Size Matters

I spent a lot of my life feeling out of place in my own body growing up. I've always been bigger than average, both in weight and in height. As a child this weighed a lot on my confidence, especially in my growing years when self esteem first started to present itself and I realized that being large had bigger repercussions than just being better at sports or getting things off of shelves. I soon found out that to be a woman and to be large was to be marginalized. However rather than confront the forces that caused this insecurity, I bought into the cultural narratives of what I was supposed to be. I would often dream of the days of wearing size small shirts, with thighs that didn't touch, lounging carelessly with my boyfriend by the beach and feeling envied by all. This is, after all, what I saw all over magazines and in the movies. This was the implicit tale told to me as the way to my ultimate happiness and worth.

So when I was in my sophmore year in high school, I decided I was done feeling worthless. I wanted to feel powerful, and the only way I knew how to do that and come close to the dream of acceptance and normalcy was through weight loss. So I began to diet--no not diet. I began to obsess about my weight loss in an unhealthy way. I became anorexic. People are always confused when they hear of someone above average weight being anorexic, because the ones we see are the extreme concentration-camp victims of this horrible epidemic. They want proof of your commitment to be thin, they want near emaciated status. Very few people truly understand that it is a mental condition far before physical conditions can be seen, and as such many more women fight with this social disease because of this proof. Now thank God that I never carried through with it to that extent of being extremely thin, but the fact was that for a time I was: I worked out so relentlessly and rarely rewarded my body with nutrients, that the weight just started falling off. And instead of concern, I got praise.

I was no supermodel, and in the scope of things 30 pounds isn't much to shout out about. Leveling out to a size 12 isn't many people's ideals of success. But it gave me a glimpse of how the other side lived: the privileged side. The ones who made themselves weak to be strong. Those women who conformed to the obsessive ideal that to be thin was to have power, and only thin people could be loved. Because love was dependent on outside approval and adherence to the female standard of beauty, most especially the male stamp of approval. And the amount of men that I had interested in me after I lost weight was astounding, as was the degree to which it defined my happiness at the time.

Since that time, as I've come into myself, my weight has fluctuated. I've put weight on healthily and unhealthily through the years but the fact remains: size matters. People don't like to admit it, but thin privilege exists. It exists wholeheartedly, and in nowhere is this practice more prevalent than in female standards of beauty. It is part of the female experience at every step in her life. Because as much as we don't like to admit it women are still objects. Feminism, despite making some strides, has still not met its original agendas. Gender equality is not fully actualized and there is still work to to. We continue to live in a world obsessed with rewarding women for diminishing their place in society not by not following what is healthy, but what is thin. Women are taught from a young age to covet thinness because to be thin is to not take up much space in society. To be thin is to be weak. And to be weak is to be a woman. And this narrative is sanctioned because it legitimizes the objectification of women.

But I am here proud to say that I am a big girl. And not big girl in the condescending way people say it, where they roll their eyes when you say you have big bones and silently write you off as some jolly fat widow with 16 cats. I mean I am a big girl: I proudly take up space. I have a body and a mind and a spirit that is my own and it demands to be seen, to be appreciated, and to be accepted in its own power. I have a body that I know is worthy of love and desire. The body that I was given is damn beautiful, at any age and at any size in which I treat it with healthy respect and admiration.

Size matters because it is a part of who I am. But it is not entirely what I am, because I am not an object. I am not a size. I am not a dehumanized number on a scale of worth. You will not try and defeat me by taking a size 12 body--what is the average size of a woman in the US--and try and tell me that it translates into a large, or an extra large, and try to socially construct an identity for me that is less than what I had planned for myself. But my body is not up for scrutiny and discussion, for valuation and stratification. It is mine and it is imperfectly perfect.

You can say society is a bitch. That it's sad, but that's just the way things are and live in this defeatist attitude with a gender stratified existence. Or you can live in delusion thinking you fight this ridiculous standard while your actions speak differently. But by quiet consistent dieting, you play along. By sitting around complaining about the fat on your thighs, they win. By legitimizing any woman who has ever felt alone and understood that it was because her body did not fit man's ideal, you give in to this devaluation. Collectively we perpetuate a culture whereby women feel that their true mark of success, however intellectual and powerful is meaningless unless she must first prove her physical standard. Where the Secretary of State has to defend the way she does her hair before she can come to talk real politics. Where any woman has to apologize for being more than an object.

I refuse to live in such a world and support this perspective and I hope that all women can become empowered to the point where they too stop playing this gendered game. By loving myself, I fight the good fight. Though as a feminist, I try to be conscious about the ways I myself validate the system so that I am not asking of others what I cannot do myself. Because I am not perfect, and I still feel at times that being a certain size will bring me happiness. That it is because I have love handles that no man wants to hold me. That the worse thing to happen is to die alone unloved and unapproved by man. But then I remember that my mouth was made to speak from an independent mind and not as a receptacle for obligatory blow jobs and I discard this notion of my worth as being externally assigned. In this consciousness I take personal ownership for my confidence and assign myself individual worth. And I commit to love myself every day for exactly who I am--big, beautiful, and unapologetically present.

