My intention was to have this piece posted two days ago but every time I sat down to write I started to feel one of two things: either 1) the way that I feel itchy after someone (Chris, I’m talking to you) has reminded me that there are might be black widow spiders lurking between the rafters of the deck that I often stand below. Usually I ignore this, (I’ve only seen one big, black spider under the rafters and I don’t think it was a black widow) but when I am reminded, I feel like there is absolutely, definitely something crawling on me. Or 2) the way that I can somehow feel the sugar moving through my veins after I have a bite of something very sweet. I avoid sweets to avoid this feeling—it makes me wonder if I’m feeling what heroin feels like (okay, probably not…) and then I feel like a shitty drug addict when I’ve actually only had one bite of carrot cake.
So this piece about rejection made me feel really gross, basically. It’s been a rough 48 hours.
But I keep seeing signs that I should write it. For example, I stumbled across these two articles in Under the Sun and on NPR. (These are both much more eloquently written than the piece you’re about to dive into; my feelings won’t be hurt if you jump ship.)
Like addressing an illness or an ex-boyfriend’s new girlfriend, these things must be addressed, after all. But ugh! The spiders! The sugar-veins!
And then this morning I found this article on the Rumpus’s Dear Sugar column. I should have found it earlier but it came at just the right time—and the right age—because when I read:
“I know it’s hard to write, darling. But it’s harder not to. The only way you’ll find out if you ‘have it in you’ is to get to work and see if you do. The only way to override your ‘limitations, insecurities, jealousies, and ineptitude’ is to produce. You have limitations. You are in some ways inept. This is true of every writer, and it’s especially true of writers who are 26. You will feel insecure and jealous. How much power you give those feelings is entirely up to you.” [emphasis added]
I got a little teary eyed. So I am back in my chair, writing, and I will finish—and post—this piece on rejection.
The first time I remember being rejected was when I was denied the role of Gretl von Trapp in my school’s musical rendition of “So long, farewell.” I was in third grade and probably not the greatest singer in the world—or in the third grade—but for some reason I really wanted that part. Gretl was undoubtedly the cutest of the von Trapps and her simple line, “The sun has gone to bed and so must I,” sung whilst resting her head on her tiny little forearm was something I thought I could do perfectly—all the parents would sigh, spirits would soar, hearts would break; I would eventually realize my persona as a Spice Girl and my life would be fantastic.
Instead, one of the music teacher’s daughters got the part. It figures, right? (And by “it figures,” I don’t necessarily mean that this production was rigged. I mean that perhaps a music teacher’s daughter is a more adept singer than the literary genius and athletic extraordinaire that I was shaping up to be, simply based on environmental factors. Obviously I still hold this teacher and her daughter in contempt. I’m trying to be more realistic about my assumptions about people but the deepest wounds—infected by crushed childhood dreams and foggy memories—are hard to mend.)
I would realize strengths in other departments, but I do my best not to sing in public anymore. Call it psychological damage or a reality check but I no longer harbor desires to be a pop star—or any kind of musician, really. (Besides my dream to learn to play the harmonica and travel around America busking, but I haven’t worked too hard to achieve that goal…) So maybe it wasn’t the end of the world that I didn’t get to sing Gretl’s part, but it felt like the end of the world at the time.
This week I submitted material to four different publications/programs and received a rejection letter from a publication I submitted to about a month ago. (Note: just this morning I received another rejection notice.) So the high possibility of rejection has been weighing on my mind but, unlike the third grade pop princess version of myself, I’ve toughened up (a little bit). My mom often reminds me of the rejection letter wallpaper and, while I rolled my eyes through tears the first time she gave me that image, I’ve heard a lot more about it and I think—brace yourself, mom—she had a good point.
Some might argue that rejection letters are pointless because, as a few folks have recently asked me in an attempt to be positive, who cares what other people think about your work? Well, folks who agree with this sentiment, I care. These “other people” are the people who decide if they want to share my work with a larger audience that they worked hard to cultivate and maintain. Others might argue that rejection should just slide off the rejectee because, c’mon, no one else should tell you if what you’re doing is good. If you think it’s good, it’s good. To which I respond, get a grip, space case. We do not exist in a bubble and if someone thinks your work is bologna or, in the best case as far as rejection letters goes, “could use another editing run-through” I would argue these things are good to know.
However, I find it helpful to remember that these rejections are not personal, in fact, they’re very far from personal, even when the piece that they’re rejecting is personal to me. These people are not judging me on my character, my charm, my undeniably good looks hair; they are looking at some words that I’ve strung together—albeit with care and considerable revision—and it just doesn’t jibe with what they’re looking for. So I’m trying to remind myself that each rejection is not a personal attack, it’s a “thanks, but no thanks.” And I move on…
(I’ll also just briefly say here, since this is “carry less baggage,” that I’m trying to get to a place where even the messy, personal, feeling-infused rejections are a point of insight and personal inventory, not devastation. Even those who get to see the best bits of me—my character, my charm, my beautiful head of hair—and decide I’m not their cup of tea are allowed to have their opinion. I disagree with them, obviously, but I’m becoming confident enough in myself to move along to people who won’t reject me.)
I’m also trying to keep that little kid version of myself alive in the work that I create. I used to not give a single damn about what other people thought of my work; I agreed with the sentiment that “If I think it’s good (or my parents think it’s good—when do they ever not think it’s good?), then it’s good.” I would work for hours on stories or drawings or little ideas (that is to say, ideas in need of cultivating, not ideas that were not valuable) that I had. But I’ve tweaked that mantra a bit: “If I enjoy myself while I make it, then it is good for me.” In this way, I’m placing it in the category of a positive mental or emotional practice, not in any way that can be quantified or assessed. If it’s good for me and it’s also good, well, that’s a nice bonus, isn’t it? But in order for it to be anything, it has to be something in the first place and it should be something enjoyable to create, regardless of if it's good or not. You know what I mean?
