Stories From France

During my senior year of high school, I had the opportunity to travel to Paris, Provence, Monaco, and Nice. I had taken French all four years of high school, was hesitant about speaking with ease with any native French speaker, and nervously elated to travel abroad with a group of my classmates and chaperones.

As much as I would love to be like David Sedaris, who has written hilarious and insightful essays on his time spent in France, I was 18, and only there for 11 days. The whole time I carried around a hot-pink satchel with a picture of the EIFFEL TOWER on it that my mom bought me from JC Penney’s.

However, I remember important moments of this adventure, how I was able to briefly experience another place, and how I really believe (at the risk of sounding dramatic) that it helped influence and change my life. So, here are some short stories.

Note: I tried an embarrassingly long time to put in all of the proper accents for the French words, and could seriously not figure out how to add them. So, hopefully this doesn’t offend anyone, or make anybody flench who speaks French. I am truly sorry and yes, it bugs me too.

2 Days Before Departure

My dad, like other dads before him, loves action films. You know, the ones where a white collar business man goes rogue and sets out to avenge the random, violent deaths of his wife and children? Add some explosions, car chases, and a banana in a tailpipe, and you have his dream movie.

A couple of nights before I left for France, he asked me if I wanted to watch Taken. I shrugged, always down to hang out with my dad and watch a movie on his prized big-screen TV, and hobbled down to the basement in pajama pants and a too-big t-shirt to sit cross legged on the same green leather couch we’ve had for 18 years and watch it with him. I knew nothing about the movie.

For those of us who missed 2009, Taken, starring Liam Neeson, is about a retired CIA agent who travels across Europe to rescue his daughter, who was kidnapped in Paris and became a victim of human trafficking. Neeson uses his “special skills” to retrieve her in a horrifying and traumatic movie that basically scared young women into never wanting to travel to Europe.

As the ending credits rolled, I sat wide-eyed.

“Now you know that you have to be careful” my dad nodded to me. “Don’t talk to anyone. Even if it is a cute boy. Don’t go out anywhere with your friends at night. Stay with the group. Don’t trust anybody.”

I slid off of the couch until my bare feet touched the carpet, and went upstairs to finish packing.

The Flashmob

I had an awesome French teacher that really focused on French pop culture. We watched classic French movies, musicals, and listened to current French musicians. I learned that French people love Aretha Franklin, and became obsessed with Edith Piaf after watching La Vie en rose.

During class while listening to popular French music, our teacher played a timeless French song called Cette Annee La, by Claude Francois. Claude Francois was a vocalist who took popular American melodies and changed the words to create French hits. Cette Annee La, translated to “That Year”, used the song “Oh What A Night” by The Four Seasons. The 1976 video was iconic, featuring Claude and a group of women doing a boppy little dance while they sang. According to our teacher, the dance was super popular in France, like Americans moving their arms to Y-M-C-A.

“For those of us going to France,” my teacher began, “We will be doing a flashmob to Cette Annee La.” The class purred with excitement.

“They will LOVE it,” he continued. “They will appreciate that we took the time to learn their culture. This will be really fun.”

So, for months, we had lunchtime and afternoon practices to learn the dance moves to Cette Annee La. We were a group of 30, very white and happy high schoolers grape-vining in the choir room with the door closed and Claude Francois’ voice echoing off the padded walls. We were going to rock it.

Joe’s Shoulder

There weren’t any direct flights from Columbus to Europe, so on the day that we left, we took a four hour bus ride to Detroit. From Detroit, we could fly to Frankfurt, Germany. From Frankfurt, it would be another shorter flight to Paris.

The flight from Detroit to Germany was long, with a fair amount of turbulence. I was impressed because the seats in front of us had little televisions on them, so that each seat could watch whatever they wanted. My friends luckily sat together on another part of the plane, while I was placed next to my classmate, Joe.

Joe had always been genial, but we never really hung out. Throughout the flight, we exchanged small talk when we weren’t watching movies on the small screens or listening to music, but mostly just sat in silence. We didn’t have much to say.

As we flew across the Atlantic and the sun was beginning to set, the flight staff decided that it was time for us to go to sleep. They turned off the lights, instructed us to shut our windows, and a calm voice came over the PA system to gently tell us “Goodnight and sleep well”.

It was honestly really weird.

Others surrounding us put on eye masks and pulled out small pillows for sleep. Well this is strange, I thought, feeling like I was in the television show Dollhouse, but snuggled up with a blanket that I packed anyway.

A few hours later, I stirred awake, realizing that we were still on the plane. I also noticed that I had been accidentally sleeping on Joe’s shoulder. I shot up, embarrassed and my neck cramping (although probably not as bad as it could have been, thanks to my impromptu pillow).

“Oh, wow, I am really sorry!” I started.

“It’s okay, don’t worry about it,” Joe smiled. “I was asleep anyway.”

Joe and I didn’t really speak for the rest of the trip or in years since, but I will always remember how cool he was to let me sleep on him. Thanks, Joe. What a guy.

The Rue de la Place Man

I cannot even accurately describe the beauty of Paris at night time. Some things are so lovely, and so breathtaking, that they should only be detailed through poetry.

Our group had migrated back to the Eiffel Tower, after having seen it earlier in the daylight for ample photo opportunities. This time, we had the chance to go all the way to the top of the tower if we wished. After having an actual panic attack from riding The Tower of Terror about a year earlier (It ended with my mom pulling me into the nearest restroom and dunking my head under a sink to calm me down..I was 17 years old) I didn’t think that I would be too keen on experiencing Paris from up above.

My friends wanted to climb to the top, and I said that I would wait for them to be finished. However, a familiar little voice in my brain told me But what if you regret it? and the adrenaline convinced me to give it a shot. (A friend later described this as a symptom of FOMO-Fear Of Missing Out. I have really strong FOMO. I am not sure who coined this but whoever you are, thank you).