The Alpaca Rap

For those of you who might not know me very intimately, I would just like to preface this post by explaining that I have a deep deep love for alpacas. Like a sick obsession. Something nearing the level of love that Kirsten Bell has for sloths. As such, tonight in my boredom I felt inspired to write a poem about them. But since I am an uh-oh oreo and my thug life could no longer be contained, it transformed itself rather organically into a full on alpaca rap.

I'd like to now take the time to dedicate this rap to every alpaca who ever lived. I feel your common brotherhood strong in me heart and radiate that love back to you through these words. And I'd also like to dedicate this to my love, Kayla Murski, who encourages me in this preoccupation with these beloved animals. It is my hopes that these words will at least resonate with her. And finally I'd like to dedicate this to my passing sanity. It was nice knowing you and perhaps we will meet at the end of the next alpacalypse.

p.s Please imagine someone dropping a sick ass beat to this. I promise you it will be better. 

_____________________________________________________

                                                  The originial bad ass mofos on the street

The Alpaca Song

They try and get me confused, try to say that im nothn

swoop down once a season and take all my fluff'n

but there aint place on the farm for my kind of wool

so don't e'en try to fence me up in this bitch you fool!

cause i spit more game than my cousin the llama

and I'm pack'n more guns than that loser Osama

And them piggies try'n tell me I don't know how to rap

their dumb asses be spittin all kind of smack

they be sayn I'm fat, they be sayn I'm fak'n

but I be up on their ass ready to turn it to bacon

they don't know where I been, they don't know that in here

that the farmer ain't the only nigga round to fear!

The hood is where I'm from, ain't tryn to be all domestic

in the streets I be lookn all dope ass majestic

with a swag like Tupoc, I'm the king of these acres

Christopher Robin aint nothn but a punk ass hater

when that beat drops low, and i gots a sick sound

you aint find no other alpaca can stand his ground.

So alpaca my guns and alpaca my crew

bitch alpaca my own motherfuckn sandwich too!

it's time to go, ain't no time to waste

when your own hood's out to get you all over the place.

Christmas

Christmas was a little touch and go this year, but which one isn't? If you're not fighting and being properly dysfunctional then its not the holiday season. However for the sake of remaining positive I'll recollect only the wonderful memories.

My favorite gift this year was probably my grandma's present to my mom. She has always loved sewing, and so this year she made the most adorable little cloth food covering lids. But since my grandma is going a little senile in her age my mom and I decided to have a good time with her. Which is why we sent her the following picture message:

                           "Thanks for the berets grandma! They'll look great at Les Miserables later."

Needless to say we were rather amused. Gotta poke a little bit of fun at the old folks.

Which I suppose seaways right into Les Miserables or as I like to refer to it, the best thing to happen in 2012. It was a rather phenomenal film, with breathtaking scenes by both Anne Hathaway and Hugh Jackman. I was also surprised at how true they were to the play, and it took all my strength not to sing along to all the songs. Basically, bravo Hollywood. Can take a huge sigh of relief--you done good. A great addition to the holiday season.

Afterwards we came home, pigged out in a typical American fashion, and settled in for some board games    (made Rummikub my bitch, since you asked). Reminded me of last year on boxing day going to Harley's boyfriend's house, Joe, in northern England. It was a lovely day in a very inviting family atmosphere but then turned pretty bleak when we brought out the board games. We ended up playing Dogopoly which, unlike this year, got pretty heated due to a few mixed holiday drinks. The night finally culminated in me yelling at my friend Chloe rather viciously "YOU FUCKING BITCH YOU'RE BEING SO SELFISH NOT TRADING WITH ME AND I DON'T EVEN CARE IF I WIN BECAUSE I JUST WANT TO MAKE SURE YOU GO DOWWWWWN!!!" Yes, board games mean that much to me. I have scars to prove how much me and my friends take this shit to heart. So grateful that both my blood kin and extended family loves me despite this serious weakness.

                                    My friends and I before the epic Dogopoly battle last Boxing Day

Anyways, so it ended up being a good day today. Working on sorting out the issues with the fam and enjoying my time home. It'd been a full 2 years since I'd been home for x-mas so it was a completely new experience. Part of being an adult I guess and also a wandering spirit as these holidays will become even more few and far between. Look forward to seeing good friends in the coming days and wringing out the last of 2012 for all its worth before the New Year. Hope everyone had a fantastic Christmas as well!

*disclaimer: no one was actually harmed in the Seaton Boxing-Day Massacre last year...except Sydney's pride

The Modern Family

I had perhaps one of the loveliest Christmas Evenings in remembrance tonight with my second adopted family, The Hollands, whom I love very very much. I was extremely lucky to befriend Ben and Alex in high school, and have since remained very close with the family to the point that they will forever be my Momma and Papa Holland. Hanging out with them got me thinking about how exactly we define family in our modernized world, especially in a season that emphasizes this familial spirit.

Many times I feel as though the obligatory love of blood family doesn't count for a lot--it is nice to know they are there, but I value ones that go above and beyond and choose to love me outside of any commitment. Don't get me wrong, I love blood family, but that's not what ultimately fulfills me in life. It's the ones that choose to love and accept me into their hearts that I consider family, whether or not there are common genes. For me, a friend means more than family. My family can be my friend, or they can simply be family. When that element of choice is brought into it however, it makes the connection that much deeper.

