Despertar

catchall

Slightly hung over and wondering why I was so mad yesterday. Basically it distills down to Justin showing a pathological lack of respect for my time, which warrants confrontation, our least favorite thing.

My parents are taking me out for an early birthday dinner tonight, and I suppose I'll see Justin afterward, which means I'll probably spend the whole dinner planning the stupid fight. And then, because we hate fighting so much, it won't even happen. He'll hand me a glass of wine and that'll be it.

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On "shared experience":

Race matters. Maybe it doesn't matter to you, but it matters to millions of people with whom you (probably) share a nation. You are either very lucky or very unlucky if you don't realize this.

Ignorance is one thing. If your parents chose to raise you in an insular all-white community that no diversity of people or ideas could penetrate, I can understand, maybe, how you could find yourself ignorant, in adulthood, of the issues faced daily by people outside your demographic. But if you choose to hide under that umbrella, you have to own all of it. Ignorance means ignorance. It means you don't read books or articles about race-based violence, workplace discrimination or the failings of the Chicago public education system. It means you never watch the news, and you never engage in substantive discussion with anyone who doesn't live in your neighborhood. Congratulations! If you can honestly say you didn't realize race still matters to a lot of people, then, unfortunately, there are probably a lot of things you don't realize, some of them maybe even important to you.

Indifference isn't so bad either, I guess. If you've looked at the facts and decided to subscribe to that self-righteous "race shouldn't matter!" theory (which, if that's you, look around and notice that everyone claiming race shouldn't matter happens to be white), I mean, I can understand that, too. That is noble, in principle. In principle, race not mattering is preferable to race mattering too much. The problem is with the implication: that we should discard an entire history of beauty and brutality, food and church and music and apply, universally, a white standard. How would that work, in a culture in which race mattering is a fact of life for so many people? My guess is, if you think race doesn't matter, it's because you think "race" and "color" are synonymous--that somehow, you have stripped away all cultural implications, leaving race as inconsequential as eye color. That...does not work. Being black has shaped my opinions and perspectives, my self-esteem and my priorities. It makes me different from you in a mixture of ways, some of them good ones. If you say you're indifferent to race, that it doesn't matter to you, what you're really saying is you'll take me as you want me, and edit away the rest.

What really gets me, though, is indignation. White people actually getting annoyed, frustrated, presumably because they feel left out, or something, about the ongoing racial discourse of which Obama's election was a major climax. You want us to stop talking about it already? You want us to get over it already? We've had fifty years, we should be past it by now? But wait--what about the families who for three generations have raised their children in the same all-black projects, for whom race is still a very real barrier because no light has penetrated their worlds, either? Better still, what about the black boys, of which I've met many in the past two months, who are, in their simplistic way, totally excited about a black President, because it literally means there are possibilities available to them that weren't, a year ago? How can that make you upset?

Besides which, come on. Really. Come on. I've known tons of people, some of them on this site, who whine constantly about how this or that thing that happened to them in childhood (abuse, injury, trauma, bad relationship, whatever) has affected their ability to function now. So, wait. That's...something bad in your history...affecting the person you are today. Am I getting that right?

Rich white (in general) women spending thousands of dollars on therapy because they were sexually harassed by a neighbor in the eighties. Please. In the eighties, before major corporations even had policies to regulate this sort of thing, because they were still so unused to black people holding executive positions, a white coworker of my mom's told her he liked his women the way he liked his coffee: sweet, hot and black. No recourse for her, because as recently as twenty years ago, when you were having the formative experiences that have made you the person you are today, the company my mom worked for didn't respond to allegations of racial oppression if they weren't "flagrantly discriminatory." Twenty years ago! I was a baby, but I still feel the sting of that remark whenever I walk into class in a tight outfit and feel my classmates' eyes on me.

And I'm one of the "good" ones. (A term white people do use, yes. I've heard it, personally, seven times in my life. I've also been complimented countless times on being "articulate," as though it's some sort of shock. Has anyone ever told you how articulate you are?) I'm one of the ones who doesn't really "need" affirmative action, whose name doesn't sound like faux-Swahili and who could probably get by on her resume alone. On paper, I have all the advantages of any white girl, and I've still managed to piece together that race matters.

So yeah, I'm happy about Obama. I'm happy because I agree with his policies more consistently than I did McCain's, but I'm also happy because this is another victory in the ongoing(!) race war. I don't agree with Obama's spending plan at all, currently, but I do agree with the promise of raising my own kids in a country where a black man can be President.

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On "passions":

There is nothing more frustrating than trying to share music with someone else. Nothing means the same thing to any two people, and it might kill you, trying to force meaning down someone else's throat.

I can recommend this, http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GH-uW-LxNpE, till I'm blue in the face, but if you didn't hear it for the first time while walking back from Clyde's full of champagne and seeing stars, if it's never been playing in the background as Justin slid his fingers beneath the hem of your shirt, you probably won't care for it much. You won't listen to it on repeat a dozen times while meticulously researching its lyrics and origins online because, like me, you find you suddenly can't know enough about it.

