Cat!

 

I went to the shelter yesterday to look, just to look, and saw him. It's a great place: no cage and no kill, so all of the animals have plenty of space and plenty of toys and love. Quarantined in a room with just one other cat, he was sleeping on a large pillow. I went in with a volunteer and he was immediately a fan of me, friendly and curious. So I said, I'd like to see some other cats. But the other cats weren't him. 

They named him York. I think we'll keep it. 

He's all black but his coat is full of random little white hairs. He's probably about 14 pounds and when he stretches, his eyes peek up over my bed. He's a bunch of cat without being too fat.

He's about two, they think, based on his teeth, but they aren't sure. He was a street cat until someone found him and decided he'd make a great pet. His tail must have been broken at some point, it bends right near the tip and sometimes he just wags the end of it. One of his ears has been cut too, that's what they do when they neuter a street cat. 

But of course, that's not all. He has FIV, or in English, cat HIV/AIDs. Whereas his infection won't ever lead to cat AIDs (sort of), he'll have health problems later and could get sick very easily. And that's why no one wanted to take him home and love him. And so of course, I did. 

The staff was all so excited that I was taking him. They told me that he's something of a celebrity around PAWS ( www.pawschicago.org). We joked last night about naming him "Philadelphia" or "Tom Hanks" after the movie, but it just didn't fit. And I want to name him Salem or Binks, but they're all just too melodramatic. His collar (oh he has the cutest collar) reads York, but maybe I'll name him Hades just for fun. 

Nah. 

He's too sweet to be a hell-cat. Instead of being shy and nervous when he got home, I opened the crate (he's too big for a cat crate, I'm going to have to buy a small dog carrier) and he went right out. He loves under my bed (so much to squeeze around!) and my closet. Last night, he came and snuggled next to me for part of the night, so I'm excited about that. He found his litterbox and food right away. He looks really funny when he eats for some reason. He sort of throws his neck around and gulps. 

This morning, as soon as I was out of my shower, he came and jumped on my bed and nuzzled me for a good five minutes. He loves the blanket that Mike got me for graduation (it's a traveling blanket with two sides). 

I know this is bad timing. I'm about to graduate from college. I don't have a job. Hell, I don't need a cat. But I saved him and I'm going to love him. 

We call him "SpEd Cat" sometimes.  Because he's special needs. 

Also, don't make jokes in a shelter about adopting a cat and then making cat soup. They may not think you're very funny.

Abort! Abort!

Ah, abortion.
I've posted links to my Facebook account questioning the veracity of the Tebow ad that appeared during the first quarter, but I thought I'd throw some more opinion to the internet. Why not? I've got time and space.

This came about because of Black History Month, which I am so against (more on that at some point later). We were talking about it the other night and of course, the subject of everyone having differences came up. Mine? Adoption. I get "oh you're adopted" jokes every now and then and although it isn't anything compared to racism, it's still something that sets me apart.

My genetic history is a giant question mark. I always joke that I'm a grab bag of potential disease and ugly children. It's true. Not that I'll have ugly children, but you never know.

People ask me, "How can you be pro-choice if you're adopted?"

It was a choice. I wouldn't have known, I was a mass of cells. I'm obviously glad I made it past cell stage and became a person, but for me, it's not a question of when the cells become a life, when the life is viable or any sort of combination of the two.

Do you honestly think that someone who doesn't want to become a mother is going to be a good mother if they're forced to carry, birth and then raise a child they didn't want? Do you honestly think that some people can afford to pay to raise a child when they can barely keep a roof over their heads?
Adoption is a feasible option, sure, but it's not for everyone. Kids born to alcohol and drug-abusing mothers aren't going to have a great start and the difficulties they face may be insurmountable.

Abortion isn't the best option but it's an option that needs to be preserved. As women, we have the rights to our own bodies and we should be able to choose what's right.

Personally, the thought of an abortion terrifies me. I'd never do it. I am too important of a person to have been killed and I'd never be able to live with myself if I went through that. All I'd think is, how old would my baby be today? and stuff like that. It'd be one un-ending thought loop that would consume me.

But I understand why people choose to do it and I do not fault them.

I feel like everyone gets one free pass. One abortion. One oops, we made a huge mistake and it won't happen again. But abortion is not birth control. It's not hard to not get pregnant. (I understand that conversely, it's very easy to get pregnant.) Abortion should not be used in place of birth control. Yeah, condoms are expensive, but so is abortion, so is childbirth, so is the eighteen years spent tethered to a child, so is the emotional pain of giving one up.

Sacrifice. It's the most beautiful thing someone can ever do. To give a family who desperately wants (not needs, wants) a child the thing they want most is the most stunningly selfless act. To trust them with your life, with the life you've created is insane. I don't know if I could do it.
But people do it. That's why Mike and I are here.

And if you don't believe in fate, look long and hard at my family. I am my mother's daughter. I was meant for her. She is my mother, she has been. She loves me unconditionally (I know this because I've tested all the boundaries of love that possibly exist and we're still alright). Fruitypants was meant to be my little brother. We were meant to be a strange mix of family and crazy and look at us. We fit so well together.

It's hard work, all of it, and someone has to do it. The birth and the raising. It can be two different people. There's enough love to go around, I promise.

Mike's graduation party. All of the women were gathered, his birth mother included, near the front door. Grandmothers, aunts, mothers (two of them, both his). They were all crying. It was the most joyously heart-breaking thing I've ever seen. They had watched this little boy grow up into a young man together, each in their own capacity. Strength on all sides and so much love you could feel it surrounding everything.

Hug a birth mom next time you see one. They're better people than you could ever imagine.

Post script:
Don't hate on Planned Parenthood. Just don't. They are some of the kindest, most compassionate people I've ever met. Don't think for a second that if I was rich I wouldn't give them tons of money in donations. You can uphold your Catholic/Christian ideals, but please do not hate on Planned Parenthood. There is so much other work that they do besides killing babies (my god, don't get me started on the people who think this way) that makes them an organization worth supporting. When your daughter is 16 and her pediatrician won't give her birth control, where is she going to turn? You'd damn well better hope there's a Planned Parenthood in your neighborhood. And you'd damn well get her a doctor who understands not only your daughter but the legal system as well. And you'd better thank god (or whomever you pray to at night) that she has an option. Because a lot of people don't have those options. So when she's scared out of her mind and sitting in the waiting room by herself, just wanting some birth control, you'd better thank your god that there are people who know exactly what she's going through and who are willing to help. And when she walks out of there feeling respected and comforted, you'd better wish that you had been there to support her.

But then again, that couldn't be your daughter, could it? That doesn't happen to "good" people like you.

Lake Shore Drive (the reprise)

There are only so many places in the world you'll randomly see police cars dotted along a stretch of road, sometimes doing something, most times doing nothing. But that's rare enough.
Lake Shore Drive is an infamous place. Think of the film "Ferris Bueller," the scene where they've taken Cameron's dad's car and are flying down Lake Shore Drive toward the city. It's a feeling much like that and I get to do it most days, anytime I like and sometimes for no reason at all. It's full of scattered traffic, slow cars to weave in and out of, faster moving cars to catch up to or to let pass. It's the only place I've ever been passed, and I mean PASSED, while going twenty miles an hour above the speed limit.
It's curvy and sleek, repaved in parts and rocky in others. You get so much of the city, from Soldier Field on the south end (where it hits I-55, toward Midway airport) to Michigan Ave to the end, to Loyola, to my apartment. You get the beach and the waves, crashing against the cement, crashing up over it, spilling Lake Michigan onto the shore. You get a decorative middle, the trees sometimes maintained by the city. Lights.
Night driving on LSD is my favorite thing. The lights, the open space, the road awaiting you. Simon loves it. For a 4-cylinder, he can accelerate. And accelerate we do. I merge seamlessly, pushing my foot into his gas pedal and we fly. He hugs the curves, especially the last one where the road ends and we have to turn. I fly, never braking and he's with me. I trust him, knowing when he's reached his road-gripping limit and I ease up, slowing slightly and throwing my body into the turn. We're a great team, really.
Emily and I, when we had first moved into the apartment, before school had started that year, used to drive the same loop most nights. We'd throw in some music, usually ABBA (I wish I was joking, but I'm not) to begin and we'd drive past Loyola to turn onto Lake Shore and then head south. We'd pass Michigan Ave, Navy Pier, crossing the river, going along Grant Park to take Michigan back up to Lake Shore and then home. Windows down, arms out the window (it's a compulsory act, there's no stopping it), night around us and above us, we'd pass the shops and museums, sliding by buses and around taxis.
Taking in the city when you're passing through it reminds you why you live here. It reminds you why there's no greater place to pass through. It's a cement wonderland, built on industry and fed by sweat and corruption. It glitters in the night, a soft promise of what might be. It's joyous and freeing, to realize that everything is only transitory. The light of day brings new everything, a fresh feel to a tarnished ideal, but by night everything is stark, illuminated and hidden by the cloaking darkness and the neon signs.
It's beautiful to me.
I remember the first day. There have been so many first days, but the day that we drove up from St. Louis to Chicago, the car full of crap I now wish I'd never thought I needed and our eyes wide with excitement is the particular first day. The keys to the apartment weren't quite mine yet, the lease hadn't been signed. We drove up, stuck in traffic, and were swept up in the feeling that is Chicago. It's fast paced, relentless, anxious, angry, unethical, illegal, amazing. It is a place I've never been before and I place I'll never stay.
Lake Shore Drive is Chicago for me. It epitomizes everything that could be and is. There is nothing lovelier than a short drive, doing 65 in a 40 and knowing you're not alone. There is nothing worse than being packed in, red lights ahead of you and all around, edging, no, inching toward your goal.

