usually I make every attempt to make myself presentable: I dress appropriately (or try to). I know it takes a while, usually, with most people, for me to ease into genuine sharing, so I try to plot my time with others accordingly. I can laugh at myself to deflect concern or kindness while appearing cheerful and light.
I get to feel a little confident in my shining shell. I can do this, I think. I can be really appropriate and collected and presentable and serene. I relax my guard a little. I have reserves I can spend on greedier takers.
And then there will be an event of some kind and I will drink a little too much, and then I find, as I always find, that I have not really changed anything. Not anything really. My pretty lacquered shell cracks and all the inappropriate, the unpresentable, the scattered, uncollected, worried, and bothered comes pouring out, splashing all over the place. I stain my clothes with it, and my hands and mouth are sticky with it. It gets on other people's shoes and sprays on their shoulders. It is very disappointing.
Directly afterward, I think, there must be some other way to do this. But I don't know of such a way, and so I sit in the middle of my floor with brushes and glue and paint and lacquer and begin to mend the shell again. I can see, though I know I will forget, that there is nothing left but the cracks, that the pieces are a fiction and only the cracks and the lacquer are real. It's only ever been glue and tape and glitter and sequins. Shining shell indeed.
Why can I not do something dramatic instead? I should leave my life, change everything. I must change my life. Perhaps I can sell everything I have and give it to the poor. Perhaps I can make my home resemble a monastic cell and, through the rigors of asceticism, become something different. Perhaps I can sever all ties to all I love and, by sacrificing my affection for them thus, love them far better than I do when I am present.
I will do nothing so dramatic or creative. I will make more tea. I will put away the clean laundry. I will feed myself wholesome food. I will try to remember what humility is and is not.
Sunday, June 29
Wednesday, June 25
spinsterhood and housekeeping as sacred work
I am a woman who lives alone and there are times, I readily admit, when I envy my partnered or otherwise cohabitating friends the privilege of the division of domestic duties. I must do everything for myself, of course. (Yes, you must read that with as much melodrama as you can muster.) There is only me to take out the trash, only me to scrub the toilets, only me to cook the meals, and to scrub the dishes when it is all over. And that on top of all the work I do to earn my keep and pay my bills. Oh, woe, heaviest woe, is me!
For a very long time, I have imagined that, if only I had someone else to care for, all my domestic chores might become sweet to do. Scouring pots and pans, bleaching the bathtub, bruising my knees to wash the floor would all be acts of loving sacrifice for my beloved. If only there were someone for whose sake I worked, then that work would be transformed into something noble, something worthy, something I could desire to do.
Instead, I am the one for whom I work. All my work is for me, for my well-being, for my happiness, and for my pleasure. For a very long time, this has felt very selfish. I am too insignificant to be such a reason or a recipient of my own care.
Just today, however, a different kind of thought occurred to me. Every day, I have endless opportunities to show myself kindness and love. There is no one else to do these chores, and so, eventually I have to do them, even if I do them badly or incompletely. After all, I only have this many plates and this many mugs; this many sheets or that many pairs of pants--eventually I must wash them as I will have to use them again. This means I can never go too long without caring for myself. Every bit of washing up, cooking, putting away, or tidying up is a reminder that I am also worthy of such care. I am learning that caring for myself in these life-affirming ways is not selfishness, and it is no small accomplishment to see this. And when I look around me and see my bed made, my refrigerator full of delicious food, the floor swept, etc., etc., I see that I am lovable, and that I am loved.
For a very long time, I have imagined that, if only I had someone else to care for, all my domestic chores might become sweet to do. Scouring pots and pans, bleaching the bathtub, bruising my knees to wash the floor would all be acts of loving sacrifice for my beloved. If only there were someone for whose sake I worked, then that work would be transformed into something noble, something worthy, something I could desire to do.
Instead, I am the one for whom I work. All my work is for me, for my well-being, for my happiness, and for my pleasure. For a very long time, this has felt very selfish. I am too insignificant to be such a reason or a recipient of my own care.