Janelle, one of my oldest friends and a budding filmmaker, and I met for coffee a long time ago—a year ago? two years ago?—and had a conversation that I still think about. We talked about making it in the creative world and how it was such a shame that people were under the impression that it’s easy. It makes sense, we reasoned, that it seems easy because the public only ever hears about the “overnight” success story and the accolades that some creative person, any creative person—who has been working his or her ass off for years for a break into the creative world—achieves in a way that is very far from “overnight.”
This week I read Just Kids by Patti Smith, which tells the story of Robert Mapplethorpe and Patti meeting, growing up and trying to find themselves in the New York art scene. Smith weaves together a memoir of pure poetry but doesn’t spend much of any of that discussing the fame that the two of these young people would eventually enjoy. And that makes total sense.
It makes sense because those years pre-fame tested them and made them such strong partners and best friends. It also makes sense because the success isn’t the most important part of the story: the tiny but important moments were when the two of them would be sitting in the same room, listening to the same record and, as Smith said so many times in the book, “creating”; or the moments when one or the other would have to be the other’s greatest fan and supporter as to reignite the drive in the one who was wilting under pressure and constant rejection. They both came to points where they wanted to quit—they felt worthless and tired from trying—but they did not. Their perseverance and passion kept them moving, and move and move they did. These are the important—beautiful, painful, human—parts of any story and they’re the parts that we never hear about.
So when it happens to us we think, what the fuck, man? so-and-so had it so easy… but that’s never really the case.
I try my best to remember that: we never see the shit storm that occurs before the dust settles and a star—performer, writer, artist, whatever—is discovered. I think back to Sugar (real name: Cheryl Strayed) on the Rumpus and I am reminded that to create you must work at it each and every day and sometimes it’s shitty but it’ll be especially shitty if it doesn’t exist.
So yeah, having people tell you that your work is good is hard but I’d rather keep getting these rejection letters than always wonder. I’ve been using Submittable—I find their blog incredibly helpful for discovering really wonderful journals that I would have never known about otherwise—for three years now and I’ve sent out more material in the last few weeks than I have in 2012 and 2013 combined. I even wrote about my first submission here which is so cute to read now because I’m all watch me now, world! I just submitted something to an incredibly competitive literary journal and I have no idea what I’m doing but it’s totally going to get published… So cute.
I’ve decided to just keep plugging away. I’ve decided that with every rejection letter, I’ve got to send out something new and better. I’ve got to keep creating—there is absolutely no getting around that. (I always wonder about people who claim they’re not creative people. I’d like to think we’re all creative; some are just more desperate to create than others.)
I’m learning a lot through this whole process, not just about writing but about myself, and I still don’t think I’m a great writer—you’re only 26, Kylie, you’re only 26—but you know what? I’m writing and I love it and I’m gonna keep doing it.
When you travel around a whole handful of countries, you probably try to explore everything that you can in the time that you have to be in those places—out every night, up and wandering around early in the morning, chatting to whoever will give you the time of day, etc.—and I do that too.
And when you live in a city like San Francisco for as long as I have, you probably try to explore every nook and cranny of such a relatively tiny (geographically speaking) city. But if you’re actually me in that situation—where you live in a city like San Francisco for seven years or so—you tend to just say to yourself, “forget it, I live here. I don’t need to explore it all right now” or something like that. You stick to what is home-y.
For better or worse, this has been my experience living in such a multicultural, exciting city such as San Francisco: I dip my toes in the night life, I try new cafes when I’m feeling energetic, I talk to coherent people on the bus, sometimes. (I do like talking to bus drivers and I make it a practice to say hello, if not carry on a long, life-changing conversation with each one who drives me around this fine city. They’re good people.) Mostly, though, I stick to the two neighborhoods that feel like home to me and the Sunset district is one of those.
The Sunset district—besides the dorms at SFSU—was my first real community in San Francisco, and it still holds a special spot in my heart. People talk down on the Sunset but those people are wrong. The Sunset is the least-city part of the city, which is probably why I like it so much. The streets are easy to navigate if you can spell and count, the sprawls of residential blocks are broken up with little pockets of activity, and, I mean, you’ve got Ocean Beach—the salty air, the surfers, the beach vibe that you’d be hard-pressed to find anywhere north and especially east of the Sunset.
This week I spent quite a few hours roaming around the Sunset. See, I experienced something I hadn’t experienced in awhile: failure. And when I say, “I experienced” it, I mean my sweet, sweet 1996 hatchback experienced failure. (He had a busted hose, it wasn’t his fault…)
I went to get my baby smogged at a gas station on 19th and Taraval and after a disappointing failure, we (the car and I) headed down Taraval to pick up some parts from O’Reilly’s. That’s when the nostalgia set in. I realized how much of my life I spent in that part of town: taking the L in- and outbound, walking to friends’ houses, going to dive bars, trekking down to Ocean Beach to catch the sunset, and generally just growing up and collecting memories all along that small section of a big city.
Taraval (and Noriega and Lincoln) are the larger veins that run east and west through the Sunset and, as an individual who lived around 19th and Taraval and then 42nd and Taraval, you could say I know Taraval pretty well. So I’ve put together a collection of ten places that I think are noteworthy (and that give me “the feels”—a word that I just learned recently from some crazy ladies and am trying to use in my vocabulary). I’ll work my way from east to west, beginning near the eastern slope of T-val and ending up, well, I’ll let you guess…
(Also, honorable mentions to places not on Taraval but that also gave me “the feels”: Larsen Park on 19th & Ulloa; Stern Grove on 19th & Sloat; Sloat Gardening Center on Sloat & 45th; The SF Zoo on Sloat & 47th; and Sunset Supermarket on Vicente & 40th--okay the market doesn't give me "the feels" but it's a great market that I recommend to folks in the area.)
