Looking back on 2016 (however cheesy that is), and gettin' appreciative (it's a long one!)

Whenever I try to say something like "I just think things weren't as bad when I was little" in reference to the state of global politics today, my dad will counter with "that's just because you're paying more attention now." I think that's a generally true statement (I was, admittedly, an incredibly oblivious kid), yet I'd still have to argue that 2016 as a year has been particularly vile.

There's been a lot of bad stuff -- Trump, too many police brutality-related deaths, an inordinate amount of mass shootings, wildfires, droughts, Zika, the deaths of too many legends to name, and so many other nasty tastes left in our mouths. It's been a really tough year. This is the first time in my life I've so genuinely feared for my future and the futures of the people that I care about; what will happen to my friends of color? my friends who have immigrated to the US? Countless other disadvantaged groups have reason to fear for their futures in this country, and that concept is bone-chilling. Through all of this turmoil, though, I do believe that there has been light this year, both personally and nationally.

On Sunday, the Army Corps of Engineers announced the halt of the DAPL project -- showing us the power of unity and protest, an incredibly important victory for the people of Standing Rock and a sign that indigenous peoples are still vitally important and relevant to this country's political state. For the first time in history Illinois elected a disabled woman of color, Congresswoman Tammy Duckworth, and 38 women of color will be in Congress after the most recent election, an historic high. I realized what I want in my life, the values I find crucial to my happiness. There are so many people investing their time in sustainable energy, medical research, and the betterment of society. I am doing better in school, I got an ACT score I'm really proud of, I've started reading again, I'm making connections with people I never though I'd really get to know, and that's felt so rewarding and eye-opening. I found some new favorite places around town, accomplished random tiny goals over the summer and fall, and I've begun to learn how to take better care of myself (a very, very long process, I'm finding).

It's been a shitty year, without a doubt, but one of the things I have been really trying to teach myself is that it's not lame to feel humbled and appreciate all of the things you love. I love making new friends, I love embroidering and going to Goodwill and finding cool pants, I love staring at cute people, I love lemon drops and my dogs. I get really, really sad sometimes, and I love the moment about two weeks after when I realize that I don't feel so bad any more and life is still going on. I love sitting in the car with my friends and blasting music we all like, I love my friends in general!! I love really fresh vegetables and flower gardens, I love art that makes me cry and art that haunts my head and makes me swoon. I love standing up for what I believe in. I love reading and learning new ideas, philosophy and sociology, prose and language.

There are so many timeless parts of being alive that will persist through even the shittiest year: these are all things I've been doing since before 2016, and things I'm still doing, and things I will keep doing no matter what. A pivotal part of me learning about my own forms of self care was the realization that I need to be okay with feeling humbled -- the concept of being cooler and better than the people around you (and within that, cynical and more "hardened") is, I think, inherently flawed. It's something I believed in for a long part of my teenage years, and coming to question it now has taught me so much about what I want to get out of being alive. There's so many things to live for! Even in the worst year I think I'm yet to experience, there have been shining moments: blossoming closeness with new friends, writing essays I was really proud of, finishing books I loved, going to lots of concerts, cutting my hair really short again. Even nationally and globally, there are good things to be found.

There is no excuse to ignore the backward steps we take. A Trump presidency, I firmly believe, will threaten so many peoples' safety and happiness in this country and beyond, police brutality and hate crimes are an ever-present issue that needs to be counteracted and outwardly opposed; big corporations and business magnates (think: the Army Corps of Engineers, Martin Shkreli, and many more) are constantly willing to disregard the well beings of the people below them. Yet, there are lots of little, cool, lovely things that exist in the world. I don't think we can say everything is peachy (it most certainly is NOT peachy at this point in time), but there are lots of reasons to keep going. I am excited to meet babies, I am already looking forward to next spring when the first blooms begin, there are lots and lots of beautiful things that are yet to happen. 2016 was heart-wrenchingly difficult, that is by no means a lie, but I still find myself thinking of all the beauty that persists in this world. Think of it this way: we lost Bowie, Prince, and Cohen, but we still have their songs.

introverts, elitism, and Uni

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the idea of “introvert vs. extrovert” and how it’s kind of bullshit. Admittedly, I’m at that age where I think a lot of already established ideas are bullshit, so it’s hard for me to act like this is some revolutionary news I’m breaking to the world, but I have a lot of mixed feelings about introvert and extrovert-related stuff.