So we headed down to Raymond, Washington, for the annual Christmas Eve family get together. Although it was my first time, I felt very honored to be invited into such an intimate tradition. Besides, Aunt Carolyn was a great hero in my eyes with her strong unforgiving demeanor and warm accepting wisdom that I always lept at any opportunity to meet with her. When we first arrived at Aunt Carolyn's tonight I noticed this sign over the entrance that seemed to capture all that I was feeling among my new family:

Ultimately we know we can't choose our blood family, but we can choose who we accept into our lives as our modern day family. I have many friends who come from different walks of life with different relations to their traditional families, but they always seem to have the will to know that their family is what they wish it to be. And more often than not these friends come to be on the same level or even more important than the ties chosen for us by blood. And it's a beautiful thing to know that this most sacred of bond grows and is both ascribed and chosen so that no one is left behind. Your family can never be too big.

As we sat around tonight, chatting about dumb reality tv shows, eating crab, taking pictures, talking spirituality, and simply enjoying each other's company I was moved by how much a group of complete strangers can come to mean the world to you. My family in Washington is not big on the family get-togethers, and as such I often feel deprived of a rambunctious household with many different characters and story lines that keep the holidays interesting.  Knowing that The Hollands willingly accepted me as a part of the family gave my little heart so much happiness that at moments all I could do was sit back and marvel at how much potential there is for human progression. It is times like this that give me hope in humanity.

Family is another socially constructed relational system and if we can expand the definition of what it means to be a family, I know the holidays and our lives in general will be that much richer. When we extend this exclusive group reserved for love and acceptance to include so many other needy souls looking for that comfort and compassion in a world torn apart by hate, we will truly harness the spirit of the season. Since Christmas time is the time to reflect on what family means, lets take the time to reflect on these larger family groups that need that love and peace as we create our modern family.

I'm forever grateful for all of those in my life whom I have been proud to call family, and I look forward to discovering those soul mates who I can continue to welcome into my home and my heart through the years as my modern family grows. I love you all, and I'm so glad to be alive and to know that I am loved and to love in return.

Mele Kalikimaka, Joyeux Noel, and Merry Christmas to you all.

Christmas Titties

So I went to my first Burlesque show tonight. And to be more specific--The Burlesque Nutcracker. I had originally planned to go with one of my good friends coming in from Spokane, but he bailed pretty out of the gate and so I ended up taking my sister along for a night of Christmas titties.

I decided I wanted to get up to Seattle early before the show so I could walk around the big festive city at least once during my final trip back to Washington for a while. Ended up getting there around 3:45 p.m, and in a normal Washington fashion, it immediately started raining on our parade. Parking is a usual bitch, but we finally end up finding a place temporarily so we can sit down for a nice warm dinner to chill ourselves up from the cold and rain. After unsuccessfully trying to frequent several Vietnamese Pho places, [why nothing is opened at 4 pm on the Saturday before Christmas is beyond me], we end up on a mad chase trying to find the nearest sanctuary of noodle heaven. I'm suggesting other places just so we can go inside, but Ashley insists that our labors will not be in vain and is determined towards hunting down another pho establishment. At this point, Ashley is getting very vocal about her frustration. "I'm hella pissed bro" she's telling me over and over again, "I aint trying to look all janky ass walking in this rain with the wind trifln up my weave."

I'd like to interrupt this broadcast to take a little intermission and do some translation and clarification. 1) My sister is Caucasian  2) Yes, really. 3) I promise, she actually did say this. To translate ashleyspeak into normal standard English one might say that Ashley's comment went a little something like this: "I am very upset sister about the unfortunate weather conditions which are causing me to look less than satisfactory and are causing great distress to my chosen extended hairstyle." ADVERT: For any white-middle class person in the Thurston/Lewis county area I highly suggest looking up Ashley Odell as your Ebonics guru. The girl has skill.

And we're back. So as Ashley is complaining as we are trying to follow her iphone's directions towards our restaurant of choice, silently contemplating about which of us is going to be the sacrificial bait for the homeless men leering at us in the sketch alley way so the other can go on to living a long and fulfilling life. When we finally get to the place after about a ten minute walk, its empty. And in a basement. At this point we are convinced sudden death is upon us anyways, so we slink into our chairs and order some beef pho already over the whole experience. Although not the best, it was rather decent for the price and location, minus the copious amounts of fat chunks that we found floating in it which I'm guessing was supposedly added in for flavor.

We finish up dinner, re-park the car closer to the venue, and head inside to pick up my tickets at will call. For anyone looking to have a swanky night out on the town in Seattle, I highly recommend 'The Triple Door.' While a little bit on the pricier side, you do pay for a quality experience. I kicked myself the entire time that I was not in fact 21 and couldn't slink up onto one of the bar stools and soak in the true ambiance of it all. but most specifically, our seats for the show were phenomenal just far back enough to get the full effect but centered enough so that we didn't have any warped angle of the performance.

As for the show, I'm not sure what I thought I was expecting. Maybe I figured since women would be taking their clothes off, and the pair of tickets cost me 90 bucks, that the women would have left me self consciously in tears by the end of the night or at least decently aroused. But we slowly came to realize through the course of the show that the performers closely mirrored the clientele and perhaps we were the ones with unrealistic expectations.

To our surprise we were probably the youngest people in that venue of around 300 people. I never thought a burlesque show was a haven for Grandma and Grandpa's Christmas date night, but hey. Learn something new everyday. Way to go old people for keeping things interesting even in old age.