1. Guerra Quality Meats (click location names to be cleverly taken to their website)
490 Taraval St, San Francisco, CA 94116
This is a great little neighborhood butcher. When I was obsessed with cooking the two things I can cook—curry and jumbo—I would go to these guys to get my meats. They’re always super attentive and the quality is about 100% better (at a pretty equivelant price) than, say, the Safeway half a block down the road. Shop local! Hooray!
2. Parkside Farmer’s Market
555 Taraval St, San Francisco, CA 94116
Man, I love this spot. Everyone who works here is super friendly and, not only do they have wonderful prices on fresh fruits and veggies, they also have an eclectic mix of Mediterranean food. I'm a fan. Oh, and bonus points for the only produce store that I've ever known to have Mediterranean music playing on their website...
3. Seniore's (order online here)
2415 19th Ave, San Francisco, CA 94116
This spot is two shakes away from the corner of 19th and Taraval and is a Sunset staple. My roommate and I lived about 100 feet away from this place for a year so we got to know the guys and they got to know that we like pesto by the slice (because we weren’t idiots who bought whole pizzas or we’d be obese idiots. But I’ve since ordered whole pesto pizzas to my place in Glen Park …shhhh). Best memory from here: getting back from a wine tasting in Napa and witnessing my friend Aaron (guy) order, wait for, and consume his pizza wearing a purple wig and acting like absolutely nothing was out of the ordinary. It was a beautiful thing. Anyway, Seniore's is open late. They’re reasonably priced. They’ve got great pizza. Do it. Trust.
4. Grandma’s Saloon (Grandma's doesn't have a website. Weird. Their Yelp site is here.)
1016 Taraval St, San Francisco, CA 94116
(Photo coming soon. Sorry, Grandma!)
When I lived at 19th and Taraval I used to come here to play pool with the roommate, play cribbage with the ginger I adored or play some twisted “adult” version of “guess what’s different” (I don’t know the technical term for that game…) where you would click things like a missing strap on a lady’s dress or a mismatched towel beneath some fit pool boy (yes, parents, this is what your children do when they go to college…). They have a friendly—if not a bit raspy—staff, a pool table, a jukebox and a caricature of someone’s grandma above the bar, which somehow gives them more street cred.
5. The Parkside Library
1200 Taraval St, San Francisco, CA 94116
I realized most of my little stops on the walk down memory lane are either bars or food establishments. But, kids, libraries are very important so this one has made the list. This branch was renovated in 2010 and is small but bright and cheery. This branch is also located in Mccoppin park, which is a nice plus. There are lots of benches, trees and always a few children monkeying around on the playground. If you don't have a library card you are a fool. Get one (if you don't already have one...), borrow free books, get coffee at the French Bakery on Taraval and 21st, find a bench and enjoy!
6. El Burrito Express
1601 Taraval St, San Francisco, CA 94116
There is nothing like wrapping up in some layers on a sunny day in the Sunset, grabbing a delicious burrito from El Burrito Express (check out their menu here) and walking down to the beach. They've got LOTS of options for the whole range of Mexican food-lovers and walking to the beach from here will make you feel like you deserve such an amazing meal.
7. Kingdom of Dumpling
1713 Taraval St, San Francisco, CA 94116
I live in a very small apartment. This place is probably smaller than my apartment (okay, probably not…). This place is about the size of someone’s living room (yeah, that's probably right). However, what they lack in square footage, they make up for in deliciousness. There are a few dumpling places on Taraval but this is the one that you want. Yummy dumplings and spring rolls and lots of energy from the staff and the other patrons. I took my mom to this spot once and she was a little spooked by the small interior but once our food arrived, she was a believer. You will be too.
8. Parkside Tavern
1940 Taraval St, San Francisco, CA 94116
I can only really vouch for the Bloody Mary’s at this place. They’re no Zeitgeist Bloody but they’re pretty tasty—they lean more towards a full salad Bloody with all the fixin's, which I appreciate. They also have a pretty extensive menu with lots of pub fare as well as what always looked to be a pretty impressive brunch spread. I’ve stumbled out of bed and over to this place a few times to meet with friends who wanted to watch soccer (okay…?) and nurse hangovers. Solid establishment and they seem very heavily invested in supporting the local teams as well as showing the international "football" matches.
9. O’Reilly’s
2150 Taraval St, San Francisco, CA 94116
Adding this one to the list is kind of a joke but it was the many trips to O’Reilly’s over the last few days that brought me back to the Sunset so I had to give them a little credit. Can I also just mention that they have multiple, knowledgeable, helpful women working here? I love that. Also, when I was relatively new to car repairs, my partner at the time said he would change my car’s oil. (He's a sweetheart.) It was a very nice gesture so I thought I'd go and get all the supplies before he arrived. I went to O’Reilly’s and picked up two whole quarts of oil for my car and neglected to pick up, I don't know, an oil drain pan? Ayiyi. … I have learned so much since then.
10. The Riptide
3639 Taraval St, San Francisco, CA 94116
Last but certainly not least, the Riptide. This place is my second favorite bar in San Francisco and, while a lot of that is just the residual nostalgia that's been built up over six (oh sorry, five) years, it's also just a really great bar. They’ve got Open Mic on Mondays, Ladies’ Night on Thursdays, Bingo every other Saturday, and live music and fun food offerings on different days of the week. What part of that sounds not totally awesome? (Check out their schedule here.) I have many good memories from here but one of my favorites was coming on a Monday with my friend Johannes all the way from Helsinki (check out his music blog here) and listening to him perform.
Grand Finale: Ocean Beach
The last stop on the Taraval tour… Ocean Beach. What a wonderful little part of the City, right?
Walking/biking lane just east of the Great Highway
My beautiful sister has joined the blogosphere (check out the wonderful Yay for Yaya site here), and she has totally inspired me! She actually has PLANS for her blog posts. What a concept! I created a manta of my own (very à la Yay for Yaya): “carry less baggage --> create more plans!” and then just sat down to write some notes. A few hours seem to have disappeared, and I have some very tentative plans for the next three months of blog posts.