Basically, I’ve always felt like the whole “I’m suuuuch an introvert” line gets used way too much as this patronizing way to make people feel like going out or wanting to hang is bad. If I took an online quiz right now it would easily tell me I’m an “introvert” – most days I’d rather stay at home and do my own little thing – but it frustrates me that my peers use that as some elitist construct. Likewise, I guess, it’s bogus if someone who’s an “extrovert” gives people a hard time for wanting to stay home, but I don’t think that’s as big of an issue. In my logic, this sort of mimics the people-who-read-books trend; people will take this sort of unpopular “nerd” thing, romanticize it, then pose it as if that practice alone makes them an inherently better person. Like, “I read books all the time, aren’t I so subversive and cool and better?” Of course, I love to read -- I think it's a beautiful, constructive, awesome way to spend time -- but it’s annoying that people use that little detail of their personality as some defining term to show that they’re better than you. I remember, for most of my high school years, feeling super guilty about wanting to go out or wanting to zone out and draw instead of reading, thinking that I was somehow discrediting myself as a “smart intellectual person,” and looking back that’s ridiculous!!

There are so many ways to be a “smart” person, and I guess that’s the root of my frustration with the whole “introvert” concept: people acting like you’re only really suitable to be an intellectual or a smart kid if you do these certain things, feel this certain way, etc. It’s something I definitely think we let kids get away with at Uni. If you thought that test was hard or don’t remember know how to do this proof, or don’t have this opinion, there’s something therefore lesser about you, and that’s so bogus!! I struggle to personally define intelligence, but one thing I know for sure is that it isn’t determined by some singular personality quirk. There are so many ways to show your smarts, and it’s incredibly limiting when people try to cut each other off from that just because of some minor thing. The other day, for example, I was thinking about how smart one of my friends was just based on their ability to problem solve, think ahead, and consider all of their options. You can be smart and have no high school education, you can be smart and have a PhD; it’s not a revolutionary concept, I know, but I do think we get lost in a certain convoluted idea of intelligence at Uni with lots of intricate definers. I get flustered if I can’t remember the capital of a state, or the type of beetle I’m pinning in bug bio, and though it’s frustrating, most of that embarrassment comes from these weird stigmas we’ve developed. In the same sense that Uni seems to sensationalize talent in math, science, sports, chess, etc. and brush over the arts, I think there’s a very particular form of “smartness” that we let ourselves believe in.

I’ve gotten away from the idea of introverted-ness, but my point remains the same: I don’t really like to associate with the term. I could spend weeks and months alone, just vibing, but I love to be around my friends and hang in large groups. I would shy away from self-identifying as an introvert, because I don’t like what it implies: that sense of elitism, one that seems so pervasive in Uni culture.

I forgot how much I love reading

I haven't read a book outside of class, like really sat down and gotten involved, been so excited about the next chapter I can't focus in school kind of read, in about a year and a half. The last book I read cover to cover was either Turtle Diary by Russell Hoban, By Night In Chile by Roberto Bolaño, or Book of Monelle by Marcel Schwob. These all came with each other, in a cloudy space between spring and summer of sophomore year. Since then, I've built a teetering, fragile pile of books I need to read: Geek Love, Kafka on the Shore, Riddley Walker, and so many more. I hate looking at this mound, sending guilt up my spine, knowing I'm not going to read most of the novels any time soon, so every once in a while I'll start one of them offhandedly. I know the names of at least some characters of Geek Love, the first half of the plot of Lolita, the general concept behind Feathers by Raymond Carver, yet I never manage to seriously pursue the stories.

I watch a lot of TV online, I read a lot of articles, I read a lot of zines, I read a lot of poetry, but there is nothing, in my opinion, as gripping and manipulative as novels. In a lot of ways, I sort of expected myself to grow away from novels, fiction in general, by now. Neither of my parents read much fiction; my mother reads philosophy and my father reads articles. I started Giovanni's Room by James Baldwin this week, and it threw me violently back into literature. There's something electrifying about reading after a long, long break, moreso than slamming through book after book, in the same way that a fresh crush feels all the more heavenly after a breakup. I'm sure you can relate, but it's intoxicating when you can't stop thinking about something, person or book.

Fiction will never cease to enchant me. There is so much complexity and potential in prose and I find that incredibly captivating. The first time I sat down to start Giovanni's Room, I only got about one chapter in. It was late, right before bed, and I was reading out of some constructed guilt without my gut really being in it; but coming back with a desire to get back into fiction made so much of a difference; now, I've read almost half the book in a single sitting, and only stopped myself because college applications were looming over my head.

I'm not sure if I have a point with this blog post, but it's so satisfying to have a story waiting for you to return, and to have that NOT be from TV or movies. I forgot how much I love to read!!

Self care

Lately time's been rushing by way, way too quickly. Daily routine seems to make the days lurch by, yet it's already the end of the quarter and I find that to be unbelievable, if not daunting. In a limbo like this, it can be difficult to remember the importance of taking care of yourself.

