My biggest concern about going to the Caribbean was getting bored. On a list of things I value about vacations, probably two of the last are relaxing and water. As near as I can tell, those are exactly what people go to St. Maarten to enjoy. After a day of lounging by the pool to move to lounging by the beach and back, I was ready to spend some cash in order to get out of the resort and go on an adventure.
We could rent a Mini Cooper and drive around St. Barths! Whoa, for...way too much money. In the end, the tour desk in the resort lobby offered only one affordable package, which is how Lindsay and I found ourselves in Phillipsburg with twenty other people waiting for a boat that would take us snorkeling at three different islands.
As we walked along the dock, our hostess directed us to two different boats. "Oh my word," I murmured when I caught sight of the second boat's captain. "Lindsay," I hissed. "Look."
"That is the most attractive man I've ever seen," she breathed. Behind us, a woman on her honeymoon leaned in to us and added, "I hope we're on his boat, huh?"
A group of five party girls strode eagerly toward him, but our hostess directed them to the other boat. At their sounds of dismay, she assured them, "You'll see Sander again, don't worry. Family of five, you're with the girls. Everyone else, you're with Sander."
Lindsay and I exchanged grins. Sander, a tan tall man with blond hair falling to his chin, smiled at our approaching group. "Climb on in," he said.
"His accent," I whispered.
"Where are you from?" Lindsay asked.
"I'm Dutch," Sander answered.
"Oh, I. That's great." His face and his voice combined were too much for anyone to react to in anything resembling calm.
Sander got us settled into seats and fetched drinks for everyone. He explained what bays we were in and what houses overlooking the water were owned by which celebrities. He grinned as he drove faster over the waves, bouncing us through the green and blue waters. I spent 80% of my mental faculties trying to look at him without looking like I was looking at him.
"He took off his sunglasses!" I groaned at Lindsay.
"Oh my--he has Zac Efron eyes!" she answered after sneaking a glance.
"I can't handle this."
"Well, then you definitely won't handle this. He just took off his shirt."
We docked in a cove with no beaches. Sander explained that this was our first snorkeling destination. He talked about different kinds of fish we might see, and purple eggs, and probably something else, but I was fixated on the fact that we were in fifteen feet deep water. I'd assumed we would always be wading in from shore, not dropping off the side of a boat.
"Lindsay," I whispered. "I can't swim."
"What!?"
"I mean, not well. I don't know if I can do this."
The rest of the people on our boat were passing around scuba masks and flippers. I took a set and swallowed bile. Some of our fellow passengers jumped off the side, and some eased themselves into the water from the ladder in the back. I saw two women grab pool noodles for floatation devices, but they weren't snorkeling.
Sander looked at Lindsay and I. "Are you ready?" he asked, smiling with his stupid Dutch teeth.
"Yes," I said, and took his hand. I let him walk me over the back seats until I was by the water. I climbed in and mimicked Lindsay's actions as she put on the mask and flippers. She pushed away, and I glanced at Sander. I was not going to stay on the boat like an idiot and make his tan friendly face fall in disappointment. I took in a breath, and meant to push away from the boat. Instead I blurted, "Could I have a noodle!?" Sander tossed me a pink one. Face burning in shame, I took my noodle and slowly followed Lindsay toward the cove.
She showed me how to breath through the mask as I clung to my safety noodle. "Let's go!" she said. I breathed in my fear and then let it out, putting my face below the water as though it wouldn't kill me. And then it didn't. I let myself dead man float and found that the mask actually kept water out of my eyes and lungs. I wasn't dying--I was snorkeling! I kicked my flippers and found myself swimming, noodle to the side and almost unnecessary.
Once I was confident I wasn't going to immediately drown, I actually noticed that I was looking underwater. There were fish there, darting into the rocks, shining purple and yellow around the edges. "This is so cool!" I yelled, and inhaled salty water. I came crashing to the surface, clinging once more to the only thing keeping me from drowning, spitting out the breathing tube in horror. Lindsay surfaced beside me. "Um, don't talk when you're underwater," she said. "Here, pour out your tube like this. Got it? Okay, let's go!"
