Note: This is...a reminder to myself, I suppose. For when I forget. But it's a worthy exercise, one I encourage you to try, if you've stumbled across this. Which is perhaps my way of apologizing in advance for writing a thing all about myself. Even if that apology kind of stomps on my point a bit. Look, whatever, shut up and read if you're going to.
Oh wait, also: I use the term, "punch people in the face," very figuratively. I'm actually super against that.
Last week, I was asked a question that I've never been asked before. I answered, of course, as I am wont to do in such situations, but I was tired and inarticulate and I haven't been able to let it go, because it's kind of a big deal.
I was asked how I see myself.
Who am I, in my own eyes?
Not too long ago, I would've lied - not to the friend who asked me, but to myself. That's because not too long ago, I didn't see myself as anything much. Tethered to the invisible and inaudible but somehow ever present judgments of the world around me, I allowed myself to become so much...less. Less than what? Less than all.
Weak.
Afraid.
Worse than a failure, because to fail you have to try.
In a word, inferior.
I don't credit myself, not really - even when something positive comes out, it's tempered by at least two negatives, lest I be thought of as arrogant or narcissistic or, worst of all, wrong. Successes - creative, social, or otherwise - were short-lived and seldom fully enjoyed because surely everyone was one step away from figuring out that it was a fluke and I was terrible.
I know, right? Totally surprising that I was so angry and sad all the time.
Then everything changed.
No. Sorry, it did not change.
I changed it.
There was no big inciting incident, no lightning bolt, no sign. There was just a day - a bad day, the end of a chain of increasingly worse days. And at the end of that bad day, as I went to bed, more excited to tune out the world for a few hours than I was to engage with it, it became very clear to me that things could not keep going the way they were. I could not keep going. So I made the clearest, most focused decision of my entire life: I decided that the next day was going to be awesome.
It wasn't going to be awesome because of my job, or my house, or because I wasn't going to miss my bus. It was going to be awesome because of me.
I am not weak.
I am not inferior.
I am a fucking force of nature and I absolutely refuse to be anything less.
I used to call myself an, "aspiring writer," because it felt like I didn't deserve to drop the qualifier. I'm not published, I have no agent, my name isn't Ernest Hemingway. But you know what? I don't need anybody's permission to put pen to paper, and Hemingway is dead, so I'm a writer. That is a part of who I am.
I used to be afraid of not mattering, of being forgotten, lost to time because I didn't make enough of myself. Only recently have I figured out that there is no such thing as not mattering. Gandhi and Washington and Eleanor Roosevelt all had mothers and fathers and friends and teachers that touched them in some way, that pushed them to be the people they were, and we may never know their names but they did, and so a ripple was made in all space and time that will never stop circling out. There are people who have given me thoughts and pieces and words that I will never forget, long after they are gone, and that has all become a part of me. There are people I know now who will most definitely outlive me, and that isn't morbid, it's thrilling, because they will take whatever I have given them and put it together with parts of themselves and pass it on and it will never stop. Isn't that crazy and beautiful and too rad for words? That is a part of who I am.
I am an empathic sufferer but I am also a celebrator, because with all the world's pain comes all of its joy. I try to see people, not for who I want them to be or how I wish they were not, but for who they are. Because people are amazing - gorgeous and exciting and capable of so much, and maybe seeing that makes it all the more heartbreaking when some of them go wrong, but that's a price I'm willing to pay, because I don't want to turn away, not when the tradeoff is walking up to someone who believes themselves invisible and saying, "I see you." I could spend the rest of my days punching people in the face with their own excellence and be happy. That is a part of who I am.
I am a seeker, a creator, an adventurer. I want to go everywhere and feel everything. I want to find words that have never been read and sights that have never been seen and then I want to come back and show everyone because what's the point of having all of that if you can't share it? I never want to stand still. That is a part of who I am.
I want to live as fiercely as a person can, not so that I'll burn out quicker, but so I don't waste any opportunity to burn as brightly as I am able to. That is a part of who I am.
I want to be ancient and ageless and forever myself.
I am me.
And I am awesome.
And it is my choice, my personal mandate.
There is no such thing as being wrong.
Tuesday, July 16, 2013
Wednesday, July 10, 2013
On Summer (Or, That Time I Grossed Everyone Out With All of the Feelings)
Warning: This post is full of a ridiculous amount of feelings. Utterly sincere feelings, but still. Sorry. But not really, because I still did it.
I've been with my company for fifteen years.
I've been with my company for fifteen years.
"But CDog, you're 26. You've said so. A bunch. Pretty sure."
Very astute, dear reader. Here's a little backstory.
I work for a non-profit musical theatre company for kids. Back in my youth, I spent two years as a camper at one of their summer sessions. I worked for them every summer after that, starting as a volunteer and rising through the ranks before assuming my current position as office manager/writer/drama teacher.
So. I've been with my company for fifteen years - more than half my life - and that's the kind of thing that lends itself to wild nostalgia almost every day. A couple weeks ago, I was at the wedding of a friend who was once my camp counselor. I met the girl who would become my best friend at my first employee training day. Some of the first kids I taught just graduated from college. Kids who were the youngest when I was in my early teens are now my coworkers in the summer.
It's a funny thing, when the quiet wee six year-old who used to tug on your shirt to ask you a question is suddenly your height and teaching alongside you. You feel old, even though you know that you are not, but they're talking about SAT scores and college applications and weren't they just eight years-old yesterday and I guess it was nine years ago that you were thinking about the same things not, "a couple," like you've been telling yourself.
It's gross, and it's jarring, and it's awesome. I've gone to a lot of high school shows over the years to support my friends and former students, and I totally get the parents who slap, "My Kid Is A (Insert Accomplishment Here)," bumper stickers all over their lives, because all I want to do is stand in the lobby after, pointing at headshots and shouting, "I know them! Did you see what they just did? Aren't you proud?"
Because I am. That's what really hit me as I sat in the theatre of a high school I didn't go to last spring, waiting for the lights to go down for a musical I was seeing for an unprecedented second time: I am so, so proud. I'm proud to know all of the people I have met through what I do - older, younger, and everything in between. I'm proud of the people they are, the people they're choosing to become, and of the fact that I get to count them as friends.
