Coming to a Conclusion

This week is Dead Week at the University of Oklahoma. In other parts of the country, this week before finals is often marked by having classes cancelled and students studying furiously for finals in the library. Not so here. At this institution of higher learning on the prairie, students are expected to go to class, be turning in final papers and large assignments, while also studying for and dreading finals week.
We continue to call it Dead Week, even though campus is not "dead" from the lack of students the way it is at other universities. I think it's because every student here is mentally done. Campus is filled with zombies chugging coffee and popping adderall.
However, for Jillian, this is a pretty chill week. Out of my 18 hours of courses, 9 are finished. Either they are online and I have reached the minimum points to receive an A, or it is a class without a final and only asked for a paper which I already turned in. For my other 3 courses I have, I have one professor who teaches 2 of them and he cancelled class this week. Praise be! The third is a pretty chill, easy class for me. I don't have any more projects, and only need to prepare for exams which I am not worried about.
I honestly don't know where the semester went. it seems like yesterday I was looking forward to my classes and living with my best friend. Now I am approaching the official half way point of my senior year. So many things accomplished, enjoyed, and experienced. So many things I wanted to do, but did not.

Me blazing through this Dead Week without a care in the world.

This week I am sending out all my positive vibes to those who have a less forgiving Dead Week. While others frantically write final papers, I am calmly reflecting on my semester and planning for the future. It's a strange feeling being so relaxed at this time of the year, but you definitely
won't hear me complain!

Romanticism

"We are... disappointed romantics, scraping the hearts from our sleeves." -Passenger

     This past Monday I had my first counseling appointment of the semester. We talked about a lot during this session, but I got very annoyed that my counselor seemed fixated on discussing my romantic life. Normally I would talk about how I have nothing to share. I told him how I am sort of seeing someone, but it's very casual. I wanted to move on. Talk about something else. He didn't.
     Part of me didn't want to talk about it because I felt like we could be talking about something more important and pressing. The more I think about it, he might have been onto something. Because while one part of me said, "Let's not talk about it because it's not a big deal." the other part of me was screaming, "Let's not talk about it because it's not a big deal even though I want it to be."
     I had this realization when driving to school today and I was listening to Passenger's song, Fairytales & Firesides. I have always loved and related to this song. However he came to the line where he says, "We are coffee house cynics too righteous, too rigid to believe. Disappointed romantics, scraping the hearts from our sleeves." And I had to rewind it and listen again. I've heard that line hundreds of times. But this morning it particularly spoke to me.

     Today's culture praises people who can keep their emotions in check. It praises people who can go out with others, hookup, and not "catch feelings". People walk around saying "I don't want anything serious" as if wanting something serious is wrong. But what is serious? And what is the opposite of serious?
     I told myself I didn't want anything serious. I told myself I just want to have fun. But that's not me. I have watched too many Disney movies, read too much Victor Hugo, and recited too many Shakespearean sonnets. I ache for beautiful love. To love and be loved in return. "Just having fun" isn't fun for me. It gives me anxiety. It makes me fidgety for something better. It makes me want to kick that "fun" person to the side, or hold on too tight. But hanging on loosely by a thread, reeling him in every once in a while, that's not fun for me. It may be fun for others, but I must accept that that's not me.
     I don't want anything serious. I'm not looking to commit for long term. I'm not trying to get married in the next  years. I don't know where I'll be living in the next few years.
     But I want something serious. I want to have meaningful conversations. I want to have a love that makes me happy. I want someone to go to sleep thinking about me. I want to have someone I can call when I don't want to be alone. Someone who is more than a friend. Someone who gives me more than benefits.
     I don't know if I am in the wrong time or place for this. Maybe I'm too young or I'm dating people who are to young to think like this. But I must accept who I am and what I want, or I'll end up stuck in what I don't want.

A Blank Page

     Many say what an author fears the most is a blank page. The daunting task of filling it with words clutches their creativity, holding their talent hostage.
     I have the opposite problem. I have so many ideas, so many threads that need to be sewn into something beautiful. So one might wonder where the problem could possibly be.
     The fear of ruining what was once perfect. A blank page, free of blemishes, is so much more than what it may appear to be. It is untarnished hope. Hope that someone could fill its page with beautiful prose, poetry, plans, or any other wonderful things we can do with this gift of written language.
     What if someone better than me was meant to use that page? I'm not worthy. What if I write a terrible story, or I have a story, but lack the prose skills? Was the page not better off left blank?
     But I woke up one Saturday and went to staples. I checked my bank account to ensure I had the $4.86 necessary to buy the notebook I had singled out from the hundred others. I took it home, and it sat in my desk for months. When this night came, and I had the urge to write, I reached for the forest green notebook with large, beautiful, college-ruled pages. I stared at the page, wanting to write, but not wanting to tarnish its pure beauty with anything unworthy.
     So I wrote about the page itself. If it finds this writing vulgar, at least it will know I acted with the best of intentions. And while I mourn the loss of a perfect piece of paper, I do not regret that I poured a piece of myself onto a page, rather than sit in silence, thinking those thoughts which have plagued my mind these last few months.
     And as I come to the bottom of the page, I must thank it for being my sanctuary for the last 10 minutes or so. Between your lines I found solace and peace, though fleeting, never unappreciated.

The aforementioned page. 

Notice Me!!