The women, albeit beautiful, were also very...real. Bit of pooch there, visible cellulite there, thick thighs there. There were perhaps one or two stereotypically "beautiful and fit" girls, but the rest could have been people picked out of the audience. I thought it was simultaneously brilliant and confusing, considering these women even in their empowering roles of seduction and real life representation were still made into traditionally passive roles in their dances. I know I can't have my cake and eat it too--attend a burlesque show and then talk about gender inequality--because I just helped perpetuate it, but it was blatantly there.

Overall, I'd say it was a fair experience though probably not one that I would replicate again. Another notch on the old belt of knowledge at least? It may be the only Christmas outing I'll have this season which is rather sad as well. It's alright, one day I will have enthusiastic friends/money to do everything in the winter season that I want to. Until then, there's always the memory of the Christmas titties.

LETS DO ALL OF THE THINGS

I really really love the nighttime.

I don't know what it is, but as soon as the sun goes down I just get this rush of energy. This desire to accomplish everything I didn't do in my lazy sun-filled hours. Cross compare flat prices in Edinburgh and Amsterdam? Watch old reruns of The Andy Milonakas Show? Wikipedia everything there is to know about shrooms anyone? Awesome, lets stay up till 4:30 in the morning. Don't talk to me, I'm interneting :))))) <--(exaggerated to show extent of enthusiasm for these endeavors)

I have a sick problem, and that's probably why I love the nighttime. It legitimizes my internet addiction. At no other time can you sit down and reasonably aruge that there's nothing else to do. Because there isn't. At least not while you are poor and under 21. The internet is our escape world, and I love it.

P.S You're welcome:

Live here: http://www.factotumletting.com/property/8581

Watch this: http://www.youtube.com/user/AMilonakis

Interesting eh?: http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2008/07/01/study-shrooms-help-some-s_n_110182.html

Hello My Name Is: Society

        It’s weird to think that someone, somewhere, is giving a talk right now about the s word. No, not scones [although, let’s be real—delicious], but the ever fascinating and elusive society. I can just hear them across college campuses now, “Don’t let society tell you that you can’t! Don’t let them dictate who you are.” You hear activists on the street corner yelling profusely “Society breeds injustice! Society made you that way!” Reverends towering over their congregations, bellowing from the depths of their conviction “There’s a whole society of evil dedicated towards glorifying sin! To stay with God you must spiritually remove yourself from this society.” Society society society.

         Who is society? We are society. We are the dreaded “them” we always enjoy pointing a self-righteous finger at. Isn’t that ridiculous to think about? How many of us wake up in the morning, stumble into the bathroom, and look in the mirror thinking “Yeah, I’m looking like society today.” Walk up to the barista for our morning coffee, “Yeah can I get a caramel decaf latté for Society.” When we stand across the altar from one another, the priest doesn’t bless “Mr. and Mrs. [or ms and ms, or mr. and mr] Society.” But we all are. As a collective whole, our mass public contributes to the social diction and protocols which we then label as “society.” You are the individual embodiment of a collective generalization. Meeting a friend for lunch you may be Karen, but for the purposes of studying the social sciences you are society. Thanks for delivering the whole neighborhood’s paper promptly every morning, but on Sunday you are still society. And don’t even bother to make light banter with me across the counter, because as soon as I’m wiping up your coffee spill you are right back to being society!

         When we talk about society in such a negative light, I think we forget that we’re all society. When we say society needs to change, we essentially say people need to change. And if we are society, then I guess logically that means we need to change. Shouldn’t that empower us? Make us realize that society is not some externalized force that beats the shit out of us on a daily basis [fuck you gravity, I’m not clumsy you’re just out to get me]. The idea that change starts with society is nice, but society is us.  And we are society. They are not mutually exclusive unless we make our relationship to “society” [others] exclusive on their giving us a better car/wife/meal/seat/license/education. “Oh! Well if it’s just me that’s society then yeah. I’d totally change” I say to myself all the time. But then we tell ourselves that we are not society, we are the exception.

        Return to step one, rinse, and repeat. Hello, my name is Society. I’m from Washington State, though I go to university in Hawaii. I enjoy traveling, eating, hiking, swimming, and being addicted to the internet. One day I hope I will have a fulfilling job where I can be sustained emotionally, intellectually, and financially [negotiable on the emotional…and the intellectual]. I also enjoy not tipping and lying about those crumbs near the trashcan by deflecting total responsibility onto my dirty roommates.

Yeah, I’m not an exception. 

Motherhood

When you're a woman, you're supposed to like babies. Whether its nature or nurture, the assumption is at some point all women essentially desire to procreate and give birth to posterity. Growing up in a Mormon community, this is always an expectation and indeed it is the "sacred" role of women to be mothers. We had many talks growing up in Young Womens about how to prepare to be the best supporting housewives and mothers. Once you hit that 18 years of age mark, the clock is ticking for you to prove your worth by partaking in the ultimate coming-of-age sacrament for Mormon females--motherhood. And the older I get, both in and out of the Mormon community, the more I hear these pressuring narratives. Women my age are having babies left and right as baby fever takes over my gender's short and long-term goals and I feel the need to prove my motherly-instincts. Talk about pressure.

