Asking: Right or Rude?

Sitting at work, I’m listening to Kidz Bop. How I feel about this is a different story entirely. However, “Rude” by Magic! was playing. And I always think about the song as it plays. I think long and hard about it because it bothers me.

Here’s my thought process behind it: The boyfriend goes and asks the dad for permission to marry his daughter. The dad basically says, “Over my dead body.” Then the boyfriend responds, “Yeah, well she’ll follow me to the ends of the earth, so she’s going to marry me anyway. Fuck you.” This whole situation is mind-boggling to me. Who do these men think they are to decide the fate of this girl? No one asked her opinion. They are just duking it out over who has the “right” to this girl, as if she’s a piece of property. In my mind, I like to think we’ve gotten past this mindset, but alas, it seems we have not.

See, my boyfriend and I have talked about this whole idea of “asking permission” before. I’ve told him explicitly numerous times that I do not want him to ask my dad to marry me if he decides to propose. Yet, he still feels as if he is doing the wrong and improper thing if he does not ask. But here’s how I feel– I am no one’s property. The decision of whether or not I marry someone depends entirely on if I want to or not. That simple. The only relevant people in an engagement, in my opinion, are the people getting engaged. That’s it. I love my dad. I love him and appreciate everything he’s done for me. He’s been a great dad, and part of that is letting go and allowing your child to make their own decisions. That includes marriage. So, if you ask me, everyone in that situation was being rude for not letting that girl use her own mind to make her own decision.

The Storyteller’s Creed.

I’ve been having a rough go of it lately.

I don’t sleep well, I sleep through class, I miss too many, I’m sick of being a student, sick of school, sick of not being able to focus, sick of feeling so alone…I guess you can say I’m just a little sick.

So, looking for some solace, I thought of my dad. He always seems to make things better in my life. However, being in school, he’s not right there. Not readily accessible to me. So, I decided to try something else: his favorite author.

I have a copy of Robert Fulghum’s “All I Really Need To Know I Learned In Kindergarten.” I think it’s my dad’s copy, but shhhh…don’t tell him.

My dad always talked about Fulghum as I started getting older and started developing a mature and rational mind. One of the things I remember from reading his works earlier in life is just…how full they made me feel. Full of life, full of emotion, full of thought and wonder and hope…

So I picked up the book. First thing I started with was the foreword, titled “To the reader from the author.” I like that. It seems so less menacing and condescending as forewords can sometimes be.

It isn’t a long chunk of text. But God, did it work. I didn’t even need to get into the meat of the text for the impact to be had. I want to quote for you here what made such a profound impact on me tonight.

“Finally, I should tell you that I have an official Storyteller’s License. A friend made it up and taped it to the wall over my desk. This license gives me permission to use my imagination in rearranging my experience to improve a story, so long as it serves some notion of Truth. It also contains a Storyteller’s Creed:

I believe that imagination is stronger than knowledge.

That myth is more potent than history.

That dreams are more powerful than facts.

That hope always triumphs over experience.

That laughter is the only cure for grief.

And I believe that love is stronger than death.

I have tried very hard to not write anything that would cause my license to be revoked. “

This was exactly what I needed. Even without knowing, my dad still made it better. Still was able to be my hero. And Fulghum also was able to be my hero.

My message in this post is to never doubt the power of precisely crafted words, and that thinking of your daddy can always make everything better.

With love, XOXO.

Personal Blog

A personal blog is important. And I don’t mean a blog like this one.

The way I see it, there are three types of blogs: the professional, the public, and the personal.

The professional blog is obviously where all of your works that truly matter go. The one you show potential employers and people you network with.

Then there’s the public blog, like this one. It adds flair from your personality, but can crossover into the two spheres— a nice mix of professional and personal.

And then there’s the completely personal, don’t-tell-you-the-url, strangers-only blog. The blog where one writes everything they’re thinking or feeling, just to get it off of their chest.

A personal blog is very, very important. The release of emotion that writing can bring is most satisfying and brings about an exponential sense of relief.

So, I advise all of you to start your own personal blog. Write not for likes, not for views, not to be Freshly Pressed, but just to make yourself feel better.