When I was a competitive dancer, we had to go to dance conventions a s a studio. These conventions could be over the course of a week or weekend. There was one that we always went to that I hated. I couldn't ever put my finger on it, but I never enjoyed it. I tended to stand at the back, produce minimum effort, and count the minutes until the end of the day's classes. 

However, one year, I was determined to make the most of it. I tried as hard as I could, and I felt that I was truly out-performing most of the dancers there. Despite my best efforts, I couldn't get the attention of the teachers. Finally, I was fed up with being overlooked. I was tired of feeling like a potato by girls who had to do half the work because they were tall and skinny. I was tired of working my butt off for zero recognition. I couldn't take it. 

So when the teacher told us to improv to a song, I went straight to the front of the room. She still didn't look at me. I danced bigger, taking up as much room as possible. She wouldn't look at me!!

the class was held in a ballroom of a hotel. There was a stage built up on risers for the teacher to dance on so that everyone could see. 

I had a crazy idea. But I was desperate. 

I made my way closer to the stage. I stood right in front of her. I slammed my entire upper body onto the stage. the metal risers gave a resounding screech. I flew backwards landing on the floor. Did a backwards somersault to stand up. Looked her right in the eyes, and continued dancing. 

I won a scholarship to the next convention. 

Tonight I submitted my Fulbright application. I hardly ever get scholarships. I have come to accept that I don't have the highest academic record though it's pretty high. I am not the most involved, though I am pretty involved. 

But there is something different about applying for this grant. I have never felt so qualified for something. More than that, I would like to meet anyone as passionate about this specific opportunity as me. Maybe that's not fair, but it's definitely how it feels. 

I wish that the Fulbright committee was sitting on a stage that I could throw my body onto. That I would do anything that would set me apart, help them understand what lengths I would go to for this. 

But that's not how life works. You can't throw your body in front of someone to prove your passion. Only you can ever fully comprehend the extent of your passions. So all I do can do is sit on my couch, with my fingers crossed until January, hoping for the best. 

Waiting for Fulbright results is perhaps equally as terrible as waiting
for the Passenger concert to start on a freezing cold Chicago day.

Sappiness Alert

I have kept my heart locked away
For so long it has grown colder.
So I thought I could withstand you
But doors burned down from your fire.

Now you walk out leaving me
Cleaning up the ashes alone.
I am intact despite my heart
Which crumbles as I've never known.

Still I marvel at your talents,
Such as the triumph on your part,
How it was you could ignite flames
That reached my hidden lonely heart

Since yours is so frigid and cold
I'm left shivering from your hold.
Unable to hide, seen by all
Just how pathetic was my fall.

Who should lead?

This week I turned 22 years old. The day of my birthday was also Rosh Hashannah. With being officially another year older and the mark of a new year in the Jewish tradition, it got me thinking a lot about my life and the direction in which it's going. I essentially came to the conclusion that I have reached a specific period of my life of equal freedom and independence. While I am young enough to be free of many responsibilities I will have to face in the future, I am still old enough to make "big girl" decisions.
While this may be obvious to many, this conclusion was important for me this week as I face an incident with my closest friends. Without going into specifics, I am doing something that my friends do not approve of. There are many problems with this and how they are judging me. For one, what I am doing is something they have done time and time again, without any regret. They have never understood why before now, I haven't acted like this. But apart from all this, because of this argument, I've been pondering what role the advice of friends plays in my life.

I have always been one to give advice to friends. Even on things I didn't know much about, I thought I would be doing a disservice not to try and help them by sharing my thoughts.  Because of this, I gladly welcome my friends' advice and thoughts. I want to know that they care about what is going on in my life, they have thoughts about it and made conclusions, and they share those with me.
However, I have never expected them to follow my advice to the letter. Perhaps I am hurt when I think I gave great advice and they completely disregard it, but I am often not surprised and I don't take it too personally.

My friends are not only upset with me that I am not following their advice, but they are angry at me. They are avoiding me. It makes me feel like our friendship was built on my being little miss perfect and now that they don't approve of what I am doing, they don't approve of me. I know everyone wants and often seeks approval, but I have a particular problem with needing approval, especially from family and my closest friends. I am torn between craving approval and want to make decisions for what I feel is best in my life.

But more than that, where is the line between listening to your friends and listening to your heart? There is always the cliché of "listen to your friends, they often know what's best for you!" which I agree with to a certain extent. Yes, it is always great to get a third party perspective. Yes, they often have great insights you may have overlooked. And sometime it feels like they know you better than you know yourself. However, when should I listen to my own instincts? What about what I want?

I ended up having to turn to my grandma for advice. Besides my closest friends, I haven't told the whole story to a lot of people out of fear of judgement. But with my grandma, I know she loves me unconditionally, and she is naturally inclined not to pass judgment, especially in regards to the type of situation I am currently in. Her conclusion was that I should do what feels best for me and my friends should support me. This whole thing may end with me needing a shoulder to cry on, and my friends should be there if/when that happens.

I am still hopeful that this will all blow over, but I am waiting anxiously until that happens.

Confidence Boosters

            I’ve been feeling pretty insecure lately. I am not sure why: if it was caused by anything specific or if it just a phase. I think most people or at least most women fall into these slumps, or maybe not and it’s just me. But lately I’ve been feeling like I’m not good enough, I’m not portraying who I really am, and a general feeling of “I suck”.