(Can you tell I did a bunch of driving today?)

I scratched some of the paint off with my keys. I need to get to it, I know, but for some reason I'm hesitant. It's strange, but I'm comforted by the fact that no one would dare steal Simon, not now. He's looking so much worse for the wear and I can't believe it's only six months until I get to bring him back to Denver and file an insurance claim and get EVERYTHING fixed. He'll look brand new.


Also, can we do St. Patrick's Day early while I'm home? I do have a huge pot but for some reason, no one here likes corned beef and cabbage and I'm not going to make it if no one is going to eat it. While plane tickets have not yet been purchased, I'm coming home that Friday (the 5th?) and will be home until the 14th or 15th. So mark your calendars!

March is going to be entirely unproductive academically for me. I'm aware of this. I need to make sure my grades are high so there can be a bit of a buffer for me. Spring break, then that ending weekend and into the next week, Katie will be in Chicago visiting. That Friday night, Maddie and I are going to Boston to party with her aunt and I won't be back until Tuesday night. Yes, missing school to party. I know. It was cheaper. It's mediocre rationalizing but I'm sticking with it. It's going to be amazing. I've never been to Boston and when I got the invite, there was no hesitation. Also, Aunt Judy and I are kindred spirits. Here's to traveling, something I don't do enough of and hope to spend the rest of my life trying to do.

By the way, I think we were in Haiti at some point. Think about that. To have been there. I will find a journal entry, I'm sure I have one somewhere, that discusses it. Because I think I remember striking poverty and exploitation, but I don't want to comment on it until I have my information/travel memory correct. I have a caption on a picture that reads "Haiti?" which makes me remember being there.
Also, I want to go back to Jamaica. (That was a completely unrelated thought)

The Prologue has arrived!!

I bled through my sock and felt it starting to pool in my shoe, squishing slightly when I put weight on it. The pain radiated through my heel, but I was late, so I straightened my back and walked on. I made it to class right on time, sneaking in the door in time to walk straight to the front and then sit closest to the wall.
I'm currently sitting with my feet propped up on the empty chair next to me (this is the front row, after all, space to everywhere) in an attempt to stop the bleeding entirely. Of course, it's all my fault. Take a guess. No, don't. I stabbed my foot with a pen while walking around the apartment. It was sticking up out of a bag and I thought I'd stepped over it (I'm incredibly graceful, you know) but I hadn't. A red pen, of course, what else?
Emily washed my foot in the sink. We tried to find bandages in the apartment, but there were none. We had to go. She was on her way to rehearsal and I was on my way to class, not driving because I've been wasting parking money and I've got to stem the flow of cash. I've got a cotton ball wedged between my heel and a piece of gauze and bloody sock. It's a nice sight, really. But it's actually not as bad as I thought it would be, so it's looking like we're all good.


Oh okay, that was horrible.
Here's the prologue to my romance novel::

I must add a small prologue to my prologue: This is for a romance novel. It’s going to be cheesy at moments. Trust me, by the last sentence of this small bit you’ll be wincing.
There is no working title. There will be one eventually. To be passionate, one must be patient.
And thus, I begin:
It took her twelve hours to die. Toward the end, her breathing became labored and sweat glistened on her pale face. Her lip bled from where she had bitten into the pink flesh. The drops of blood dripped down onto her chest, which heaved erratically as she struggled to breathe. Her body had lost the will to fight, but her eyes remained focused on his face. As soon as the midwife told him, his gaze passed over her soon to be still body and never returned. She watched him quietly, her only sounds cries of pain or exhaustion.
At first he had been excited. He’d grasped her small hands in his and held them, whispering words on gentle encouragement in her ear. They’d rode the waves of pain together, smiling at the thought of their child. He’d mopped her brow with cool cloths and distracted her by telling her about the horse he was having delivered just for her. He’d ordered it the week before in London. She was a beauty, he said. Sixteen hands of gentle strength. Gentle strength, she’d whispered. His lips came down to caress her forehead, her nose and finally, her lips.
When they told him she was having a hard time of it, and he told her to buck up and be done with it. Her laugh was music to his ears. It would be her last. She grew tired, closing her eyes as she clenched her teeth against the pain.
The baby was turned, they said. Turn it, he’d ordered. It’s not that simple, they’d replied.
He promised that they’d buy their son a pony as soon as he was old enough to ride and the three of them would wander the fields together on summer afternoons. We’ll pack a basket, he said. We’ll go fishing. We’ll pick flowers. We’ll swim. He spit these lies to her even as he watched her beg for mercy, crying for death before life had left her.
He couldn’t meet her eyes, even though hers searched his face for comfort. He took the small bundle the midwife offered him and went outside, praying silently that there was something to be done. He looked down at the creature he held, rocking it against his chest, softly soothing it. It cried like her, he thought. She should have been holding their tiny miracle to her breast and smiling up at him. She wasn’t. He didn’t know what to do. A wrinkly pink child in exchange for his beautiful wife seemed a terrible bargain.
He knew before they told him. He handed the baby back to the midwife and stalked out of the house. There was nowhere to go, nothing to do. He saddled his horse and rode for the forest.  Minutes might have passed, or hours, but eventually he found a small dark clearing and screamed until the birds flew from the trees, flying to heaven with her, a melancholy procession as night fell.
The funeral was held days later. His tears had stopped He stood at her grave long after the other mourners had left, gone back to his house to enjoy his hospitality. He sat next to the freshly turned earth, holding her newly engraved stone, wishing he could see her eyes one last time. He wasn’t prepared. Questions swirled in his mind, flooding him with a nagging sense of guilt. This was his fault, he thought. His fault alone. The midwives were apologetic, upset as expected, but he knew it wasn’t they who had failed.
His mother had died as he’d been born. He should have known better than to sacrifice his wife for a child. She’d reassured him, telling him she’d have an easy birth, over and done before he even had time to worry. He’d believed her. He hadn’t questioned it again, the possibility hadn’t even occurred to him that she might have been wrong. He had killed her with his love, his desire to create the family he’d never known.
He knew then what he must do, and to him, it seemed an easy answer. His soul had just shattered, there would be no repair. He could never love again. He would never love again. He rose from her grave and slowly walked back into the home no longer filled with laughter.

Salad and Speaking Up

Not loving my Thursday night social work class. Love the idea of it, but in reality, it's a strange show and tell experience.
Last week, she asked us what we thought of our books so far. Well, I have a strong opinion about one of them. It's an 150-page book called "The Call to Social Work." Sounds nice, right? Wrong. It cost me $42 and it's a poorly written collection of personal stories. Essentially Chicken Soup for the Social Worker's Soul. I would have rather purchased the entire Chicken Soup collection and read it.
So I raised my hand.
And said all of that.
Oops.
I went up to her at the break and apologized. So I hope that helped, but probably not. Undermining a teacher's authority, albeit accidentally, is never a good thing. I had the support of the class too.
So I'm writing my paper and I have to make sure that it reeks of social work comprehension and compassion.
It will, of course.

Spinach, green apples, cranberries, french dressing, and a fried egg. Don't ask me why, but this is the salad I have been craving (and eating every day) all week. The egg isn't really part of the salad, it just lives on top. Today I put in blueberries.  I realize it's gross, but it's so good.
Maybe I'm needing more iron? Eating tons of Cheerios too, and they're also a good source of iron.

Staying completely hydrated isn't as easy as it looks. Taking my thermos (omg, I'm in love) wherever I go and then also dragging around a water bottle.

This is cute procrastination, can you tell?
We're doing the preterite in Spanish this week and the first test is tomorrow. If I've been bad at anything thus far, it's Spanish. The first semester was remarkably easy, but this semester is proving to be a challenge and I'm reluctant to take it on. Ugh, between that and the 100 page report on public schools for a meeting tonight, as well as the readings for three other classes tomorrow and the five page paper, I'm starting to get stressed to the point of inactivity. Inactivity for me = frenzied activity doing anything unproductive. So far I've read skimmed a book on Tantra, critically analyzed two episodes of the Tyra (Banks) show for feminist content, made salad, typed a blog, worked out (again) and am now about to go make notecards for Spanish.

We're having a costume party at our apartment on Friday night, and I'm not sure how it's going to go. It was one of those things where random people are inviting random people that I'm not entirely sure about, but I'm not wary since everyone knows someone...anyway, I need to clean. (That's the moral of that story, I guess.) That's going to take me all of tomorrow and Friday. I want to put everything of value away, but have double-booked myself for Friday night. Hosting my own party but going down to something called Light Circles to see a friend talk and then see how it is. I'm not sure what to expect.