Just today, however, a different kind of thought occurred to me. Every day, I have endless opportunities to show myself kindness and love. There is no one else to do these chores, and so, eventually I have to do them, even if I do them badly or incompletely. After all, I only have this many plates and this many mugs; this many sheets or that many pairs of pants--eventually I must wash them as I will have to use them again. This means I can never go too long without caring for myself. Every bit of washing up, cooking, putting away, or tidying up is a reminder that I am also worthy of such care. I am learning that caring for myself in these life-affirming ways is not selfishness, and it is no small accomplishment to see this. And when I look around me and see my bed made, my refrigerator full of delicious food, the floor swept, etc., etc., I see that I am lovable, and that I am loved.
Monday, June 23
sumer is icumen in
The saxophone player is in his usual spot underneath the el tracks. I know this because so long as I have my windows open, i can hear all that he plays, and because he always sits in the same spot. He has so much energy for playing--just today he has been out for hours, his musical thoughts drifting through my windows while I write or edit.
I love listening to him play, and I just thought of a new reason for this love today: Although there are familiar phrases he repeats, often with alteration, I cannot predict the next note most of the time. I have to pay attention if I am to hear him well. To pay attention, I have to let go of the thoughts in my head and make myself open and receptive. When I listen to a fixed piece of music, even one I love, I find that I can lose my attentiveness by anticipating the next note or phrase in my head instead of focusing on the note at hand. I rush ahead of the music in my head and miss what happens as it happens. (And the same in conversations when I divide my attention between what is being said and how I will interpret it or how I will respond or what might or must come next.)
The gentleman sitting outside for hours every pleasant afternoon and evening playing his saxophone whether people stop and listen or not, filling my home all summer with the notes he chooses to play--this gentleman teaches me how to pay attention, and I am grateful for him.
I love listening to him play, and I just thought of a new reason for this love today: Although there are familiar phrases he repeats, often with alteration, I cannot predict the next note most of the time. I have to pay attention if I am to hear him well. To pay attention, I have to let go of the thoughts in my head and make myself open and receptive. When I listen to a fixed piece of music, even one I love, I find that I can lose my attentiveness by anticipating the next note or phrase in my head instead of focusing on the note at hand. I rush ahead of the music in my head and miss what happens as it happens. (And the same in conversations when I divide my attention between what is being said and how I will interpret it or how I will respond or what might or must come next.)
The gentleman sitting outside for hours every pleasant afternoon and evening playing his saxophone whether people stop and listen or not, filling my home all summer with the notes he chooses to play--this gentleman teaches me how to pay attention, and I am grateful for him.
Wednesday, June 18
on "not being a distraction"
It seems that school dress code policies are coming under scrutiny for slutshaming--for enforcing dress codes for girls in order to provide a distraction-free learning environment for boys.
It is definitely unfair--and unfair in an oppressively harmful way--to police girls' clothing choices for that reason. No question about that.
It is also true that part of learning how to be a grownup involves showing courtesy to other persons and respecting their worth and dignity no matter how distracting anything about them might be.
I am nevertheless uncomfortable with arguments, implicit and otherwise, that suggest that girls--or anyone--should just dress however they want, wherever they want, for no better reason than that they want to, and that anyone who says otherwise is engaging in slutshaming. There are many parts of life that come with dress codes or to which informal rules of sartorial etiquette are attached: We wear our very best clothes in black or some other somber color to funerals. We wear our very best clothes in brighter colors to weddings. We wear enormous hats to parties thrown for the Kentucky Derby, and we wear smaller (but possibly similarly elaborate) hats on Easter Sunday, if we are a member of a church where hats are still de rigeur. We wear costumes on Halloween and we wear academic regalia when we graduate with an advanced degree. We make sure to put on a neatly pressed suit for job interviews, and we take care to put on older clothes when we paint the house.
This is to say that for pretty much every part of life, there are some norms governing clothing choice so that we do not create an inappropriate distraction--one does not wear an elaborate white dress to a wedding at which one is not the bride no matter how lovely one might look because to do so would draw inappropriate attention to oneself. One does not wear one's Halloween costume to work on the day after the Halloween party, no matter how many compliments one received on the evening previous, because to do so would disrupt the flow of work--and it would likely violate the employer's dress code.