So, we waited in line and purchased our tickets. Then, we began to climb the tower (This sounds like we tackled it King Kong style, which actually would have been hilarious and really awesome. We also would have a cool “Hey, I got arrested in Paris” story.) with a combination of stairs and elevators as my extremities began to feel like they were weightless and being pricked by small needles.

At The Eiffel Tower, there are technically two tops. You can go to the top of the tower, and then you can also take a small stairway to the VERY top, where you truly cannot go much higher, unless you like, climb the pointy thing that sticks out the top. (Again, King Konging it).

We were waiting to get to the first top, which required an elevator. I was standing in the line to board, trying not to think about The Tower of Terror, when I heard a loud, booming voice coming from an American man in front of us.

“Okay, okay listen. We are staying on this street,” he held up a map for his wife and two daughters to see. The man was wearing a pale blue button up shirt, khaki shorts, and a fishing hat. His family was dressed similarly.

“So we just gotta get out of here, and walk this way, and look for Roo day law Playce and our hotel” he continued to speak way too loud. It was obvious at this point that he wanted to sound like he knew what he was talking about to impress Parisians, fellow tourists, and his eager family.

I shuddered at his gross mispronunciation. My French accent was far from perfect, but he was so confident and obnoxious in his want for everyone to think that he was important, intelligent, and in charge, that I couldn’t help but be embarrassed.

Oh great, I thought, trying to make myself smaller and blend in with my friends. I pulled my hot pink satchel close, hiding the obvious Francophile imagery. No wonder Europeans aren’t fans of Americans. People like him, who feel the need to establish themselves and be big in a culture that isn’t their own, made us look ignorant and obnoxious. You don’t have to command attention and take up space to be important.

The elevator finally arrived as we all started ushering in close. And what do you know, we ended up on the same trip as Roo day law Playce man and his family.

“Girls! Look at that!” he pointed an exaggerated hand at the metal gears that turned the elevator, allowing it to be pulled upward. “Here we go!” he bellowed, like a man on a rickety state fair roller coaster. His family was eating it up. I was clenching my teeth and hoping that I could pass as being a Parisian who liked to go to the top of The Eiffel Tower for kicks on the weekend.

Thankfully, once the elevator arrived, we filed out and lost Rue day law Playce in the crowd. I didn’t see him again for the remainder of my time in The Eiffel Tower, but I always knew that one day I would write about him.

Oh, and the view from the top? Gorgeous. You could feel your insides all rising to your throat, and the wind was cold and dangerous, but the dancing of lights and toy cars below made it worth it. To become a piece of the structure withstanding time and breathing in the art and music from hundreds of years from the highest place that you have ever stood. I would do it all again, many times.

The First Flashmob

It was our second day in Paris, and we were ready to spring our well rehearsed flashmob on anyone who was lucky enough to be around. Our tour guide coincidentally directed and taped documentaries, so he was on board to film us any time we did the flashmob.

We all stood around a popular open area that was a prime place for taking pictures of the surrounding infrastructure. We talked amongst ourselves, acting like it was any normal day hanging out by the Eiffel Tower.

The music started from a small boombox that our teacher brought with us, and Ezra, our classmate and leader of the flashmob, walked around mouthing the beginning words of Cette Annee La in an animated way. Onlookers stared in confusion, and gave him some space.

Row by row, we filled in, also mouthing the words and dancing along. The crowd laughed and cheered, taking pictures and videos of our efforts. My heart was heavily beating, but it was exhilarating.

Thinking back on it now, as silly and entertaining as it was, I laugh at the humor of it all. That I can be one of those people who sits back in a conversation, crosses their arms, draws in their breath and says “Eh, I was in a flashmob once”.

And the lights dim as the curtain closes.

The Mona Lisa?

I absolutely loved the Louvre. We learned that it could take 75 days to get through the whole museum if you look at each piece of art for 60 seconds, during 8 hour periods. I sincerely wish that we had 75 days.

After wandering through the galleries and halls, my friends and I finally approached the room that housed the Mona Lisa. I could think back to elementary school, when we first learned about Leonardo da Vinci and tried to replicate the Mona Lisa’s likeness for a grade while watching Sesame Street’s Don’t Eat The Pictures. (Elementary school art class totally shaped me as a person.)

My palms were sweating as I ran my fingers through my bag for my camera. As we finally got through the hordes of tourists who were walking inch by inch on tiptoe, I saw her. Or did I? It was sort of hard to tell.

The Mona Lisa was small. Very small. There is ample space surrounding her, and ropes in front so that people couldn’t get too close. I could only manage to see her from about 20 feet away. My pictures came out blurry, but at least I have the mental image..and know that I am probably three times bigger than the famous Mona Lisa.

Ca va Jordan? Ca va?

While taking a lunch break in between our sight-seeing, our chaperones granted us permission to walk around the area without supervision. My friends and I took off down a side street, and soon saw a cafe that offered pizza.

I wasn’t going to eat, so after the three others ordered their food and went to grab a seat, I stood alone at the counter, eyeing the hot chocolate on the menu.

The man taking the orders was probably close to 40, and had dark features. Tan skin that had seen a lot of sunlight, black hair, a prominent nose and knitted eyebrows that made small x’s across his forehead.

I requested a hot chocolate while fishing for my money, and he continued to speak to me in French and English.

“What is your name?” he asked. “Comment t’appelles-tu?”

I smiled, figuring he was being friendly. “Je m’appelle Jordan,” I answered confidently, looking forward to the opportunity to practice my French.

“You are very beautiful,” he began, “Tu es tres belle. I wish I had a camera right now, you know why?” he asked playfully.

I was slightly flattered at the nice compliment, for Europeans do tend to be more affectionate, and I thought that he was going to make a joke, like a sweet uncle that tried really hard to be your friend. “Pourqoui?” I lifted my eyebrows. “Why?”

“So that I could take your picture. And then when I wake up every day, I could look at it and be reminded of how beautiful you are.”

My smile dropped. I became nervous. Certainly that wasn’t a normal thing to say to someone. Was he hitting on me, or was I being paranoid?