Sunday is the Super Bowl! I'm using my beloved Crock-Pot and making chili with cheddarwursts. I love the Midwest.

Type 4

Sometime in the middle of last night, Emily and I got to bonding and talking and pretty soon it was three in the morning. Well, needless to say, I slept through my first class of the morning (we're what, three weeks into the semester?) but I awoke feeling refreshed so perhaps it's not the end of the world.
Anyway, sometime during the middle of the bonding, I texted a friend with the strange recommendation that he should take the Enneagram test. Upon waking this morning and feeling weird about it, I decided to shift that for the better and tell you about me.

This was a struggle. It came about in high school. Mr. McGuire (of "Relationships and Sexuality" and Sister Katherine fame---let's push abstinence and see how far that gets us. He practices the FAM method and has like 6 kids. Is it working? No.) gave us all these personality tests. It took me a long time (read: years) to be comfortable with my number and I still don't like it. But it suits me.
You might be interested in taking the free test. It's about 40 questions and is oddly accurate and descriptive of your personality once you have reached the end.
If you're skeptical, just do it for fun. It's just a numbers game, anyway. 

Google:: Free Enneagram Test and it'll pop right up

I feel like this is such a negative description, but you can see for yourself. Sure, I'm a highly emotional, experience-internalizing person yet I'm also a very wonderful human being, just in case you forget during the course of your reading. 

Katie: Type 4


Fours are self-aware, sensitive, and reserved. They are emotionally honest, creative, and personal, but can also be moody and self-conscious. Withholding themselves from others due to feeling vulnerable and defective, they can also feel disdainful and exempt from ordinary ways of living. They typically have problems with melancholy, self-indulgence, and self-pity. At their Best: inspired and highly creative, they are able to renew themselves and transform their experiences.

• Basic Fear: That they have no identity or personal significance
• Basic Desire: To find themselves and their significance (to create an
     identity)

Key Motivations: Want to express themselves and their individuality, to create and surround themselves with beauty, to maintain certain moods and feelings, to withdraw to protect their self-image, to take care of emotional needs before attending to anything else, to attract a "rescuer."

We have named this type The Individualist because Fours maintain their identity by seeing themselves as fundamentally different from others. Fours feel that they are unlike other human beings, and consequently, that no one can understand them or love them adequately. They often see themselves as uniquely talented, possessing special, one-of-a-kind gifts, but also as uniquely disadvantaged or flawed. More than any other type, Fours are acutely aware of and focused on their personal differences and deficiencies.
Healthy Fours are honest with themselves: they own all of their feelings and can look at their motives, contradictions, and emotional conflicts without denying or whitewashing them. They may not necessarily like what they discover, but they do not try to rationalize their states, nor do they try to hide them from themselves or others. They are not afraid to see themselves “warts and all.” Healthy Fours are willing to reveal highly personal and potentially shameful things about themselves because they are determined to understand the truth of their experience—so that they can discover who they are and come to terms with their emotional history. This ability also enables Fours to endure suffering with a quiet strength. Their familiarity with their own darker nature makes it easier for them to process painful experiences that might overwhelm other types.
Nevertheless, Fours often report that they feel they are missing something in themselves, although they may have difficulty identifying exactly what that “something” is. Is it will power? Social ease? Self-confidence? Emotional tranquility?—all of which they see in others, seemingly in abundance. Given time and sufficient perspective, Fours generally recognize that they are unsure about aspects of their self-image—their personality or ego-structure itself. They feel that they lack a clear and stable identity, particularly a social persona that they feel comfortable with.
While it is true that Fours often feel different from others, they do not really want to be alone. They may feel socially awkward or self-conscious, but they deeply wish to connect with people who understand them and their feelings. The “romantics” of the Enneagram, they long for someone to come into their lives and appreciate the secret self that they have privately nurtured and hidden from the world. If, over time, such validation remains out of reach, Fours begin to build their identity around how unlike everyone else they are. The outsider therefore comforts herself by becoming an insistent individualist: everything must be done on her own, in her own way, on her own terms. Fours’ mantra becomes “I am myself. Nobody understands me. I am different and special,” while they secretly wish they could enjoy the easiness and confidence that others seem to enjoy.
Fours typically have problems with a negative self-image and chronically low self-esteem. They attempt to compensate for this by cultivating a Fantasy Self—an idealized self-image which is built up primarily in their imaginations. A Four we know shared with us that he spent most of his spare time listening to classical music while fantasizing about being a great concert pianist—à la Vladimir Horowitz. Unfortunately, his commitment to practicing fell far short of his fantasized self-image, and he was often embarrassed when people asked him to play for them. His actual abilities, while not poor, became sources of shame.
In the course of their lives, Fours may try several different identities on for size, basing them on styles, preferences, or qualities they find attractive in others. But underneath the surface, they still feel uncertain about who they really are. The problem is that they base their identity largely on their feelings. When Fours look inward they see a kaleidoscopic, ever-shifting pattern of emotional reactions. Indeed, Fours accurately perceive a truth about human nature—that it is dynamic and ever changing. But because they want to create a stable, reliable identity from their emotions, they attempt to cultivate only certain feelings while rejecting others. Some feelings are seen as “me,” while others are “not me.” By attempting to hold on to specific moods and express others, Fours believe that they are being true to themselves.
One of the biggest challenges Fours face is learning to let go of feelings from the past; they tend to nurse wounds and hold onto negative feelings about those who have hurt them. Indeed, Fours can become so attached to longing and disappointment that they are unable to recognize the many treasures in their lives.

As long as they believe that there is something fundamentally wrong with them, they cannot allow themselves to experience or enjoy their many good qualities. To acknowledge their good qualities would be to lose their sense of identity (as a suffering victim) and to be without a relatively consistent personal identity (their Basic Fear). Fours grow by learning to see that much of their story is not true—or at least it is not true any more. The old feelings begin to fall away once they stop telling themselves their old tale: it is irrelevant to who they are right now.




(depressing, right? but it's so true. my healthy self goes toward the one, which is organized and productive, channeling all of my energy into good things. While organization may not be one of my strong suits, channeling energy could be)

This isn't an actual entry. But I guess it is.

Had the strongest urge to write but then I sat down and my words had run away....
tomorrow:  or perhaps, at some later date: ha, this is a thought list. don't judge me.

-why I love commas (I think about this all the time and really don't think it's good enough to blog about)
-Chicago  (subheadings: public schools, police, other things, food, culture, the red line idea...all the things I've learned, etc)
-women's bodies
-rap music as a means of cultural influence (problematic, yes, pervasive, also)
-discourse and its place in education
-education or life experience. jesuits. whole person-hood (yeah, that)
-graffiti as an art form (potentially) --also, how people in Chicago suck with spray paint
-I looked through all of my old photo albums on facebook today, and I realized that I have loved my life.
---subheaders---  juice of the vine, the shelf of knowledge, cat,

We're watching Friends. I guess I have to be Rachel. I'm not quite spacey enough to be Phoebe, although I love her dearly. I'm way too laid back to be Monica. Emily is Ross, maybe.  I really want to be Chandler, but you know, we can't always get what we want.

Ikea/Graduation

The Ikea trip was unplanned and wildly successful. Maddie wanted to go for a drive and I never turn down an opportunity to get into the car, so we drove. We also forgot to look at the exits and ended up in Wisconsin. We crossed the border, took a picture (because Madeline has never been to WI) and then headed back. Ha, I thought, as we got back on the highway, we should just use my GPS.
You have a GPS? Maddie asks in exasperation.
I forgot, I lamely explained.
We named the GPS Gretchen (because she sounds mean) and then followed her directions all over Illinois, taking the back roads. We finally arrived at Ikea, which is actually only about a half hour from my house.
The place is a wonderland. I encourage you to Google it. It's like the Target of home furnishings, but on steroids. Amazing.
Also, they have 50 cent hot dogs. I mean, I would drive nearly anywhere for a 50 cent hot dog.

I got a desk, a chair and a bookshelf, as well as a new thermos for tea, some candles and wall pictures. My room is turning into a floral/impressionist/scenery sanctuary. It's colorful, but full of blues and greens. Comfortable.

Graduation news: Commencement will be held on the Lake Shore campus (sorry, not downtown) on Friday May 14, 2010 at 7pm. You should come. I'm assuming someone will buy me a sweet cake. I'll probably do that myself. It won't be chocolate. It will have chocolate frosting. It will not be in Loyola colors. Maybe I can get them to put my name and the year, obviously, but then superimpose a map of the Chicago transit system onto the cake. Or I could do that myself. Oooh, that isn't actually a bad idea. Anyway, Maddie and I were thinking of having a joint graduation party, but I think that idea has long since flown out the window. Maybe we'll have an open house? The only problem is my apartment is on the third floor of a walk-up. And old people (not anyone you know, of course) wouldn't be able to make it up and down those stairs. Trust me, I sometimes have a hard time.

So tired for some reason. Need to make it to the gym but I won't have time before night class.