So, to answer your question, yes, I got a little carried away.
Now it is definitely bedtime. Good night, friends.
I was driving home today after an unusually brief ten hour day on campus (it's cold--I needed pjs and my space heater) and KQED was just debriefing the audience about all of the terrible things in the world so I started scanning the stations. I found my way to a station playing this song. It was one of those weird moments when you meet a song just as it's beginning. Anyway, I started thinking--in that moment--very deeply about this song, and I'm posting this now so that you'll all remind me or I'll remind myself to write more when I have a few hours to commit to writing an in-depth (much needed, much lacking) blog post.
See, I included this song in my (high school) senior slideshow and even then it was getting a little old. I remember the first time I heard this song when I was young and it moving, comforting, un-comforting me. I started wondering about what a young person, who had never heard this song, might think of it today. Has music changed? Can young people distinguish the recorded sounds (if not, please please, the style) between the Stones and the Beatles and Jimmy Eat World? (That was such a ridiculous comparison. Oy vey, I hope the answer is "yes.") Would this song stir up as many emotions in a 13 year old today as it did in 2001? Will this song (and other songs) always have such a strange hold on me? One that I don't understand like the way that certain smells make me think of my grandma or the bakery I used to work at, or certain voices that make me think of Alan? I hear it and I start thinking about high school and about the rest of that album and where I was when we sat in the parking lot and listened to this album and that other one (Snow Patrol?) and stared at the neon "BOWL" sign and talked about how scary it was to be 16...??
I don't know! I'm exhausted! These are questions for another day. I miss you, Tumblr. I miss you more, friends and family. xx
PS: Thanks, Jimmy Eat World. Couldn't have gotten through adolescence without you.
…and then he said something like, “think of the sound that a comma makes. ..... that pause."
I have fallen head over heels in love with poetry.
I’ve also got space in my heart to have a crush on Georgia White and I’m writing poetry about her. A friend/muse encouraged me to consider form in my poems so I’m writing a piece in which Georgia and I are in conversation. It’s fun! (Maybe I'll post some things some day...)
Poetry all around! Have no fear. It is wonderful and a hellavalotta fun.
…and I just found this: Northern Soul Radio.
Happy Thursday, friends. xx
…and in case we don’t talk before then, happy … Turkey Day (?). Enjoy the family and the friends and the sleeping in, if you’re fortunate enough to do so. If not, you deserve some extra Thanks. xx
I was standing with a classmate outside of the Humanities building during the ten-minute break that splits up our three hour long class. Two young ladies--freshmen, I'd bet money on it--walked past us dressed as belly dancers. It was like five in the evening. The sun had not yet set. I thought about their poor, ignorant parents.
And, seven years later, as my current-day self continued to walk away from that same campus, I went through all of the Halloweens that I've had in San Francisco, and they were such lovely memories. There was the year that my good friend and I each went as half of Christmas (you know, where it was so last minute that when she talked about a green dress, I talked about a red dress and boom!); there was the year that I went as a "pussy magnet," possibly my most creative costume yet; there was the year that I just went out as a cat and my friend got beat up on a bus before we could meet up (okay, not so lovely); and last year I went as 50 Shades of Grey, another good, creative jab at popular culture.
I got to my car, changed into my flip flops, let my engine warm up, listened to NPR as I drove home and when I got there I had a package from my mom (don't ever let anyone tell you I'm not cool. That sentence is proof). She sent me candy corn earrings because there is an on-going joke about my absolute addiction to candy corn (mom: I had a handful in class the other day but, you know, other people were watching so I kept myself composed). Tonight I am, with the exception of writing this quick anecdote, working on a paper and presentation that I think is due at midnight. (Hint: it's not going to be done by midnight. Sorry. Not sorry.) These last few weeks I have been losing the fight against teaching eighteen year olds (there were no belly dancers in class this morning... what a shame), being a full-time student, oh, and working another job.
I'm just looking for some pity or some semblance of hope that next year when my friend texts me "you should throw away your inhibitions and come enjoy Halloween while you're young," I will actually adhere to her persuasion. ...Oh my god. Moment of realization: what if this is my last Halloween as a student? Ever. Or, worse yet, the last year that I am "young." The life crisis continues...
Let me leave you with this image: Tonight I am wearing my Jessica Fletcher glasses (think: 80's inspired, huge lenses, light pink frames with gold hardware), my new ("sweet") candy corn earrings and my wrist brace (for more practical reasons, unfortunately). So when someone asks next week, "what were you for Halloween?" I will tell them that I was a festive Jessica Fletcher who, after so many years pounding away at that typewriter, found herself with a bit of carpal tunnel but yet another thing to write about.
1. My eighteen year olds were reading newspapers last week and, color me biased but, they loved it.
1a. They are coming up with the most amazing research topics. (Gender-based salary gaps? Child labor? The affordable care act? Families without fathers? ...fuckin' amazing!)
2. My book club--also a group of eighteen year olds--picked a book that I thought was a little silly but, now that I'm at the "After" portion, I am crying. (Looking for Alaska by John Green)
3. I don't have any best friends in San Francisco but, strangely enough, my best friends--in other corners of California or Washington or Manchester or Amsterdam--are reaching out to me like they can feel that I need them. And I do. And I love them.
4. I still don't feel confident with some of my classmates but I definitely looked up PhD programs this weekend ...in a moment of, ya know, procrastination..?