“Where are you staying?” he asked again, sensing my hesitation. I told him that I didn’t remember, even though I definitely did. “How long are you here?” he asked again. I lied and said we were leaving that day, when we were really staying another two days. I thought of Taken. I thought of Liam Neeson’s character’s daughter, and I began to shake.

“What’s wrong Jordan, do you not like me?” he chuckled as he got my hot chocolate and set it down in front of me. I could see his smirk through the steam.

I gave him a small smile and walked to the table with my friends, spilling hot liquid over the side of the cup and onto my hands as I hurried. I sat down next to them, and they instantly asked what was wrong with me. My face was white and trembling. I began to cry.

My friends hugged me as I whispered what happened. They assured me that I wasn’t overreacting, and quickly ate their pizza so that we could leave.

As we attempted to finish, the man came back, sweeping around our small table, watching me cry and shake. He laughed.

“Ca va, Jordan?” he sang while I avoided his eyes. Are you okay, Jordan? How is it going? He walked behind me, paused, and went away again. “Ca va?”

A Picnic In Provence

As we moved to Provence (the most beautiful and wonderful place that I have ever been in my life), we stopped at a supermarche to pick out lunch items for a roadside picnic.

We had limited time, and were busy trying to navigate through the store and collect our items, so our spoils ended up being some crackers, fruit, and a giant jar of Nutella.

Our bus pulled up to a countryside, overlooking a more attractive stretch of grass and hills down below. It was the most green that I had ever seen all in one place. We all sat on the ground in our groups, and ate with our hands. We dipped our fingers into the nutella and looked toward the sun, smiling at the thousands of swaying blades of grass below.

That moment will forever be one of my favorite memories, and the first picnic that I didn’t totally hate (because bugs ruin everything).

N(ice) Cream

“I want to warn you ladies to stay in groups, and try not to talk to anyone at night when you walk around” my French teacher warned us on the bus intercom. “Men here are more aggressive, and I don’t want anything to happen to any of you, or for anyone to get pickpocketed.”

I thought back to the man at the cafe in Paris and shuddered. We all silently agreed to be careful, and when night came, most of us headed out in a large group. Our tour guide had told us of a wonderful gelato place (Nice is comprised of French and Italian influences) and we were curious.

We walked up to the gelato stand in a small courtyard, surrounded by colorful buildings, the moon and streetlights glinting off the top of the icy treats. From what I can remember, there were about 60 different flavors. I excitedly ordered dark chocolate and nutella, and it was amazing. Another friend of mine got lavendar, and it surprisingly tasted like lace and afternoon naps with candles. It truly was the best gelato I had ever, and probably will ever, have.

We were in Nice for three nights. And we went to the gelato stand three times. I would honestly go every day for the rest of my life if I could. Each night, we would sit on the ground laughing and taking pictures. We even met a stray dog that joined in our inevitable flashmob.

Skinny Dipping In The Mediterranean

During our last night in Nice, a group of seniors planned to sneak out of the hotel and go skinny dipping in the Mediterranean Sea. We had a strict curfew, but they figured that they could sneak out and in without anyone ever knowing.

They told me and my other friend about it in case we wanted to join. I was embarrassingly good in high school and absolutely refused, assuming that they would get caught.

The night came and gone, and we asked them about their adventure the next morning. They told us that they went down to the beach (which was actually full of rocks, and not sand..it was cruel and horrible) and jumped into the water, but it was so cold that they ran out and went back to the hotel.

Years later, I brought it up to my mom. “And you didn’t go?” she asked. I was taken aback. “You only get to be young and crazy once” she told me.

And honestly, I have regretted it ever since. It would have made a much cooler story than me telling you about a group of cool kids that took off their clothes in the middle of the night and jumped in the sea.

Monaco

Monaco was a soothing palette of pastel paints. I am convinced that it is a real-life combination of any tropical themed postcard that has ever existed.

Upon arrival, we went to the cathedral to see where Grace Kelly was buried.

And well, they had moved her. She definitely wasn’t there. But a sign was, apologizing for Grace temporarily being removed for renovations. So, we are still not sure where they were keeping her.

We tried to do the flashmob in front of the cathedral, but the police stopped us and told our whole group that we had to leave.

The Orange

Almost all of our meals were prearranged. The restaraunts knew beforehand that we were coming, and had prepared three course dinners for us to eat together.

For a confusing 6 years of my life, I thought that I had Celiac Disease. Yes, I know that it is rare, and yes, I am very educated on it because I was told that I HAD it from a doctor, but it turns out after a later blood test that I am Celiac Free. So, during this trip, I didn’t eat gluten, and all of the restaraunts knew that previously. They were aware of all of the group’s dietary needs.

When it came time for dessert, a delicious looking piece of chocolate cake was set before me. I sighed, wanting it so badly, but told the server that I could not eat the cake.

He apologized, and told me that they made a mistake and that they had something for me. I patiently waited, hoping for ice cream or a creme brulee.

My server came back, and set in front of me a small plate with an orange in the middle. He smiled, and swiftly walked away, leaving me with my produce surprise.

Evidence

For anyone who wants to see the spectacle of our brilliant flashmob, please see the video below.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hVZh7QcepUE

Can you spot me? Bonus if you notice the cute stray dog that we made friends with in Nice by the gelato stand.

The Sensitivity Stigma

In the past week, I may have cried about three times.

In the past month, oh jeez, perhaps 20? It depends on how dark I am feeling. The number changes.

But I don’t want to portray the image of me strewn across my bed, coloring the comforter with my tears while the small of my back rises and falls with heavy sobbing.

Things that make me emote are hardly ever predictable, and often are not sad at all.

For example, things that have made me cry recently:

Driving by myself on a Saturday afternoon, knowing that I had the weekend off and seeing a single, crumpled leaf tumble in the air and go across the road. It was calming, and bright, and lovely.

The beginning instrumentation to Star Wars Episode 7. It began, and so did the sweet tears.

A picture of a baby hippo I saw on Facebook that was wet and very small. I wanted to hug it.