            Tonight I subbed a dance class. At the end of the class as the students were leaving, a girl turned back to me and said, “By the way, you’re really pretty and have great taste in music.” Not only was this such a sweet compliment, but I was particularly touched because this girl is preteen/teenager age which in my experience is the worst age a girl can be. Girls at this age know how to hurt you and think it’s fun to do so. At least this is what I have observed based on my own experiences.

            But this compliment struck me. I don’t think of myself as very pretty. Especially in dance class. I was a good dancer growing up, but never looked like the other girls who were skinny, their hair always looked good, they dressed well (even in dance clothes) and they were so cute. I always felt like a potato, especially when my ponytail would start falling and I had to work what I used to call the George Washington look. This is when the top of your hair is slicked back, but the sides have fallen and are beginning to cover your ears, resembling the curls on white wigs worn by the founding fathers. I think that part of my current funk is due to insecurities about my appearance that are coming back full force (not that they were ever gone, but had quieted down recently).

            In regards to the comment about my musical taste, I have never claimed to listen to cool music. I listen to people I think are cool and songs I admit aren’t cool, but dammit I’ll enjoy them anyway. I never want to play music for my friends or in the car with other people. If I do, I usually preface it with, “I know nobody else will enjoy this, but I will. So suck it up.”

            Tonight was a nice reminder that I’m not a lame potato.

            But more than that, as a teacher I am a role model to so many young girls (some boys, but mostly girls). My number one goal is to make them all feel more confident. I want them to leave the classroom feeling stronger than when they entered. Maybe they don’t like their legs, but I’m going to make sure they are straight legs with pointed toes. Maybe they don’t like their stomachs, but they are going to body roll with the rest of us, and I will cheer her on just as loudly.

            I have always felt that I connected with my students more than I’ve seen other teachers. Sure they connect with the competition dancers because those girls are there 12 hours a week. But I make sure to connect with the girls who show up 1 hour a week and prefer basketball to dance. I let my students see my insecurities. I tell them when I’m not sure what to play for them because I usually make playlists for 3 year olds. I laugh at myself when I make weird noises and we all laugh at me together. I make mistakes and call myself out for it. Rather than being confident all of the time, I give them a glimpse of my imperfections and failures and then let them see me brush it off, laugh, and go again twice as confidently. When I first started teaching, I thought I had to be perfect. I came in with my makeup done as perfectly as I could do it. I dressed in my cutest dance/workout clothes. I covered up my mistakes. But I soon learned that these girls look up to me, and need to see that you can be imperfect, and still be a kick-ass dance teacher and person.

            So today was more than a self-confidence boost. It was a reminder to boost the girls who look up to me. That our relationship is so much different than your average student/teacher, sister, babysitter, whatever relationship. I’m not only a teacher, but a dance teacher. I have to give them confidence when they have none. I have to give them a reason to do a new step across the floor and make a fool of themselves the first three times. And then I have to make them feel beautiful, strong, elegant, powerful, and intelligent.

“No you’re not stupid because you can’t get this step. This is a hard step. Didn’t you see me trip two minutes ago?”

“Girl, you look so good doing this combo. You’re better than me at hip hop!”

“Maybe musical theatre isn’t your thing. But you’re doing so well! And this will help you with ballet I promise!”

“I want to see you hit a double because I know you can. Who cares if someone else can do it? I want to see you do it!”

“Guys, you couldn’t do that combo ten minutes ago, and now look at you! You’re blowing me away!”

Early Disney Feminism

After a crazy, a fast-paced intersession, and too much to study, my brain has felt brain dead. So perhaps that is why I feel this urge to analyze a topic I have always been passionate about that is more fun than work: Disney Princesses.

I have been a Disney princess fan since before I was born and I will defend them until I die. I recognize that all of these films have their flaws and that some are much worse than others. However, I would argue that each one of them has a positive message to offer their audience and are well-intentioned. Even if some were written with more inspiration originating from their wallets than their hearts, none of them are without merit. I am also a feminist. There are many who think who one cannot be a Disney princess fan and a feminist, but I have been both for 20 years. When I am told about parents who do not allow their daughters to watch Disney princess movies because they want their daughters to have strong, female role models, I just feel that these parents are missing out on a great source.

I recently watched Wonder Woman and found myself crying at the sheer female-empowerment. Yet, Wonder Woman did not look too much different from what I had seen before in Mulan or the messages of Pocahontas.

But Disney Princess films post 1992 would be too easy to defend and justify. Today, I will be defending one which many consider to be the least feminist.

Sleeping Beauty has been one of my absolute favorite films since before I could talk. There is a video of me dancing around the living room, holding a baby bottle, and singing “Once Upon a Dream”. Aurora was one of my favorite Disney princesses, but I admit that it was probably because I loved her dresses and her hair is the best ever featured on screen. When people hate on Sleeping Beauty, it rubs me the wrong way, and I never knew quite why. Surely, if I was a true feminist, I would see it as trash, right?

Tonight, I had an epiphany while singing “Once Upon a Dream” to my dog. Sleeping Beauty is one of the most feminist Disney films, but in one of the most subtle ways.

