Coolness Personified

Why, in the name of all things holy, are writer's so effing cool?

That less than revolutionary thought occurred to me today as I was sitting in a cramped room in the Letterman building listening to published authors read their works. The room was overstuffed with vegan, bracelet wearing, non-conformists in Chuck Taylors. The smell of narcissism polluted the air. I imagine it to be quite similar to the ambiguous scent of broccoli, because after all we are all too high-brow to actually manufacture sweat. Is this an image we, as writer's or artists, try to project? Or, are we simply, by our own standards this bad ass?

I like to think of it as a combination of both.

How the hell do you picture a writer? Hunched over a Mac in a Starbucks, hammering letters into flurries of life changing words? Maybe writers are defined by the genre they prefer--like the ever glamorous world of smut romance (or as my grandmother once said, "the books with those women that look like they could use half my sense, and the pannies I wore today.")? I like to think of these women as scorned housewives writing by the light of their clunking dryers. Regardless, writers have to be a bit off kilter. It's kind of like a selling point for them. If you're a perfectly sane person with an average life, who wants to hear what you have to say?

But really. I mean REALLY? It's not at all like there are guidelines to acting like a writer. You know,
Step 1: buy clothes at good will.
Step 2: eat things that never had a mother.
Step 3: listen to bands that are "tortured," or anything from the sixties (or the sexties...once again, thanks grandma).
Step 4: enjoy Kafka.
Step 5: drink soy milk and espresso...never together of course.

This is the biggest load of crap I have ever heard. That is why I really respect people who are genuinely screwed up. That probably sounds a lot more terrible to you than I meant but here comes the explanation...I love writers who can admit to their narcissism. I love writers that appreciate the English language so much that they give it a break and use words like cool and dick. I love writers that smell like Trader Joe's (even though I scorn vegans and vegetarians). I love writers that are lazy and disorganized. I love writers that actually have to shop at Good Will because they are "honing their craft." And the list goes on.

Writing is similar to the art of going to the bathroom...you work at it, you grunt a little and then you really have something. I couldn't imagine my life any other way, and even though I poke fun at them, I truly love every struggling writer in battered sneakers as much as the ones that wear space boots.

We are all on a journey together whether we know it or not. In the end, the road may lead to fame and fortune (fingers crossed), but it could also lead to self discovery. Which, I think is infinitely more important.

P.S. To all those who are brave enough to not eat animals or their by-products: I respect you more than you know. In fact, barring a discussion with the psychiatrist I don't have but desperately need, let's call my "scorn" a facade for despairing envy.

Cleopatra had Gas

So basically, I like to think about women in history as being human. Who doesn't? They totally were. But, because they are dead sometimes we give them just too high a pedestal...it's like we don't want to talk shit because we know they can't defend themselves from the grave. If this blog is about real women, (mostly), then lets get real.

Cleopatra had gas from time to time. She could have had terrible acne. Marie Curie could have been a very discrete slut. Pocahontas could have had cankles. Think about it.

Yet, despite all these unknowns, they still managed to accomplish wonderful achievements. Isn't that something we should be able to do? Acceptance is the first step to improvement. So, you have big hips from your mother's side...move on! It's really what you do with those hips that counts. Are you shy? Is your stride quick, because you hope no one will see the curvaceous beauty that was desired by men like Henry VIII or Alexander the great? I know that as impressionable young girls, we hear this "it's what's on the inside that matters," all the time. But, as women, we should be able to acknowledge just how true that statement is.

After acceptance, what comes next?

ACTION! Get the ball rolling. Think positive and work out your flaws through expression...

I don't know how else to say this...BE YOUR SELF.

Satisfied.

I have spent a large portion of the past two days learning about Vietnam. In fact, I will spend a large portion of this semester learning about Vietnam. It's not that I mind it...actually, I am really enjoying this study. It is an opportunity to delve into a world so very different from my own; full of people and ideas that I have never even considered.

Everyone in the US over the age of ten, knows about Vietnam--even if it's just the fact that we fought a war there. However, do they know anything about the smattering of identities that the people of Indo-China have been wading through all of their existence? Do they know that Vietnamese society functions like a large family, stemming from actual family life to the way political structure is facilitated? If they do, then good for them.

I guess, I am just amazed at all the things I am beginning to understand about cultural relativism (a great part of being an Anthropology major, is I get to throw around words like "cultural relativism," "ethnocentrism," and "enculturation"). For example, today in one of my literature classes, I connected the idea of schema to a debate about theory and opinion. Basically, a schema is a figurative map that anthropologists use to understand a culture. They take a specific event and then through observation and discussion with the people of that culture, they rank the connotative definitions of that event on this "map." In essence, it's alot like getting into the heads of the natives concerning things like family life and subsistence. Anyways, I figured that a theory must be culturally relative for it to have significance.

i.e: The theory that women would make good voters is a conquered subject. Beating a dead "cultural" horse gets us nowhere in the advancement of society through theory.