I had no free time this weekend -- Saturday was a mix of hanging out, babysitting, and domestic responsibilities, Sunday a mess of homework and errands. Early Saturday morning I went out and walked underneath the clouds and murk, ate lengua tacos in dingy restaurants with my friends, drove to both Goodwill stores in Champaign County, babysat until it was dark enough to see the almost-full moon, and went to Target an hour before closing with my dear friend. We took the long way because I'm too scared to drive on the highway yet. By the end of the night I was so burnt out I needed time for myself -- it's that classic teenage angst, the kind where you don't want to be with anyone, don't want to go home, just want to be out in your own head. As a recently-licensed 17 year-old, there's something electrifying about night driving still and, however minor it might be, 5 minutes of extra cruising time was an act of self care in that instant.

On the way home from Chicago last week, my brother and I had a really meaningful conversation about our tendencies. My friend was asleep in the backseat, and for the first time in months, Simon and I got to talk for hours on our own. He drove. The darkness of the highway was hypnotic and lulling. We agreed that both of us act in really particular ways -- specifically, we tend to exist in an awkward space between hermit, socialite, and introvert. Neither of us will actively seek people out, but we love closeness with friends and emotional intimacy. We've always had one or two incredibly close friends each, and that's enough. He's in school for landscape architecture, and I'm currently trying to decide between sociology and NRES; he wants to live on his friend's farm after university, my dream job is currently either being a national park ranger or a florist. We've somehow paralleled each other in multiple ways, and I think that intense need for alone time (hermit-ness, really), is a manifestation of both of our self-care routines as well.

Being alone for long periods of time is, honestly, integral in my life, and senior year is making it difficult for me to work in meaningful personal time. Simon told me he loves living at home because he gets to spend his days biking around a town he already knows and drawing flowers in his room, and I couldn't help but want the same; self care is a constant in my brother's life and, though I know eventually this will all calm down, I miss it badly right now!

Thoughts on bein vulnerable

My brother Simon and I have gotten increasingly close in the past couple years, and this has led to a lot of meaningful, thoughtful conversations. Mostly, they've been reflecting on our mutual experience of childhood; the places we went, the food we ate, the movies we watched. More importantly, though, is the way we've been able to look back at how our childhood has shaped who we are today. One of those aspects Simon and I have talked about a lot (especially with his girlfriend, Rachel) has been emotional availability, and general vulnerability. It's weird, but we've both come to realize we're really, really private about our feelings, and Rachel can vet this. This fact is troubling -- I've always thought of myself as open, gentle. Last year in Studio Art, I made a piece with the slogan "Be More Tender" slapped across the front, and I didn't really think about needing to take that advice myself. This has become a sort of haunting personal issue, too. Emotions are awesome, and beautiful, and the spectrum of experience they encompass is so complex and overwhelming and glorious -- but how do you begin to allow that spectrum to be experienced by/with other people? I hadn't even realized until recently that most of my life I've allowed myself to close my feelin's off to the outside world, but there are so many amazing things that come out of being emotionally available to the people around you.

This is a concept I've been battling with particularly in the last couple weeks, because as a senior, I wonder why I was ever so guarded in the first place. It's my last year with this group of people, and there is so much I wish I'd said sooner, so many people I wish I'd let myself be open to. Over the summer, I reconnected with a friend from middle school. We had a weird relationship built on white lies and competition (middle school was an awful, awful time), and being able to look back at that together five years later was incredibly therapeutic. It made me realize how good it feels to be open -- it took all the power in my being to sit with her and honestly talk about that part of my life, gently and thoughtfully, but I left our reconciliation with an overwhelming feeling of calm and contentedness. In my final year of high school, how do I want to leave this institution? Can I make those same kinds of connections with the kids at this school?

I love meeting people that put me at peace. Some of my dearest friends are the types of personalities I get lost in thought with; walking home and forgetting how long it's been because the convo is too good, having talks that make you feel so deeply understood and heard, just being able to lay it all out for someone and know that they'll respect your sensitivity and your thoughts -- that is such a beautiful part of being a person and getting to meet other people. I want to be able to provide that feeling for all the people in my life, and I'm trying my best! It's a slow process, one that I am willing to work for, and one that seems incredibly rewarding, and I'm willing to devote time to it; hopefully by the end of the year, I'll be able to look back and say I made it happen. :-) xx

Stay Up

School has been in session for a little over a month now, and I'm trying to do things differently this time. Typically by this point in the year, I would have let myself fall back into the routine of stress and, essentially, no outside hobbies or leeway for myself. I remember a classic signifier that the school year had really begun in full force was coming home on a night with no homework and not knowing what to do; I used to flush all of the leisure out of my life when school rolled around, and just shut off, turn into a drone.