If I described the basic plot of the film, it would be just as anti-strong women as people say it is. An evil witch puts a sleeping curse on a young princess. The princess has less than 20 minutes of dialogue, but is the protagonist of the film. A handsome prince of whom we know little about stumbles across this princess in a forest and falls in love (with what we can assume is her beauty). He must slay a dragon to rescue her.

However, that is not the movie. Before we a witch, prince, or princess speaks, we are introduced to three fairies. These three fairies are female, short, chubby cheeks, and middle-aged. They have three distinct personalities with little in common except their magical abilities. They gift the princess with beauty and song. When the witch arrives and places a curse on the princess, they save the day by taking it upon themselves to raise the child and keep her safe.

Right away, out of the 8 main characters with lines, only three are men: 2 kings and a prince. Let’s begin by analyzing the men. None of these men have any magical abilities.  The main scene with the two kings is of them discussing the future of their children. They get drunk, fight with sword fish, fight over how soon the wedding should be, and generally don’t get anything done. The king who is father of the prince is portrayed as easily angered, prejudiced, and unable to take control of the situations he is placed in. The other king, father of Aurora, sends his daughter away and (pointlessly) burns every spinning wheel in the kingdom. Neither of these two men are strong leaders. The prince is a lovesick teenager. He is charming and brave, but is also easily kidnapped by Maleficent. Most of his accomplishments are due to the help of the fairies, which we will return to. Like Aurora, he has very few lines despite being considered the hero.

Now for the women.

Maleficent: this woman is a badass. There is no other way to put it. She doesn’t get invited to a party, so she curses the hosts’ child. She kidnaps a young prince and torments him with images of his future decrepit body. She laughs in the face of do-gooders and has a pet crow. Side note: her ensemble is fabulous and evil. Her male minions are idiots that she learns she can’t trust and she must do everything herself. She trusts her crow, but to assume the crow is male is sexist (I think?). Her message is very “I’m the strongest and most intelligent and I have to do everything”.

Aurora/Briar Rose/Sleeping Beauty: Let’s get real here. This is a sixteen year old shut in whose hobby is picking berries and singing to animals because she isn’t allowed to have friends. A man approaches her in the forest and she smirks and attempts to ignore him, but who can resist Prince Phillip? Rather than seeing this guy in secret, she tells her mothers (or aunt or guardians or whatever they are) and invites him over to meet them. When they say no, sure she throws herself on her bed, but what was she going to do? Go back into the forest, looking for a guy who didn’t say his name, to live with said guy she has only known for half an hour tops? She is a young girl in Medieval France. Of course she is going to throw herself on her bed and cry.

The fairies: These are strong independent women. They do not ask, they TELL THE KING, they are going to take care of his daughter. They go into Maleficent’s castle in order to save Aurora when they could have just cut their losses. They are really the ones who save Aurora. They free Prince Phillip, give him the sword which they enchant to not miss, these bitches do EVERYTHING! They have the most lines. They raise Aurora (and probably make her clothes, which is worth mentioning a second time, are the best). They confront Maleficent when they didn’t have to. Phillip was forced to face Maleficent because his options were fight or be free when he was so old and decrepit his life was practically over.

The source of the conflict is Aurora’s curse, but the main players in this conflict are the fairies and Maleficent. The kings are put under the sleeping spell by the fairies and do nothing. When people say Sleeping Beauty is anti-feminism, I want to ask if they are referring to the character or the film. If it’s the character, I would argue she is an accurate depiction of how limited a woman’s options were in Medieval France, but I understand she isn’t feminist. If it’s the film, that statement is wrong. The film is filled with strong, powerful women. The women spend the movie acting for the men. 

Child of Israel?

     Due to the deterioration in my grandmother's memory (which I discussed in this post), I have started going to OU Hillel, the Jewish Student Center at my school. Now this is not as out of left field as it may seem.
     My grandmother was raised in a Jewish family and is extremely proud of her heritage. She converted to Christianity when she was in her teens and from what I understand, it was a gradual, informal conversion. To others, it may seem difficult to reconcile two halves of my grandma. On one hand, she is so proud of her heritage and people that she has no problem saying things like "I've never met a Jew I didn't like" or that her favorite people are Jewish. On the other hand, she is proud that she knew who Jesus was before anyone ever talked to her about him and she talks about how important it is to believe in Jesus. Growing up, I thought this was normal. It took me a long time to realize that not everyone had a grandma who was both Christian and passionate about Jews going to heaven.
     My grandma has been forgetting more and more. It got to the point that she couldn't remember what country her grandma emigrated from. That may not seem like the biggest deal, but if you had heard her go on and on about Jews from Russia and communism, you would understand that this was a huge deal. I realized that I had hit a brick wall when it came to learning about my Jewish heritage from her. I also recognize that she is my one ally in my passion for understanding Jewish culture. If I wanted to develop my knowledge, I had to seek outside sources and community.
     So I started going to OU Hillel. I had never gone before because when I learned that I wasn't eligible for Birthright (a free trip to Israel for people who are the right amount of Jewish), it made me feel like I wasn't eligible to be in the organization. However, Hillel has been welcoming, fun, and enlightening.