(If you're curious: Marvin Gaye wrote this for his teenage lover, Janice, while he was in the process of seeking a divorce from his then-wife. Drugs were starting to get the better of him--not in the tragic indirect way they eventually did, but badly enough--and Janice was losing interest, and this song was his way of trying to win her back in the only way he knew how. If you listen to the second half carefully, you'll find that the refrain, in the background, is "Gonna give you some head," over and over. So the first time you hear it, it sounds like a silky, seventiesy R&B ballad, a perfect soundtrack to wine and sex. Hearing it again, after you know the story, it becomes something else entirely: a song of need and desperation, a last-ditch attempt to hold onto one thing that matters. By offering her cunnilingus. At the very end, as it's fading out, you can even hear him call her by name: "Oh, Janice." An addition his current wife didn't love, and which caused her to really go for the throat in the divorce proceedings. Poor Marvin.

But you don't care. It's my song, not yours.)

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On "the placebo of self-intimidation":

I already said I don't really think leading is that difficult. I think people get a little bit of next-in-line anxiety, though. Might I suggest not reading the entries in the few days before your own is due?

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On "the past two nights":

When I read Erika's entry, the past two nights had consisted of lots of stuff pregnant women aren't allowed to do. Fun nights, but I remember thinking how envious I was, how sometimes I'm so sick of waiting to be allowed to have a baby I could just explode, and how, if I had it my way, I might even trade my past two nights for Erika's, sickness and all.

One thing I regret about dumping Chris is I recognize he probably would have been a good pregnant husband. It's one of the things I'm looking forward to more than anything else in life: being cherished and appreciated by the man whose baby I'm having, sharing my excitement with him, vetoing all the names he suggests. I don't need to be, like, pampered, but I would love it if he at least thinks to tell me, occasionally, how excited he is for us, and to do special little things that show he's preparing for a relationship with our baby independent of the one I'll try to foster.

The problem is, the guy in these visions contrasts sharply with the kind of guy to which I am actually attracted. I like a man's man, a guy who shrugs off feelings and goes for the practicalities in things. The kind of guy I like, currently, is the kind of guy who's more likely to show his enthusiasm for the coming baby by taking on an aggressive provider role. Pulling in extra hours at the office to bring in more money to build a nursery (as opposed to hunting and fishing twice as hard).

So I don't know. I just hope I don't have to do it alone. On top of the fact that I think that would be socially irresponsible, I'd just really miss out on that fantasy.

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On "crutches":

I'm pretty sure I believe every adult should take care of himself, or, at least, should have the means to do so.

I know this is one of those things on which I'll gain new perspective when I'm thirty-five and too addled with depression to crawl out of bed. But I'm hoping by that point I will have spent the past ten years working hard enough to yield the kind of savings that can support a fully functioning household till I snap out of it.

Also, I know I'm lucky not to have any debilitating physical problems that limit my functionality, but come on. Collecting disability because of a broken leg? PLEASE. Two weeks ago I had cramps so bad, I passed out at CVS and the store owner had to revive me with smelling salts. I still went to class the next morning.

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On "42 logical posivitism avenue":

In two days, I'll be Caroline's age reversed. I feel okay about this. Just okay. Twenty-four is starting to feel dangerously mid-twenties. And I was just starting to not mind twenty-three so much.

I guess this is the rest of life, age-wise. Digging your heels in, resisting the forward march of it, praying the day never comes you have to turn twenty-three, and then, when twenty-three is running out, wishing you could stay twenty-three forever.

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On "lease-a-parent":

I think there comes a time when you just have to be an adult about things. If you've had a toxic relationship with your parents, and if you are satisfied that it's not going to get better, but are unwilling to take such drastic steps as changing your phone number, thereby cutting ties for good, then I think you just have to sort of act on principle about things. You should think of your parents not as parents, but as casual acquaintances, and treat them with the appropriate respect and courtesies.

The problem with trying to punish your parents for the problems you feel they've caused is that that just cripples your life even more, doesn't it? At the very least, it's a huge waste of mental and emotional energy. I'm sure it's easier just to gracefully detach and give your best to the next generation. More karmically apt than just hating them till they die, anyway.

But, again, I know I'm lucky, because I think my mom is awesome.

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On "prompt me":

Contrary to popular opinion, I have never said I didn't like controversy. Not once, never. I love controversy. Controversy equals conflict, see, and conflict is what makes a good story. I am all about a good story.

What I said, probably, is that I resent bickering that takes place specifically in Follow the Leader, because as much as I like controversy, I don't like dealing with hurt feelings. In early rounds, I discovered that some journalers were not above hurting each other's feelings, and that everyone automatically held me responsible for dealing with it when that happened.