I say I've been with my company for fifteen years, and technically that's true - I never stopped contributing in some capacity. However, there were two summers where I did not work because I was at my Grown-Up Job - the one I didn't really want but reality (particularly the need for health insurance) was forcing me to keep. As bad as things felt sitting at that desk during the year, it was a thousand times worse during those summer months, knowing that just across the bridge there was magic happening and that I couldn't be a part of it. I couldn't even visit. I lied to my office manager to get time off so I could at least go to the performances, passing them off as family functions.
There is no justification for my dishonesty - I don't encourage it. But you know what? I was going to see people I'd grown up with, and watched grow up. People who had seen me at my best and my worst and never judged me, never failed to have my back. People who have helped shape me and who still manage to make me better.
Sounds like family to me.
To every camper, coworker, friend, family member: All these words didn't really do it justice, but I am so, so happy to know you.
- CDog
So. I've been with my company for fifteen years - more than half my life - and that's the kind of thing that lends itself to wild nostalgia almost every day. A couple weeks ago, I was at the wedding of a friend who was once my camp counselor. I met the girl who would become my best friend at my first employee training day. Some of the first kids I taught just graduated from college. Kids who were the youngest when I was in my early teens are now my coworkers in the summer.
It's a funny thing, when the quiet wee six year-old who used to tug on your shirt to ask you a question is suddenly your height and teaching alongside you. You feel old, even though you know that you are not, but they're talking about SAT scores and college applications and weren't they just eight years-old yesterday and I guess it was nine years ago that you were thinking about the same things not, "a couple," like you've been telling yourself.
It's gross, and it's jarring, and it's awesome. I've gone to a lot of high school shows over the years to support my friends and former students, and I totally get the parents who slap, "My Kid Is A (Insert Accomplishment Here)," bumper stickers all over their lives, because all I want to do is stand in the lobby after, pointing at headshots and shouting, "I know them! Did you see what they just did? Aren't you proud?"
Because I am. That's what really hit me as I sat in the theatre of a high school I didn't go to last spring, waiting for the lights to go down for a musical I was seeing for an unprecedented second time: I am so, so proud. I'm proud to know all of the people I have met through what I do - older, younger, and everything in between. I'm proud of the people they are, the people they're choosing to become, and of the fact that I get to count them as friends.
I say I've been with my company for fifteen years, and technically that's true - I never stopped contributing in some capacity. However, there were two summers where I did not work because I was at my Grown-Up Job - the one I didn't really want but reality (particularly the need for health insurance) was forcing me to keep. As bad as things felt sitting at that desk during the year, it was a thousand times worse during those summer months, knowing that just across the bridge there was magic happening and that I couldn't be a part of it. I couldn't even visit. I lied to my office manager to get time off so I could at least go to the performances, passing them off as family functions.
There is no justification for my dishonesty - I don't encourage it. But you know what? I was going to see people I'd grown up with, and watched grow up. People who had seen me at my best and my worst and never judged me, never failed to have my back. People who have helped shape me and who still manage to make me better.
Sounds like family to me.
To every camper, coworker, friend, family member: All these words didn't really do it justice, but I am so, so happy to know you.
- CDog
Friday, May 24, 2013
On My Veganniversary (Or, Lots of Made Up Words)
It's my 3 year veganniversary.
I know, because I officially became a vegan the day after the series finale of Lost. Let me clarify by saying that these two events were unrelated, though a part of me would very much like to pretend that I was so bereft without The Island that I somehow couldn't face the prospect of continuing to consume animal products. It's pure coincidence, but ended up being a handy way of remembering when my adventure began.
My path to veganity (which isn't a real word so much as a term that I appropriated from Scott Pilgrim) was both simple and complicated. I didn't make the change for reasons of animal rights, though I have nothing but respect for people who do. It's certainly an added bonus that I've adopted a lifestyle that is kinder to my furry and feathered friends, but I wouldn't want to accept credit where it is not due.
I became a vegan because I needed to change the way I was living my life.
Look, before we go any further, I'm about to get into some self-image stuff, and that's tricky. If you are friend or foe or stranger, understand that I am neither expert nor authority. If I were, "M.D." would follow my name and you'd be reading this in a book that would probably feature a picture of me surrounded by puppies dressed as vegetables or something because taking serious posed photographs makes me very uncomfortable. I'm not commenting on anybody's feelings or lifestyles but my own. So.
I'm an emotional eater with a side of food-related impulse control. I know, I know. Stop bragging. But it's true. As a sensitive, highly anxious kid, I learned pretty early on that food brought a lot of sensory satisfaction and afforded me a feeling of control that I didn't seem to have over other things in my life. I never starved myself, and I didn't really binge eat - not in the traditional sense, anyway. But I did toss any and all regard for my health aside.
The way my brain typically reacts to food can best be described as follows: Candy tastes good. Thus, eating some will make me feel good. Where some would make me feel good, all will make me feel really good. Feeling good is the opposite of feeling bad. Ergo, I should probably eat all of the candy. Everyday. Forever.
Cut to me at 23, unhappy as a person could be, both emotionally and physically. I was two years into a job I hated and, instead of dealing with my feelings, I went for the instant gratification of comfort food like a champ. Everyday. Forever. My clothes didn't fit, I felt sick almost all the time, and I was too afraid to go to my doctor for any reason at all because a voice in the back of my head told me there was no way that I wasn't at least borderline diabetic.
"I need to change something," I told a friend desperately, probably as I realized I had hit my personal bottom. "I don't know what, but I need to change something."
I had done Weight Watchers in college, but it didn't work for me. I'd do really well, then slip, feel like I failed, and surrender to the guilt. I flirted with the idea of cutting out sugar for awhile, and maybe even experimenting with being a vegetarian.
A series of tweets (thank you, internet and Olivia Wilde) led me to Alicia Silverstone's book, The Kind Diet. It broke down vegan philosophies and examined the politics of the food industry in a really gentle, logical way. The book didn't tell me I was living my life wrong - it just presented another option. It was the right message, presented in the right way, at exactly the right time.