Me at a Shabbat Night: Painting with an Israeli Twist

     I didn't think that I would really learn that much about my grandma seeing as their focus seems to be on Israel and religion. I was proven wrong. One day, I was telling my grandmother about a dinner I went to at Hillel. I was telling her about the food we ate and I mentioned we had a soup, but I couldn't remember the name. "Oh it had these doughy balls in it," I said. "Matzoh ball soup?" she asked. I told her that that was it! Matzoh ball soup. A few tears were brimming in her eyes. "My grandma made the best matzoh ball soup," she said. It seems kind of stupid for this moment to mean so much. And yet, I know I will never forget it. I went 21 years without my grandma ever telling me about what Jewish foods her grandma made her. But here I am eating Matzoh ball soup, not knowing that the mere memory of eating this food seventy years ago could bring her to tears.
     So I will keep going back to Hillel in the fall. I hope to learn as much as I can and maybe I will learn more about myself in the process.

You have to be miserable now too

I have finally found an upside to the Trump administration and all his terrible federal funding cuts. I have watched as people on Facebook say that he, as a businessman, would know how to run the country. Somehow he would decrease taxes and he would get rid of Obama Care while also managing to retain all the benefits people receive under Obama Care.

When he threatened to defund the arts, they nodded. The parks, they shrugged. Education? Don't make me laugh.

But suddenly, something important to them is losing millions of dollars of federal funding. And suddenly, I'm supposed to care and feel bad for them. I am supposed to hold their hand while they cry and complain. Forget when four teachers lost their jobs and they complained about taxes. Forget about how every teacher is leaving the field or moving to Texas and they complain that teachers need to shut up and stop complaining about their pay.

I should be touched that maybe they are starting to get it. I should feel bad that they are losing funding for what they care about. Jobs may be lost. It sucks.

But it is also hilarious. The guy they backed and fought on Facebook for is letting them down. And it's great. They don't give a shit about anything that doesn't completely, 100%, directly concern them. They don't bat an eye when children only have a sub all year because the school can't hire a teacher. And this feels like a little bit of revenge.

So maybe next time something that someone doesn't care about gets ridiculed by Trump and loses funding, they may think about that this orange idiot is ruining everything. And they will suffer right along side all the left-wing nuts. We can all sink on the Titanic together because the lifeboats are reserved for Trump's inner-circle and whichever woman he feels like molesting that day.

Holding On to You

My grandma says that meeting Jason Alexander was one of the highlights of her life.
I'm glad I was there with her. Two funny, short Jews.

           My grandmother’s memory has been slowly deteriorating for a few years now. But it has gone from forgetting a few things to so much worse. It went from forgetting a girl from high school she used to talk about every now and then, to having to be reminded of my cousins’ names. I think this sharp decline was brought on by my grandfather’s health taking a sudden turn for the worst.

There is one memory I have of her that makes me happy every time I think about it. It’s so small and random, but I think it’s because it was a small glimpse into a side of my grandma that most people don’t get to see.

Before I tell you this story, you must understand why it stands out amongst two decades of stories I have of my grandma. She is not a “silly” woman. She is very thoughtful and serious. I think my grandma would have made a great counselor because she is fascinated by people and considering what it is that makes them tick. She isn’t harsh, but she isn’t one to joke around. I can’t imagine her being young and goofing around, and I think it’s because she didn’t get to ever do that much.

            When I was a senior in high school, I was trying to pick the song which would be my last dance solo song before I graduated. My grandma kept insisting on “Bring on the Men” from the musical Jekyll & Hyde. My mom and I kept telling her I wouldn’t do it because it is sung by a prostitute talking about how much she loves sex, sometimes threesomes, at all times of the day. Not necessarily appropriate for an 18 year old at a dance competition surrounded by children.

            “But it’s so fun and catchy! It makes me want to dance every time. Here just listen to it.” She popped her CD into her kitchen radio.

            “Ma, I’ve heard it a million times,” I said. But she wouldn’t listen.

            So we sat around my grandma’s kitchen listening to “Bring on the Men”. She just stared at me, beaming one of her biggest smiles. “It just makes me want to dance!” she repeated. And she started bopping up and down. She swayed from side to side with jazz hands. It’s one of the only times I’ve seen my grandma act goofy.

            The other day, I brought up the song and she couldn’t recall it. I told her about her dancing to it, and she stared blankly at me. I played it for her. Not a sign of recognition. “It sounds fun, though.” She said. “Yeah,” I said. “It does.” I turned away so she couldn’t see the tears welling up in my eyes.

            My grandma isn’t perfect. She has never claimed to be. She isn’t the funniest person I know or the most understanding. She is so loving. She is so kind. She is generous to a fault. I love her more than she’ll ever know. I try to tell her how much I love her, but it is overshadowed by her love for me.

            Right now she lives twenty miles away, and yet I don’t feel like I can reach her. I wish I could have the grandma back who listens to songs about a prostitute and tried to do everything for everyone. Instead, I am losing her a little every day. It’s like only having half of the person I love so dearly and I’m constantly searching for the other half.

            But I am grateful I have as much of her as I do. I am grateful for everyday she is with me, even if she isn’t the woman I have always known. 

Where your boyfriend at?

            Remember that video from about 10 years ago where a girl sits by herself in the movie theatre? Then a guy comes up from behind demanding to know where her boyfriend is. When he discovers she doesn’t have a boyfriend, he incessantly asks for her number. I have always loved this video. I thought it was hilarious and I am always happy when someone shares it on Facebook and I’m reminded of its existence.