I did eventually get the hang of things. I gleefully swam through a school of tiny fish and tried to touch them unsuccessfully. We saw a big needlefish swimming near the ocean floor, and urchins dotted the sand and rocks around us. I found myself comfortably twisting in the water, reveling in the grace and confidence that floating enables. We made our way back to the boat when we noticed people packing up. I handed Sander my noodle and pulled off my mask and flippers.
"Let me help you," he said. "The ladder moves."
It was rather wiggly, and his strong Dutch arm was reaching out in front of me, so I clasped his hand and pulled myself onto the boat. It was slippery, so naturally I had to hold on to him a little longer than necessary, just to be totally safe.
"How was it?" he asked.
"It was beautiful," I said, meaning the water, the sealife, and his face.
"Great!" he said, and piloted our boat to our next destination as I grinned into the ocean spray.
Saturday, July 19, 2014
Friday, July 18, 2014
St. Maarten Stories: Concessions
While we were walking along the St. Maarten beach, Lindsay asked me if anyone had ever kissed me. I coughed out a laugh and admitted, no, no one had. She sighed and said I was lucky, which elicited another painful laugh from me. After silence stretched too long, I said, "I would ask when your first kiss was, but honestly, I don't want to know. I'm feeling bitter, and I wouldn't appreciate it."
So it was fortuitous that Jordan flirted with me at the resort's chocolate buffet immediately after we returned.
Lindsay had pointed him out as the cutest guy at the resort that afternoon. She called out to him and carried on a conversation that I mostly observed, wondering when she would finish so we could go to the room. Unwilling to look totally anti-social, I made a few comments, but I internally rolled my eyes when she invited him to meet us later.
I might have been pissed at her extroversion, but I wasn't going to risk hanging out with a hot guy unarmed. I dressed up and painted my eyes darker than usual. It was nothing, nothing, but you know. Just in case.
He did find us, practically running up, begging for our help in escaping a girl who had been following him around during his weekend at the resort. The three of us talked until his friends appeared. Lindsay had already met them, and Jordan moved to sit at the edge of the group next to me. I should mention he was an absolutely delightful asshole. He made horrifically racist and sizeist comments with a grin, and I couldn't help laughing. He was a good ol' boy from Georgia, and I found it easy to fall into the role of being shocked and appalled at the things falling from his lips. "You say the most horrible things," I told him. "I know," he grinned, leaning into my shoulder.
Confident assholes. My weakness.
Everyone else had left the chocolate buffet, and the workers had turned off the spotlights. "Let's go inside to the bar," his friends suggested. Lindsay said she was tired, but I convinced her to go in for just half an hour. Jordan pulled up a semi-circle of chairs and made sure we sat beside each other. He put his knee on my chair so I could press my hand against it if I wanted. I did.
Half an hour came and went, and his friends glanced between us and said they were going upstairs. Lindsay again said she was tired, but I convinced her to stay. I felt dangerous. I wanted--I wanted to give up. Here I was in another country with a cute boy who I was pretty sure wouldn't say no to anything I suggested or allowed. For so long I've loved boys who said no, who said, "oh, but I like her," who put up walls that I couldn't get past. Jordan was wide open, and I desperately wanted to take advantage of that opportunity.
"What's your favorite band?" he asked.
"Mumford and Sons, probably."
"Ugh! You're a hipster!"
"Haha, yeah, I guess I am. I like my men in skinny ties and suspenders."
Jordan grabbed my arm and smiled close. "That's horrible. I would never be caught dead in a skinny tie."
"That's your loss," I grinned.
"I'm going to bed," Lindsay said.
I could already picture what would happen if she left us alone. A new story, one I would probably regret. But at least I would finally have an answer to the question, "Has anyone ever kissed you?" I would look back on whatever happened with sadness and guilt and a deep satisfaction.