Some people I think are genuinely born to be mothers. They just posses this deep selfless desire to be of service, patience to see through the day-to-day teaching, and creativity for how to keep things interesting and provide the best for their children's care. These people are the first to run towards newborn infants, cradling them lovingly in their arms. These are the people who will overlook poop , spit up, crying, and vomit because the little tyke smiled at them an hour earlier. And godallahbuddha bless those people.

I am not one of these people. While I think babies are extremely cute, I rarely feel the inclination to have my own. It scares the hell out of me, and I know I am not alone. Every person has felt this at some point, whether its before conception, at pregnancy, or after birth when you finally realize "HOLY HELL I HAVE A LIVING BREATHING INCAPABLE HUMAN BEING TO TAKE CARE OF!" An immense responsibility. I laugh and joke with friends about how excited I am for a future family and pretend to dream along with them when we talk about our children growing up together. But the fact is when I think of babies, even in the context of a loving support system, I still get severe anxiety similar to when I think of death. Call it selfish, and I admit maybe it is. But maybe it's not. Maybe I'm not alone. And maybe this is just another way we limit our capacity as women to be mothers by constructing that it is only through procreation that our "role" can be fulfilled.

To me, motherhood comes in many forms. I think in order to progress we really need to take a broad interpretation of what it means to be a mother in today's society to fit people's personal strengths. Motherhood is wherever you find a person in need and are willing to selflessly serve and love them with no thought of external reward. To me, that's motherhood. No where in that is it exclusive to your own flesh and blood. No where in that does it say that are you confined towards caring solely for a certain age demographic. We need to be mothers wherever we may be ladies, as a common human call towards our human community.

I love taking care of people, that's what I love. I would rather go out of my way to help a homeless person get back on their feet than babysit a baby cousin for a few weeks. That's not my "life call" you might say, or at least not yet, and that's alright. There are other ways I can be of worth, other ways I can show I love and care for my fellow community and be motherly. I'm open towards change in the future as I grow into myself more, but I won't be pressured into the traditional title of motherhood and jump into something I'm not fully committed to. I've seen what that does to kids, and I know better than to be that kind of person who quits.

This is not a certain gender's responsibility, and indeed men should also redefine what it means to be a father outside of traditional "provider" roles to facilitate a more peaceful human family. But scapegoating our inaction because of others neglect is not justification for why we don't fulfill our roles to love and serve. Expanding this idea of motherhood might be exactly what the modern woman needs in trying to reconcile the whole career/family debate between our masculine/feminine divide. We need to create a larger encompassing "in" group of what it means to be a mother, rather than marginalize these alternative forms of motherhood. Whether or not I ever decide to physically give birth, or welcome someone else's child into my family through adoption, or serve in another motherly capacity is my own choice.And in this broader definition, I look forward to being a mother in whatever capacity that may be.

Heart at Peace

Try as she might, there was a part of her that couldn't believe it. All her life she had battled with this threshold between the end and a new beginning, reflecting on how each time life had given her just enough courage to face herself levelly at the door at which she now stood.  However as much as she resisted, deep down she loved this liminal space. This space where one discovered change was possible and that it was something to be welcomed and not feared. Even so, the thought of complete vulnerability that this space required was not a truth she took lightly, and each time it manifested itself in a new lesson that was both bitterly honest and lovingly inviting. Coming back to this place was not the same as never leaving, she reminded herself. Each confrontation with the door to transformation encouraged her to keep on in her path. She had been here before, and she would be here again.

She thought about the minutes and hours that would lead her to this defining moment of her life and onto her next adventure. In 24 hours she would be graduated, surrounded by friends and family congratulating her on her perseverance and inner drive to complete her academic goals. But what did it really mean?  What was so important about this piece of paper? What does it mean to have this diploma? Well, for starters it meant a job, stability, steady income, and the impending responsibility of adulthood. In many ways it was tangible proof of her competency and dedication to the system. And yet somehow all of these failed to capture the true essence of her experiences here while attending BYU-H. None of these could fully explain why she now felt herself drawn to the door of understanding, looking inward for the true test of her progress: her self-awarded diploma.

The Peacebuilding Program had been a defining moment in her academic career, to be sure, completely transforming the way she experienced her education and interacted with others. Being a part of the newsletter amplified these feelings of goodwill and service she had felt while studying the art of peace and sustainable change, allowing her to truly connect with her classmates on an informal level. Indeed, many of her friendships could be traced back to the Peacebuilding program, as they all struggled together to grapple with these concepts that at first seemed so ridiculously idealistic. But they weren't  and they had been proven possible time and time again as she applied its teachings to her own personal relationships with her parents, friends, and strangers. The pinnacle of her experience had been learning to look for change from within to trust and respect others humanity in order to create peaceful change. If there’s one ultimate reason I stayed, she reflected, it was probably because I needed to learn these lessons. Without it, she acknowledged, my education would have meant nothing. 

Looking around the room she surveyed the totality of her Hawaiian life piled in one small corner and felt a pang of nostalgia. Her portable life, as she called it, was now ready for its next adventure. She walked over to her dresser and pulled out one of her most sacred and valuable items:  her personal poetry book. It was a window to her soul, a way to express her inner communion with the divine for further understanding and transformation. This tool had been of even greater use after she had entered the Peacebuilding program and had really begun to search for her sense of voice. Flipping through the book, a page stuck out to her. She flattened out the page gently with her hand, and read those few scrawled lines:

“You have forsaken God!”

they tell me

when I do not enter

a designated set

of walls.