Now here I am, 3 years in. To commemorate the occasion, after the jump are a few things I've learned.
I know, because I officially became a vegan the day after the series finale of Lost. Let me clarify by saying that these two events were unrelated, though a part of me would very much like to pretend that I was so bereft without The Island that I somehow couldn't face the prospect of continuing to consume animal products. It's pure coincidence, but ended up being a handy way of remembering when my adventure began.
My path to veganity (which isn't a real word so much as a term that I appropriated from Scott Pilgrim) was both simple and complicated. I didn't make the change for reasons of animal rights, though I have nothing but respect for people who do. It's certainly an added bonus that I've adopted a lifestyle that is kinder to my furry and feathered friends, but I wouldn't want to accept credit where it is not due.
I became a vegan because I needed to change the way I was living my life.
Look, before we go any further, I'm about to get into some self-image stuff, and that's tricky. If you are friend or foe or stranger, understand that I am neither expert nor authority. If I were, "M.D." would follow my name and you'd be reading this in a book that would probably feature a picture of me surrounded by puppies dressed as vegetables or something because taking serious posed photographs makes me very uncomfortable. I'm not commenting on anybody's feelings or lifestyles but my own. So.
I'm an emotional eater with a side of food-related impulse control. I know, I know. Stop bragging. But it's true. As a sensitive, highly anxious kid, I learned pretty early on that food brought a lot of sensory satisfaction and afforded me a feeling of control that I didn't seem to have over other things in my life. I never starved myself, and I didn't really binge eat - not in the traditional sense, anyway. But I did toss any and all regard for my health aside.
The way my brain typically reacts to food can best be described as follows: Candy tastes good. Thus, eating some will make me feel good. Where some would make me feel good, all will make me feel really good. Feeling good is the opposite of feeling bad. Ergo, I should probably eat all of the candy. Everyday. Forever.
Cut to me at 23, unhappy as a person could be, both emotionally and physically. I was two years into a job I hated and, instead of dealing with my feelings, I went for the instant gratification of comfort food like a champ. Everyday. Forever. My clothes didn't fit, I felt sick almost all the time, and I was too afraid to go to my doctor for any reason at all because a voice in the back of my head told me there was no way that I wasn't at least borderline diabetic.
"I need to change something," I told a friend desperately, probably as I realized I had hit my personal bottom. "I don't know what, but I need to change something."
I had done Weight Watchers in college, but it didn't work for me. I'd do really well, then slip, feel like I failed, and surrender to the guilt. I flirted with the idea of cutting out sugar for awhile, and maybe even experimenting with being a vegetarian.
A series of tweets (thank you, internet and Olivia Wilde) led me to Alicia Silverstone's book, The Kind Diet. It broke down vegan philosophies and examined the politics of the food industry in a really gentle, logical way. The book didn't tell me I was living my life wrong - it just presented another option. It was the right message, presented in the right way, at exactly the right time.
Now here I am, 3 years in. To commemorate the occasion, after the jump are a few things I've learned.
Thursday, May 9, 2013
On That One Time It Was Easter (Or, Not That Time I Explained 4/20 to My Mom)
Remember when it was Easter?
Fine. It was sort of a month and a half-ish ago, and shame on me for not posting about it in a more timely manner. However, it's either this or the story of me having to explain to my mother the significance of 4/20, and trust me, this has the potential to be more useful.
So.
Remember when it was Easter?
I am delighted to say that I have a gigantic and wonderful family. When you're Irish, Catholic, and American, this typically means that Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Easter (the Big Three, if you will) are major affairs full of food, family, and fun (also, alliteration).
The former of that trifecta of holiday F's got a bit trickier when I became the first and only vegan among meat and cheese loving relatives. First off, let me say that everyone has always been very supportive of my choice, and I love to cook, so contributing a dish that I can eat to the potluck affairs is more fun than frustrating. But it's a little intimidating too. There's some skepticism that accompanies the idea of veganity. Were there a standard information pack for beginners, the phrases, "So...what do you eat?" and "Yeah, I had a vegan cookie once and it tasted like cardboard. But it's cool that you're doing that," would be listed under, "Things You Will Hear Constantly for the Rest of Your Life." When I make something to bring to a family gathering, it is with the knowledge that a combination of genuine curiosity and politeness will prompt most in attendance to at least try it. There's added pressure for it to be good, lest I set back the cause.
I know. It's a rough life. Fortunately, there are sites like Isa Chandra Moskowitz's Post Punk Kitchen, to which I turned for a simple and super delicious recipe for March's Easter brunch. I ended up going with the Raspberry Jam Swirl Crumb Cake, making a few modifications along the way. Recipe and pics after the jump.
Wednesday, March 20, 2013
On The JV Club, Episode 49 (Or, That Time I Sort of Threw a Birthday Party for a Podcast)
It's a dark and rainy day here in CDogland and I am in bed with a gnarly cold, so let's take a journey back in time about two weeks to another rainy day when I was mobile and not forced to breathe almost exclusively through my mouth.
As I'm sure I've mentioned before, I am very pro-podcast. Listening to them has expanded my world on all sorts of levels, be it by introducing me to new performers, informing me about events, or even just helping me think about things in new ways.
Two of my friends - Jennie and Natalie - recently mentioned that they'd like to get into some podcasts, but that the idea of just sitting and listening was unappealing. Always one to embrace a theme, I suggested that we start having podcast parties. We're crafty people (knitting, crocheting, baking, soldering - there aren't many DIY projects we wouldn't attempt at least once), so I figured why not pair creating with listening? And, on top of that, why not share what goes into each event with you?
The day of our first as-yet-unnamed gathering happened to fall on the one year anniversary of The JV Club podcast, so it seemed particularly appropriate to start there. Hosted by Janet Varney, the basic premise of The JV Club is that guest and host alike talk their way from adolescence to adulthood. It's a part of the Nerdist network of podcasts, and I found my way to it through them and through being a fan of Janet, who is one of the three co-founders of SF Sketchfest and voices the lead on The Legend of Korra, among other things.