"I'll go up with you," I told Lindsay.
Jordan leaned in again and said, "I'd really like for you to stay here with me a little longer. I'm leaving in the morning."
Well. I smiled and said as meaningfully as I could, "I would really like that, too." I turned to Lindsay. "Alright, I'm ready."
We went upstairs. I washed the makeup off my face and pulled on a t-shirt and shorts. I said goodnight, slid under the covers, and turned off the light. I stayed awake for over an hour regretting my decision. I could still go back down. I could find him again. I could have my secret, and I would hate myself for a while, but I would feel desired and complete in a way I am increasingly desperate to experience.
It's hell, sometimes, fighting to hold onto hope.
So it was fortuitous that Jordan flirted with me at the resort's chocolate buffet immediately after we returned.
Lindsay had pointed him out as the cutest guy at the resort that afternoon. She called out to him and carried on a conversation that I mostly observed, wondering when she would finish so we could go to the room. Unwilling to look totally anti-social, I made a few comments, but I internally rolled my eyes when she invited him to meet us later.
I might have been pissed at her extroversion, but I wasn't going to risk hanging out with a hot guy unarmed. I dressed up and painted my eyes darker than usual. It was nothing, nothing, but you know. Just in case.
He did find us, practically running up, begging for our help in escaping a girl who had been following him around during his weekend at the resort. The three of us talked until his friends appeared. Lindsay had already met them, and Jordan moved to sit at the edge of the group next to me. I should mention he was an absolutely delightful asshole. He made horrifically racist and sizeist comments with a grin, and I couldn't help laughing. He was a good ol' boy from Georgia, and I found it easy to fall into the role of being shocked and appalled at the things falling from his lips. "You say the most horrible things," I told him. "I know," he grinned, leaning into my shoulder.
Confident assholes. My weakness.
Everyone else had left the chocolate buffet, and the workers had turned off the spotlights. "Let's go inside to the bar," his friends suggested. Lindsay said she was tired, but I convinced her to go in for just half an hour. Jordan pulled up a semi-circle of chairs and made sure we sat beside each other. He put his knee on my chair so I could press my hand against it if I wanted. I did.
Half an hour came and went, and his friends glanced between us and said they were going upstairs. Lindsay again said she was tired, but I convinced her to stay. I felt dangerous. I wanted--I wanted to give up. Here I was in another country with a cute boy who I was pretty sure wouldn't say no to anything I suggested or allowed. For so long I've loved boys who said no, who said, "oh, but I like her," who put up walls that I couldn't get past. Jordan was wide open, and I desperately wanted to take advantage of that opportunity.
"What's your favorite band?" he asked.
"Mumford and Sons, probably."
"Ugh! You're a hipster!"
"Haha, yeah, I guess I am. I like my men in skinny ties and suspenders."
Jordan grabbed my arm and smiled close. "That's horrible. I would never be caught dead in a skinny tie."
"That's your loss," I grinned.
"I'm going to bed," Lindsay said.
I could already picture what would happen if she left us alone. A new story, one I would probably regret. But at least I would finally have an answer to the question, "Has anyone ever kissed you?" I would look back on whatever happened with sadness and guilt and a deep satisfaction.
"I'll go up with you," I told Lindsay.
Jordan leaned in again and said, "I'd really like for you to stay here with me a little longer. I'm leaving in the morning."
Well. I smiled and said as meaningfully as I could, "I would really like that, too." I turned to Lindsay. "Alright, I'm ready."
We went upstairs. I washed the makeup off my face and pulled on a t-shirt and shorts. I said goodnight, slid under the covers, and turned off the light. I stayed awake for over an hour regretting my decision. I could still go back down. I could find him again. I could have my secret, and I would hate myself for a while, but I would feel desired and complete in a way I am increasingly desperate to experience.
It's hell, sometimes, fighting to hold onto hope.