And when I say I like controversy, anyway, I guess what I mean is I like substantive controversy. Most of the controversy that takes place on Writing.com is, at its nucleus, really shallow and stupid. This one likes poop jokes, that one thinks they're tasteless and offensive. This one likes to present herself as ferocious and intimidating, that one thinks that sort of overdramatic roleplaying is immature and banal. Et cetera. Nothing really worth arguing over, because they tend to boil down to differences in philosophy, and no one's philosophy ever really changes. The petty arguing is a funny diversion, is all. Something to gossip and giggle about.

Twenty journals in my Good Journals folder, five of them defunct. I read those journals religiously, and I get a little shiver of excitement whenever I see one's been updated. Forty-fiveish journals in my Journals folder, sort of my second string. I don't have to read every entry in every one of those journals. In fact, some of them are only there because they repeatedly enter FtL, and it's easier just to keep them favorited than it is to keep deleting and readding them.

I like to get engrossed and engaged. I like a good drama. I don't find pleasure in other people's misery, but I do read with my mouth hanging distractedly open, like I'm watching a good movie. I love to see the evolution of other people's relationships, to make predictions and watch them come true. I was rapt through every word of Caroline's leaving Laurent for Rod.

Believe it or not, I don't really like reading other people's survey answers, more often than not. I try to choose surveys whose questions really interest me, specifically so I'll want to read other people's answers, but most surveys on the internet aren't like that. Ninety percent of all shitty MySpace surveys start with the same three questions: name, age, astrological sign. The questions only get worse from there. Capri Sun or Tang? And people actually answer these questions, or, worse yet, they say things like "I don't know," for five questions in a row, as though someone put a gun to their heads and said you HAVE to type SOMEthing for every single question on this survey. If you're not interested, if the questions don't make you think, if you're not curious to see what your brain will produce, do not bother. It's simple.

I like reading about people's babies. I guess I'm in the minority on this, but I think of each journaler as an avatar, a little thumbnail of her own head with lines sprouting out from beneath with her babies' heads attached. A little family tree. I like to see pictures. I wish there were more to be seen.

I love to get indignant. I am eager and quick to spot anything I deem ignorance, so I can leave passive-aggressive comments riddled with smiley faces. More than that, though, I love when I find an intelligent journaler with whom I disagree passionately. After I broke up with Justin for the first time, and had all this negative energy all pent up, I spent a lot of really late nights just combing the Blogville Republican circuit, looking for well-constructed conservative opinions to get mad about.

Like Jenn, I like to recognize the characters. Like Caroline, I have all the patience in the world for a little embellishment, a little creative storytelling. The way I see it, you're constructing your personal mythology, here, and if you have to restructure the facts a little to make it seem more logical, that's fine. Blatantly lie to me, if you must. How would I know the difference?

I like to be name-dropped. Who doesn't, besides Aaron? I like to feel like the journaler knows I, in particular, am reading.

Like Spidey--I think it was her--I prefer journals to blogs, both in format and in content. I get irrationally irritated when I see that a journal has been updated but the newest entry is still private for edits. I feel cheated, because I wanted to see the thought in its original form, not after nine passes of intense processing.

I like long entries better than short ones, Aaron's excepted.

If I read your journal regularly, you know it.

I know not everyone likes my journal. I sometimes think I might be the one who comes across condescending or arrogant. I don't mean to be, I just sound that way sometimes. A lot of obsessive-compulsive idiosyncrasies (holy shit, I had no idea that word was spelled that way) go into my journal. I freak out about changes in formatting, about forgetting to throw in a survey every five entries, to write a detailed account of my day every twenty-six. (I forgot, last time, and I had to write up this whole alternate rule, to pardon myself, about how, if a twenty-sixth day coincides with a fifth day, I have to instead...well, you don't care. Never mind. It's bad, though.)

I know only two people, at most, care at all about Sims entries. I write them here anyway because that seems somehow less lame than keeping them in my personal files.

I just thought of the next bonus challenge.

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On "i come running through the worlds that you have built":

My birthday is four days before Valentine's Day. That sucks, when you're in a weird non-relationshippy relationship like this one. I don't know what to plan, what to expect, how to budget what I want so I don't end up feeling slighted on either day. My birthday is a Tuesday, anyway, so probably nothing will happen aside from a few people will pin dollars on my shirt and Justin will come over with wine. I'm fine with that. I just don't want Saturday to suck. I'm steeling myself already.

I know, I know, I know. Other people's relationships. Shut up.

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On "last minute decisions":

I had written this entire entry, in slight variation, and had reached this point, when I accidentally deleted the entire thing. I stared blankly at my computer for twenty minutes, literally, trying to decide whether to reconstruct it from memory, or say fuck it and move on. What you read above was a second draft. Hhhhhhhh.

I was undecided about whether to respond to Jenn's tag, because I've done that on Facebook a few times, and what always happens is, some people guess theirs right away, and others, who have negative ones, needle you until either you relent and tell them, diluting it with equivocation, or they figure it out themselves by process of elimination. I decided I'm going to do it anyway, because I can't resist anything with numbers and secrecy, and because I never saw a dead horse I didn't want to beat.