So, these epiphanies, if you will, are really reaffirming my choice in a double major. Even if I don't keep the Anth...I am still excited for the potential!

Also, today, I decided that I'd like to try to work abroad this summer. I am thinking about a job as an Au Pair, or something in Sweden with my friend Jenny. I am very ecstatic!

P.S. The next post I make will be about a woman. And readers...if you're out there in the void of cyberspace, feel free to make suggestions!

Stop. Hammer Time.------- Just kidding.

Ok. Breathe.

To my multitudinous mass of multicultural, card carrying aficionados...or my three followers, what have you, I want to warn you that this post will be a bit different than anything else I have attempted. You see, while I feel that my last five posts were examples of "decent" writing, I do not think that they impressed much meaning to those of you who read religiously...aka Dad. Yes, I stuck to my original goal--describing the aspirations of women that long before I, or even my grandmother, stepped foot on this Earth, managed to prove that women were and are worthy of competing and challenging men. However, I think that I could be a bit more creative. I mean, if you want to learn about Belle Boyd, you could go to Wikapedia just as easily as my site.

Look, what I want to say is, I want you reading my blog because you're interested in what I have to say...my perspectives and how I articulate them. I don't want you reading simply because you're curious who Joan of Arc is...grab an encyclopedia if that is the case. Don't waste your time here.

Whew...glad I got that off my chest...as cliche as that sounds.

Now, on to bigger brighter things...in a sense.

~

The thing weighing on my mind right now is the vulnerability of family, and really our whole outlook on what certain abstract emotions are--like loyalty or even love. I was sitting at my desk earlier and I was eating chocolate (of a certain brand that rhymes with above). This particular brand has an outer foil wrapper that has the brand name on the outside and a cutesy, make-you-want-to-vomit-confetti-and-pink-balloons saying on the inside. After I really noticed these sayings (I must have ripped through 15 pieces before I saw the writing), I made it a game to try to find one that made sense and actually had worth.

So, eventually, I was sick to my stomach and I had read everything from "Too much of a good thing is wonderful," to "Think of everyday as Sunday." Now clearly these two statements are misleading. Too much of a good thing...aka chocolate...gives you a stomach ache; or too much of my mother...sometimes the same response. And, what about the other? If we treated every day like a Sunday, nothing would get done. Who would build roads and buildings? Who would teach children? We might as well be pious Neanderthals.

Out of stupidity or perhaps a degraded sense of will power weakened by massive amounts of sugar, I opened one more. This one I ripped. After pushing the two pieces back together, I saw that it had said, "The most enjoyable experiences are often free." Now this, these seven words are so achingly true that I became enraged at my own lack of self control. Why had I ripped this stupid foil? Was it because I had given up...relinquished the thought that "Above" chocolate could come up with something meaningful?

Honestly, I am not sure. I could have drawn numerous deep, intellectual conclusions from that fatal mistake of my flawed, human fingers, but I didn't. Instead I thought about family.

Why is it that our families are so seemingly two faced? Like those chocolates, they are one thing for a long time and then you finally find the meaning. As children, we are so self-centered. We view the world from eyes that have only seen our mother's sweet face and our father's briefcase. To us, the world is made up of the same family dynamic we grew up with. Then, we become fledgelings...we leave and we return with new feathers and new sensibilities. This is when things change.

One thing I learned from those chocolates is that I can't be too eager, but I can't be passive aggressive. When the time comes that I can finally understand these differences between the family I knew and the pod of people seen by the outside, I must be diligent and careful. I cannot tear this new identity so the world is able to slip it's filthy, unconstrained hands into my life. I am both the outsider and the insider. I can change and make change.

It is my duty from each perspective.

P.S. I will still include some posts about women and their acheivements. I am a quasi-feminist afterall!

"Mes voix m'ont dit que l'ennemi sera le nôtre!"

Perhaps my very favorite Heroine would have to Jeanne D'Arc, or as America knows her, Joan of Arc. As the patron saint of France, martyrs, prisoners, and soldiers, Joan protects virtually millions of people in the Catholic faith. And, even though I am not Catholic, I have believed in her since I was a child. In fact, in the fourth grade, I wrote a research paper about Joan of Arc, and then I hoped she would be my patron saint of good grades. As it turns out, she was! I truly respect Joan for her sacrifices and services to the French army and the Dauphin Charles during the Hundred Years War.

To put it plainly, Joan was not your average nineteen year old girl. She didn't long for marriage or a life on the farm in her town of Doremy, France. But, she had never been a fiery daredevil, the kind of woman we can picture rescuing an entire city from enemy troops. Joan was known for her kindness and her piety. In today's world, I would hearken her to the local pastor's daughter, a wall flower, with a subtle grace and charm, her face always glowing with a semi-stupid smile, as if she knew that her life was going to be worth much more than ours.