Sunday, June 15, 2014
Invisible at Church
I've been skipping church a lot, and finally a friend called me out on it. I'd been waiting for someone to do so, which is exactly the sort of loser-move I side-eyed when I used to be an insider. "Well, if they'd just come up to us," I would say, "We would totally invite them in and be nice." True! And it is undoubtedly unfair to ask people to be responsible for the emotional well-being of others. But sometimes people are desperately unsure of themselves and need the validation that someone noticed they were gone and wish it hadn't been so.
That was a long preamble to the fact that: I went to church today. And I wish I hadn't.
It was Father's Day, which is never my favorite holiday. Same for Mother's Day when there is blanket celebration with no acknowledgement of potential pain (either from one's own parents or from not being a parent oneself). So there was the requisite adorable video and honoring of fathers. There was a quote from Martin Luther about how we ought to be grateful for our parents because they fed us instead of letting us die. All true, I suppose, but a single throw-away line about, "If you need to work through your family's dysfunction, go see a counselor," did little to honor the pain that I imagine at least 40% of the congregation felt. Fathers, man. They do a number on people. Sometimes it's "simply" lack of time or affection, and that's enough to screw someone up. But I've been a counselor for all of five months, and already I'm realizing how terrifyingly common it is for fathers to verbally, emotionally, physically, and emotionally abuse their children. Handwaving that fact away with a "thank God for your parents" felt very irresponsible.
But I expected that. What I didn't expect was a sermon based on the fact that humans bear God's image most fully in the family. There were, like, maybe a few sentences about how the Church is a family, but mostly even that was in the context of using the Church to bolster your own family unit.
As soon as it was said, my face shut down, my body turned in on itself, and I felt emotions crawling up my throat. Honestly, I don't even care that I disagree with that interpretation of Genesis 1:26-28. I personally believe that we bear God's image as individuals in relationships, but that there is no premium on marriage or parenthood as the relationship par excellence. And I believe that multiplying to fill and subdue the earth includes, but is not limited to, physical reproduction. But whatever. That was not the message being taught today. I could maybe have handled hearing that the family is the best way to represent God if even once the message had been directed to singles. "What about us?" I thought. "We're stuck with being sub-par image bearers. What do we do with that?" Hearing a callous "You just have to wait until you're married," would have pissed me off, but it would have been better than what actually happened, which is that myself and other singles (and the divorced and widowed and childless) were simply erased.
It got worse, of course. Because eventually we were addressed, in the form of a survey the entire congregation filled out after the sermon so that the church could better serve us. Nice thought, and there was even one-fourth of the page devoted to singles. There were sliding scales that asked if we thought God was using our singleness to sanctify and mature us, and I heavily circled the highest number in an attempt to prove my marital status doesn't affect my relationship with God. Then there were a couple yes/no questions. Two of the three were, "Are you saving sex for marriage?" and "Are you doing what you can to hold high the idea of marriage?" Wonderful, wonderful. My existence is summarily described by what I cannot do and by aspiring to that which I am not. My singleness is the absence of.
To drive home the point, today was the Sunday when people with birthdays or anniversaries in the current month go forward to be acknowledged and prayed over. I normally love this, because I really do have a high view of marriage. But after forty minutes of being told over and over that this is ideal (and implicitly, you, Tricia, are not ideal), it hurt to hear one last time, "Congratulations to these couples who are exhibiting the truth that marriage is the place where people best bear God's image!" I wanted to scream, "What about Jesus? What about Paul? What about that pesky verse that says it is better to be single than to be married? Why is this not a nuanced conversation!? Why do I feel like I don't exist?"
Instead, I practically ran to my car, throwing sunglasses on to cover the tears in my eyes. As the car door slammed shut behind me, I instantly began sobbing and didn't stop until I got home. Part of me sank into the desperate desire to be married and have kids--to be normal, to be the focus of the sermon, to be heard and valued in conservative evangelical culture. I just wanted to fit in. Another righteously angry part of me wanted to stay single forever, because I'm scared that if I ever do get married and have kids, I will be awash in relief at having arrived, and I'll blissfully forget the other singles who will still be ignored and undervalued. I hope I will not be that way, but I've seen how the glow of being an insider can make me oblivious to those on the outside.
