thoughtful Justice<span xmlns=''><p><span style='font-family:Times New Roman'>On Tuesday night, it was my turn to write the <a href='http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Torah_study'>d'var Torah</a> for my synagogue board meeting. Since I haven't written in a long time, I thought I'd share it: <br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Times New Roman'>In Judaism, our belief in God is not enough for us to be good Jews. A recitation of the sh'ma does not grant eternal salvation. Our actions underscore our faith. Our actions hold us accountable, bring us together, guide us, and even pull us apart. As the High Holidays draw near, we are reminded over and over again on the importance of action. Today, in fact, marks the beginning of our preparations—Rosh Chodesh Elul—the start of the month of Elul is when we take stock of our deeds, both good and bad, and decide how we are going to move forward in the coming year. Tradition tells us that during the month of Elul, Moses went back up Mt. Sinai to receive a new set of tablets after destroying them in anger over the Israelites building of the Golden Calf, which we find in (Ex. 32; 34:27-28). Some sources think Moses went back up the Mountain on Rosh Chodesh Elul and came back down to the Israelites on the 10th of Tishri, at the end of Yom Kippur, when repentance was complete. Others feel that during Elul, Moses prayed to God in behalf of the Israelites, so that God would forgive the people for their actions. <br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Times New Roman'>The Torah portion for this week, however, is not Exodus <a href='http://www.chabad.org/parshah/torahreading.asp?AID=15567&p=2'>32</a> or <a href='http://www.chabad.org/parshah/torahreading.asp?AID=15567&p=5'>34</a>. The portion says nothing about Moses, or the Israelites, or the Golden Calf. Yet, this week's Torah portion connects to the concepts of repentance and action presented in Exodus. Famous for the lines, Justice, Justice shall you pursue. (Duet 16:20), <a href='http://www.chabad.org/parshah/torahreading_cdo/aid/36236'>Shoftim</a> (Deuteronomy 16:18-21:9) not only asks the people to pursue Justice, it provides a structure of Justice: the appointing of magistrates and officials for the tribes, providing rules against cult worship, organization of courts, laws of the king, rules for the Levites, rules for prophets, rules for unintentional homicide, rules of settlement, rules of blood avenging, rules for waging holy war, and atonement for an unsolved murder. <br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Times New Roman'>Why does God need to lay out the rules of Justice? If we look back at the Golden Calf incident- we see a group of Israelites feeling fearful and alone in the wilderness. Remember, the first time Moses went up the mountain; the Israelites had no idea where he went or when he was coming back. <em>"Come, make us a god who shall go before us, for that man Moses, who brought us from the land of Egypt—we do not know what has happened to him."</em> (Ex 32:1)The Israelites made the god out of fear. They felt alone in the wilderness, possibly abandoned by their leader at the bequest of a faceless bodiless God. They wanted something to hold onto. The Oxford <em>Jewish Study Bible</em>, says, "Although most commentators believe that they mean "god" literally, it is more likely that they mean it as…something that would serve as a new means of securing God's presence." (<a href='http://www.amazon.com/Jewish-Study-Bible-Publication-Translation/dp/0195297512'>JSB, 183</a>) They even say, <em>"This is your god, O Israel, who brought you out of the land of Egypt."</em> (Ex 32:4) God tells Moses the people are making a calf. He runs back down the mountain, to find the Israelites worshipping the Golden calf. <em>"As soon as Moses came near the camp and saw the calf and the dancing, he became enraged; and he hurled the tablets from his hands and shattered them at the foot of the mountain."</em> (Ex 32:19). God wants to punish the Israelites by destroying them, but Moses pleas with God, and after many pleas, Moses goes back up the Mountain receive new tablets. <em>"Carve two tablets of stone like the first, and I will inscribe upon the tablets the words that were on the first tablets, which you shattered."</em> (Ex 34:1) What do these tablets give the Israelites? They give them rules to live by, so they aren't standing in the dark, so they aren't living by fear and ignorance. Moses repented for the people, so that they could gain knowledge of how to act. <br /></span></p><p><a href='http://www.chabad.org/parshah/torahreading_cdo/aid/36236'><span style='font-family:Times New Roman'>Shoftim</span></a><span style='font-family:Times New Roman'> continues that concept—giving the abstract idea of Justice a concrete definition. It not only tells the people that they need magistrates, or kings, or even war—it lays out how those magistrates, kings and even witnesses should act. For instance, it tells us that the punishment for praying to another god is death. However, while the punishment of death for praying to another god seems harsh, the rules speak to more than the punishment. We don't simply kill someone because one person says they prayed to another god: <em>"A person shall be put to death only on the testimony of two or more witnesses; he must not be put to death on the testimony of a single witness."</em> The same goes for any crime. <em>"A single witness may not validate against a person any guilt or blame for any offense that may be committed; a case can be valid only on the testimony of two witnesses or more.</em>" (17:15). Again, Justice isn't simply about the wrath of a vengeful God or vengeful people, Justice is about being thoughtful. Justice also does not lie in the hands of any one person. Judges and magistrates are also not above the law. <em>"You shall not judge unfairly, you shall show no partiality, you shall not take bribes, for bribes blind the eyes if the discerning and upset the pleas of the just."</em> (16:19) Even when it comes to the power of a King, the king's power is not absolute. He cannot have too many horses, or wives, or gold and above all—he must follow God's teachings. <em>"When he is seated on his royal throne, he shall have a copy of this Teaching written for him on a scroll by the levitical priests. Let it remain with him and let him read in it all his life, so that he may learn to revere the Lord his God, to observe faithfully every word of this Teaching as well as these laws. Thus he will not act haughtily toward his fellows, or deviate from the Instruction to the right or to the left…"</em> (17:18) Thus, the king is never above the law. <br /></span></p><p style='background: white'><span style='font-family:Times New Roman'>Above all, Shoftim recognizes the danger of absolute power. It deals with corruption head on, so that Justice is thoughtful and action is meaningful, and the people are not constantly living in fear. Thus, when we prepare for our own repentance, our repentance is for actions or words we know are unjust. We aren't apologizing out of fear. Our repentance, like our justice, should come from a place of thoughtfulness. <br /></span></p></span>Shoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05387285193776811352noreply@blogger.com0