I had a dream last night that I'm not going to get into DU. Back up preparations must begin. Apparently, MSCD is getting an MSW program, but not until fall 2011. Could go then? Maybe will get a PR job or do freelancing or something lame for awhile.
DPS is still a possibility.
So is that romance novel. Everyone who's read by BDSM paper thinks I have the chops for prose writing. That was a weird sentence and I understand that very little should be based off of a paper I wrote less than twelve hours before it was due.

Tomorrow is going to be a long day. So much theory packed into six hours is nearly overwhelming. I've lost the ability to look at anything without thinking about the feminist perspective. It's killing my reality tv, my rap music, my social life. The other day, I stopped a conversation about something to discuss the linguistic connotations that the words we were using had. While it's not a bad thing to be more aware of the hidden gender messages and ideas in society (blah, blah), it's annoying to have your mind constantly inundated with ideas about it.
Sometimes the Beastie Boys are just the Beastie Boys.

The weekend was fun. I'll put up some pictures.

Juice.

It went well.
Of course it did, I was foolish to think it wouldn't.

I slept badly last night. Tortured by dreams that I couldn't escape from, I woke to find myself in an uneasy melancholy. Apparently, I was talking in my sleep all night. I'm upset by something, I know what, and I don't know how to let it go except to give it time.
Time. Screw time and feelings. I hate not knowing what other people are thinking. I hate wishing I could have something I can't. I hate that I had it for just a second before life got in the way.

I drove downtown this morning to make sure that Emily got to her law school open house alright and realized how much this city has meant to me. In a strange way, I belong in Chicago. I've never loved Loyola, but I've loved Chicago. I have a fascination with the train. I still love the train. There's something so raw and unguarded about it, something so connected and yet so fragile and broken. You are forced to sit around people you don't like, forced to interact, or merely to react to the those around you. It's beautiful. It's dirty. It smells. It's so satisfying and so stressfully slow. I love to sit with a book, lost for half an hour until I feel the train start to descend past Fullerton, the slide into the tunnel. Then the darkness comes and the rattling is somehow magnified by the proxomity of the walls.


But what is home? Everyone's moving back and forth and here and there, and I've realized that as much as I'd like to stay here, for awhile, I can't. I want to be in Colorado, to start my life there. Even though the city begs me to stay, I'm afraid if I do, I'll never leave. I can't fathom the idea of trying to raise children in a city like Chicago, and although it would be a wonderful place to get my social work grounding, I'd prefer to start my career somewhere comfortable.

Blegh, another blog with no purpose, only rambling. Perhaps the morning can bring a sweeter sleep?

Social scene

It's official! I applied today!


Tonight, Emily Dewhurst is coming into town to visit a law school, so she's staying at my house.
I'm going out for the first time post-Hunter-breakup with a circle of friends and acquaintances. I'm nervous, I won't lie. It's just dinner and one of our friends has been in Thailand for the last month, so I'm excited to hear all of his stories.
Tomorrow night is going to be lovely as well. Madeline, her new boyfriend, his friend, I and others are going to go out and hit the town. (Hit the town?)

I must go and put my face on; I'll either edit or post something different so that this might make sense as more than an informal social calendar.

Also, 3 days in a row at the gym! I'm a regular fitness expert. (That's a lie. But it does feel really good.) I've been eating way less processed foods and trying to cut out meat (just not bacon and I've demoted myself to turkey cheddarwursts instead of regular). But the increased fruit and veggies is fun. I always have eaten a nice share of them, but nearly all of my diet at the moment is fruit, vegetables and cereal/oatmeal/whole grain bread. And wine.

MSW application: January 2010

After a week of writing (including revising, something I'm not exactly used to), my statement of purpose is complete. I know now that if I don't get into DU or Loyola, it's not for lack of trying.

Here it is:
A. Rationale

He has to take a bus to school and then walk. He doesn’t own a coat or a cell phone. He is deaf but can’t communicate with his family because none of them learned how to sign. His family doesn’t worry about feeding him--they rely on school lunches to provide his daily nourishment. The only communication he has is with teachers, interpreters and other deaf students. My mother has worked with this particular student since his freshman year of high school. She’s his only resource. When his father wouldn’t buy him a cell phone, something that all of his brothers and sisters have, it was my mom who went around to various outlets to see about getting a free phone with text messaging capabilities. Watching my mom struggle with the ethical issues surrounding this student, I realized that I too felt what she felt. I want to watch people succeed, to triumph over problems that exist in their lives. I want to help people as she has helped this student. I know that this case is all too common--forgotten children with disabilities that their parents aren’t prepared to handle. I want to help people who need help the most.
Social work has been of interest to me since before the beginning of my undergraduate career. I feel that social work is necessary to the future of not only our local communities, but our global one as well. Social workers provide guidance and support necessary to maintain and reinforce community and family structures that are often shaken by events outside the control of the family or community. They are able to assess a situation and provide services that many others would not be able to offer, doing the greatest amount of possible good through their specific courses of action. The social worker can play an essential role in the rebuilding and strengthening of the existing family, but must rely on a strong sense of intuition and the ability to quickly assess a specific situation.
I plan on using my time in graduate school to assess the problems within my own community and become actively involved in working toward a solution. I am particularly interested in the intersection of women, children and the justice system. In five or six years I hope to be heading a program helping to facilitate increased interaction between mothers and children during incarceration as well as creating a viable support system for those same mothers after they’ve been released. Increased support for women returning to society would drastically reduce the recidivism rate and also create a stronger family network, which would in turn help children stay in school and out of trouble.
I want to devote my life to helping people the way that I have seen my mother help people my whole life. She doesn’t get any thanks for what she does, but somehow, day after day, she keeps doing it. Social work is often a thankless task, but is something that can create hope and direction within the worst situations. I want to be a social worker so that I can help even one person. I want to enter into social work selflessly, focusing on others rather than my own personal gain, but I know that social work would give me a sense of fulfillment that no other career could provide. I want to get satisfaction knowing that I’ve accomplished something meaningful, even if it’s as small as getting someone a winter coat or a cell phone. I want to be an agent of change within the world.

B. Attributes and Liabilities

As I begin my pursuit of a career in social work, I believe that my interpersonal communication skills would be one of my most valuable assets. Writing and speaking are essential skills for such a career path. As an English minor, I am adept at interpreting a situation with a critical eye.
Even though I consider myself a very passionate and caring person, which I believe is necessary for a lengthy career in social work due to the level of personal commitment involved, I also possess the ability to remove myself from a situation. Being able to remain objective in the face of emotional struggle is a quality that will serve me well as a social worker. While able to perceive the emotional depth of any given situation and to internalize the struggle of the parties involved, I am able to remain objective and far enough removed in order to find the best outcome. Even though the job can be demanding, I am also capable of seeing even the smallest amount of positivity and possibility in any situation. Through my ability to remain upbeat, I will be able to consistently approach my work with enthusiasm. I am able to quickly and accurately assess the mood of a situation and from there, am able to swiftly decide on any number of possible solutions.
I am open to new experiences, even though at times I am hesitant to begin. I have decided that life is too short to not dive in, to be cliché, and since I have made that decision for myself, I have found experienced many things that I wouldn’t have otherwise. Social work for me is an area that I have always been surround by, interested in and have always wanted to engage in. I find that making the decision to enter into a social work career was not made out of fear but has been a distinctly focused decision that has been made joyously and with great anticipation for things to come. My openness to begin will serve me well as a social worker.
The area of my life that I feel needs the most strengthening is the area of professional experience. I haven’t spent much time navigating a professional environment and am at times uncomfortable in a professional setting because of my lack of work experience even though I see myself as being perfectly capable of becoming an experienced professional with a certain amount of practice and guidance. I envision this as the area that will see great improvement in the next few years. Through in-field experience and more involvement with social workers, I will be able to increase my comfort level in order to enter the social work profession confidently and ably.
Graduate school would be a full-time commitment for me. I am excited to take on the challenge. I am entirely dedicated to my work and studies, especially in the pursuit of a specific goal. After undergraduate course work, I feel as though the time and energy investment asked of graduate students is something that I would adapt to incredibly well. While I would have preferred to enter into graduate level work with more experience in the field, my passion for social work cannot be denied. Without the constraints of a family or another, equally demanding career, I find myself able to fully invest my time and energy into my social work graduate degree.
C. Employment and Volunteer Experience