I don't mean to bash on my church family or my pastor. I love my church to pieces, and I think this hit me so hard because I have such high standards. They've been very nuanced and balanced and thoughtful in the past, and I'm sure they will be again in the future. But today hurt.
That was a long preamble to the fact that: I went to church today. And I wish I hadn't.
It was Father's Day, which is never my favorite holiday. Same for Mother's Day when there is blanket celebration with no acknowledgement of potential pain (either from one's own parents or from not being a parent oneself). So there was the requisite adorable video and honoring of fathers. There was a quote from Martin Luther about how we ought to be grateful for our parents because they fed us instead of letting us die. All true, I suppose, but a single throw-away line about, "If you need to work through your family's dysfunction, go see a counselor," did little to honor the pain that I imagine at least 40% of the congregation felt. Fathers, man. They do a number on people. Sometimes it's "simply" lack of time or affection, and that's enough to screw someone up. But I've been a counselor for all of five months, and already I'm realizing how terrifyingly common it is for fathers to verbally, emotionally, physically, and emotionally abuse their children. Handwaving that fact away with a "thank God for your parents" felt very irresponsible.
But I expected that. What I didn't expect was a sermon based on the fact that humans bear God's image most fully in the family. There were, like, maybe a few sentences about how the Church is a family, but mostly even that was in the context of using the Church to bolster your own family unit.
As soon as it was said, my face shut down, my body turned in on itself, and I felt emotions crawling up my throat. Honestly, I don't even care that I disagree with that interpretation of Genesis 1:26-28. I personally believe that we bear God's image as individuals in relationships, but that there is no premium on marriage or parenthood as the relationship par excellence. And I believe that multiplying to fill and subdue the earth includes, but is not limited to, physical reproduction. But whatever. That was not the message being taught today. I could maybe have handled hearing that the family is the best way to represent God if even once the message had been directed to singles. "What about us?" I thought. "We're stuck with being sub-par image bearers. What do we do with that?" Hearing a callous "You just have to wait until you're married," would have pissed me off, but it would have been better than what actually happened, which is that myself and other singles (and the divorced and widowed and childless) were simply erased.
It got worse, of course. Because eventually we were addressed, in the form of a survey the entire congregation filled out after the sermon so that the church could better serve us. Nice thought, and there was even one-fourth of the page devoted to singles. There were sliding scales that asked if we thought God was using our singleness to sanctify and mature us, and I heavily circled the highest number in an attempt to prove my marital status doesn't affect my relationship with God. Then there were a couple yes/no questions. Two of the three were, "Are you saving sex for marriage?" and "Are you doing what you can to hold high the idea of marriage?" Wonderful, wonderful. My existence is summarily described by what I cannot do and by aspiring to that which I am not. My singleness is the absence of.
To drive home the point, today was the Sunday when people with birthdays or anniversaries in the current month go forward to be acknowledged and prayed over. I normally love this, because I really do have a high view of marriage. But after forty minutes of being told over and over that this is ideal (and implicitly, you, Tricia, are not ideal), it hurt to hear one last time, "Congratulations to these couples who are exhibiting the truth that marriage is the place where people best bear God's image!" I wanted to scream, "What about Jesus? What about Paul? What about that pesky verse that says it is better to be single than to be married? Why is this not a nuanced conversation!? Why do I feel like I don't exist?"
Instead, I practically ran to my car, throwing sunglasses on to cover the tears in my eyes. As the car door slammed shut behind me, I instantly began sobbing and didn't stop until I got home. Part of me sank into the desperate desire to be married and have kids--to be normal, to be the focus of the sermon, to be heard and valued in conservative evangelical culture. I just wanted to fit in. Another righteously angry part of me wanted to stay single forever, because I'm scared that if I ever do get married and have kids, I will be awash in relief at having arrived, and I'll blissfully forget the other singles who will still be ignored and undervalued. I hope I will not be that way, but I've seen how the glow of being an insider can make me oblivious to those on the outside.