Go ahead, your sanity will thank you later.

With love, XOXO.

The search for the right word.

I want to share with you an activity I did in class today.

 

We were given a quote— “draw the line that means the most.” My professor was told this by an art student he was talking to while he was studying for his master’s.

 

Well, what does this mean? We started to examine it. We were given these instructions:

Think of an object that is meaningful to you.
Describe the object. Explain its meaning.
Do so in at least 110 words and no more than 125 words.
When done, consult me for further instructions.

So, I started thinking. I started writing. Here was my first draft:

Two long arms hug the sides of my face, grasping gently behind my ears. The middle of the frame rests on the bridge of my nose. The lenses, which are vaguely trapezoidal, filter the world into hues of brown and orange. The paint is smooth against my skin. The color is irrelevant. With over 16 pairs, color is only secondary. The sunglasses are not an accessory; they are an extension of myself. The first pair sat atop my head in 2010, and they’ve been there ever since. Regardless of season, a pair of sunglasses will be somewhere on my person because they gave me identity. At first, I was “the girl who always wears sunglasses.” Then, they became a trademark. I became identifiable. (123)

My next instructions?

Copy and paste what you’re written below. Cut 10 words.

So, I go to work on my copy, cutting out 10 words.

Two long arms hug the sides of my face, grasping behind my ears. The middle of the frame rests on the bridge of my nose. The lenses, which are vaguely trapezoidal, filter the world into hues of brown and orange. The color of the frame is irrelevant. With over 16 pairs, color is secondary. Sunglasses are not an accessory; they are an extension of myself. Since 2010 they’ve sat atop my head, and they’ve been there ever since. Regardless of season, a pair of sunglasses will be somewhere on my person. They gave me identity. At first, I was “the girl who always wears sunglasses.” Then, they became a trademark. I became identifiable. (113)

I then ask for my next instructions.

Copy and paste what you’ve written below. Cut 10 more words.

Now I start to think “this is difficult.”

Two long arms hug the sides of my face. The middle of the frame rests on the bridge of my nose. The lenses—vaguely trapezoidal—filter the world into hues of brown and orange. The color of the frame is irrelevant. With over 16 pairs, color is secondary. Sunglasses are not an accessory, but an extension of myself. Since the first pair in 2010, they’ve sat atop my head. Regardless of season, a pair of sunglasses will be somewhere on my person. They gave me identity. Initially, I was “the girl who always wears sunglasses.” Then, they became a trademark. I became identifiable. (103)

I really feel like I’m starting to get to the meaning, you know? Further instruction:

Copy and paste what you’ve written below. Cut 20 words.

So, I struggle.

Two long arms hug the sides of my face. Center-frame rests on the bridge of my nose. The lenses—vaguely trapezoidal—filter the world into hues of brown and orange. With over 16 pairs, color of frame is irrelevant. Sunglasses became an extension of myself since the first pair in 2010. Regardless of season, a pair of sunglasses exist somewhere on my person. They gave me identity. Initially, I was “the girl with the sunglasses.” Then, they became trademark. I became identifiable. (83)

I think I’m done, and I’m wrong.

Copy and paste what you’ve written below. Cut it in half.

In half?! How do I do that? I have a tone I’m trying to preserve! Plus I have an odd number of words! (I was told to round down.)

My lenses—vaguely trapezoidal—filter the world into browns and oranges. With over 16 pairs, color is irrelevant. Sunglasses became an extension of myself since the first pair. Sunglasses always exist somewhere on my person. They became trademark. I became identifiable. (41)

I reluctantly ask for further instruction.

Copy and paste what you’ve written below. Cut it in half again.

This time, I don’t panic to myself. I set to work.

Lenses—vaguely trapezoidal—filter the world into browns and oranges. With over 16 pairs, color is irrelevant. They became trademark. (20)

As we discuss the activity, I start to see what happened. I discovered the core ideas to my initial paragraph. I found strong verbs as opposed to relying on descriptors. I found my line. 

Give it a try—maybe you’ll find your line too.

 

With love, XOXO.