After spending four years in the service industry, one is often very capable of being able to anticipate the needs of customers and co-workers alike. From my various positions, I have learned the value of patience, an often under-represented virtue. I understand that not everyone is going to have needs that fit exactly into certain categories and that accommodations must be made in many circumstances. I have developed my intuitive listening skills and honed them, able to anticipate and make advance preparations in order to ensure a quick reaction that will most certainly be agreeable. Child care has taught me more than I ever thought possible. From discipline to creating educational activities, I have developed the ability to firmly adhere to decisions while at the same time rationalizing those decisions to the people affected by them.
My freshman year of college, I spent a number of hours a week volunteering at a soup kitchen. During this time, I found myself excited and incredibly fulfilled by the prospect of doing something as simple as providing a meal. The community that emerged from the simple act of sharing a meal was a strong community, full of hope and strength. Everyone was willing to share with their neighbor, a willingness that I don’t often see in the public arena. This community bond was created on something necessary yet symbolic. The act of eating together reinforces the human need for connection and commonality.
Through my work with film, including documentaries and independent projects, I have realized the power of non-verbal communication. Human services are based so much on communication, and I believe that I can be effective in a variety of ways other than just basic dialogue. From my interviews and research, academic and otherwise, I have realized the value of conversations and trust. Observation is a necessary skill to become a social worker and my various projects have allowed to me to develop the strong powers of observation needed for detailed writing and understanding of a situation.
There are so many people living in the world who have so much to say but haven’t been given the opportunity to speak up. I did a short documentary for a class focusing on justice that involved interviewing the homeless that gather around a major public transportation transfer point in Chicago. These people live blocks from one of the biggest shopping districts in the country, yet are often overlooked, receiving appalling treatment from both tourists and locals. They were open to attempts at conversation and were optimistic about the future (this was on the eve of the 2008 Presidential election). One of my subjects was moved to tears during his interview. They provided me with the material for my documentary but in doing so, they shaped the way in which I presented the information. My original ideas shifted and instead, I focused on their emotional outpouring of anguish and grief rather than numerical statistics. It is this willingness to deviate from the standard facts and numbers that drives my goal to be a social worker.
During the spring 2010 semester, I will be involved in service learning that will enable me to mentor high school journalism students in Pilsen, a neighborhood on the south side of Chicago. Through this experience, I will be sharing with them my journalistic knowledge and interviewing skills but in return I will be able to experience a culturally distinct neighborhood that I know very little about. I am excited by this opportunity and see it is as a way to further integrate myself into the social work mindset. Working with high school students isn’t something that I’ve done before and I believe the opportunity will help me to grow as a social worker by broadening my experience base.

D. Education

My undergraduate educational experience has been one that has involved many elements, rather than one focused area of study. The Jesuit education that I have received while at Loyola has been all encompassing, focusing on educating the whole person. Within that education, there has been strong emphasis on developing communication skills including writing and oral communication as well as concentration on a broad array of studies. The variety of subjects I have studied has allowed me to take many different classes, after which I decided to select three very distinct courses of study. I will be graduating with minors in Sociology, English and Women’s Studies and Gender Studies. All of those are conducive to social work in that they have allowed to me to not only study the condition of women throughout history to today and beyond, but also to attain better understanding of the society in which I live. I have read countless cultural criticisms and theory, from which I have been able to craft a broader understanding of our position as people living in a global society.
I believe that having been in Catholic schools my whole life will greatly aid my social work progress. Having been raised in a space that puts emphasis on gratitude and service work has made me a person sensitive to the needs of those around me. From the Christian Brothers to the Jesuits, my education has encompassed the ideas of giving back, appreciation and personal reflection.
I began to consider social work during my senior year of high school, when I was the head of a group that gave grants to non-profit organizations. As we received requests from all over Colorado, I became aware of the immense need that existed within the state. Living in Chicago has only furthered my understanding of the need for assistance that exists and the lack of resources available. As we gave the checks away, I felt satisfied that we had helped the best that we could, but I was also aware of a nagging need to do more. Since then, I have considered social work as a possible career path.
During the fall semester of 2008, I was unable to maintain my grade and unwilling to ask for help when I should have. The F on my transcript represents a learning experience; not one that I’m proud of or one that helped my GPA, but one that I take full responsibility for. It was my failure alone.
As a student, I am very dedicated but also relaxed enough to not let undue stress overtake my life. Instead of becoming overly stressed about something insignificant, I do not let trivial things bother me, preferring instead to focus on the larger picture. While the small assignments are obviously important, I do my best to think further than that. I do my best work under stress, something that will help me not only in graduate school, but in my career as well. As I have said previously, I am a quick thinker, able to come up with a multitude of ideas to suit any given situation.

E. Life Experiences

It could be argued that my life has been cut out for social work since I was born. I was adopted at birth and have remained in contact with my birth mother throughout my life. Reading a journal that my biological mother wrote for me shortly after my birth, in which she discusses the emotions that she was feeling at the time I was born and then after, I have realized the immense hope and joy that can come from a situation that involves selfless sacrifice. My adoptive mother’s career has also shown me selfless service. She works as a special education teacher in the Aurora school district. Watching her struggle with the situations that she faces on a daily basis, such as lack of resources or the hesitation of parents to get involved with their child’s education, have shown me the strength, determination and modesty involved with social work.
After finding out that my mom had been diagnosed with kidney cancer during the fall of my sophomore year of college, I made arrangements to leave Loyola and come back to Denver to be with her and my brother through his senior year of high school. I spent the spring of 2008 in Denver with my family, watching my mother heal even though she was still working to help the students that she cares so much about. Being around my supportive family made me feel immense gratitude, yet at the same time, I understand that many people don’t have the same support network that we do. This is about the time that I realized that social work was indeed a viable career path for me.
My parents’ divorce left me as a child whose loyalties were spread between many places and family members. Although there was love on all sides, no divorce can be an easy thing. As a child, there was no one to turn to for help or guidance. This experience left me able to deal with very personal human and social problems. Coming from a non-traditional household and then becoming a child of divorce, I am able to empathize with children that I will come in contact with; my understanding of their feelings will allow me to gain their trust and also to be effective in helping to support them. I understand the pressures that children from non-traditional families face, especially through school and oddly, holiday seasons. The idea of the broken family is becoming more and more prevalent in our society today, and the children affected by these families need all the guidance and positive reinforcement that they can get in order to succeed. I am a stronger person than I was when my parents got divorced, and part of that is because of the emotional turmoil that we went through. My unwavering faith in myself is what allowed me to persevere through that difficult time and that confidence will allow me to trust my instincts and make the correct decisions as I enter into the social work field.

F. Social Work Values and Ethics

If Chicago is one of the most diverse cities in the United States or even the world, then Rogers Park is one of the most diverse neighborhoods in the country. You cannot walk through the area I call home without seeing people of every color, speaking any number of different languages walking, biking or driving. Families live among college students. Rogers Park is still a neighborhood of small distinct shops but is also home to Loyola University Chicago, a growing institution that has begun to spread into the surrounding neighborhood. Living among a wildly diverse population has allowed me to encounter people that no educational experience can teach. The issue of gentrification in Chicago is one that is growing faster than even Loyola could have imagined. The fight to keep the true identity of neighborhoods while at the same time trying to modernize them, in essence overhauling their identity and population, has been one that has the city polarized. During the unsuccessful bid to bring the Olympic games to Chicago, the debate about gentrification came to the forefront. My proximity to this debate, even as a temporary resident of the city, has made me mindful of the ethical dilemmas in our growing and changing society.
Spending time at a local restaurant has allowed to me to begin a friendship with a man from Zimbabwe. During our conversations, we do much comparison between the cultures in which we live. It is through these casual experiences that I have been able to gain insight and knowledge into different cultures. The ability to transcend my own culture in order to understand the cultures of those around me and the differences therein will allow me to engage in social work from a unique perspective. I have developed friendships with people of all ages, races and sexual orientations during my time in Chicago. Recently, there was an immense outpouring of student support for a student who had been a victim of harassment based on his sexual orientation. Taking part in the discourse on this subject led me to understand more about the way that many people think about race, class, gender and orientation and has also made me want to fight for equality on all levels. Living in Rogers Park isn’t always ideal due to the high crime rate and vandalism issues, but it has been a worthwhile experience that I will never forget.
During the fall of 2009, I spent time writing a lengthy ethnography about the BDSM (bondage and discipline, sadism and masochism) community. My research took me to diverse places that many were hesitant to travel to or even hear about. The subcultures that I profiled and critiqued are a large and often underrepresented part of the population. I was welcomed and treated as an equal, finding information to be willingly offered and thoroughly explained. Spending time in not only public places, but private clubs as well, I was able to gain access to places that few (except private members) will ever see. I also watched the reactions that people had when I described the project. These reactions showed me the misconceptions that people hold about certain communities. I was able to remain objective in a community that is often hostile to outside involvement and hard to comprehend by hegemonic social standards. This experience helped to shape my love of the diversity that I have embraced while living in Chicago, but furthermore, emphasizes my ability to do cross-cultural analysis and to engage in discussion of taboo subject matter.
Seeing everyone as a human being rather than viewing anyone as existing within any specific category is something that allows me to enter into social work with an open mind and an open heart. My emphasis on global community may seem repetitive, but I truly believe that we are not only citizens of our local environment, but instead are citizens of the world. I think that any social or political advancement made as a people should be one based on mutual respect and understanding.
G. Other Factors

While I understand that my GPA (3.1) and my volunteer/work experience may be on the low end of the scale of applicants, I wish to impress on the admissions committee my desire to actively participate in social work. My undergraduate experience has not been merely studious engagement but has instead included much self-discovery as well as social and urban experience. Living in Chicago has enabled me to be a participant, not merely a voyeur in the urban environment and has made me more aware of the reality of certain issues that are present within society. Race is a still prevalent issue in Chicago and living in such a diverse city has opened my eyes to the ways in which people of the world live and work together; it has also shown me the ways that people can still be affected by prejudice and negative thinking. My time here has been not only a successful academic endeavor but has caused me to evolve as an independent person. I wish to emphasize the importance of life experiences and exploration, things that cannot be taught or quantified onto paper. I will be entering the program as a whole person, not merely someone who knows so much about the specific subjects of study, but as someone with life experience and a dedication to furthering my engagement in the world around me.