Supporting--and even strengthening--dress codes is not automatically or necessarily a perpetuation of rape culture. We seem to have lost a vocabulary or value-orientation that allows us to say that the things we do in public are done, in some important respects, to and for the public. That the things we do are not ours alone when done in public space. And for saying this, I will probably be accused (even if kindly and generously) of promoting victim-blaming. I am not doing this. I am saying that a response that says "anyone can and should be able to do whatever they want, whenever they want, however they want so long as it does not physically harm anyone else or encroach upon the genuine rights of other persons" is too thin; it promotes a hyper-individualistic solipsism that falsely imagines that the things I do can and should have no effect on other persons, and that if they do have such an effect, then the other persons are at fault for letting themselves be affected. But in our current climate, to say that something has an effect on other persons slides to the extreme that claims that the effect is totally irresistible, absolutely quantifiable, and that it is tantamount to deliberate, culpable intent.
I remember vividly my sartorial epiphany in college. My freshman year I lived on campus and only worked part time, so I was able to go to class in pajamas and slippers, as many freshmen do at some point. I experimented with very short shorts and very short tops (and no, nothing terrible happened--no one ever even gave me a hard time). The summer before my sophomore year of college I moved off campus and began working full time. Since I worked most days, my work clothes were my primary wardrobe. I dressed like a little professional out of convenience and frugality (I could not have afforded multiple wardrobes; and, like most other college students, my weight changed enough to eliminate from practical possibility the wardrobe from my freshman year), and I was caught quite off guard by how my change in dress changed the attitudes of those around me toward my person and their estimation of my worth, work, abilities, and authority. Suddenly there were students who assumed I thought myself superior to them by dressing differently (which baffled me, as I was poorer than most of my peers). People started asking me for directions on campus and in the town in which I lived and worked. I received much better customer service than I ever did when I dressed like a typical student.
I am glad I got to learn about the effect of clothing choices in different social settings, and I am glad I learned it freely, if entirely accidentally. Removing dress code requirements, however, makes for fewer, not more, places wherein a young person can learn about those differences, especially since the only conversation we have about how other people should dress is overwhelmingly dominated by the fear that any acknowledgment or investigation of the effect of clothing promotes victim-blaming and rape culture.
It is definitely unfair--and unfair in an oppressively harmful way--to police girls' clothing choices for that reason. No question about that.
It is also true that part of learning how to be a grownup involves showing courtesy to other persons and respecting their worth and dignity no matter how distracting anything about them might be.
I am nevertheless uncomfortable with arguments, implicit and otherwise, that suggest that girls--or anyone--should just dress however they want, wherever they want, for no better reason than that they want to, and that anyone who says otherwise is engaging in slutshaming. There are many parts of life that come with dress codes or to which informal rules of sartorial etiquette are attached: We wear our very best clothes in black or some other somber color to funerals. We wear our very best clothes in brighter colors to weddings. We wear enormous hats to parties thrown for the Kentucky Derby, and we wear smaller (but possibly similarly elaborate) hats on Easter Sunday, if we are a member of a church where hats are still de rigeur. We wear costumes on Halloween and we wear academic regalia when we graduate with an advanced degree. We make sure to put on a neatly pressed suit for job interviews, and we take care to put on older clothes when we paint the house.
This is to say that for pretty much every part of life, there are some norms governing clothing choice so that we do not create an inappropriate distraction--one does not wear an elaborate white dress to a wedding at which one is not the bride no matter how lovely one might look because to do so would draw inappropriate attention to oneself. One does not wear one's Halloween costume to work on the day after the Halloween party, no matter how many compliments one received on the evening previous, because to do so would disrupt the flow of work--and it would likely violate the employer's dress code.
Supporting--and even strengthening--dress codes is not automatically or necessarily a perpetuation of rape culture. We seem to have lost a vocabulary or value-orientation that allows us to say that the things we do in public are done, in some important respects, to and for the public. That the things we do are not ours alone when done in public space. And for saying this, I will probably be accused (even if kindly and generously) of promoting victim-blaming. I am not doing this. I am saying that a response that says "anyone can and should be able to do whatever they want, whenever they want, however they want so long as it does not physically harm anyone else or encroach upon the genuine rights of other persons" is too thin; it promotes a hyper-individualistic solipsism that falsely imagines that the things I do can and should have no effect on other persons, and that if they do have such an effect, then the other persons are at fault for letting themselves be affected. But in our current climate, to say that something has an effect on other persons slides to the extreme that claims that the effect is totally irresistible, absolutely quantifiable, and that it is tantamount to deliberate, culpable intent.