Hearing One Week by the Barenaked Ladies come on the radio while I was driving home from work. I love this song, and whenever it plays on the radio, my mood skyrockets out of my chest.

Seeing my dog when I recently visited my parents. I was able to kiss her little nose and sniff her ears and touch her tiny little feet paws.

And of course, miscellaneous cases where I felt hurt, irritated, left out, anxious, or existential.

Essentially, crying definitely isn’t exclusively reserved for when one is sad or angry. We know this. People sometimes cry when they are happy, and well, I am a happy-crier. I am an excited-crier. I am just an overall, general leaky bathroom faucet that starts unpredictably dripping.

From as far back as I can remember, I have easily gotten my feelings hurt. I have always been sensitive, to feelings, to senses, to loud noises. Stepping out into a bright, sunny day without sunglasses or a hat will cause me to act like a Mogwai that has just gotten its picture taken (by the way, I love that Mogwai wasn’t marked with a red, squiggly line. It wasn’t spell checked. That is awesome.) If someone turns on a vacuum cleaner or blasts music in a car, I feel like pencils have been shoved deep into my ears or that I am being attacked by the air around me. Loud clapping? Forget it. Ear phones? I have them turned down real low.

As far as being sensitive emotionally, I have memories of children being mean to me when I was younger, and I am sure that they were because children can be super evil, and realistically I may have twisted the actual situations around in my head to be a little worse than what they actually were (I realized that I said “children being mean to me” which seems like hordes of like, 25 little kids scowling on a playground, and that seems exaggerated. I dealt with about 5 mean little girls throughout elementary school, probably). A certain instance that stands out in my mind is when I went camping with girl scouts in second grade and a member of my troop, in front of many other girls, said “Jordan looks like a opossom!” and started meanly, manically laughing. And okay, reflecting on this now, I realize that it sounds silly. But I promise that it was definitely traumatic, and the first time as a person that I really questioned what I looked like, and as a gap toothed, four-eyed young human, I felt super ugly. The same girl told my whole Vacation Bible School group one summer that “my tank top was inappropriate for church”. I was so embarrassed (and also like, ten years old!!!) and thought that God was upset with me for showing my little baby shoulders on a 95 degree day. (Ugh, remember when I said that I wasn’t going to hold grudges for a New Year’s resolution? See how well that is turning out for me? You also know that I was involved with girl scouts and went to VBS, so uh yeah, little Jordan was big on the group activities.)

Like I said initially, one thing that I can be sure of, is that I have always been a sensitive person, and have hardly ever hid it well.

Times where I have cried in public:

Seeing Because of Winn Dixie in the movie theater. Really seeing almost any film in a movie theater.

In choir my sophomore year of high school because my choir teacher wouldn’t excuse my 5 minute tardy to 0 period (which started at 7:10 am) and I had never gotten a tardy before.

In hallways in high school, more than once, over a boy or two. Which is a whole lot of “yikes!” right there. Ugh, the things you wish you knew when you were 15 years old.

In my drivers ed class, when I cried at these horrible scare tactic videos. In one of them, a girl spoke about her sister that died in a car accident and well, I have a little sister! It got to me! My instructor pointed me out and laughed saying, “Wow, that must’ve really hit her!” and everyone turned around and looked at my red, shiny face, which made me cry more because it was embarrassing as hell. (He was an asshole that named the rat that lived in the class building after an infamous pedophile. Real story. I wish it wasn't.)

But it shouldn’t be. Emotions are things. They are part of the experience of being alive.

Being a woman, I have easily been written off as “overly emotional” or “crazy”. And I am not alone. How many women have been pigeonholed as the “Crazy Girlfriend” or how many guys have been written off as being “Emotionally Unstable” or pathetic because they cry? It’s gross and stupid. No one should be shamed for being emotional, because we are not all stone-faced like Chuck Norris. (Are Chuck Norris jokes even funny anymore? Am I behind here?)

There is a stigma behind emotions. But emotions do not make people weak. If I start to cry, I absolutely cannot hold it back. I have been told that my energy is almost tangible. I cannot hide what I feel, whether thrilled or furious, and if I walk into a room then it radiates off of me. You might be thinking, “Well, she sounds like she needs to control herself” but I am confident enough to admit when something makes me feel a certain way. And it’s not like I am rolling all over the floor crying or screaming at people (I really hardly ever get angry. It takes a lot to actually make me mad).

Writing off emotions as being “crazy” or “overly sensitive” only further stigmatizes mental illnesses and psychological stress in general. It is one thing if someone is upset over a bad person or force in their life, but how dare they be criticized for battling their own mind? It is such hell, that if everyone were more educated on it, they wouldn’t shrug off a young woman crying at work as “Just being hormonal”, or a dude as “Being a _____” insert whatever offensive word you’d like!

What I have found is that it is easier for people to write someone off as being emotional instead of admitting when they messed up. We hear this all of the time, with things such as:

I am sorry that upset you.

I am sorry you feel that way.

I can’t help that you feel like that.

Instead, we should probably be saying things like:

I am sorry that I upset you.

I am sorry that I made you feel that way.

I shouldn’t have made you feel like that.

It is harder to take accountability than just make someone feel like they are an emotional mess, but it isn’t cool. We don’t like to admit when we messed up. But this type of thinking makes emotional people feel like they are always wrong, and that emotions, in general, are intrinsically wrong or bad.

Being emotional isn’t an incorrect response. It is normal. So normal! We are allowed to feel and connect, to shed a tear or laugh maniacally when you feel truly happy. For some of us, a moment of pure happiness is so rare that the experience is ethereal. That we rise up out of ourselves and bask in light and warm watercolor, and none of that should be down played. We live for the highs that make all of the lows so very worth it.

By the end of the day, I will probably see a cute video of a puppy and kitten sleeping together, and inevitably, get a little overwhelmed.

By existing, we have permission to feel things, and say when we feel them. And if anyone tries to tell you that you are crazy for feeling A THING, then let me know. Once they meet me, you’ll seem normal by comparison. I am willing to do that for you.