Workout Rundown/Trivia Trials

Be so proud of me, people of the world:
I worked out today.
Not only that, but I was on the elliptical for a full 54:39. (That's nearly an hour, folks.)  I quit once I hit 4 miles.
It's something that I rarely do. I prefer to swim. I'm good at it, it's relaxing, it doesn't hurt my knees. I have horrible knees....I'll blame track but I think they've always been bad. Today it's snowing and the high is 20 degrees, so going swimming isn't really an option. There's nothing worse than walking home with frozen hair or a cold body.
I got into a nice mental rhythm with a nice playlist to back it all up and I just let go. I had originally told myself that I only had to do fifteen minutes (the cold has sort of messed up my lungs, they're still a little wheezy), but after fifteen I was feeling good. After thirty I wasn't done. After 45 I was like, well, why not make it an hour. But then I realized I hadn't eaten, so 4 miles became the goal.
And, to my surprise, I liked it.
I'm going back tomorrow.
Getting toned is something easily within my grasp.

Last night we went to Hamburger Mary's to do trivia. Ever since the homophobic incident at Hamilton's, we've been looking for another place to do trivia. The upside of Hamburger Mary's: I love the place. It's free to play trivia. It's in one of my favorite neighborhoods in Chicago (Andersonville) and it's easy to get to. It's like a ten minute drive and once the weather warms up, it'd be a nice long walk or a short bus trip. Anyway, the trivia was nice. It could have been harder, but we lost by three points, so I guess maybe we should have done better.
But hopefully we've found our new trivia hangout.

Feminism, or something like it.

I've spent four years of college learning about feminism and the sociological implications of being woman in the world.
I've spent twenty one years being a woman in the world.
I'm just now getting the theory behind it all, even though I've been studying, discussing and living the "how" part of the equation forever.

This is an unorganized rant. I like it. I'm sticking to it. 

I was not raised in a house where gender was an issue. I do not come from a traditional family structure. My mother never cooked dinner and vacuumed in pearls. In fact, I spent much of my childhood without gender. Yes, I had dresses and I was in love with Mom's makeup and I learned to run in high heels (I have mistyped "hells" three times), but I was never expected to act like a lady. I am grateful for having a brother. I know how to roughhouse and make mud pits and have fond memories of playing hockey in the street.
Being a girl wasn't something I was overly concerned about until I hit about the seventh grade. Even then, I was labeled as "uncool," probably because I wasn't showing any overt interest in makeup or boys and making out wasn't very high on my priority list. I didn't feel the need to be attractive to men. And trust me, I wasn't.
I have always displayed typically male characteristics. Even now, I love sports games, mostly football and basketball, and I love to drink beer and eat steak. I always consider myself three-eighths male (how I settled on that number, I'm not quite sure). I am feminine, immensely so and possess the deeply emotional capacity expected of women. I love mascara and everything that goes along with it, but am in no way "high maintenance." I'm not afraid of sexuality, and have suffered social repercussions based on that. I am not dainty, nor do I claim to be. I'm not usually the submissive one in a relationship, and until recently, have never been courted in any sort of traditional manner.
I won't lie, I hate girls. I do not hate them because they are women, but I hate the ways that they act as women. I hate the cattiness (sp?), I hate the obsession with appearance, I hate the whole persona they don in order to please men. When I find a woman who is realistic and approachable, not wearing a fake feminine guise, I am comfortable and from there, can work to create a bond. The male is easier to get along with, less passive-aggressive and more open to odd conversations without the feeling of being threatened. Perhaps once women realize that we're not all threats to each other, we'll be able to get along and foster a sense of respect and unity that I am beginning to suspect doesn't exist, even in our post-modern world situation. 
Sometime around the beginning of high school, I realized that attracting men was something that was easiest done if I lowered my perceived intelligence level. I have spent the last eight years with low standards and expectations, not only for my partners but for myself. I am recovering, slowly but hopefully. I am embracing my intelligence and my femininity, but equally, my independence, something that men are equally impressed with and afraid of.
Over break, I started seeing someone intelligent and successful, two things that I have been afraid to embrace based on my perception of myself. My reactions were overwhelming and nearly instantaneous. Not toward him (well, okay, maybe), but toward myself. I started seeing myself differently, more ably. I looked in the mirror and saw someone beautiful, maybe not entirely grown up, but getting there. I mean, he was wonderful, but I felt like I was able to hold my ground. I'm young, I'm still a child, I know this, and there are so many things in the world I still need to experience. But I was able to hold an intelligent conversation, hopefully carrying my own weight. While I'm still gaining my footing as far as feeling "worth it," this was a massive step in the right direction. I want to be around people who make me feel motivated to succeed, to try, to want to reach for something. The poor guy has no idea that he will be a huge factor in my life, even though the acquaintance was brief. It was thrilling, exhilarating, the rush that I felt. I felt like a person. I have never been "wined and dined" but this was exceptional. Perhaps not, but let's review my dating history briefly. Are you shuddering, wincing, thinking, "ooh, that was rough"? I am. And I knew it. When I brought home one boyfriend toward the end of high school, I told Mom, "Don't worry, this is only temporary."
I will say that the one thing that attracted me was the level of non-pretentious-ness  about the whole situation. I HATE pretentious people. Success does not have to include a nasty attitude. Intelligence does not preclude pretension, but that way of thinking about others (and inherently, yourself) shouldn't be the norm. I am just as intelligent as most of the people in the world but don't feel the need to display it as though my position in society is somehow elevated.
I've always known that I wanted to seek better, but I guess somewhere, didn't think I deserved it. I do. I am Katie Barry, hear me roar. (I'm keeping that sentence but I thought about deleting it. It's horrifyingly embarrassing yet also so timeless in its statement.)
Of course, no woman should have such expectations for being bought. I do not expect to become an under-earning, under-performing housewife. I want to work. I do not want to stay at home with the children (once I successfully find a man worth my ovaries), because I would be bored to tears. I love children, I want to work with them, but I want a career. I want to find fulfillment outside the household. That and I can't clean or cook anything but bacon and pie. Bacon and pie are a great start, but hardly worth a man keeping me caged at home for 9 hours a day.
Social convention does not allow women to act as men yet to remain feminine. I am that dichotomy in the flesh. I am lovely, sweet, submissive (at the proper times), snuggly, soft, all of the things a woman should be. But I am also loud, stubborn, offensive (at the proper times, hopefully), dominant, aggressive, unafraid.
I have a walk. It's a strut, really, and I'm not really sure how it came about. It's male in its basic form yet feminine and fierce once you throw high heels into the mix. See, for me it's less about gender bending and more about gender blending. Pick and choose, just like religion. That selection has worked so well for me spiritually and it seems to be working in my dating life as well. Men are attracted to someone who's not afraid to speak her mind. Not that life is all about attracting men, but, you know, I do have that as a goal.
I'm linking to an article I read in Newsweek. It's about feminism being blamed for the state of dating. I am not settling. I do not ever want to settle nor do I want to be old and single. I want a life-partner, emphasis on partner. I want a husband or a boyfriend or a life partner who is my opposite and equal. But not yet. In the later years, please.
I come from a non-traditional family with realistic expectations. I never understood myself to be a woman. I was just a part of the family. I was not expected to maintain any certain role, but rather, was accepted for who I was, be that feminine or masculine. My level of education has never been a subject up for discussion. Of course there was going to be college. I never for a second thought that I wouldn't go. There were no expectations of anything more or less. There was just do.
I come from a family of strong women. Women who can and do provide for themselves and those around them. There's a strong sense of satisfaction that comes from being able to maintain yourself as an individual rather than based off of someone next to you. Any marriage is a partnership, focused on a mutual respect for one another rather than on dependence. The women in my family are educated, intelligent and wildly successful in their endeavors. I am joining their ranks in a few months (once I become a college graduate, I feel as though I'm more of a person. This is an error, I understand, but it's strongly based on my desire to achieve and at the moment, I'm just trying to survive each day without becoming overwhelmed by my workload and lack of sleep) and am pleased to have the support system that I do have. Without it, I would not be where I am today. 

Also this blog sounds very self-focused. It is. It's my blog. But this feminism idea is not based on feminism for other people but rather feminism for myself. Today, I am declaring myself a rational feminist (a term coined by one of the Irish, actually, but I liked it and I'm taking it and making it mine). I have reasonable expectations for equality. I am not looking to outdo men, but rather to coexist peacefully with them.
Perhaps a rational feminist is then a humanist. More than being a woman, I am a human being.
Blah blah blah.
I am, however, already sick of feminist theory. We're what, a week into school?
By the way, this was all procrastination of Spanish homework. The Jesuits had no idea what they were getting themselves into when they decided to educate the whole person. I'm self-reflecting. This should count for credit hours. Education in action, no?

the promised link::
http://www.newsweek.com/id/232112

"It's a death thing, you wouldn't understand."