I remember vividly my sartorial epiphany in college. My freshman year I lived on campus and only worked part time, so I was able to go to class in pajamas and slippers, as many freshmen do at some point. I experimented with very short shorts and very short tops (and no, nothing terrible happened--no one ever even gave me a hard time). The summer before my sophomore year of college I moved off campus and began working full time. Since I worked most days, my work clothes were my primary wardrobe. I dressed like a little professional out of convenience and frugality (I could not have afforded multiple wardrobes; and, like most other college students, my weight changed enough to eliminate from practical possibility the wardrobe from my freshman year), and I was caught quite off guard by how my change in dress changed the attitudes of those around me toward my person and their estimation of my worth, work, abilities, and authority. Suddenly there were students who assumed I thought myself superior to them by dressing differently (which baffled me, as I was poorer than most of my peers). People started asking me for directions on campus and in the town in which I lived and worked. I received much better customer service than I ever did when I dressed like a typical student.
I am glad I got to learn about the effect of clothing choices in different social settings, and I am glad I learned it freely, if entirely accidentally. Removing dress code requirements, however, makes for fewer, not more, places wherein a young person can learn about those differences, especially since the only conversation we have about how other people should dress is overwhelmingly dominated by the fear that any acknowledgment or investigation of the effect of clothing promotes victim-blaming and rape culture.
Tuesday, June 17
Thursday, June 12
I am at once the richest and the poorest...now where's that prince?
My own privilege has hardly been more visible to me than now: I have no income right now, and that seems like a marvelously amusing joke. It feels free and exciting, like a new game I can master. This is, of course, obviously, genuinely, not the experience of most people who have no income. I have absolute faith that this is a temporary situation for me (and, indeed, it looks as though I shall have an income this fall), and I am very well provisioned.
Mostly, this feeling of luxury comes from the food I have been eating. Every last bite has been delightful, an almost unlooked-for surprise. Split-pea soup filled with chunks of glazed ham, studded with chunks of orange carrots, and then, as if that weren't sufficiently rich and hearty, filled with freshly made, very buttery croutons. Fresh hot coffee every morning (with fancy-pants organic milk, no less), but with the coffee? Toasted cinnamon-swirl bread, rich and golden with eggs and milk, just barely sweet. Dishes of cold sectioned grapefruit. Mugs of hot earl grey tea. Have I ever fed myself so well?
But then there's the handmade, organic soap I get to use every morning in the shower. I bought it cheap (scrap sacks that hold a pound of soap for just a little more than the price of one bar), and I bought it during times when I had a little extra cash on hand. And the lotion I bought by the gallon a year or so back--lasts forever and I am all set.
This isn't poverty. Not this. And if it weren't for all those loans to pay back, I'd be quite content like this, employing my metaphorical spindle, shuttle, and needle and living in luxurious simplicity.
Mostly, this feeling of luxury comes from the food I have been eating. Every last bite has been delightful, an almost unlooked-for surprise. Split-pea soup filled with chunks of glazed ham, studded with chunks of orange carrots, and then, as if that weren't sufficiently rich and hearty, filled with freshly made, very buttery croutons. Fresh hot coffee every morning (with fancy-pants organic milk, no less), but with the coffee? Toasted cinnamon-swirl bread, rich and golden with eggs and milk, just barely sweet. Dishes of cold sectioned grapefruit. Mugs of hot earl grey tea. Have I ever fed myself so well?
But then there's the handmade, organic soap I get to use every morning in the shower. I bought it cheap (scrap sacks that hold a pound of soap for just a little more than the price of one bar), and I bought it during times when I had a little extra cash on hand. And the lotion I bought by the gallon a year or so back--lasts forever and I am all set.
This isn't poverty. Not this. And if it weren't for all those loans to pay back, I'd be quite content like this, employing my metaphorical spindle, shuttle, and needle and living in luxurious simplicity.
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