The Not-So-Hot Pursuit: When No Means No

I was on my way back from lunch with a coworker, reminiscing about our teenage interests. We talked about television shows, movies, and books (she always assumes that because I am a huge Buffy fan, that I therefore like everything vampire--which is a gross overstatement).

While telling her that no, I hadn’t seen The Vampire Diaries and that I didn’t know the first thing about True Blood, I admitted that I did used to like Twilight. I remember being 16 and proudly carrying around the poorly written saga, as visible as the embroidered "Hollister" across my chest. I held the books high while reading during study hall, like a man in a tan trench coat running his eyes over a newspaper on a park bench. I placed it on the corner of my desk in each class. “Oh Jordan, what book are you on? I haven’t gotten that far yet!” I’d smile, feeling smug, desperate to finish the series but not wanting it to end. I wanted everyone to know that I was definitely in on the hype and totally eating up the sexiest book series that any of us had probably ever read up to that point. I knew what was cool.

My coworker responded with how she always found Edward super hot, but I told her that he never really did it for me. I thought he was weird as hell, to be honest (although I would love to know what kind of vampire-hair product he uses). I went on to say that if  I had to choose, then I would have to say that I liked Jacob better. "I was kind of rooting for the underdog, and he just seemed more likable," I reasoned.

And here is where this 2009 conversation finally gained some validity. My coworker surprised me when she said: "Yeah, but Jacob always pissed me off. Bella wasn't interested in him, and it didn't matter how many times she kept telling him no, he just kept trying to get with her. Even when I was younger I was like, "Dude. Get over it. Leave her alone. Move on.""

A cartoon light bulb went on over my head. “I never really thought of it that way,” I started, “And I am embarrassed that I thought his aggressiveness was endearing. I kind of wanted them to end up together, mostly because he was trying so hard and obviously cared about her enough to not give up.”

But is pursuing a person when they clearly have said that they weren’t interested an attractive quality? Of course not! Gross! Then why is it that men characters can relentlessly go after women characters and we see it as romantic? Women are taught that they should be worth the chase, and well, men are taught that they should chase. If a guy stays casual and distant, then he isn’t interested. If a woman is as straightforward and is always the one starting the conversation or making the moves, then she is seen as overbearing. Fictional men that tirelessly and inappropriately pine over women are seen as sweet. If a woman were to make many of the same advances, or try to kiss a guy while he was in a committed relationship, then she would not be seen as romantic, but as crazy.

But okay, let’s not base all of this societal commentary off of Twilight. I have already given it enough attention. We can move on to something that many of us have seen and love: The Office. I feel like an angry mob might chase me down after I make my next case, but please know that The Office is one of my favorite television shows and I am heavily emotionally invested in every character. I love them all, but no one is perfect.

We have seen the Buzzfeed articles, memes, and gifs showing how seemingly flawless Jim is. Jim is sweetly devoted and loyal to Pam, making most of us swoon and think of how we wanted an office romance half as thrilling and adorable. While in middle school, high school, and the beginning of college, I eagerly watched each episode of The Office as it aired on TV. After getting over the initial heartbreak of it ending, I rewatched the show in its entirety on Netflix, like most of us have done once, twice, or ten times. However, while I watched it again, I found myself being a little weirded out by Jim’s persistence. Yes, of course I wanted him to be with Pam. It was also clear that Pam did have feelings for Jim, and flirted with Jim while she was engaged to someone else, but these actions do not make a person obligated to be with someone. I know that Pam quickly kissed Jim while drunk once (don’t throw that in my face), but Jim was very sober, and very aware through the entirety of their friendship when he claimed that he “knew” that he was “waiting for his wife”.

Okay, I am sure that a lot of you think that I am dissecting one of the greatest television romances of all time, but I am just being honest. In real life, Jim’s actions would have been pretty inappropriate (as were Pam’s to some extent, to be fair). But if a woman says no, then she means no. If the roles were switched, then Pam would have looked desperate, or would have been pitied like a wounded, fragile bird. Instead, we rallied for Jim, and got angry at Pam when it took her so long to agree to be with him. Do you see what I’m getting at here? We commended Jim for his determination to win Pam over, when in reality, Pam was engaged to someone else. You can’t help if you have feelings for someone, and it can be important to be honest, but we can’t let a character’s charm cover up the fact that what he did was a little creepy.

There, I said it. In the off chance that Mindy Kaling, who I love and adore, ever reads this, she may or may not decide not to offer me the chance to write for her show, which I have been waiting for. Sorry Mindy. Please forgive me.

While I am destroying classics, I guess that I can bring up The Notebook as another example. I first saw The Notebook my freshman year of college, so I missed the initial waves of tears and beating adolescent hearts with Ryan Gosling’s picture in the middle. I decided that I would watch it, thinking that it would make me cry, but I annoyingly predicted most of the movie within the first ten minutes. I am one of those horrible people, rolling my eyes with “Oh they are totally gonna get together,” or “He’s not really dead. Just wait, he’ll come back.” I’m gross, and sometimes I hate myself.

Anyway, it was obvious that Noah and Allie were going to end up together, whatever. But in the beginning, when Noah was trying to ask Allie out, I was totally annoyed. I didn’t think that his multiple childish attempts at winning her affection were cute, but psychotic and off-putting. Like, she said no! Maybe she was being coy, or hard to get, but Rachel McAdams is super hot and can pick whoever she wants. (Oh, so I think that being really attractive gives you the right to be shallow and not give a nice person a chance? No, of course not. Shut up.)

The scene that I am thinking of in particular is when Noah HANGS from a ferris wheel, threatening to kill himself if Allie doesn’t say yes to him. Um, hello? That is insane, and if a woman had done the same thing (especially in that time period), then she would have been put away, deemed unfit to take care of herself or be around others. Yet, we giggled and gasped at his persistence, wondering why Allie was being such a bitch. No, Allie just wasn’t feeling it. And that’s fine.