Of my mainstay podcasts, I can say without hesitation that The JV Club is my favorite. Listening to it has made me laugh, made me cry, made me cringe - sometimes all within the span of one episode. It gave me the courage to throw this post out into the universe. No matter what else is going on, the hour and change that I spend plugged in feels like a safe time to listen and learn and let go.
So yes, it was a good place to start. As it was a Thursday, we met up in the evening after being released from our respective work environments. Nat and Jennie have been working on adding crocheting to their skill set, but opted to knit that night, having not quite mastered the former. I, naturally, had completely forgotten how to knit, so I offered to make dinner. On the menu: lentil soup and Mean Girl bars. Both happen to be gluten free, which I am not. I am, however, a vegan, and the twain often meet. Do know that I'll always mention whether anything I post is GF or not, and that any ingredient I mention is vegan, so I probably won't add the extra qualifier when listing it.
We listened to episode 49, which was recorded live at Sketchfest with Tig Notaro in February. I was in the audience, and being there sort of changed my life (note: if you know me, be aware that this is one of those times when I'm being completely serious about something legitimately changing my life and not like the time I saw From Justin to Kelly). I'd seen Jennie and Nat the day after for our Not-Quite-a-Super-Bowl-More-of-a-Showtune-Singing Party and couldn't shut up about it, so they were curious and I was ready to share. I prefaced the episode with Live, the recording of Tig's legendary Largo set, which will be the best $5 you ever spent, so hit that link and go get it now.
Heavy stuff gets tackled point blank, both in the episode and on the album, and maybe one of the greatest gifts of it all revealed itself when we paused to eat: we talked. Just straight up talked about what we'd heard so far and how we felt about it, and that kind of segued into us just talking about our own lives. These are people that I'm very close to, that I've known for most of my life, but sometimes it's hard to really dig in and go for it. It was nice.
We wrapped the evening with a very important first for me: I made a friendship bracelet. 26 years of living, and I'd never done it before. So, under Jennie's gentle tutelage ("Here's what you do. I'll turn away so I'm not watching and making you uncomfortable..."), I created what I'm sure will be the first of many bracelets, in the podcast's colors.
A successful first venture, and my friends are already on board for more (Jennie: "CDog, we want to have a podcast party where we make tea and scones and sit outside. Do you have an episode of something for that?").
Pics and recipes after the jump.
As I'm sure I've mentioned before, I am very pro-podcast. Listening to them has expanded my world on all sorts of levels, be it by introducing me to new performers, informing me about events, or even just helping me think about things in new ways.
Two of my friends - Jennie and Natalie - recently mentioned that they'd like to get into some podcasts, but that the idea of just sitting and listening was unappealing. Always one to embrace a theme, I suggested that we start having podcast parties. We're crafty people (knitting, crocheting, baking, soldering - there aren't many DIY projects we wouldn't attempt at least once), so I figured why not pair creating with listening? And, on top of that, why not share what goes into each event with you?
The day of our first as-yet-unnamed gathering happened to fall on the one year anniversary of The JV Club podcast, so it seemed particularly appropriate to start there. Hosted by Janet Varney, the basic premise of The JV Club is that guest and host alike talk their way from adolescence to adulthood. It's a part of the Nerdist network of podcasts, and I found my way to it through them and through being a fan of Janet, who is one of the three co-founders of SF Sketchfest and voices the lead on The Legend of Korra, among other things.
Of my mainstay podcasts, I can say without hesitation that The JV Club is my favorite. Listening to it has made me laugh, made me cry, made me cringe - sometimes all within the span of one episode. It gave me the courage to throw this post out into the universe. No matter what else is going on, the hour and change that I spend plugged in feels like a safe time to listen and learn and let go.
So yes, it was a good place to start. As it was a Thursday, we met up in the evening after being released from our respective work environments. Nat and Jennie have been working on adding crocheting to their skill set, but opted to knit that night, having not quite mastered the former. I, naturally, had completely forgotten how to knit, so I offered to make dinner. On the menu: lentil soup and Mean Girl bars. Both happen to be gluten free, which I am not. I am, however, a vegan, and the twain often meet. Do know that I'll always mention whether anything I post is GF or not, and that any ingredient I mention is vegan, so I probably won't add the extra qualifier when listing it.
We listened to episode 49, which was recorded live at Sketchfest with Tig Notaro in February. I was in the audience, and being there sort of changed my life (note: if you know me, be aware that this is one of those times when I'm being completely serious about something legitimately changing my life and not like the time I saw From Justin to Kelly). I'd seen Jennie and Nat the day after for our Not-Quite-a-Super-Bowl-More-of-a-Showtune-Singing Party and couldn't shut up about it, so they were curious and I was ready to share. I prefaced the episode with Live, the recording of Tig's legendary Largo set, which will be the best $5 you ever spent, so hit that link and go get it now.
Heavy stuff gets tackled point blank, both in the episode and on the album, and maybe one of the greatest gifts of it all revealed itself when we paused to eat: we talked. Just straight up talked about what we'd heard so far and how we felt about it, and that kind of segued into us just talking about our own lives. These are people that I'm very close to, that I've known for most of my life, but sometimes it's hard to really dig in and go for it. It was nice.
We wrapped the evening with a very important first for me: I made a friendship bracelet. 26 years of living, and I'd never done it before. So, under Jennie's gentle tutelage ("Here's what you do. I'll turn away so I'm not watching and making you uncomfortable..."), I created what I'm sure will be the first of many bracelets, in the podcast's colors.
A successful first venture, and my friends are already on board for more (Jennie: "CDog, we want to have a podcast party where we make tea and scones and sit outside. Do you have an episode of something for that?").
Pics and recipes after the jump.
Monday, March 11, 2013
On Religion (Or, My Best Use of a Beyoncé Quote)
Allow me to begin with the...not disclaimer, I guess, but gentle note that nothing I am about to say is intended as an assault upon religion in any way. I am not now, nor have I ever been, a faith mocker or basher. However, I will not refrain from being respectfully honest about my relationship with religion, both in the past and at this point in my life. While I'd be more than happy to engage in a dialogue with anybody who stumbles upon this, I'd like to ask for the same respect in return.