“You know no joy!”

they scorn as I

walk hand in hand

with the one I love.

“You are lost and alone!”

they judge me as I sit

silently at night, communing with

the god I’d never lost.

All at once the full scope of her struggle here at BYU-H came flooding back. The reality of her experience at the time of the poem’s authorship pained her anew. She thought about all the times she had heard people in the church talk down about her friends—gays, agnostics, less actives—with something more potent and painful than fear. Pity, undeniable pity for the ones who would never know an exclusive path to happiness only found in the church. “You can love them Sydney, but not like their actions” they cautioned her at church. Her friends were misguided, sex having, alcohol drinking, cursing sailor souls who were to be kept at a distance they counseled. “You don’t want them tainting your righteousness, do you?” they retorted. But what was this conditional love they preached? It wasn't the spirit she had come to know and follow, and it certainly wasn't the way she would describe her friends and their relationship. Growing up amidst these narratives she had always hated the idea that there had to be this distinction, that those who fell outside the absolute truth of religious construction were somehow less than, somehow not whole. That full love was reserved for those who followed a certain code. Her friends weren't perfect, but they were just as human in their mistakes as she was and were often more open to hearing her confessions of pain and guilt than others in the church had been. She was often encouraged to be an even better person, admit her faults, and progress onward with their support. And even more they still found love, they still sought to help others, and they still wrestled to discover who they were and what this existence meant. So why did she then feel like a traitor for voicing these equalizing principles aloud in church? “They can be and indeed are happy, I promise you!” she remember repeating over and over again. There were smiles, nods, and polite concern for her fascination of their independent values but generally an absolute apathy or complete rejection of her deeper meaning. “Their journey isn't in a different lesser language, but of the same thread” she wanted to yell, “you can’t know that through this self-righteous lens. You can’t really know them like I do through conditional love. They feel that limitation!” It was this dissonance that had led to her soul’s exploration of poetry to capture this explainable dialectic.

She remembered the day Professor Ford had used to poetry to speak on the art of creative Peacebuilding and how nothing had ever touched her so deeply. She felt like he had known, like he had chosen to speak to her that day in a language she would understand. And in his lesson she came to believe that it was through this gift she had learned to love and understand those whom she loved who were culturally prescribed as her “enemies.” She had spent hours searching, poured over texts and copying inspirational passages from one book to another, thinking about these issues of humanity that plagued those around her. Inwardly she could feel their faith, their happiness, in a language that transcended a set of walls and a group identity to which she had been taught were the “righteous ones” into one where she could acknowledge their own unique truths without trying to limit them and assume my identity had the whole truth. Slowly and nervously through time she began to articulate her own perceptions and in that breathed life into the resonance of her own discoveries.

The day that her “out” group became her “in group” was a turning point in her life, most specifically in her spirituality. It was a frightening day in which she thought about the reality of leaving the familiar and safe institution in which she had been raised. There were nights upon nights of tearful cries and more than enough hours of conversations with friends and family persuading her one way or another, but in the end she felt that she could not betray this sense to leave. It was a paradox she knew that not everyone would understand: how she could be so genuinely happy and deeply spiritually fulfilled outside the church. Reliving this journey and feeling the renewed sense of her earlier discovery; she was again reminded of another poem.  Frantically she searched the poetry book in her hands again and found the simple haiku she had written in class, a true message spoken from the depths of her soul which she had felt too ashamed to share. Perhaps it would be misunderstood, she had reasoned at the time, and besides, she wasn’t about to draw attention to herself. After all, it wasn’t the same anymore. Diversity did not mean the same thing here, it wasn’t accepted and open minded in regards to alternative spiritual discourse. She could not walk up to the pulpit and read the sweet words of Rumi and preach in reverent awe at his vulnerable and touching soul. Plus she didn’t need the shaming pressure of salvation or talks of the dangers of falling away and being a “son of perdition.” She knew where she was spiritually and in what way that had blossomed into something even more beautiful and mature than she had ever anticipated. What she needed most was merely a space of linguistic freedom in which she could express herself and be understood and loved, a freedom that poetry had only afforded her thus far. The poem in front of her was short, but its accuracy still struck her to her core:

You stripped our God down,

raised a mirror to your faith,

and called it his love.

Reading these words, she began to get angry. The carefully concealed walls of avoidance she had been building came sharply into view. She hated this church school and how it limited her sense of voice and freedom. There was no room for true exploration, and masks of self-righteousness prohibited church members from potential progression by their refusal to accept their own shortcomings. These people were all blindly ignorant to the realities of the world around them, living in their comfortable little bubble that was La’ie, refusing to accept that there were different ways of doing things, that there were other legitimate forms of finding and retaining spiritual happiness. Human beings were messy and more often than not they lived in a gray world, one that was always shifting and expanding. Organized religion was so ethnocentric, she reasoned, it monopolized god into an absolute view of truth and left many marginalized viewpoints in its wake. I’m the one who truly understands this space of transcendence, she told herself, and I’m the one who has truly sought to live and love among the other side. It was the church’s fault, religions fault. If only the other side would change, then she would have that inner peace.