Oh, and did I mention, she heard voices?

Joan was a quiet, simple gal on the outside, in fact, few knew of the battle raging in her psyche. It seems the personalities of Saint Michael, Saint Catherine, and Saint Margaret spoke to Joan, telling her that she must help the young Dauphin. So finally, in February of 1429, Joan traveled to Chinon, to request an audience with Charles. Surprisingly, the future ruler of France listened to the ramblings of a young girl who claimed to hear the voices of Saints. Can you imagine this today?

What if someone you knew, a young woman, a teenager, marched up to Barack Obama and told him that she could rescue the capital of Pakistan because the voice of Jesus had whispered it in her ear?

That is, essentially, what Joan did. She was given troops...within a week the city of Orleans was saved by Saint Joan. And, by July, the Dauphin was on the throne of France. Despite all her success, the young king stopped listening to the holy advice of the girl. Perhaps he was too eager, perhaps he just didn't care. Either way, his ignorance led to the capture and death of Joan.

In a battle with the Burgundians (a splinter group from France, fighting for England), Joan was captured. Later, she was traded to the English and imprisoned for heresy. Eventually, she was burnt at the stake--condemned a traitor and a heretic.

However, death was not the end of Jeanne D'Arc.

She became a banner of France as it neared the end of the war. In fact, in the year 1456, when Joan would have only been 46, she was found innocent of all charges by Pope Callixtux. She was finally canonized in 1920, by Pope Benedict XV.

Trust, I believe, was Joan's greatest quality. Not once, did she question her motives or the voices of those that led her on such a quest. Now, by no means am I saying that if you hear voices telling you to go to Pakistan, you should do it. In fact, if this does happen, go to a shrink, and don't mention my name! Anyways, I am saying that if you believe in something, you should follow through.

Belief is only the first step. Action is second.

The Importance of Being a Blackmailer

Cleopatra of the Secession

Please, may I have a round of applause for Belle Boyd...Confederate spy and most importantly, WOMAN!

Negating the little fact of 'who won the civil war,' all that stuff about right and wrong, I would like to acknowledge the daring efforts of Belle Boyd, in representing her beliefs. Belle spied on enemy lines during the civil war and worked as an informant for the Confederacy. And, the most interesting fact about Belle is that she was NOT a quitter.

After her ship was captured en route to Britain, she wooed her way up the ranks and eventually won the heart of Samuel Hardinge, a union Naval officer part of the blockading fleet. For her love, Belle was banished to the cold depths of Canada (go figure...). But she tracked down her man, and they were later married after reuniting in Europe. Now, I have little doubt that this reunion was engineered by Belle and just as intricately planned as her escape from Union custody by way of the Mounties. And, I must say I do not condone the trading of sex for freedom (save for some very special and elaborate circumstances perchance involving a sale on Textbooks...I am a college student after all), however, Belle did what she thought was necessary and fate managed to catch up with her. I don't think she ever planned to fall in love with Hardinge, but she did, and had to trek from Canada to Britain just to prove it!

Belle was a daring women (a trait I think we should all possess), and she took measures that few of us would dare to take...this includes blackmailing the President.

When Samuel Hardinge was captured and incarcerated for betraying the Union (ahem, the man fell for a Confederate spy!), Belle took up a pen and paper and worked out her scorn.

She promised Lincoln that she would subdue the publication of her new book--which exposed the Union dogs for the blackhearts and scallywags they were--if he would release her husband. (A copy of the letter can be seen here: http://womenshistory.about.com/gi/o.htm?zi=1/XJ&zTi=1&sdn=womenshistory&cdn=education&tm=15&gps=301_259_1362_544&f=10&su=p897.6.336.ip_&tt=11&bt=0&bts=1&zu=http%3A//memory.loc.gov/cgi-bin/query/r%3Fammem/mal%3A@field%28DOCID%2b@lit%28d4022200%29%29) If I could, I would say that Lincoln replied by freeing her husband, but that is untrue. Instead, he took no notice and after a few more years, Hardinge was released. And, I wish I could tell you that Belle and Samuel stayed together for ever and had numerous adventures after the war, but I can't do that either.

The truth is, Belle Boyd divorced Samuel shortly after he was released. She then returned to America and remarried twice, eventually touring the country and regaling her stories from the war in full Confederate garb. Then, she died.

But, I still like the story of Belle Boyd...the adventure, romance, and folly. I appreciate that she was a real woman, and just like the rest of us, she had no idea what she wanted from life.

Though, unlike most of us, she tried to figure it out. She didn't settle for what was good at the moment, trapped forever in a loveless, hopeless void, not quite dead, but definitely not living.

Belle learned and lived, each day, one day at a time.

A good idea, don't you think?