Anyway...
Religion isn't something I talk about a whole lot, primarily for the same reason why I threw up that not-disclaimer at the beginning: I get pretty concerned about offending anybody. There's an overwhelming tendency to take opinions about this particular subject to an extreme, and that's your prerogative if that's where you want to go with it, but you should probably save yourself some time and leave this page, because that's not conducive with what I'm trying to accomplish here.
I can't speak to anybody else's experience, just my own. But, the thing is, I kind of wish I could've read or listened to the thoughts of another person who'd had struggles and doubts and questions that were similar to mine when I was growing up, so I feel like the time has come for me to toss this out into the cyber-ether with the hope that it may find its way to an inquiring mind who needs it. At the very least, I'll be able to refer back to it if I ever need to have this discussion with someone in my life.
I was raised Catholic, and all of my education was received in private, religious institutions - Catholic grade school, Christian Brothers high school, Jesuit university. As such, my religion was always very present in my life. As a family, we went to church on Sundays. At school, it was a part of the curriculum. The first time I spoke into a microphone, it was to do a reading at a school mass. You might say that's where I started developing my taste for performing.
Let me take a minute, before we go any further, to say that I received a fantastic education. It was not all God, all the time. I was taught about birth control (perhaps not as much as I should have been, but enough to be considered responsible), evolution, and all the rest. I'm also very pro-public education and don't consider myself to be better than anybody who did not go to my schools. Moving on.
Being Catholic didn't feel like a choice, no more than being Irish or tall or spectacularly nearsighted did: it just was. I was all right with that, especially when I was younger. God was initially presented to me as someone who would always be there, listening and never judging. Forgiveness and love and acceptance were the words that I associated with my religion, and who could argue with any of that?
As I got older, things started to get a little murkier. Forgiveness and love and acceptance were all still there, but they weren't being presented as quite so absolute anymore. Guilt started to enter the picture. Learning about hell and eternal damnation was pretty traumatic, and I remember being terrified when I was around nine or ten that I would screw up unforgivably and end up there. That's a lot to lay on a kid, the idea that your goodness or badness would earn you a ticket either to paradise or a fiery pit of torture. For eternity.
'Cause here's the thing, guys: children have a tendency to take things very, very literally. I was the kind of kid who trusted adults, particularly my teachers and parents, pretty implicitly: if they said it, I took it as fact. My dad has a bump on the back of his head. When I was little, he told me that it was a bear tooth that had gotten stuck in his skull when he had gone camping with my grandparents as a little boy, and I believed him. For YEARS.
Now, I'm not equating religion with my father's affinity for tall tales at all. What I am saying, however, is that many religions have very rich, nuanced histories and stories full of metaphors and symbolism that adults, or even adolescents, have a better chance of interpreting than a seven year old, who will be more likely to take what they're told at face value. Right around seventh grade, my teachers switched things up and started referring to the story of Adam and Eve as just that - a story, meant to illustrate a greater lesson of faith. Up until then, it had pretty much been presented as historic fact. Pardon my language, but this was a total mindfuck. To have been raised thinking one thing one way for so long, only to be told, "Hey, by the way, also this and mostly not that," was incredibly confusing.
The good thing is, this confusion kind of supported my developing mind and my new adolescent urge to question. The bad thing is, questioning already felt wrong. Remember that guilt I mentioned? As I was on the cusp of my teenage years, it had pretty much inundated my life, and was particularly tied to my burgeoning sexuality.
Yup, we're going there.
Once you hit 4th gradeish, right around spring and/or Easter, regular religion classes paused so that, "Family Life," could be taught. It was basically a super watered down version of sex ed, designed to help you understand the changes you were going through, or were about to go through. 4th grade was kind of a general overview of nature and life that I don't totally remember. 5th grade tackled a little bit of puberty and the physical body. The boys left the room (we had a female teacher) with copies of The Marvelous Male, presumably to go meet with a dude and talk about nocturnal emissions. The girls stayed in the classroom with copies of The Fabulous Female and learned all about menstruation - which, FYI, sounds really horrifying on paper.
Fun fact - during this time, I had the delightful distinction of being the first girl in my class to get her period. I was nine, it was not awesome, and in the middle of that trauma, my poor mother made what she thought was a harmless joke about me using myself as an example in class. I was less than amused.
6th - 8th grade guided us through sex, pregnancy, childbirth, and everything in between. I use, "guided," very loosely, in that we were told that pretty much everything related to sex was super wrong unless you were straight and married. This information was not delivered to us directly from our teachers, but rather through a series of videos that had clearly been shot in the mid-80s (I graduated in 2000). The host of these videos defined sexual concepts, then proceeded to explain how offensive and dangerous they were in a very serious tone.
These offensive and dangerous concepts included, but I'm sure were not limited to: masturbation, homosexuality, cross-dressing, "necking," "petting," "heavy petting," and sex.
Understandably, I was pretty terrified if a boy made eye contact with me, lest it be a gateway to heavy petting and damnation.
All joking aside, however, this method of education for sure damaged my own understanding of my sexuality. For years. Like, I've only recently started to recover.
And you know what? That's something that I'm pretty pissed about. I'm angry that I spent even a minute thinking that being gay was wrong - that's something I got over very quickly, but the whole experience of having that opinion foisted upon me by people I trusted left a permanently bad taste in my mouth. I'm angry that I spent such a long time feeling such a deep sense of shame about being a sexual being.
'Cause that's what happened, ultimately. I very clearly remember having my first explicitly sexual thought when I was thirteen. It was new and visceral and confusing and exciting, but what I remember most was the shame. There were physical feelings and reactions that accompanied these thoughts, but I couldn't ask anybody about them because everything in my head told me they were wrong. The video had said it, and the video had been shown to me at school, and I trusted the people at school, so there it was. My relationship with my body was all kinds of messed up, because as far as I understood, a bunch of stuff was only there for dudes to use (and only if the ultimate goal was babymaking).