The realization of her self-deception hit her with full force. The consciousness was terrifying.

How could she slip so easily? Was she truly a peacemaker? How could she move from one moment feeling like these people in her life were friends and allies, to feeling betrayed and painting them as unaccepting? Through the lens of self-righteous omnipotence she had fallen into the very act of intolerance and justification she had felt at the hands of those faithful members of the church. “When you think you know everything, that’s when you know nothing” she remembered hearing throughout the program, rolling her eyes at how many times she had easily attributed this to others and refused to apply it personally. And yet here she was participating in those same acts of domination, in colonization of truth, and had refused to see their humanity. One who is guilty of breaking one law is guilty of them all, she remembered Jim Ferrell preaching to them. It didn't occur to her that this applied outside of Christian doctrine into her own construction of the moral obligation she believed in. She finally felt like she knew the gravity of these words. It didn't matter how many transgressions others made, she was still accountable towards others humanity and as such she was equally in the wrong. She couldn't talk her way into this double-standard of justification. Looking back over her three years, she wondered how she ever got through living in this paradigm.

From outside the box, she could see that what was once perceived as ethnocentrism was merely a culture making sense of this spiritual realm by adapting the language of that space towards their understanding. Do I not do that when I confess the divine in my poetry? When I sit and meditate in that metaphysical space? Might I not make the same over-generalizations of those in the church that I argue members might make against those outside the faith? Getting into the box once more, she reflected on the journey that had led her to choose this paradoxical life at BYU-H. She couldn't lie and say she’d been perfect, or that her journey into her own spirituality had been one of inclusive altruism towards the church. She routinely found herself in the box being here, but she knew this was a lesson she needed to learn and practice in her relationship to the church.  People on either side are just as humanly weak as I am, she mused, and I can’t hope to inspire change in others if I myself am not first willing to make that hard step into forgiveness and accountability. She needed to change, but not in the way the church might advocate. It wasn't a behavioral change leading back into the church; it was a spiritual way-of-being transformation. One in which she could commune with the spirit that she came to know intimately in her transition outside of Mormon structured spirituality.

 “There is never a testimony without a test” they had told her throughout her young women career. And however she felt about the teachings of the church, she knew this wisdom to be true. For her, being at BYU-H had been a test in learning how to have a testimony in herself, others, and the divine. It was a test in learning how to find her voice and articulate this deep sense of individual divine communion while being surrounded by those who found that path through a different faith. While the Mormon faith was not the language in which she understood her relationship to that metaphysical presence that transformed her, she knew that many profited from this particular path and that the ultimate ending destination was the same: happiness and love. She firmly believed that one should follow whatever path they feel gets them to this space of exaltation, for it is only through individual exploration that one could find the passion and humility to live according to its principles of love. She indeed encouraged people who felt strongly that the church was there way of making sense of this positive transcendence to stick in their faith, because she saw how much the LDS faith had helped to shape her into the person she was today. For much of her childhood, the Mormon path had been her successful method on that journey, but as she grew into herself she began to seek another path. She no longer believed the path to this space to be absolute and fixed, and it was the experience of this personal spiritual change which had led her to know that the change needed to transform and get out of the box was possible.

It had been a tough experiment in learning to adopt this way-of-being by living amongst her new “enemies”, but it had been her proudest accomplishment. In this process of integration she had truly learned to destroy her enemies by making them her friends. And while it had taken her almost all of her three years at BYU-H, she had finally grown into the kind of tolerance and love she had been seeking for in kind by immersing herself amidst overwhelming religious conformity. Like the poem she so cherished by one of her favorite Middle Eastern poets, she wanted to be an example of someone who had “loved until she became love.” And it had been hard. Many a night was spent contemplating the potential ramifications of living within this paradox. But challenging herself to this endeavor was perhaps the greatest lesson of her life—to learn how to be at peace when all you wanted to do was run away and not confront this need for reconciliation. To learn how to leave the church and still see its structure and people as a person deserving of respect and love.

She knew without a doubt from Arbinger that there were two ways of being, and as such there were two ways to be in the church and two ways to be out of the church regardless of separate behavioral rituals. As a common human race we all have to come to a realization not on which side of the religious/nonreligious fence we stand, but on what side of touching other’s humanity we wanted to stand. The question she needed to know, here and now at the end of her personal application of peacebuilding principles here at BYU-H, was on which she stood. Would she continue to blame them? See them as less spiritual than her? If so, she didn't deserve that diploma. She wasn't standing on that side of the fence trying to touch others humanities and be an agent for change. She hadn't learned the lessons of being here that would help her the most after carrying that piece of paper off the stage tomorrow.

It was her final test, for which the grade only she herself could administer.

She walked over to her full length mirror and took a long hard look at herself. She was human, made of the same eyes, nose, arms, legs, and heart as anyone else she encountered. The image reflected in that glass humbled her. Taking a big breath, she filled her lungs with the warm Hawaiian air and closed her eyes.