5. My oldest, dearest, most wonderful friend made me talk last night. God, that felt good.
Facebook Users? Facebook is Using You (Part 1: Relationships)
"Now that you’re in a happy, healthy relationship, there are some Facebook rules that need following to ensure it stays that way." From eHarmony's relationship advice column
So I’m finishing up a poem about the wacky world of Facebook relationships, with an emphasis on relationships between lady friends when one of them finds herself with a new “friend” and forgets about old, authentic, bones-and-blood, real-life lady friends. (It’s basically an untamable piece that came as the response to a classmate asking: “…but what really ticks you off?” during a discussion of “taboos,” which I found too big to tackle: “Uhh.. bestiality? Racist slurs? Disrespecting the homeless?” “Yes, these are big taboos that are mostly societally shared but what ticks you off?” …. “Well, there is this one thing…”)
My poetry instructor assured me that the poem is, in fact, not too ridiculous as long as I make it more ridiculous (oh… Poets…) so I wanted to add more Facebook jargon to help me expand the critique and my own ethos as I went into my next draft. I was researching those little images that go with “in a relationship” or “engaged” or “married” that I’ve seen on the holy Facebook before excommunicating it from my life. I couldn’t remember what they were. Hearts? Flowers? Wedding rings? But the first thing that came up on the (actually) Holy Google was this site from eHarmony. I came to this site, laughed and laughed, and since my last social critique got so much action, I thought I’d do it again (I’m a social media whore, right?).
My first critique is obvious in the photo. 923 people have “liked” this article on Facebook. Do I need to explain why this alone sucked me into this article? Since I cannot hear you, I will proceed: 923 people on Facebook are being their own versions of relationship police officers in Social Media (the population of Facebook Town alone is 1.4 Billion and growing rapidly). See, when you come across an article posted on the less-than-inclusionary dating website eHarmony.com that fits with your own philosophy about “what you should do on the internet” and then you “like” it, 156 of your closest Facebook friends (forget those other 643 not-so-close/never-met-in-real-life Friends) can see that and—oh, goodness, please accept me—“like” it themselves, you feel good.
You can also Tweet it. Or satellite-dish it (I’m not sure what conglomerate created that image with the orange outward waves. Pardon my ignorance).
This just makes me imagine a few Boeing 747’s full of angry—but happily in love—Facebook users who want to make sure that their partners also see that they “like” (ie: promote) the ideas presented in this piece. And we’re ready for take off….
So, as with my last critique, I am going to be strategic (ie: chronological).
1. Hide things from your spouse or significant other. If you don’t want your partner seeing who you’re chatting with online, that’s not a good sign. Facebook should not be a secretive escape from your relationship.
2. Befriend someone of the opposite sex your partner is uncomfortable with. If your partner is uncomfortable with you “liking” photos of your ex — or chatting with your super-flirty co-worker online — respect his/her wishes. Don’t engage in behavior that will feed insecurities or threaten your partner. If you’re not currently Facebook friends with an ex, don’t add him. Especially in a long-term commitment relationship, you should each trust and respect each other enough to let each other veto online friendships with members of the opposite sex you’re not comfortable with.
3. Keep up old photos of exes. Even if you never go back and look at old photos, some of your friends might. Respect your new relationship and delete old online mementos of your past relationships.
Numbers one through three hit home with a discomfort that people who are really concerned with social media (hopefully?) grapple with on a daily basis. I will say here that social media (hi, Tumblr friends…) can be really powerful for sharing, challenging and expanding ideas that we have but, when other people (ie: the ones that you are in a relationship with or, dare I say, the ones that you are in love with) get offended by your social media activity it is a sign of one (or both) of two things: your partner is unable to disconnect your real life from your online life (it’s difficult and whether it can actually happen is still something I’m thinking about…) or you are not addressing what is happening in the real world and letting whatever you feel is deficient in your real life metastasize into something else in your online life. Either way, deal with that distrust. Seriously.
We all know that people have real lives and internet lives, and that the two are not always cohesive, right? Right? No? Hmmm… (I’d implore you to think more about that on your own time.) If you’re talking to people that you don’t want your partner to know about, you’ve got bigger issues. You are, my friend, leading the kind of double-life that social media begs you to lead. Social Media: 1. Your relationship: 0.
Number two is homophobic. ‘Nuff said. (This is why a lot of people who "sign up" for eHarmony get denied. Oh, you didn't know that that actually happens? It does.)
Number three is tricky, though. They are asking you to delete photos of your past. This would be the equivalent of asking your partner to burn those negatives or their scrapbook or those floppy disks. Any fool that tells you that he or she “never go[es] back and look[s] at old photos” is lying to you, regardless of the medium. That’s why we take photos, you fool, and knowing that the social media masterminds are, well, smart, they’ve also built nostalgia into the social media system. For however long you’ve been a Facebook member your history is laid out on the table and, hey, when you’re having a shitty week you just might look back at old photos (never me, no, no, I wouldn’t do such a silly thing…).
Your goal may not be to rekindle some old flame—maybe you just want to look at photos of your 22nd birthday and see that at one point you did have a lot friends, and that wonderful man with his wonderful beard is in those photos because he was important to you at that time. He was there. He was in the photos. You’re not going to jump out of the door and try to get him back. You’re just reminiscing. To ask someone to delete those photos is just downright mean. (Nevermind the photos that you have from some wonderful vacation that you took with so-and-so that you don't care about but those photos might be important later for your own personal gratification.) And then, dare I ask, what will I do once you, whoever you are, asks me to delete these photos and then you dump me? I would imagine that I'd be doubly pissed.
I have, however, deleted things (or Friends) because I knew it was better for me but the way that I made those decisions is critical. There is this thing called “autonomy” and then there is another thing called “instruction.” Making decisions based on the former rather than the latter can have profound effects on all of us, in all situations.
4. Change your relationship status without talking to your partner. Relationship statuses should be discussed prior to any online changes. (Don’t abuse the status, either. Wait until it’s serious enough that most of your friends already know you’re dating someone awesome.