Here's the thing, guys, and I know it seems super obvious, but saying it will just make me feel better: we are sexual people. There's no escaping it. And that is awesome. Having sex? Awesome. Not having sex? Awesome. Masturbating? Still an odd word to me, but totally awesome. In fact, few things are more awesome than embracing your power to explore and understand your own body and feelings. Expressing your sexuality, responsibly and on your own terms, is healthy. Repressing it because you think you've offended God for owning a vibrator or not having a ring on it is awful.
In high school, I hit another major roadblock when I learned that there were some sins that were considered unforgivable - among them, suicide. The explanation that was given to me was that life was the ultimate gift from God, suicide was the ultimate disrespect for this gift, and thus, it was unforgivable. This didn't sit well with me. I don't know about you, but I have never known anybody who just casually decided to commit suicide. To me, a person that broken and wounded seemed more than deserving of God's all encompassing love and forgiveness. To be clear, I don't think suicide is the answer to anything. Ever. But I also don't think it's soul-damning. I got into a disagreement with my teacher about it. He was not overly fond of me.
These are big examples of why my personal journey eventually led me away from the religion that was, at one point, a massive part of my identity. I came to the realization that I was starting to believe things that were different from what I had been taught, and from what the modern church had been telling me was true. My personal understanding of the world no longer aligned with Catholicism. I had a mini-crisis when this happened, right around college. For awhile, losing my religion (no REM pun intended) kind of felt like losing a vital appendage - it had been a part of my being, and who was I without it?
Eventually, I discovered the answer: not that different. In fact, maybe even a little bit better, because the parts of me that had been so confused and guilty and a little bit angry were finally at peace.
If I had to define myself now, I'd say I'm pretty agnostic with a dash of theism in there. I believe in something, or at least the possibility of something. Maybe it's God, maybe it's the universe, I don't know. And I'm pretty okay with the not knowing. For my part, I think that something so vast and potentially sacred should not be known, not in the traditional sense, at least. Because we're flawed, fallible people, and not all of us would use that knowledge for good.
I know I've said it a few times, but I absolutely respect everyone's right to believe in their religion* (or, alternately, to not believe at all). Much of my family and many of my friends are still practicing, and that's totally cool. For all of the parts that I did not enjoy, being raised Catholic was also a tremendous gift in so many ways. I've encountered tons of wonderful people - teachers, nuns, priests - who, along with my parents, taught me the importance of love, kindness, and compassion. I am a more sensitive, empathetic person for having known them. A strong sense of spirituality was fostered in me, particularly by a lot of my religion teachers in high school who I regret not having the time to talk about here, and I will forever hold onto and cherish that part of myself.
If I have to end this very lengthy post with something, let it be this pretty indisputable fact: no matter where you're from or how you were brought up, it's okay to give yourself permission to be who you are. Gay, straight, virgin, not a virgin, Christian, Buddhist, atheist, whatever. None of that makes you better or smarter than anyone else, nor does it make you inferior to anybody. It just means that you are you, and that is never wrong.
*Note: I should clarify by saying that, while I do respect this right, what I do not respect is any group or individual using religion as a justification for discrimination or disrespect of any other group or individual. That probably goes without saying, but now it doesn't have to, 'cause I said it.
Anyway...
Religion isn't something I talk about a whole lot, primarily for the same reason why I threw up that not-disclaimer at the beginning: I get pretty concerned about offending anybody. There's an overwhelming tendency to take opinions about this particular subject to an extreme, and that's your prerogative if that's where you want to go with it, but you should probably save yourself some time and leave this page, because that's not conducive with what I'm trying to accomplish here.
I can't speak to anybody else's experience, just my own. But, the thing is, I kind of wish I could've read or listened to the thoughts of another person who'd had struggles and doubts and questions that were similar to mine when I was growing up, so I feel like the time has come for me to toss this out into the cyber-ether with the hope that it may find its way to an inquiring mind who needs it. At the very least, I'll be able to refer back to it if I ever need to have this discussion with someone in my life.
I was raised Catholic, and all of my education was received in private, religious institutions - Catholic grade school, Christian Brothers high school, Jesuit university. As such, my religion was always very present in my life. As a family, we went to church on Sundays. At school, it was a part of the curriculum. The first time I spoke into a microphone, it was to do a reading at a school mass. You might say that's where I started developing my taste for performing.
Let me take a minute, before we go any further, to say that I received a fantastic education. It was not all God, all the time. I was taught about birth control (perhaps not as much as I should have been, but enough to be considered responsible), evolution, and all the rest. I'm also very pro-public education and don't consider myself to be better than anybody who did not go to my schools. Moving on.
Being Catholic didn't feel like a choice, no more than being Irish or tall or spectacularly nearsighted did: it just was. I was all right with that, especially when I was younger. God was initially presented to me as someone who would always be there, listening and never judging. Forgiveness and love and acceptance were the words that I associated with my religion, and who could argue with any of that?
As I got older, things started to get a little murkier. Forgiveness and love and acceptance were all still there, but they weren't being presented as quite so absolute anymore. Guilt started to enter the picture. Learning about hell and eternal damnation was pretty traumatic, and I remember being terrified when I was around nine or ten that I would screw up unforgivably and end up there. That's a lot to lay on a kid, the idea that your goodness or badness would earn you a ticket either to paradise or a fiery pit of torture. For eternity.
'Cause here's the thing, guys: children have a tendency to take things very, very literally. I was the kind of kid who trusted adults, particularly my teachers and parents, pretty implicitly: if they said it, I took it as fact. My dad has a bump on the back of his head. When I was little, he told me that it was a bear tooth that had gotten stuck in his skull when he had gone camping with my grandparents as a little boy, and I believed him. For YEARS.