            Last night I went to a party at an apartment. I spent the evening talking with my guy friends. While I was standing there, one of their friends kept standing too close, touching me and making me uncomfortable. Rather than confront him about this, I chose to remove myself from the situation and go out on the balcony.

While out on the balcony, a guy asked me if I had a boyfriend who would beat him up for hitting on me. I told him no and flirting ensued. When this guy, Hunter, started kissing me, I decided that wasn’t what I wanted. So I excused myself to go to the bathroom and rejoined my guy friends. Hunter soon found me though. He hovered around my group. He came up from behind and wrapped his arm around my hips to pull me closer. I moved to the other side of the kitchen. He stared at me. I began talking quietly to only one of my guy friends. He got the hint to leave.

Another guy joined our group and seemed nice and he talked about how he knew one of my friends. When he asked the group where the bathroom was, I offered to show him. We walked into the part of the bathroom that had the sinks and I told him someone was in the toilet area so he’d have to wait. I turned to leave and he asked me if I had a boyfriend. I said no. He shut the door. He grabbed me and suddenly his mouth was on mine, shoving his tongue down my throat. I tried to pull away. I reached behind him fumbling with the door handle. He moved his back against the door so I couldn’t leave. Fear flooded my body. I froze. Wondering if I should scream. Wondering if I should try to hurt him. No one would hear me or see me to come help. Out of nowhere, a spike of adrenaline rushed through my arms as I pushed him to the side and opened the door.

“I’m sorry,” he said grabbing my arm. “I’m just drunk.”

I walked out to the balcony to join my friends. The fear and adrenaline was making my hands shake. I listened to their conversation without hearing. I stared at the apartments occupied by sleeping or drinking students.

Is this to be the rest of my life? Do I always need to have a male friend to run to? Lie about having a boyfriend if I don’t have one at the time? Am I only to be respected as an autonomous human being based on the proximity and power of a male guardian?

He was just drunk. Another was just picking up the wrong signals. This one is just having fun and hoping to get lucky. What’s the harm?

The harm is I end up crying into my friend’s shoulder. The harm is I’m afraid to be in a room with a guy without a male or a couple of girlfriends. I will never be independent because I am left to resort to violence, lying, or running away.

“Is there a boyfriend who would beat me up for talking to you?” I don’t know. But I’d have more respect if you asked me for my name first. You couldn’t be bothered to ask what my interests are or why I’m at the party. That would be a waste of time for you. You're obviously here for one reason. You're only talking to me for one reason. Due to the lack of a male who controls my sexuality, I am a book, ready to be picked off a shelf and flipped through at your leisure. 

Learning a Second Language, Continued

 This is a continuation of the this blog post.

       The first day of class in France was hell. We had to do listening exercises to improve our oral comprehension. However, my classes in America hadn’t prepared me for this at all. I sat in the language lab in France rewinding the audio over and over only to pick out a word or two tops. My teachers tried to help me, but it is hard to be helped when you still can’t understand anything.
I remember staring out the window, looking over the red-tiled roofs of Clermont-Ferrand and wanting to cry. I suddenly wanted to give up the entire endeavor to learn French. I wanted to go back to my family and only hear English for the rest of my life. In America, no one cares if you can only speak one language.

My first of day of school in France.
If only I had known what I was getting into.

I wish I could tell you that one day, everything clicked for me; that those first few days of school were the low point before I took off and improved everyday. However, that was only one low point on the roller coaster of learning a second language in a foreign country. But with every roller coaster, there are also the high points.
My hearing improved gradually over time. It was so gradual that I hardly noticed it had improved. It was toward the end of the semester that I noticed I could make out the majority of what the videos were saying. My writing and grammar didn’t improve much at all. My speaking definitely improved, but not by leaps and bounds compared to my listening skills.
Being in France, some days felt like the best day ever. A highlight for me was when I was at the large grocery store in the city center that I only visited every once in a while. I was in that horrible universal situation of struggling with the automated self-checkout. Whether it is in your own language or not, when those things mess up, you’re screwed. A man working there came over to help me. When I was leaving and I had to sign for my American debit card, he asked incredulously in French “You’re American?” When I told him I indeed was, he complimented my French saying he had no idea I wasn’t a native. I’ve never walked out of a grocery store happier than I did that day. I think all the French people I passed were offended at my beaming smile.
But then there were days that completely demotivated me. It wasn’t as if once I achieved a level or was complimented by someone who said I sounded like a native, that things got better or only slightly worse. One day I could sound like a regular Frenchie, the next day, my teacher couldn’t understand me say “merci”. I remember one time in particular when I had to go to the doctor. When the receptionist asked for my name and I had to spell it, she couldn’t understand me say “U” no matter how many times I tried! Keep in mind, this was after the grocery store moment of glory.
So, as one can expect, when I returned to the U.S., I wasn’t “fluent” in French. No doubt I had improved incredibly, but when people asked the question “So, are you like fluent now?” I wanted to crawl into a hole and die.
This past semester, I had to take a course called “Second Language Acquisition”. I hated that class and definitely didn’t learn as much as I was supposed to (I admit at one point I wasn’t passing the class). But I did learn one thing in that class that is not only applicable to my life, it is what motivates me to continue studying languages:
Language learning isn’t like collecting certificates. You don’t master your native language, then master the second, then the third until you’re satisfied. You will never be a native speaker in your second language. You can come pretty damn close, but at the end of the day, it’s your second language. Also, your native language doesn’t remain pure. It is affected by you second language as much as it affects your second. That is why they developed the term “interlanguage”. Everyone has this one language that is completely unique to you. It is only a matter of what languages make up your interlanguage. Everyone’s is different as every language you learn affects each other and it is also a matter of how you speak and interact with language.
So no, I’m not fluent in french because fluency is a myth. If fluency is knowing every word in a language and understanding what people say to you the first time they say it, then none of us are fluent in any language.
Because of these realizations, my goal has changed drastically. I no longer aspire to speak like the president of France and be “fluent”.
I want to develop my skills so that one day I can speak like Jillian Buxton: English native, student of Latin and French. To understand and be understood, the ultimate goal of studying any language.