So let’s flip the situation a little. If any of you haven’t seen Twin Peaks, then sorry that I am about to drop a couple of spoilers. So you can skip this part, or read on knowing that enough weird stuff happens in that show that will cover up or make you forget what I’m about to talk about. But, if you’re not interested, then know that I am about to talk about a persistent woman character. (To skip, go down to the next *)

I love Twin Peaks. I would date Agent Cooper and Audrey Horne in two seconds. In the series, Audrey Horne was seen as clever and sexy (did you know that she was only 18 when they filmed?). Agent Cooper was equally smart and attractive, therefore they were inevitably a little into each other. However, Cooper knew that he was older, and because of a previous experience, was not interested in Audrey. Audrey romanticized Cooper, and continued to pursue him after he told her over and over that he wasn’t interested. The audience saw Cooper as being responsible and reasonable (although naturally we wanted them to be together), and Audrey as being a little embarrassing and needing to listen to him and move on. When Cooper walks into his bedroom and finds Audrey naked in his bed, I remember covering my face like “Oh my gaawwdd why is she doing this?!”. Cooper turns her down, and we think of how respectful he is, and physically hurt for a now mortified and rejected Audrey.

This relationship is an example of the woman being pitied, or encouraged to stop, because we respect Agent Cooper’s opinion and wants more than Audrey’s, as a man. If it were the other way around, then Agent Cooper would be desirable and handsome, and Audrey would be irritating because she wouldn’t give into him. There is totally something wrong with this.

*The biggest thing that I can reiterate is to please, to any person of any gender, do not be woo-ed by someone who is inappropriately persistent. When you say no, please know that it is valid. You do not owe anyone anything. I personally have made two mistakes in my life where I gave into guys that I thought were being romantic, “like a movie”, that I wish I could take back. Things I am still not over. Someone pushing you into a wall and kissing you after you’ve said no and tried to walk away isn’t charming and breathtaking. Movies, television shows, and books can create unhealthy expectations and tolerance when it comes to dating or staying in a committed relationship.

Never be afraid to ask for help if you need it.

I know that these things are for entertainment value, but realizing why they are problematic is an early step to fixing societal expectations and stereotypes.

So I will still watch these things (well, some of them), falling in love with the characters all over again. There is value in talking about double standards when it comes to sex and personal space, or any type of relationship between people. We can learn from it.

I wish that at 16, I would’ve realized that Jacob just needed to take a hint. That he was not what a potential significant other should be. It could’ve saved me some trouble later.

Things To Think About For 2016

A little over two years ago, I began this silly, little blog. I started it with the hopes of being the next Carrie Bradshaw, and well, sometimes I wear overalls like she does I guess. One time, I was even subtweeted for wearing overalls. And in that moment, I became immortal.

Now I am mentally celebrating my ~*Blog-iversary*~ as my insides buzz under my skin, feeling alive and luminescent, existing in this world. This week is Christmas and I get to see the new Star Wars and a lot of people that I really care about. I’m glowing. You could see me from space.

I think about all that I have learned as a writer over the past couple of years. In the spring, I wrote my senior writing project/thesis about my trip to Ireland and how it related to me as a tourist and a third generation Irish-American. I grew as an artist through that process, and continue to expand post grad. I currently write for my job. The fact that I get paid to be creative is a privilege and a dream, and makes me want to bully everyone that told me I would be working in a coffee shop. *(see number 3 on my resolutions list)

I think about my space as an artist, and how a new year is just on the outskirts. To be honest, I never have really cared for New Year’s. I am always jazzed about eating good food and hanging with cool people, but New Year's is often disappointing. We plan for awesome parties and envision our hair sprinkled with snowflakes as we kiss the one person that we have always wanted to, but probably never will.

New Year’s also symbolizes another year of my life that has flown by, and I wonder what have I really done, and how much time I have left? (You know, cute, fun things)

But this year seems to be different. Perhaps it is the slight bit of wisdom that I have cultivated from my few months past graduating college, but I am actually kind of excited for the New Year. I even have resolutions, which I have previously thought were silly, since most people forget about them once February rolls around.

I mean, think about it, have you ever been talking to someone in like, October, and they say “Well, my News Year resolution was X, so here I am!”

Maybe it’s because I have nothing else to look forward to. Classes aren’t starting up again, I am in week infinity of the work-world, and when you are on your own and in charge of making your own goals and fun without anyone else pushing you along and petting your head, you have to do something.

And here are mine:

1. GET MY WEBSITE UP. I NEED TO STOP DRAGGING MY FEET AND COMMIT ALREADY! (Elf reference, because it is almost Christmas)
2. Be published in a literary magazine (and not beat myself up that this hasn’t happened already)
3. Stop trying to be right all of the time. I am horrible with this. If I am right about something, I want to make sure that everyone knows it, even subtly, and I need to quit being so obnoxious, even if it isn’t in an obvious way. This is totally a way that I totally suck.
4. Um..I would like to stop holding grudges! If someone wronged me in kindergarten, like Michael who tore my Arthur backpack and Nick who called me a “fat pig”, I remember it. I have gotten better at being less sensitive and letting go of things, but I really need to remove some gross unpleasantries that have lodged themselves in my brain and stop new ones from developing. Unfortunately, as for Michael and Nick, well, you’re pretty deep in there so you probably won’t come out. At least I didn’t add your last names, you little monsters.
5. *insert eat healthy and be fit ~goals~* I played competitive travel softball for 15 years. I went from strong and in shape to a hot potato in .2 seconds. A potato with lipstick, and lots of bacon and sour creme.
6. Find some way to get music back into my life because I really miss the choirs I was involved in during college. Yeah, I definitely jam out in my car but I need the challenge of some sort of musical collaboration.