Now, I'm not equating religion with my father's affinity for tall tales at all. What I am saying, however, is that many religions have very rich, nuanced histories and stories full of metaphors and symbolism that adults, or even adolescents, have a better chance of interpreting than a seven year old, who will be more likely to take what they're told at face value. Right around seventh grade, my teachers switched things up and started referring to the story of Adam and Eve as just that - a story, meant to illustrate a greater lesson of faith. Up until then, it had pretty much been presented as historic fact. Pardon my language, but this was a total mindfuck. To have been raised thinking one thing one way for so long, only to be told, "Hey, by the way, also this and mostly not that," was incredibly confusing.
The good thing is, this confusion kind of supported my developing mind and my new adolescent urge to question. The bad thing is, questioning already felt wrong. Remember that guilt I mentioned? As I was on the cusp of my teenage years, it had pretty much inundated my life, and was particularly tied to my burgeoning sexuality.
Yup, we're going there.
Once you hit 4th gradeish, right around spring and/or Easter, regular religion classes paused so that, "Family Life," could be taught. It was basically a super watered down version of sex ed, designed to help you understand the changes you were going through, or were about to go through. 4th grade was kind of a general overview of nature and life that I don't totally remember. 5th grade tackled a little bit of puberty and the physical body. The boys left the room (we had a female teacher) with copies of The Marvelous Male, presumably to go meet with a dude and talk about nocturnal emissions. The girls stayed in the classroom with copies of The Fabulous Female and learned all about menstruation - which, FYI, sounds really horrifying on paper.
Fun fact - during this time, I had the delightful distinction of being the first girl in my class to get her period. I was nine, it was not awesome, and in the middle of that trauma, my poor mother made what she thought was a harmless joke about me using myself as an example in class. I was less than amused.
6th - 8th grade guided us through sex, pregnancy, childbirth, and everything in between. I use, "guided," very loosely, in that we were told that pretty much everything related to sex was super wrong unless you were straight and married. This information was not delivered to us directly from our teachers, but rather through a series of videos that had clearly been shot in the mid-80s (I graduated in 2000). The host of these videos defined sexual concepts, then proceeded to explain how offensive and dangerous they were in a very serious tone.
These offensive and dangerous concepts included, but I'm sure were not limited to: masturbation, homosexuality, cross-dressing, "necking," "petting," "heavy petting," and sex.
Understandably, I was pretty terrified if a boy made eye contact with me, lest it be a gateway to heavy petting and damnation.
All joking aside, however, this method of education for sure damaged my own understanding of my sexuality. For years. Like, I've only recently started to recover.
And you know what? That's something that I'm pretty pissed about. I'm angry that I spent even a minute thinking that being gay was wrong - that's something I got over very quickly, but the whole experience of having that opinion foisted upon me by people I trusted left a permanently bad taste in my mouth. I'm angry that I spent such a long time feeling such a deep sense of shame about being a sexual being.
'Cause that's what happened, ultimately. I very clearly remember having my first explicitly sexual thought when I was thirteen. It was new and visceral and confusing and exciting, but what I remember most was the shame. There were physical feelings and reactions that accompanied these thoughts, but I couldn't ask anybody about them because everything in my head told me they were wrong. The video had said it, and the video had been shown to me at school, and I trusted the people at school, so there it was. My relationship with my body was all kinds of messed up, because as far as I understood, a bunch of stuff was only there for dudes to use (and only if the ultimate goal was babymaking).
Here's the thing, guys, and I know it seems super obvious, but saying it will just make me feel better: we are sexual people. There's no escaping it. And that is awesome. Having sex? Awesome. Not having sex? Awesome. Masturbating? Still an odd word to me, but totally awesome. In fact, few things are more awesome than embracing your power to explore and understand your own body and feelings. Expressing your sexuality, responsibly and on your own terms, is healthy. Repressing it because you think you've offended God for owning a vibrator or not having a ring on it is awful.
In high school, I hit another major roadblock when I learned that there were some sins that were considered unforgivable - among them, suicide. The explanation that was given to me was that life was the ultimate gift from God, suicide was the ultimate disrespect for this gift, and thus, it was unforgivable. This didn't sit well with me. I don't know about you, but I have never known anybody who just casually decided to commit suicide. To me, a person that broken and wounded seemed more than deserving of God's all encompassing love and forgiveness. To be clear, I don't think suicide is the answer to anything. Ever. But I also don't think it's soul-damning. I got into a disagreement with my teacher about it. He was not overly fond of me.
These are big examples of why my personal journey eventually led me away from the religion that was, at one point, a massive part of my identity. I came to the realization that I was starting to believe things that were different from what I had been taught, and from what the modern church had been telling me was true. My personal understanding of the world no longer aligned with Catholicism. I had a mini-crisis when this happened, right around college. For awhile, losing my religion (no REM pun intended) kind of felt like losing a vital appendage - it had been a part of my being, and who was I without it?
Eventually, I discovered the answer: not that different. In fact, maybe even a little bit better, because the parts of me that had been so confused and guilty and a little bit angry were finally at peace.
If I had to define myself now, I'd say I'm pretty agnostic with a dash of theism in there. I believe in something, or at least the possibility of something. Maybe it's God, maybe it's the universe, I don't know. And I'm pretty okay with the not knowing. For my part, I think that something so vast and potentially sacred should not be known, not in the traditional sense, at least. Because we're flawed, fallible people, and not all of us would use that knowledge for good.
I know I've said it a few times, but I absolutely respect everyone's right to believe in their religion* (or, alternately, to not believe at all). Much of my family and many of my friends are still practicing, and that's totally cool. For all of the parts that I did not enjoy, being raised Catholic was also a tremendous gift in so many ways. I've encountered tons of wonderful people - teachers, nuns, priests - who, along with my parents, taught me the importance of love, kindness, and compassion. I am a more sensitive, empathetic person for having known them. A strong sense of spirituality was fostered in me, particularly by a lot of my religion teachers in high school who I regret not having the time to talk about here, and I will forever hold onto and cherish that part of myself.
If I have to end this very lengthy post with something, let it be this pretty indisputable fact: no matter where you're from or how you were brought up, it's okay to give yourself permission to be who you are. Gay, straight, virgin, not a virgin, Christian, Buddhist, atheist, whatever. None of that makes you better or smarter than anyone else, nor does it make you inferior to anybody. It just means that you are you, and that is never wrong.