Paris Holds the Key to My Heart

Most of us probably share a similar problem: not being able to enjoy good things because it has built up so much in your mind. This was my biggest fear about going to Paris. Going to Paris is the only dream that has remained a constant throughout my entire life. I wanted to go  before I even knew it was a real place. When I was kid I wanted to be a doctor who went to Paris. As a teenager I wanted to be a professor who went to Paris. In college, I wanted to be a person with a job, no debt, and a healthy diet who went to Paris. As other dreams fell away, changed, or appeared, Paris became even more important. As it aged like a French red wine, my heart ached to finally open the bottle.
When I saw Notre Dame, my hope shattered and it felt irreparable. I was tired. It wasn’t as big as I had imagined. I was standing before the cathedral which inspired one of the greatest works of my favorite author, but my life wasn’t immediately changed. I began lamenting having allowed my expectations to surpass reality.

Note the disappointment in my eyes in front of Notre Dame

But this feeling of despair flew out the window when I saw the Eiffel Tower. It was more beautiful than I could have imagined. It blew my expectations out of the water. Words cannot describe the feeling of pure joy that began pouring out of my heart and flowed through my veins when I saw its magnificent structure towering above me.
Paris turned out to be everything I could imagine.
I could go on an on about the places I saw in Paris. The small moments that add up to such great love and admiration. Who knew it was possible to feel that way about a city? Paris had always been a beautiful idea, but it turned out to be an even more powerful reality. Crying in Victor Hugo’s house. Seeing the protesters in the Place de la Revolution. Stumbling upon the small plaque which marks the place of  Louis XVI’s execution.
With each visit, each day, each moment in Paris, my love grew. On my last day in Paris, I was left wandering the city all alone. I was tired and anxious about my long journey home. I tried to decide what I should do as my last activity in Paris and in Europe. I thought about returning to the Eiffel Tower though I had seen it several times since my first encounter with it. I seemed too cheesy, too cliché. But when I tried to think of the next time I could possibly get to see it again in person, I found myself hopping on the metro, heading for Trocadéro.
When I arrived, the place was a mess. I had forgotten about the fan zone for the Eurocup in the Champs Mars. Everywhere that one could usually sit and marvel at the structure was now fenced off for security purposes. It was overrun with families and drunk Irish football fans. There was a small revolt in the street over some outcome of a game earlier that day (I must admit I never found out exactly the purpose of this march). My feet hurt, I was tired, and I just wanted to have a beautiful moment as I saw the Eiffel Tower for the last time for a long time. But it was looking like this idealized final moment wasn’t in the cards.
I made my way to the opposite side of the tower and sat on the sidewalk. I was next to a large group of Irish fans and attempted to make conversation. I wished that my good Irish friend I had made that semester was with me as every fan gave me a cold shoulder. I looked around and thought about my time in Paris.
So many people think being in Paris means great adventures. I loved Paris. But I had to admit my time there was void of  any romantic gestures or suspense. I wondered if I had done something wrong. Was I missing out on something amazing? Or was this just a silly schoolgirl fantasy that was ruining my last day in my favorite city?
Suddenly it began to rain. Perfect.
Thankfully I had lugged around an umbrella all day. People began running for cover wherever they could find it. For most, it was under the trees along the walkway next to the tower. I began walking towards the bus stop in order to go back to my AirBnB. I cursed the weather and my ridiculous high expectations. I felt like I was missing some key piece to my adventure in Europe. I was going to go back to America without some terribly romantic tale.
And then there was a person under my umbrella. I assumed he came from the group of Irishmen I had just passed. Every moment of silence seemed like an eternity.
Try to miss a puddle. He ducks a little lower under my short umbrella. My soaked shoes begin making weird noises. He coughs. I steal a glance at him.
“Um hello…” I finally say.
“Hi there. How are you?”
“Fine. You?”
“Oh I’m alright. Terribly wet though.”
“So Northern Ireland or Republic Ireland?”
“Well I was born in Republic of Ireland but I’ve lived in the north for a while. I don’t have much of an alliance to either.”
“Cool.”
Silence.
“Where are you from?”
“The United States.”
“Oh you’re American! Good. I was afraid I was being rude for not speaking French. Which state?”
I laughed. “No I definitely speak English. I’m from Oklahoma.” I prepared to say my usual spiel when the European doesn’t recognize my state: It’s in the south, just north of Texas.
“Wow you’re from Oklahoma?  The Thunder  did pretty well in the playoffs. Too bad about Golden State.”
We walked along the length of the Eiffel Tower. It always seemed like such a long walk, but this time it felt too short. I couldn’t tell you what all we talked about. I remember laughing. I remember feeling proud because he laughed even more. He offered to hold the umbrella and he tried to make sure it covered more of me than him.
We made it to the end and were nearing the street.
“Well, I better get back to my friends. It was so nice to meet you, Jillian. You were lovely to share your umbrella with a stranger.”
I mumbled something about it being nice to meet him, too. But it was hard to think because he was kissing my cheek.
When he pulled away, he didn’t turn to walk back to his group. He was talking. I must have said something clever because he was laughing again.
“Alright. I would love to stay, but I need to go find my friends before the match.”
He was leaning down again and my cheek awaited its kiss. But instead, he was kissing me on my mouth. I could feel my face burning and I hoped he wouldn’t notice how red it was. He looked at me a moment and walked away.
I made my way to the bus stop. The rain was pouring even harder now. My light jacket was soaked and I was shivering as I waited for the bus which was delayed for 30 minutes due to Eurocup traffic. Only to find out that it would be another 30 minute wait and I began the trek to the metro.
But none of it bothered me. I was smiling as if I was walking through a sunny garden, smelling the roses.
It wasn’t a long passionate kiss. We didn’t exchange information besides our first names. I never spoke to him after or had any hope of doing so. I’ve now forgotten everything about how he looked other than that he was quite taller than me. I couldn’t pick him out of a line up if my life depended on it. And yet this moment changed my life. I’ve forgotten almost every detail of this encounter, but I could never forget the feeling it gave me.
I’ll forever be grateful to Irish guy at the Eiffel Tower on June 12. This short meeting gave me such hope. There are times  you think your life is simple, boring, or even unworthy of anything spectacular. Then. Then is when you see the great beauty of the world around you. You’re worthy of everything lovely and magical.
I went to the Eiffel Tower to say good-bye. Sure it was cheesy and maybe stupid. But that was where my heart was pulling me. I allowed some random guy to share my umbrella. Any parent would be horrified (as perhaps they should be), but I prioritized being open to the possibilities around me, for good or bad.
Beautiful moments are waiting for you, you just have to be ready for them. You might just end up getting kissed by a handsome stranger below the Eiffel Tower.