5. Deny the relationship. If your Facebook page has zero evidence that you’re in a relationship — no pictures, statuses, links that hint that you’re attached — and your partner wants to be acknowledged, show him/her that you’re proud to be with him/her, and simultaneously let your flirtatious Facebook friends know that certain online behaviors are now officially off-limits, by giving an occasional nod to your significant other.
Number four is also tricky: when, oh when, will the two worlds collide? You spend 85% of your time with one person and having this conversation can—I’m being sort of serious here—give you a profound perspective on your “relationship.” This is why my relationship status only changed just once for, maybe, a week. Brutal. And we even talked about it. Relationship status updates are announced to all of your 1,258 friends and it can be embarrassing if one person thinks, the minute after you decide to be “official,” “shit, I’ve gotta change my status” and the other person still thinks “it’s complicated.” (Zuckerberg is a genius in just this way… an “it’s complicated” option?! How insightful of him.)
Now for number five: If you feel that your partner is denying your relationship because she’s not posting every day how wonderful you are, you need to take a deep breath, a few minutes away from your computer (or iPhone), and you need to re-evaluate your life. Does sharing your intimate relationship with the world really mean that you’re more worthy of that love that you already have…?
Also, if all of your five of your real-life friends, wielding their iPhones in your face every five seconds don't produce a single photo of you and your beau, you might also have a problem. That is, if you care about iPhones or social media (or eHarmony). Some people don't actually care but I want to appease those of you who are very concerned about this... No photos!? Then you must not have spent time together! (I'm sort of paraphrasing here but: "If there are no photos, it didn't happen!")
6. Add his/her friends or family as “friends” before you’ve met them. This is just creepy.
Call me bat-shit crazy but I don’t think you should add anyone before you know who he or she is. In my mind I imagine this exchange: “Hey boo, I added your uncle and he said I was so beautiful and he can’t wait to meet me! Isn’t that sweet?!” “Uh… You are beautiful but you are young and he is a registered sex offender." (Awkward...)
While I agree with eHarmony (gasp!) that it is creepy to add family and friends of your partner before meeting them, I want to extend this notion to all of social media. (I just heard the other day that they’re going to let folks under 18 with Facebook accounts be visible to everyone. This is a disaster. Having new “friends” in this situation might not be a good thing. Young folks may think that any new friends are good friends and I’m going to have to disagree…) Be weary of Facebook "friends." They're not real friends.
7. Complain about your partner or make a fight public. If you’re in a real relationship, have real conversations. Seek conflict resolution in person, not online — and especially not on a Facebook wall. Don’t use Facebook as a place to vent, be passive-aggressive, or to humiliate your partner. Ever.
8. Gush too much. You’re in love. That’s great. But use terms of endearment and “I have the best boyfriend in the world!” statuses in moderation. Don’t alienate your loved ones — or incite major eye-rolling — by using Facebook strictly as an excuse to brag about your recent endorphin surge.
Again, eHarmony, I’m going to give you a bit of credit for these two, but then implore you to make this more of a global plea. This goes back to the public versus private line that social media blurs on a daily basis. I’ve had my fair share of “discussions” on Facebook that are really gratifying and eye-opening, but do we really have to remind folks about these things? I guess so. I guess eHarmony people don’t know these things. While I am acutely aware that this is a dating website, people do this too much in their real lives too.
Too often very personal photos have been received (by me, as I am writing this--sorry if you disagree) as either "hey bitches, look how great my life is!" or "you'll never find a love like this." To both I say, in Facebook jargon, "de-friend" (Facebook and real) or I give them a mental minus point. If you need a boost (ie: lots of "like"s) you, again, have a problem. Something is wrong in your own life that compels you to ask for affirmation from people who are not in your relationship. Harsh but probably true.
I’d also ask that by “in moderation” you mean “few and far between.” Again—bat-shit crazy, anti-social-media-lady speaking—I don’t understand why people feel the need to publicize the private.
9. Post racy pics. Don’t upload on-vacation bikini shots. Don’t share photos of your new man “just waking up.” Keep it classy. Respect your partner by not seeking attention from others with sexy poses and provocative statuses.
Oh no, please do. This makes us jeer and de-friend you. This point is less about your partner (your subject, if you will) and more about your (lack of) awareness of your audience (you do remember your 3,284 friends, right?).
10. Have a shared Facebook profile. Even if you’re married, the whole “2 become 1″ thing does not apply to Facebook. An old classmate might want to say hi without wondering which of you he’s talking to.
This one isn’t worth my time.
Thanks, folks. It’s been a fun dive into my angst about social media and relationships and everything that is wrong with the world today. Remember your grandparents? Remember that fuzzy feeling that you had before you posted about it?
Sign out of Facebook and direct your attention to what is actually happening.
When you see that word do you think of a door way or the ability to mesmerize another?
Two things happened yesterday:
I took my students to the library for a demonstration of the library databases. Giving them a chance to unlock the oft-unrealized potential of our school library is something I wish someone had given me. They learned how things worked—for the most part—and then I wanted them to have some time to explore the topics they had brainstormed for their next assignment (I won’t bore you but they have to pick a social issue from a book they’ve read and propose a change). One student was researching PTSD further complicated by alcoholism; a student behind him was researching volatile female friendships among black women; a student next to her was researching masculinity in the Rastafarian culture; another student was researching the Dream Act and its influence on the lives of inner-city students. I could go on. Suffice it to say: Holy Hell. There were nearly tears.
In our poetry class we started talking about words and how poetry breaks down the “instrumental” nature of language to form it into something new. As an individual who has a penchant for word games, I began writing a list of all words that I could think of that started with the prefix “acc-.” The class started the exploration with the word "accident" and a few others, but I silently collected my letters and strung together a list: accuse, account, accost, acclaim, accord, accolade, accommodation. What a strange spectrum of words and meanings. Words are fun. After class, I met with a friend and we reworked a ballad to remove all of the people from it. Ha. Words are fun.