*Note: I should clarify by saying that, while I do respect this right, what I do not respect is any group or individual using religion as a justification for discrimination or disrespect of any other group or individual. That probably goes without saying, but now it doesn't have to, 'cause I said it.
Saturday, March 9, 2013
On Anger (Or, I Think I'm Sort of a Grown-Up Now A Little)
So here's what's going to happen: we're going to shoot right past me being super lax in the blogging department for a thousand months and just move right into me getting a little deep on you for a second.
If you're someone in my life, you know that I had a bit of a rough summer. If you're not...I had a bit of a rough summer. There was a sudden influx of trials and tragedy, and I did not handle it very gracefully, in that I didn't really handle it at all. This is neither healthy nor recommended, but the reality is that, for about seven months, I was emotionally unavailable. My expectation was that a thousand more shoes were going to drop at any given moment, and switching off seemed like the safest option.
That went on until about a month ago, when I went to a recording of The JV Club podcast and got knocked back into my life. It's since been posted as episode 49, live at Sketchfest with Tig Notaro. I know I'm prone to saying that a lot of things are life changing, and I've had tons of best days ever, but know that I'm not being charmingly hyperbolic when I say that spending $15 to sit in that theatre was one of the most important things I've ever done. The things that spoke to me may not speak to you, but I do strongly encourage you to listen to the episode - it's funny and devastating and just incredibly special.
Funnily enough, I had listened to the podcast pretty regularly up until things took a turn. The things I loved about it were the same things that made me stop listening for awhile - it made me think and feel a lot. Since that afternoon, I've picked it back up and have been devouring every episode I missed. It was good that I stopped, because CDog the Emotional Shut-In was not at all ready to hear a lot of the things that guests and host alike have shared.
This whole confluence of events has made me take a serious look at myself, possibly for the first time ever, and one of the most important things I've realized is this: I was a really angry person for a very, very long time.
And you know what? Realizing that sucks. It makes me want to reach back in time and punch Past Me in the face, because she took a lot for granted and wasted so much time and energy carrying around such an ungodly amount of bitterness and fear that it's no wonder she had so many back problems.
Yet, as unfortunate as it is to realize that I treated myself (and some others, I have no doubt) so poorly for about a decade, there's something kind of glorious about the equally powerful realization that I am not that person anymore and have not been for quite some time. When I finally hit bottom, I got my head together enough to make a decision: tomorrow was going to be better. Whatever the day threw at me, I was going to take it and be happy. It was the first time in months that I felt like I was really in control of anything.
That was about two years ago, and I repeat those same words to myself every night, be it at the end of a day that was excellent or awful: tomorrow will be better. I will be awesome.
Now, I'm not naive enough to think that this automatically solves all problems, but it's definitely a vital part of the equation. It certainly helped me take the first steps toward letting go of a lot of things that didn't really seem to matter so much anymore.
Maybe what I'm saying, in a really roundabout way, is that life is full of ups and downs, and allowing yourself to surrender to both willingly might be the only way to get through it all. Opening up as a person, not taking a seven month hiatus from your feelings...these are good things.
Guys...I think that at some point in the past couple years, I sort of became a grown-up maybe.
Kind of exciting, isn't it?
Don't worry. I'm not going to stop wearing Spider-Man shirts.
If you're someone in my life, you know that I had a bit of a rough summer. If you're not...I had a bit of a rough summer. There was a sudden influx of trials and tragedy, and I did not handle it very gracefully, in that I didn't really handle it at all. This is neither healthy nor recommended, but the reality is that, for about seven months, I was emotionally unavailable. My expectation was that a thousand more shoes were going to drop at any given moment, and switching off seemed like the safest option.
That went on until about a month ago, when I went to a recording of The JV Club podcast and got knocked back into my life. It's since been posted as episode 49, live at Sketchfest with Tig Notaro. I know I'm prone to saying that a lot of things are life changing, and I've had tons of best days ever, but know that I'm not being charmingly hyperbolic when I say that spending $15 to sit in that theatre was one of the most important things I've ever done. The things that spoke to me may not speak to you, but I do strongly encourage you to listen to the episode - it's funny and devastating and just incredibly special.
Funnily enough, I had listened to the podcast pretty regularly up until things took a turn. The things I loved about it were the same things that made me stop listening for awhile - it made me think and feel a lot. Since that afternoon, I've picked it back up and have been devouring every episode I missed. It was good that I stopped, because CDog the Emotional Shut-In was not at all ready to hear a lot of the things that guests and host alike have shared.
This whole confluence of events has made me take a serious look at myself, possibly for the first time ever, and one of the most important things I've realized is this: I was a really angry person for a very, very long time.
And you know what? Realizing that sucks. It makes me want to reach back in time and punch Past Me in the face, because she took a lot for granted and wasted so much time and energy carrying around such an ungodly amount of bitterness and fear that it's no wonder she had so many back problems.
Yet, as unfortunate as it is to realize that I treated myself (and some others, I have no doubt) so poorly for about a decade, there's something kind of glorious about the equally powerful realization that I am not that person anymore and have not been for quite some time. When I finally hit bottom, I got my head together enough to make a decision: tomorrow was going to be better. Whatever the day threw at me, I was going to take it and be happy. It was the first time in months that I felt like I was really in control of anything.
That was about two years ago, and I repeat those same words to myself every night, be it at the end of a day that was excellent or awful: tomorrow will be better. I will be awesome.
Now, I'm not naive enough to think that this automatically solves all problems, but it's definitely a vital part of the equation. It certainly helped me take the first steps toward letting go of a lot of things that didn't really seem to matter so much anymore.
Maybe what I'm saying, in a really roundabout way, is that life is full of ups and downs, and allowing yourself to surrender to both willingly might be the only way to get through it all. Opening up as a person, not taking a seven month hiatus from your feelings...these are good things.
Guys...I think that at some point in the past couple years, I sort of became a grown-up maybe.
Kind of exciting, isn't it?
Don't worry. I'm not going to stop wearing Spider-Man shirts.
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