I remember the last night. I remember Dad leading me outside to where Chelsea lay in the grass. I remember petting his soft body.
And when the morning came, I remember running down the hall from my room into Mom and Dad's. I remember sobbing, sobbing, knowing he was dead. He was gone. That memory spins, it's strange. It slides around and around in my head, ending with my three-year old eyes seeing the ceiling from where I was laying on their bed.
That was my first experience with grief. It certainly wasn't my last, but maybe animalian grief doesn't translate to the grief of human loss.
Is human loss just like any other loss? Is all loss inherently the same?

I've never lost someone close to me.
I've been to many funerals; I've seen people throughout the stages of grief. I've attended the funerals of the old, very old, and the young, middle aged. And I won't lie, I've never felt anything.
One day, I'll have to give someone I love to the afterlife. I know it'll be painful.
My biggest fear, the most pervasive, the one that strikes me at the most unexpected moments, is the loss of my mother. That loss hopefully won't come for a long time, but even when it does, I won't be ready.

Lise is readying herself for the loss of her husband; it's been a drawn-out process. I've been unable to figure out how to properly comfort. I feel helpless, even though I'm so removed from the situation. I've decided to listen, asking a few questions here and there and then offering support. Support, hardly, just a few words promising strength and future. It's hard for me to know what to do. I'm caught with the web of life. My life-giver is losing a life partner and I'm unfamiliar with the procedure. It shouldn't be procedural though.

Death is death, it comes swiftly or slowly but never not at all. It is the single commonality for our race, for everything living. To have life, there must be death.
I'm not afraid to die, but I'm afraid to live through the deaths of the people I love. I'm afraid of the things left unsaid, of the moments redirected, spent elsewhere instead of there. Loss from which there can be no gain. Peace after time. It's all so simple but so unknown.

Grief is fragile, a beautiful reminder of life. It's both necessary and humbling, human and sublime.


*This was a weird post. It didn't go at all like I had planned it.

I re-read it and went back. This is from a moment that nearly mirrored Chelsea's death for me. Sixteen years passed between the two, but when I heard the news from Mom, I hung up on her. I threw the phone down and broke down, choking on my own tears.
Oh I'll never forget that day. I took the call in my room, staring at my dark blue sheets and wooden bed. The carpet. Brown carpet. Desk against the wall. Her voice in my ear. Silver phone. Hurt squeezing my heart. Rage.
Here, a bit of grief. My loss of words is evident, my shock and pain masked.

Thursday, October 11, 2007

You never can keep the beautiful feeling for too long.
News this morning broke my heart.
I'll be back home soon to take care of things.
If things get bad enough, I'll stay for longer.
I don't even know what to do.
There is nothing to do, but wait.
He was brokenhearted too at the news.
I made her promise everything would be okay.
She did, but it took her too long.
I'm scared.
I cried for too long.
I couldn't breathe. It was one of those.
Make it okay, please.
I don't pray, but I might start.
I told Katie, and she cried



*I don't edit things. I don't ever look over anything. I just do it and then it's done. But tonight, for some reason, I'm re-reading. I must have left something unsaid.
But not wanting to end on such a miserable note (not even sure why I made this a miserable post, I'm in a good mood), I wanted to include my favorite blog entry ever. And when I say ever, I mean it. Grief is one thing, but nostalgia can be nearly pure bliss. A fond memory, then.

Friday, December 14, 2007

Dear Mom,

There they were, sitting at the bottom of a box left over from freshman year. The stamps.

Graduation is official!

I went downtown yesterday to do some mandatory academic advising, which consisted of me meeting with the assistant dean and  her telling me that I'm graduating. We went over the few discrepancies/requirements left on my transcript and got it all settled.
I told her I was sorry and she interrupted me before I could finish, saying, "You're dropping a minor aren't you?"
"No," I replied. "I'm adding another one. It's so late, I know."
She laughed and called me an overachiever to which I responded, no, I'm quite the underachiever, you'd be surprised.
All in all, I have the credits nearly completed and the requirements nearly done (my god I just need to pass statistics--which shouldn't be a horrible experience. I have no problem with tangible data, it's the process I can't do. Theorems escape me. I got from point A to point B, do I really need to know every step it took to get there?)
You are looking at a very nearly college graduate. I will have a major in Communication Studies with minors in English, Sociology and Women's/Gender Studies. ha, not bad considering this has been a wild four year run. Even with the Denver semester, I'm still going to be able to graduate on time (sort of...one summer class isn't bad) and then hopefully start school again in the fall.
I've decided to attempt to apply to DU for their MSW program starting in the fall. I may not have the experience, but I'm hoping to sway them with my writing skills which I consider on par with the greats. (The previous statement is a bold lie. I'm hoping they enjoy confidence or at least the pretense of it.) Anyway, if I don't get in (which I'm expecting will be the outcome), I'll stick to the original plan and get a job in DPS. However, if I get in (please, please) then I will be able to start the full-time two  year program in the fall.
I've been trying to get around doing it, but I just requested my transcripts from Loyola and need to do so from MSCD so it looks like I'm actually applying. I spent like two hours the other day trying to figure out how to write a curriculum vitae that makes me look like a thrilling, dynamic individual. On paper, I'm really lame. Personal interviews, however, are another thing. I'm engaging, entertaining, intelligent. Not really. But you know, it never hurts to try.

I'm procrastinating again. I should be reading the 30 pages of feminist literature I have due in an hour. But alas, I'm not.
 I found out yesterday that I not only have an ear infection but my first parking ticket of the year as well.
I'm getting nervous. This afternoon's task is write a resume (eek, I've done it before but for some reason it always leaves me feeling so inadequate), and then attempt to begin to tackle the seven page life response that they require. Other than that, it's just a check and some online forms I've already filled out. Pray for me or send me thoughts or something of a spiritual nature: I'll need it now more than ever.

Schedule

The morning has brought a much brighter outlook. Not necessarily sunny, but looking up.

I'm posting my schedule as much for me as for you.

Monday Wednesday and Friday:
-Fundamental Statistics at 11:30 -12:20  (STAT 103)

(The statistics class is the math core requirement, which has remained open after the logic fiasco.)

Monday nights:
-Advanced Reporting from 7:00-9:30 downtown (CMUN 315)

(Ugh. I swore I would never do anything journalistic again. I'm good at it, I just really hate reporting for some reason. I needed this class for the Civic Engagement Requirement --it was either that or a social work class that I couldn't make due to a Spanish conflict.)

Tuesday Thursday:
-Introduction to Women and Gender Studies 8:30-9:45 (WSGS 101)
-Feminism and Gender Topics 11:30-12:45 (ENGL 307)
-Spanish 1:00-2:15 (SPAN 102)

Thursday nights:
-Introduction to Social Work 7:00-9:30 downtown (SOWK 200)

(I just added this class today thinking that I don't need the human reproduction class that I was in, but instead, it might be nice to try out social work before I try to do it for a living. I don't know if you remember, but I was thinking about majoring in social work for awhile but then decided against it because communications offers such a broader spectrum of employment opportunities. While I'm not thrilled about having a Thursday night class, it opens up my afternoons so that I might be able to do some more volunteer work/get in a yoga class/do some more childcare.

Seeing it out for the first time makes it look easier than I had previously thought. I tried to add a seventh class so that I could just finish everything up and not have to take summer classes, but they're still blocking it. So I guess if I'm going to have to pay extra, I might as well wait until the summer to do it. I can do the first six week session (the second is out now because of jury duty and the big move) and then be done with it by the middle of June.

For a senior in college, there are a surprising amount of 101 classes. I know this. I finished my major so long ago and am just now cleaning everything up. I won't lie, I didn't do so well at the long term plan during my first couple of years of school. 

Life is strange and beautiful.

Before I get all moody as I am prone to doing, I'd like to share with you a travel tip I learned today: Don't correct TSA employees on their grammar, not even under your breath. They have sharp hearing. 


I sat in my car and sobbed, letting hot tears fall down my face and down under my chin.
I sat in the dark and in the cold and cried.
My fingers hurt, a pain extending form the core of my palms.
I know it's the exhaustion. I just need sleep and in the light of tomorrow I'll feel better. Easy enough, but not quite.

Life is strange and beautiful. I love being able to feel so deeply but I hate it. One of the biggest strengths to my character is my ability to truly feel the emotion I'm feeling. It's also the worst detriment. I love the exuberance of youth, the feel of an arm thrust out the window of a speeding car, the music, the mountains, the joy. I let myself feel it, unrestrained. And then I feel the equal but opposite reaction. The empty, the alone. Rebuilding. Renewing. blah blah blah I hate people who preach change but I'm holding onto that sentiment with all I have.

I'm here and there's so much to do. Simon looks terrible. The window is horrible. I can hardly see out of it. The car was not left in good condition---there's much cleaning to be done, both inside and out. The house, my room, the big black bag of clothes that desperately needs donated. Time is marching forward. Shopping for school supplies is a must do on the list for tomorrow.

Emily and I made dinner and are watching a movie.