I've been working to unlearn this, because I'm not really sure why I started doing it in the first place. Perhaps it's like having a full phone -- something has to be erased in order to continue filling, and in my case it often ended up being my summer calm that got pushed out. I wasn't a cold-blooded, punctual, not-procrastinator, though; I still did things relatively last minute, but I would just lay around in my free time. I would, literally, nap from the moment I got home from school until dinner, wake up, eat, do homework, watch videos, and go straight back to bed. Somewhere in the middle of junior year (maybe February?) I realized how screwed up that pattern was. Why couldn't I spend the afternoons doing things I used to like doing in the summer? Before school started each fall, I was free every single day and managed to fill that time amply, and I know I wasn't sleeping away the hours. I must have been doing something, and so I vowed to myself that I'd try with all my might to romp around as much as I could during senior year.

It's been tough, but I think maintaining some level of connection to the lifestyle I had going in July has helped a lot so far. Two weeks ago, I found myself sitting in the back seat of my friend's car with Lil Dicky's awful, awful (genius) 10-minute track Pillow Talking thumping through the speakers, and it felt good to look down at my phone and notice that it was 10pm, and not feel too worried about it being a Thursday night. I did my homework, and then I went out, and that's okay. I got home and went to sleep, and I went to school the next day, and I was fine, but I didn't spend my time in the same sort of comatose I was so used to slipping into in the past. Even if it takes some force to break my old school year habits, I'm glad, because it really does pay off. I'm still experiencing new things, seeing my friends, and hanging my arms out of the passenger windows, even though it's September, and I have papers due, and that's okay. :-)

Post #1 (reflection, very dramatic)

  

I named this blog after a song on Frank Ocean's new album, Blonde. It's been out for about two weeks and, upon writing this, I've listened to it roughly 14 times. Maybe out of a sense of guilt ("it's been four years, I owe it to Frank to listen to this!"), or maybe out of genuine interest and emotional attachment -- whatever the reason, I find myself obsessively returning to Blonde. It's edenic and sprawling, deep and warm, euphoric. Where channelORANGE was veiled in indistinction and hot mystery, Blonde delivers a clear peek into Frank's now-highly publicized life, and it's glorious.

   Frank's music has always had a surprisingly heavy impact on my life, but I've never felt a need to discuss it; like a family pet or a piece of art that makes you emotional, there's a certain level of significance things can have that seems impossible to articulate. I can't describe the reason that looking at Kerry James Marshall's profoundly striking paintings brings me to tears, or why frantisek kupka's yellow self portrait makes me think i understand him so well. I couldn't lay out the justification for why Where the Wild Things Are is my sad day movie, and why it makes me weep whenever I watch it, or why Tropical Malady filled my heart up to the brim with... some sort of emotion I can't explain, but one that kept me intensely infatuated for months. These things all "speak" to me, if you will -- reach out and ask me to come listen, to look deeper. The pieces I mentioned all pang through my chest, move me in some profound way. I love this fact about art: there are people moved to tears upon hearing certain One Direction songs, or watching one scene in a children's movie, or looking at a painting they found online -- and others who feel nothing when observing the same things. Art holds an acutely personal grip on the human heart, and has the potential to effect people in such central ways that seem to shake them to their core.

   The most intense moments I've ever experienced with my parents have come while sharing movies, songs, paintings. When David Bowie died last January, I came home and blasted "Rock n Roll Suicide" from the speakers in my room; when I went downstairs, my dad was crying. My mother and I walked through Goya's exhibition at the Prado in Madrid when I was eight years old, and we stood in front of The Third of May 1808, and we wept in silence, surrounded by strangers but with each other, alone, in that moment. There are parts of the human brain that, I think, were never meant to be articulated; the mutual understanding between psyches is so visceral that there's no need for expression.

    The song Ivy moved me to tears the first time I heard it. I think it was out of relief, knowing that Frank was the same as he'd always been, the familiar complexity and humanity I felt so deeply entwined with. When I listen to Blonde I can't do anything else. It's one of those albums that makes me stop and sit and just... think. It's difficult to write about something that doesn't feel like an explainable emotion, rather an... experience? It's that sense of closeness, intimacy, the moment with my father, with my mother. Reading Boyfriend sent pangs of that indescribable knowingness through my bones, and I can't help but feel close to Frank. He croons about lost boyfriends, laying in bed all day, the sky, the earth, and as he sings, I want to reach out and hold his hand. As my mother and I stood staring forward into the depths of black oil in The Third of May 1808, as the house rippled with the notes of Bowie's Rock n  Roll Suicide, sounds popping in and out like licks of flame in my father's ears and mine, there was an animal instinct of connection, reaching out to hold. Yet, there's never been a need. Looking into their faces was enough, seeing the glass in their eyes, and just knowing we both knew. I wish I was able to look at Frank that way, but I wonder if I even need to.