Wikihow to do anything: “How to Know If a Guy Wants to Kiss You at a Movie Theater”
(“A Critique of Advice on the Internet”, or “Why I am So Happy I’m Not Fifteen Anymore”)
(I especially like the distinction that is made when the illustrated boy suggests the back row and what that must mean. He’s no longer sweet and wants to kiss you, now he just wants to kiss you. And yet, young illustrated lady, you will follow him to whatever seat he wants…?)
Also, for the record, I have gone to small movie theatres in big cities alone (usually for smaller events) and I like to get there early and take up a few seats in the back row (better angle and room to move around if a 6’5” man sits in the seat directly in front of me) so that I can sit in peace and enjoy a film. This directly conflicts with the scene above. Firstly, a boy who really wants to kiss a girl probably wouldn’t take her to Pulp Fiction or a small Sexuality film festival in Amsterdam (or maybe he would…?). Secondly, show a little respect to the folks who sit in the back for a better view of the movie and not the person that they’re now trying to focus on in the dark as opposed to the light that they were standing in immediately prior to their entry to the theatre.
This image is overwhelming so I’m just going to tackle these bullet points in order and with my own bullet points:
He either googled “how to kiss a girl at a movie theater” and found this gem of advice, or he’s been exposed to American media for eighteen years or so, or (and?) he’s wisely taken you to some rom-com and there’s a scene that begs for a little romance on his part. He’s not cold, he’s not in love with you, he may not even like you, hell, he might just be—actually—stretching his arm and you somehow take his arm on the back of your chair romantic. Maybe he’s just doing a long reach for your popcorn… he did buy it afterall.
Ah, the old “arm on the arm rest” routine. Classic. My own personal opinion is that folks who see movies should just keep their hands in their own laps for the whole time. Get that elbow off the arm rest. Get your upper arm away from mine. Yucky. If he does somehow graze any part of your body, it might mean that he wants to kiss you but it may just mean that he wants to take full advantage of that strange contraption that was meant for forearms. But hell, maybe he wants to kiss you…
This one just reminds me of when I was… however old… watching the first SAW movie. Jesus Christ. That movie was so traumatizing that I couldn’t even tell you if there were boys there to kiss me. But if there was anyone there with me they kept checking in with me—“Kylie, c’mon, it’s okay, watch it. It’s not real.” Fuck that, bro. If a guy keeps looking at you it’s either because you’re in the fetal position with your hands over your eyes or you’re crying (hello, Fishbowl) or you’ve got popcorn in your hair. If he keeps looking at you because he wants to kiss you he is a fool because he just paid more than ten dollars to take a girl to a place—the theater, apparently—where she could have just been kissed in the parking lot. (I’m not even going to talk about the last part about how “if you’re bold enough, look over yourself and smile” because I feel that my readers have already scoffed at that line. I won’t exhaust you intelligent people…)
Lastly, and obviously most worrisome: let’s be serious here—if you’re googling “how to know if a guy wants to kiss you at a movie theater” and then he says he loves you, you should probably abandon your popcorn and your 48 ounce pop and get the hell out of there. He may do that—creeper—but he probably will not. He probably said “haha” or he’s going to say something like “oh man, okay, so I’ve seen this movie before and you’ve really got to pay attention to the next scene…” If he tells you he loves you in the middle of a movie you’ve got a lot more to worry about besides when he’ll kiss you.
L-O-L. This is why really wonderful films that deal with real-world social issues do not see the pay day that any movie with Chadum Tatum (did I get that right?) see. If a film is too serious, too gross, too thought-provoking it. Will. Not. Leave. Time. For. Kissing. DUH.
If you look over in the middle of a bloody fight scene and your sweetheart is not, in that exact moment looking at you, have no fear! He is a boy! (Man? ..!) and he does not want to kiss you. Not at all. No way. If it’s a film where Chadum or Ryan or Brad have no love interest—gasp—and men are just beating the shit out of each other, don’t take it personally. This probably means that, while he may not kiss you, he might actually be trying to build a relationship with you (ie: this is what I like, and I like you; what do you like?) …but tread carefully, young lady googling “How to Know If a Guy Wants to Kiss You at a Movie Theater” because you’re probably not ready for that. In all honesty, he’s probably an asshole who has no interest but to kiss you (….) later and then forget your name.
Nicholas Sparks is set for life but anything that doesn’t leave time for a good smooch is really not going to get the kids to pay attention. Why see Bully? “What a downer.”
Why see anything, really, if it doesn’t give the kids a minute to find their one true love in a dark room without parental supervision? Thank god for Wikihow and Chadum Tatum. Forget cinema in all of it’s most beautiful, awe-inspiring, life-changing forms? I just want to kiss this guy!
(This piece has been published after my third revision and will, no doubt, be revised a few more times.)
Revision. My students never want to do it. People, in general, don’t want to do it. We write something: we spend a few hours in front of the computer (or type writer, anyone? It’s a machine that begs for revision) but we save, we print, we submit, we’re done…? Right?
Wrong.
I guess it takes a real nerd to say “revision is so great” but that’s who I am and that’s what I say. I still think “Ugh. Yuck. Gross” when I have a piece (like the one above, or, honestly, this one) covered in ideas for revision but I see it as a challenge that a piece of text has to go through to be the best that it can be. Nothing that you want to be really great happens correctly the first time. (I’ll give you a few seconds to think about that.)
It’s only when you revise—re-see what you’ve done, take a step back from the page, re-evaluate, reconsider, rewrite and rewrite and rewrite again—that you get it just right. Maybe. Then there are those times—we’ve all had them—when we re-read something we wrote last week, last year, back in the ‘90’s, whatever, and think “what!?” and want to revise again.
And I think:
such is life.