Perseverance, however. I am applying to DU for fall admission. I don't want to wait a year. I may not get in, but at least I tried. If I am rejected, which I am fully expecting, I will spend the year building my experience base through volunteering and lots of field experience before reapplying next year.  So either way I'll be doing either DU or hopefully a DPS job.  Only problem is that I have ten days to get the application in. Deadlines, deadlines. I've enlisted Maddie as my unemployed life coach to help me get this all situated. Keep yours fingers crossed, dear readers.

48 hours.

I've got that same uneasy feeling I get before I go back to Chicago. Everytime. There is no state of mind that makes it any different. Whether or not I'm reluctant to go (which I usually am), it's always a sense of foreboding that fills me in the days leading up to my departure.
I've had so much fun being home. Last night, Val and Heidi and her dad and I played trivia. It was excellent. We won, and the judge developed a fondness for me based on my answer of "Wolverine (growl)" to a question about the largest in the weasel family in the US.
I've loved going out downtown. I will say that Denver's eligible bachelors are infinitely more attractive than the ones in Chicago and quite a bit nicer too. I wish...a few things but fate must have something up its sleeve. Perhaps not all is lost, but then again, I can never read the people that I need to the most. Character is one thing, intentions are completely another.
My senses are spinning. Especially now, when I know what lays in store for me for the next semester. The break up was horrible, not on my end, not at all, but for him. The way he's reacted to it has made me cringe at the thought of seeing any of our mutual friends. While the old adage, "stick and stones may break my bones..." seems to apply here, it's taken me all that I can do not to fire back. I've slipped once and have since received even worse treatment. I do not have to tolerate such abuse.
I thought everything would be done and over by the time I got back, thought that time would heal all wounds, but alas, it has not.  However, Simon has been put in the safekeeping of Madeline, so I feel a little bit better about that situation. I will be picked up from the airport on Sunday afternoon and will immediately be taken for drinks. Immediacy is the prescription for the evening, just as overcome and avoid has been the plan of action since Thanksgiving.
I'm hesistant to leave the house. (I just re-read that sentence and realized it sounds nutty. I am not hesitant to leave the house in terms of going outside, I am hesistant to leave because it's my home and has been for the last 18 years.) I'm hesistant to leave Mom alone for the next few months. I'm going to miss Katie (always).
I feel the loose ends piling up and I realize that there's nothing to be done but take flight and hope for the best.

48 hours until Chicago (give or take 1 hour).
4 days until classes resume.
6 weeks until I set foot back in Colorado.
4 months until I am a college graduate.
6 months until I move back to Colorado.
6 months until jury duty (thrilled).
7 months until I hopefully have a job with DPS.
18 months until I begin graduate school.

This semester is about me. I'm not going to let anyone dictate my terms. I'm going to eat all my vegetables, learn how bake, fight for something I believe in (this may mean finally joining the anti-death penalty people who always call), get straight As (I believe that this can be accomplished simply by doing my homework. What a novel idea), write, and learn how to love myself.

So wish me luck on the 8th leg of the grand adventure that has been Chicago. Let's hope the city saved the best for last (and by best I don't mean worst).

poetry

Youth poetry slam was thought provoking, but the thoughts that sprung to mind weren't necessarily brought on by the insights that the young poets were sharing. Insights, hardly. The repetition repetitively repeated itself until there was very little left to say. One poet, however, chose to perform a piece about chili-mac-and-cheese. Unique.

It was an enjoyable evening, dark wine to match the dark curtains hung behind the stage. Red like the lights draped across the ceiling. Wooden chairs, clustered young adults throughout a crowded room. Music from another room floated in as the waitstaff flitted back and forth, carrying clear pitchers of water.

Four performers, or five, maybe. I whispered the scores I'd have given, not really wanting to give scores at all. Poetry is such a personal art, I thought, held so close. Created, sometimes quite poorly with the worst of intentions. All writing is created with the worst of intentions, though; really, a self-serving selection of words, melodrama, lingering glances and forced emotional pain from which might spring personal growth, all set for a stage created and existing only in the author's mind. But that's where the beauty is. To see it is to connect, for a second, with the words they wrote, to feel them, almost, but barely, to know them.

Anyway, it's strange how so much of growing up can't be taught. I think that's what I drew from watching youth poetry. Think. Because I was so busy living somewhere else, I'm not entirely sure what I drew. Perhaps a million poems from now I'll know what I felt.
Listening to life experiences that can't be relived is beautiful, but then again, so is living.

I turned on the tv this morning to fall asleep and the movie "The Dead Poet's Society" was on. Do you remember going through that Walden Pond phase? Whew, I'll never forget senior year of high school. I embraced transcendentalism like a second skin, loving the possibilities that it offered. Even thinking about it now makes me smile. I seized the subject matter with such fervor, not wanting to wade through Emerson or Thoreau, but wanting to dive in. But the details have long been forgotten.

I emerged as we all must from that phase having realized that life cannot be lived in the mind. And thus, I had forgotten the rush that I felt as a lost teenager when the BRAND NEW NEVER BEFORE SEEN idea of "Carpe Diem" hit me. NO ONE had ever felt like that. NO ONE, NEVER. Ha, ha, it's sad to think that now I've realized that instead of being unique I was merely being another in the long line of people to embrace and then disregard (perhaps not entirely) the ideas that Emerson and Thoreau (among many others, including A.E. Waite - of Rider Waite Tarot card fame) put forth into the world.

I watched about five minutes of the movie before growing annoyed at everything: their actions, their ideas, etc. I turned on HGTV and learned how to stage a house for sale (arguably a better waste of time) and finally fell asleep, most definitely not seizing the day.

Some of that jumble of thoughts must have lingered because I woke up with the urge to go exploring. Instead, I walked the Highline Canal from Iliff through Fairmont and back. I know it's really morbid, but I love graveyards. They are so peaceful, so stunningly set apart from the rest of the surrounding city, so immense in their silence and calming in their sprawling, curving layouts. The path cuts through the cemetery, backing up to one of the mausoleums (I'm not sure that it's what they're called--those tall, flat, white wall-like structures?). As I passed, I heard a family crying as they buried one of their relatives. The pain was acute and although I felt it not for them in particular, I felt it for those who have to grieve and lose.

Life, for all its beauty, is an immense burden to bear.
To all of those in our family grieving, I extend my support. I'll not pretend to know your pain or even try to understand it.

Avery came over tonight, knocking at the back door in the dark.  She was wearing the tiniest little boots but had her pants pulled up past her knees. She proceeded to inform me that they may have gotten wet on the walk over. I opened it and she came in. "Where's Ms. Barry?" she asked. "At quilting class," I told her. "Oh, I came over to see you," she told me matter-of-factly.
We had hot chocolate and played with Barbies. I had to be Prince Erik, but it's alright. No less than three times did she say, "I love you, Katie." I would be Prince Erik or even one of the "mean ones" forever to get to hear her say that or even to hear her chatter away.

Also, completely unrelated to most everything in the blog: Please don't workout without a shirt. Especially indoors. This applies to all genders, races and age groups. yuck.

Blegh

T H E   F O R E H E A D   D O T
>
> Finally, someone has explained this.
>
> For centuries, Hindu women have worn a dot on their foreheads. Most of
> us have naively thought this was connected with tradition or religion,
> but the Indian Embassy in Washington , D.C. , has recently revealed
> the true story.
>
> When a Hindu woman gets married, she brings a dowry into the union. On
> her wedding night, the husband scratches off the dot to see whether
> he's won a convenience store, a gas station, a donut shop, a taxi cab
> or a motel in America .. If nothing is there, he must remain in India
> to answer telephones and provide us with technical support.
> 










I received the above forward in my Gmail inbox this morning and haven't been able to stop thinking about it since. It followed one that involved "brain tests" to see if we could spot something different in a group of the same. Guess which test was included? Spot the black president.

I won't say much because I know that I too am guilty of letting these things slip by unnoticed, but this is unacceptable behavior if we want to consider ourselves people of the world.

The most intelligent professor that I have had in my four years of college is an Indian woman. Slender with long dark hair and a beautiful smile, she stands in front of us not with a little red dot but with the knowledge of cultures, languages and literature that I can only dream of.

So stop putting everyone you know or meet or even talk about in a corner based on their history, race, culture, religion, etc. It's nasty, very un-neighborly behavior.

I think that this is a response to a comment I made at dinner the night about rape. I feel guilty. A sentence slipped out of my mouth that I regret saying, even thinking. And you know what, maybe what I was saying had some partial truth value but at the same time, it didn't need to be voiced. Every woman has a right to the sanctity of her own body and no matter who she is or what profession she may have taken on, no one should ever take that right away from her. That being said, the truth is the truth and no amount of distortion should be allowed to create a situation.

I'm in town until next Sunday -- I wanted to be able to get to Ft. Collins (which I now will be able to do!!) and get other stuff done. No real reason other than avoiding Chicago for the moment. Very mature, I know. We've got someone guesting on our couch and I am not in the mood to deal with visitors now, so hopefully that will all be over by the time I go back. I miss Simon, though, and desperately need to get him to a shop where he can be cleaned up. Apparently, Goo-Be-Gone (sp?) hasn't helped with the spray paint. I swear, I want to find that kid who did it and spray paint him.