The always beautiful Eiffel Tower.
Can you see the ball for the Eurocup in the middle
and the big screen in the distance for the Fan Zone?

An Unforseeable Future

I am so excited to announce that I don’t know what I am going to do with my life.
A month ago, I had a plan. I was going to graduate a year late. The last three years of my college would be paid for by agreeing to teach a language in Oklahoma for four years. I would live in Oklahoma, teaching French or Latin and wear cute teacher clothes. While I was teaching, I was going to get my master’s. After my mandatory of four years to uphold my end of the student loan, I would have a few options. Either during the past four years I would have met someone I wanted to spend the rest of my life with and we would then perhaps stay in Oklahoma. Or I would still just be one person and I could move anywhere to do something in education. Or just stay in Oklahoma by myself.
In any case, the next six years of my life were laid out before. Fixed and unchangeable.
This all changed a few weeks ago. It doesn’t matter how I came to this decision, but suddenly everything was so clear: the hope of freedom was more important to me than financial security. Before, I settled for this plan to stay in education, make a small teacher’s salary, but have job security for the rest of my life. I would be surrounded by my family and the same horizon I’d seen for the majority of my life. My other option was to abandon all of that and face a never ending abyss of options.
When I was first going into college, I lamented the view. This limitless future was too daunting to understand. I was so afraid of taking a wrong step and ending up on the wrong path. It felt like once I began walking, there was no going back. But I have learned that I am privileged. Being raised in middle class America with friends and family who love me so much, I will never drown. I can swim as far out to sea as I would like, and someone will always throw me a life-preserver. If that is true, why would I only splash around on the coast? There is so much out there to explore and I can see as much of it as I want.
So now, I am going to graduate having studying what I truly care about: double major in Letters and French, minor in Latin.  I am going to hopefully be able to do the Teaching Assistant Program in France after I graduate. If I don’t get into the program, who knows? After TAPIF, who knows? But this feeling of not knowing makes me so happy. I am excited to see what will happen. While not everything that happens to me will be good or fun, I have faith that it will all work out for the best.
When I was going into college, I wrote this:
"I feel like, my whole life, I was on a path. Set on that path by my parents, God, fate, or whatever, but on a path. At certain points I came to a fork in the road. Maybe I’d be worried about which way to go, but I always knew that it would be all right. I would choose right or left and move onto that road. Well after college, life is more like a huge forest. All you can see is trees, you can hardly find the sky. No going back, you have to navigate the forest. Of course there are paths once you make it out of the forest, but you have to find them."
Now I am so excited to be in this forest. I want to look at all the trees. I want to climb them and find out which one is the strongest. Which one turns the most beautiful colors in the fall? I’ll end up outside of the forest, but I’m enjoying the wonder this mysterious place.
I can’t point to one event that makes me feel so at peace with not knowing. Maybe it’s self-growth. Maybe it’s witnessing my family fall apart and yet remain resilient. It could be God or just being 21 instead of 19. I don’t really care what it is, but I am thankful for whatever it is that has changed.
It’s reminds me of what Belle says in the musical Beauty and the Beast. “No change of heart, a change in me.”