I also want to put down a few things that I have learned about being an artist:

1. Do not compare yourself to others. You can look at other work to learn, or think, “I kind of like how they do this” but putting another person on a pedestal will only make you feel lesser and discouraged. In the writing community specifically, there are so many ways to share your ideas. It isn’t fair to look at someone else’s piece and make yourself feel bad. Creating art comes from passion, not wanting to prove something or be better than someone else.
2. Establish an audience. Not everyone is going to be well liked. So don’t curve your work in a way that is appealing to the masses. Know who you want to focus on, and don’t be afraid/change your ideas because you are scared that it won’t appeal to “everyone”. This is impossible. There is not one, single thing that every single person is on board with except for like, breathing. Even then, there is probably someone that is like “Ugh I really hate this having to breathe thing. Can we just, not?”
3. Look back at old work. It can be cringe-worthy. I have poems from my first creative writing class in college and wow, are they awful! But they can be adapted. You can learn from yourself, and feel good about how far you’ve come. I never get rid of anything. Yes, I am a complete packrat but I have writing from high school that I still look at for inspiration. You brought your thoughts to life once, and they deserve to keep on existing.
4. Form a community. I miss being able to switch work with other creative people in school. It is harder now, but make it happen. I give my coworker friends some of my writing, I communicate with classmates that live elsewhere and are still willing to swap work, and I reach out to friends that I have made from other interests and ask if they would be willing to see a bit of what I like to do. Think outside the box, but never stop the conversation.
5. Be inspired by other forms. Visit an art museum with a journal or a sketchpad. Bring a notebook to a concert. Attend theater productions. Walk down the street and notice torn posters and bits of chalk or graffiti and realize how lucky we are to exist not only in this physical world, but the universes of infinite possibilities inside of our heads.
6. Compliment one another. It feels so awesome to receive a message or text saying “Hey, you really made my day with this. It spoke to me when I needed it. It made me feel something.” Because isn’t that why we make anything? To feel. To help others feel. To find those that are like “HEY YEAH I THINK THIS TOO” and feel less alone. It’s essential. There is nothing wrong with being too nice and making someone’s day.
7. Be brave. It’s easy to say “Who cares what other people think?” because we all do, at least a little bit. But you don’t need validation to create. If you want to do something, you better do it because a month will go past, and then a year, and you think “I really should have done that..is it too late now?” No, it isn’t. But the sooner the better, you know?
8. Finally, pursue what you love. Right now I am not balancing my interest. I have been working on my writing and my career, but singing has taken a back seat. You shouldn’t have to pick and choose between two passions. Make it work. We only have one chance to do what we love. And it’s hard to really love something. If you do, then it needs your attention.

So there is my incredible, earth-shattering advice. And if anyone ever wants to send me anything that they are working on, I would be completely elated to view at it. We need to support each other. 

2016 is coming, and for once, I think I’m ready for it.

The Messy-Roomed Mantra

I will clean this up. I will be motivated and won't put it off any longer. I will have a spotless room.

It doesn't matter how many times I repeat encouraging lies to myself, I know that I will never pick up my shit.

I have always thrived in mess, surrounding myself by papers and sticky notes clinging to multiple books cracked like an open-faced sandwich. Where is my draft of this poem? In the pile of stuff to my right, near the bottom because I haven't looked at it in a while. Where is this text book? Under my bed because I needed somewhere specific to place it so I wouldn't forget where it was! I have a system.

There is a distinct difference between messiness and filth. I am in no way dirty, just unorganized. I attempt to sound deep and say that it reflects how my brain works, but in all reality it is probably some combination of comfort and laziness. Filth is when there is trash, dirty dishes, crusty tissues, food crumbs, and moldy smelling towels piled on top of a brush that badly needs to be cleaned of broken hairs. Messy is the innocence of being ignorant of organization. Things, although clean, exist in piles and cracks. You constantly surprise yourself by finding a knick knack that has been tucked away under your mattress or in a shoe. Every day is a treasure hunt, finding notes from a middle school friend that you haven't talked to in eight years, or being frustrated because you can't find the new hair accessory that you JUST bought the day before and would look awesome with your work outfit--but you are five minutes late and five minutes can mean fifteen minutes late with traffic. Life becomes a live-action I-Spy book that you never quite finish.

Besides the normal stuff that one usually keeps in a room, my mess is mostly comprised of small "collections" of things that I find interesting. For example, I have specific places where I store tags from clothes. If a tag is super cool, or happens to have an awesome sticker of a sassy looking girl with pink pigtails and bell-bottom jeans surrounded by flames, then I want to save it. I might use it someday, or an archaeologist could be searching my room 200 years from now and learn about how clothes were priced before society all magically got dressed like in The Jetsons or Cher in Clueless. Early 2000s "junior's" departments from JC Penney and Kohls shouldn't be forgotten. And so they live strongly, in my jewelry box.

I also have a rock collection, coin collection, a quarter-specific collection (which totally differs from my coin collection because it has a portfolio where I can collect a quarter from each state), a glass doll collection (that I actually tucked away because they were actually scary as hell), a pez dispenser collection (I didn't even mean to start collecting these, like, I am not that kind of collector. I think that people just assumed that I would be the type of person to have pez dispensers and began giving me Disney Princess and Star Wars themed ones), a Wizard-Of-Oz novelty item collection complete with the Madame Alexander dolls that McDonalds gave out in happy meals, all of my Pokemon cards, puppets (hand, marionette, and finger), well over one hundred Beanie Babies, and a playbill collection--which seems pretty normal overall. I have also been recently acquiring pictures of scenes with anthropomorphic dogs and tacky holiday decorations. I'm still open to expanding with whatever else piques my interest. I have the room.

While sitting wrapped in my bed comforter and staring at my kingdom of junk, I am reassured by what I have. It shows that there is life here, that there is life in me. During my senior year of college, there was a period of three nights where I slept with a McDonald's bag full of empty trash. Okay, I know that sounds like it is spilling over onto the filthy side, but I was elated that I had driven to the fast-food restaurant by myself and gotten food when I had been scared to drive anywhere alone or even leave my bed just a few days before. It was a reminder that I could do things, and plus it became so hilarious to me that I felt that I couldn't part with my McDouble cheeseburger wrapper that had become my new teddy bear.