When you’re eighteen and are told to revise, it seems silly—it seems unfair, unnecessary. But I think, really, that learning to revise a paper is a lot like learning how to revise the whole show, the whole “life” thing. It’s a skill that I keep working on and something that I want my students to walk out of my classroom knowing how to do, and knowing how important the practice is. I’m learning—slowly—that no one sits down and creates a masterpiece. (And if it’s so slow for me, I’m trying to forgive my eighteen year olds who don’t see the importance of it… yet.) It’s more about what happens between the drafts that makes it something closer to (your own personal idea of) a masterpiece.
A man that I deeply admire, Mike Wandler, is a great artist. I was a few years older than my students when I first met him. I remember seeing his artwork for the first time and thinking “(insert expletive here), he’s so good!” and then—over time—I saw his draft work; his pallets to find just the right color; his nearly-finished pieces that he wanted to paint over because he didn’t like them anymore; his pieces that sat unfinished because he wasn’t sure how to finish them.
That was when I started to get it.
I had always imagined Toni Morrison sitting down one afternoon, carving out some time in her calendar and writing The Bluest Eye in a few weeks; I had always imagined Robert Frost sitting down one morning with a cup of coffee and scrawling “The Road Less Traveled” and then sending it off for publication. I had always imagined Pablo Picasso throwing some shapes together one afternoon to paint Nude in a Black Armchair and then finding such fame for his work. This was how the greats did things—they just sat down and created them. Why couldn’t I do that? Whereas I had always imagined Mike sitting down with an idea and suddenly—magically—creating it, I realized there might be more to it.
…Okay. It takes time. It takes practice. It takes many versions until you’re happy with the final product.
Step 1: Start with a blank page and know that it will not be your best work.
I still considered—and continue to consider—Mike a craftsman of his trade. I could never be that good at anything. No way. But then a weird thing happened this summer. I met with a woman named Caren who led my creative writing workshop. She had wine and I had beer and, after a lively socio-political discussion about our Bay Area, we gave each other really fantastic feedback on our writing pieces. As someone somewhat new to the real creative writing field, this experience felt anxiety-ridden and incredibly intimate. She pointed out things that I would have never thought about and I humbly pointed out a few things that she might want to “re-see” and she was ever so grateful. We had both been working hard on our work but this new set of eyes had set us up for even greater greatness.
Step 2: Get input from trusted colleagues/friends/writers/painters/experts others and take it, or don’t.
So I took what I had and I was overwhelmed by all that had to be re-worked, re-thought, revised. I put it away for a while and let it simmer. I let myself re-evaluate what I was going for with this particular piece. And then I dug deep: I got rid of a lot of it (it hurt), I added a lot (it hurt), I compressed and expanded (it was exhausting) and I’m still not done. And I’m okay with that… for now.
Step 3: Take time. It all takes time.
See, writing, painting, building—doing whatever you’re doing—is a lot more like life than we’re willing to stretch our similes. The spilling over between “art” and “life” is immeasurable.
Think of a relationship, a job, a location and how you felt like “this just isn’t as good as it could be.” Take the revision route. Nothing is set in stone. Even published work can be re-published. Even visual art can be extended and re-done. Even where you are as a human being can be re-visited and, with a critical eye and a spirit for re-seeing the possibilities of the “piece,” you can be revised.
Being eighteen and unwilling to revise makes sense, I guess. When you’re eighteen, you haven’t had to really question your wording, stance, audience, situation, idea. But, see, revision is critical to growing not just as a writer/artist/thinker; it is a critical practice to lead a fulfilling life. When you take a step back and see your “work” (ie: life) in a more critical way, you are open to the imperfections of the first stab at anything; you’re more open to the advise of (trusted) others; you’re more open to taking time and making changes.
Sometimes we can’t re-do things but we can step back and revise what’s in progress—what is in front of us—what we’re working on at the moment. We can make the best of what we’ve already worked so hard on and make them better before we’re done with the final piece. There is no such thing as a final draft in life. It’s always a work in progress and being able to revise will make what we’ve created for ourselves exponentially better than it would have been if we had settled on the first draft.
So revision is hard and it will never get easier.
But, I think:
such is life.
I want my eighteen year olds (and all of us, I guess) to think of revision as more than commas and capitalizations; revision is a re-seeing of the work that we put so much time and energy into and, if we are willing to put more time and energy into it, we’ve always got another draft.
I haven’t posted in a very long time. Sorry…? I’m still working on some things. Here is …something?
He opens the first beer around noon. By that point he’s that decided he’s been productive enough and doesn’t want to care anymore about produc/ct—produc/ct—productivity or anything else, really.
But he swears.
Sometimes out—out—ou/ut—out loud to himself, that that—that—that—thuh—that—tha/at—that first beer will help elevate his thinking, his vocabulary, his imagination and then—then—then—the/en, by two, he’s—he’s drunk.
He tells the young woman sitting at the bar about his pu—pu—puh—published work. That one poem that he worked on and re—ruh—ruh—re-worked, submitted and re—ruh—ruh—re-submitted, and that was fine—fuh—fine—finally published online on a website other than his blog.
Yeah. I, I, I, I can show it—show it—to you if you wanna come over and see—see—see it, he tells her.
She wonders if he’s talking about his poetry or his penis.
She’s lost track of the conversation in between his skips. She sticks to his eyeballs and his ticks and she wonders where they will go next. He’s so exciting.
Her mind races one hundred words a minute and waits for his next…
Word.
She could Google his poetry. But, see, she’s intrigued—enamored—engaged—with his glassy eyes and his stutter.
She wants to find out what he looks like naked when nothing but the needle on her record player is skipping in speech. An idea that had never crossed his m—m—mind.
She wants to find out if he stutters when he comes and she imagines that he d—d—does not.
Meanwhile, as his mind trips over familiar words, easy words, he sits there with this nice lady by his side hoping, begging, praying that this beauty wants to spend a few more minutes talking with him about his p—p—p—poetry and that she doesn’t find him t—t—t—too frightening.