For some peace means leaving, but for her it meant staying. It meant change, and facing her accusers and the fact that she herself participated in this accusing. Staying meant loving, and now leaving meant carrying that love with her. She knew from Arbinger that she could carry boxes of hate, but she also thought she might be able to carry this habitual spirit of love with her as well. Without this heart of peace, she knew she could not leave this place and hope to make a positive change in the world. Having a wandering spirit, she knew she might not always be able to stay and intimately take the time to repair each self-deception. But no matter where she went or for however amount of time, it was important that she continue to use liminal times like this to check herself and get out of the box, with whoever that might be. To accept change and to face her honest reflection in the mirror of her soul and realize the things she was both running to and away from. With this confession, deep down she felt a sense of calm and serenity. Taking another deep breath, she felt the art of stillness wash over her. A voice within her spoke, you are enough. Your work here is worthy of your next steps outside of it. And as tears rolled down her cheeks at last she allowed herself to believe it.

Being an Empty Cup

Last summer I watched a TED talk by Brene Brown on the power of vulnerability that really got me thinking. If you haven't already seen it, I highly recommend giving it a watch. Like most professionals invited to give TED talks, she's an excellent orator and really presents her research in a relatable manner. For those of you who haven't seen it, scroll down to the bottom for a link to the talk. Understanding her theories may give you a bit more framework for understanding my own thoughts about vulnerability and the role its played in my life.

The main truth I absorbed from this talk was how much we lose our ability to transcend as human beings and progress into our true potential by framing vulnerability as a weakness. Seems pretty simple right? But sadly, it's one of those hard facts of life that is easier said than done.Vulnerability is scary, but too often we become immobilized by its limitless potential to both create and destroy that we drown out the good. We hear these narratives around us all the time about how being open and honest to others' humanity and change makes us more susceptible to failure, heartbreak, and to being taken advantage of. And in a world obsessed with power and saving face, we talk ourselves down from any risk that might jeopardize our own individual superiority.

So we frame it as a weakness. And you know what? Vulnerability is a weakness, but it's a weakness that makes us strong. It's a hard paradox to live in, but it is the reality of human progression. There's an old Chinese proverb that says "the usefulness of a cup comes from its emptiness," and so it is with vulnerability. It is this willingness to be humble and walk into the uncertain void of our consciousness that we find the empty space we not only didn't believe existed, but deceived ourselves into thinking was full.

I often find myself struggling with this ability to remain open, to allow life to teach me new lessons and have the courage to face my own shortcomings. And part of me truly believes it is why I was drawn to the life of a wanderer, constantly chasing the questions that allow me to reflect on the development of my self and how I influence others' journey as well. People are always asking me how I can travel so easily, but the fact is it isn't always easy. I think if it were easy, I probably wouldn't appreciate the journey as well. However I know when I travel it teaches me the skills of how to live a vulnerable life and love the constant process of becoming. It teaches me how to connect to others, own my limitations, and truly become the empty cup. And that is why I choose to wander.

However while I run towards my goal of ultimately being this competent  traveler open towards other humanity, I must also use this liminal space to acknowledge the ways in which I subconsciously run away from this goal at the same time. Every journey pulls us in two directions, sometimes both towards and away from our ultimate goals simultaneously. Yes, another confusing paradox. While I run towards open-mindedness, I also run away from fears of confrontation for the ways in which I have willfully added towards the unhappiness of others. When I chase life in the pursuit of love, I also run away from feelings of abandonment and my lack of faith in men. In the course of obtaining respect I hide from those who could potentially challenge my perfectly calculated facade and make me face my insecurities. In many ways, despite the progress I know I have obtained through the years, I still get stuck.

Often instead of utilizing my inner drive to change I remain still. Sometimes I stay silent because I feel my thoughts have already been expressed by those far more qualified and experienced or because I magnify my ignorance towards contributing in this larger socially constructed world we live in. The fact is I continually use sarcasm to hide my insecurity and capitalize on my independent lifestyle as an excuse not to completely speak my mind and own who I am.But I limit myself even in this brand of silence and mock "vulnerability" when actually it's just another scapegoat for why I can't face my deeper fears. In this self-defense mechanism however I ultimately lose my ability to progress by actively working against the very things I come to say that I want. I lose my ability to know a small part of what is truth by running away from my fears and the ultimate transformation of vulnerability.

For me, living a vulnerable life means communicating. Communicating openly and honestly about who I am and what I believe in a way that is respectful, open-minded, and humble to both my dynamic self and those around me. It means exploring and questioning, readjusting and committing  Most of all it means being honest with yourself about the choices you are making and sticking to whatever life creed you follow as your definition of "being a good person." Though I must clarify that when I refer to being communicative I don't necessarily mean outright verbal confrontation, but rather the subtle ways we communicate our relation to others and express our own complimentary identity at the same time. To allow and trust others through communication to raise the transformative mirror towards our true personhood so that we can develop the fundamental virtue of humility. Vulnerability goes hand in hand with humility, and ultimately it is this coupling pair that enables effective communication

My resolution this year [I hope] is to actively move towards living in the paradox of vulnerability's strength. I want to have a solid communication channel open up with myself and others, hence the point of this new blog. I want to be real, open, and honest and respect the fact that my life may very well be worth documenting if only for my sanity. Hopefully in this habit I will be able to express the unabridged version of Sydney, maybe not one that people will always like or admit exists but it is there nonetheless. So I may know intimately that it is only through vulnerability that I will be empowered to face that empty space in myself as an opportunity and not a weakness. 


Brene Brown's TED talk on vulnerability: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iCvmsMzlF7o