I have tried to clean my room. To label boxes and shelves, to neatly fold and color coordinate, to throw away things that I no longer need. Every time that I try, I am surged with panic, or sadness, like I am throwing away parts of my life. Parts that I will never live again, and the only things left over are in the backs of nightstand drawers and mason jars on closet floors. I regularly donate my clothes, but when it comes to the tiny bits of the mosaic that has become my life, I am hesitant. As I packed up my stuff to move out of my childhood home into my first apartment, I cried. I saw things that I had, things that should not have been transported, organized, or thrown away, because they have their space in my old room. They co-exist, breathing and insulating any fear or wisp of hope that I had ever had by nightlight. If a human body can be so compact with guts and muscle and bone, then why can't a space that is just as alive?

I am slowly starting to become "cleaner". My work desk functions well, and my apartment is coming together hesitantly but surely. I have gotten rid of many items and also have learned to let things go. But I want you to understand that it has never been a matter of having physical things, for I am not a materialistic person, but rather holding onto them and having control over the nest that I have built. An actual sculpture and interactive scrapbook of a life that can be hard to live, but a smile that will be brought on by a craft that you made in the first grade that still hangs over your bedroom mirror.

I will clean this up. I will be motivated and won't put it off any longer. I will have a spotless room.

Maybe tomorrow.

The Call Of The Void

See this on Stigma Fighters at  http://stigmafighters.com/stigma-fighters-jordan-abbruzzese/

"You know when you have so much stuff to do, but thinking about it makes you stressed out, and then that stress keeps you from doing anything? Well you have anxiety, you know what I'm talking about right?" my coworker asked me while leaning against the beige wall of my cubicle. Her big eyes were swimming with possibilities, while I was thinking about how to get through the rest of my day without feeling sad.

 "Yeah, I know exactly what you mean." I smiled back.

This same coworker spent time teaching English in Latin America and Malaysia. At 18, she ran away to Canada for a weekend. Somewhat recently, she dated a boy from Australia. A boy that she still video chats. A couple of weeks ago she convinced me to play pool in the middle of a semi-crowded bar. That was my equivalent. My Malaysia.

It's not that I am not spontaneous. I like to do things, I have done cool things--I don't even need to justify my small yearning for adventure that is sometimes poked here and there. But I live inside of my head and the worlds there. I see my imagination, while she has seen the actual world.

I laugh when I think of how she looks at me and my interests. We have little in common, and my twitter followers like to see when/how she hilariously and accidentally insults me next. She sees me as someone that sits around in cosplay licking Star Wars VHS tapes that I hold in one hand and playing a RPG with the other while Sailor Moon plays in the background. I like this visual. At least it's interesting.

Talking to her allows me to reflect. What have I done? More importantly, what am I going to do? It is easy to entertain the idea of traveling, or "at least trying something once". When I was a freshman in college I convinced myself that by my senior year I was going to have interned in Disney World, living out my childhood dream. I graduated 6 months ago, and haven't been to Disney World in five years. I ask myself if I regret not trying, and I am not sure if I do. By staying at my school I was able to go to Ireland, and have a memorable senior year with friends that I love. It could be a fair trade.

I always have thought that I don't want to be on my death bed asking, "What if?" (although honestly, I contemplate three different ways daily that I could end up in this position sooner than expected, and I have a few things that I would like to do if it were to happen, well, now). I have sent out a few pieces to be published since I graduated college, and they were rejected, which is expected. I want to be published by May of next year (one year out of school), so I need to keep trying. I also have a website in the works that I haven't officially launched or paid for. There are small goals. Stepping stones to my new dreams.

"You know when you have so much stuff to do, but thinking about it makes you stressed out, and then that stress keeps you from doing anything? Well you have anxiety, you know what I'm talking about right?"

I think about it every day.

In the spring, I went hiking with my boyfriend. We had tried to go to a different park every weekend, and successfully did this for a little over a month before the rain started, or we became too tired to think of new places to go. While in Hocking Hills, we paused at a cliff. We were alone on the trail, with the type of silence that you can hear if you listen closely, and I was feeling an ocean in my stomach while looking at the ground below.

"What happens if I jump?" I asked him. "You couldn't stop me. Part of me even wants to, though I know that sounds completely crazy."

He laughed, knowing that I wouldn't do it. "I was thinking the same thing," he said. "It's called "The Call of the Void". I read about it recently on reddit."

He went on to explain that it is an unexplained psychological phenomena that almost everyone experiences. When we are driving, we could briefly think "What if I ran my car into oncoming traffic?" or while holding a knife "I could hurt myself or someone else right now if I really wanted to". These thoughts are fleeting, and as long as you don't dwell on them or contemplate seriously acting them out, then they are not a problem. The weird impulses are merely a fun little part of the weirdness that is being a human.

I often think about the conversation, about how it felt to look into the open air, and wonder if maybe I could've flown if I really jumped. Maybe people really can fly and I could've been the first one. My boyfriend would have been scared at first, but then would have seen me soaring upward, and smiled, thinking Wow, she looks really happy, and eventually the other hikers would have seen me and been glad for me too. I could have looped through the trees, and took off to see elsewhere, creating ripples in the ocean with my fingertips and then zooming back toward the sun because unlike Icarius, I wouldn't have had melted wings. I would have flown around the world, and yelled below to my coworker's ex-boyfriend, telling him that she asks me questions in my cubicle and makes me play pool in bars. I could have if I tried.

But here I am, on the ground, thinking of the opportunity that this void has given me to speculate metaphorically. What if I send things off to be published? What if I just finish my stupid website so that people can see the work that I love to do? What if I plan a trip somewhere, or run off to Canada too? I can't let the amount of exciting things that I want to accomplish paralyze me. I need to try flying, We all need to take a deep breath, and try flying.

So we can start now. We can form plans, set goals, or at least talk about dreams. We can speak of fake dreams, ones that will never come true, but realizing them will be just enough. We can get through the day without being sad, because for each chance that we lose out on, we have an infinite selection of more.

Basically, The Void is calling.
And you might as well jump.