I don't mean to bash on my church family or my pastor. I love my church to pieces, and I think this hit me so hard because I have such high standards. They've been very nuanced and balanced and thoughtful in the past, and I'm sure they will be again in the future. But today hurt.
Friday, June 13, 2014
Maleficent Movie Review
SO MANY SPOILERS AHEAD. Don't read if you don't want to know literally every major plot point.
I was interested in seeing Maleficent, but I hadn't actually thought to see it in theaters until a friend asked to see a movie and I thought, "Why not?" I was so ignorant. Maleficent blew me away with all the usually awesome movie stuff--excellent acting (Angelina Jolie is magnificent) and breath-taking fantasy landscapes and creatures. But what solidified my love for the film was its beautiful feminist messages.
For starters, it is an undeniably female-driven movie. Maleficent and Aurora are the center of everything. The three fairies provide comic relief and a significant amount of screen time. There are three male characters to round things out--men to round things out! One as the sidekick to a female! Oh my gosh, what a wonderful thing to see women as the stars of a fantasy epic, living adventurous stories and making terrible and wonderful decisions.
Second, Maleficent continues what Frozen began: the assertion that love comes in many forms, and that female love relationships are just as strong as male-female romantic ones. (It also continues a hesitancy to rely on the rape-like "true love's kiss" while a person is unconscious. I adored Prince Philip saying, "I don't feel right about this! I barely know her!" when the fairies urge him to kiss the sleeping Aurora.) But he does kiss her, and nothing happens. She's still asleep. And man, oh man, then Maleficent steps out, apologizes and cries and repents; she kisses the princess whom she loves and cares for, AND SLEEPING BEAUTY AWAKES. True love's kiss is one woman caring for another.
And most importantly, I was completely surprised by the entire plot. Maleficent is essentially a rape allegory. The young carefree fairy befriends a human boy. She thinks she loves him and she trusts that he loves her back. Years later, out of greed and ambition, he drugs her so that she falls asleep, physically violates her, taking something of hers without her permission, and when she wakes alone, she howls in physical and emotional agony. Dear God, that scene was crazy painful.
Seeing the action as rape makes the movie so incredibly powerful. Her vengeance is understandable. I rooted for her to make the guy crawl. Her turn to darkness is a bandage for her pain. I was behind her 100%, even though I was uncomfortably aware that she was acting the villain.
But it doesn't stop there! Maleficent learns to love again, albeit by loving the child she cursed. She saves the princess, risking her life in the process. And then love saves her, quite literally. The child she loves frees the wings that had been ripped from her, and in a burst of bright light, they reattach and Maleficent is whole again.
There is still, however, that pesky king rapist. He attacks her in exactly the way he knows will hurt her, and clings to her as she tries to fly away. I'm entirely sure that the fight scene at the end was probably nothing overwhelming or particularly epic. But seeing it as an abuser and a rapist attacking his victim made me so uncomfortable. I was cringing at the screen the whole time. I honestly didn't know what would happen, what I even wanted to happen. Should she kill him? YES, I WANT JUSTICE. But that would turn her into the villain we assumed she was. In the end, she breathes deeply and says, "It is over," releasing him and turning away. She chose FORGIVENESS. Not in like, the way where everything is okay. But in the real forgiveness way, where she chooses not to let him have a hold on her anymore, where the victim says, "I will not let you make me less than I am." It is SO AWESOME. Of course, because justice is still demanded, he throws them both off the castle walls. He, being a terrible rapist, falls to his death. She, being a redeemed survivor with returned wings, flies away. And it is soul-wrenchingly beautiful.
I loved this movie. I loved it so hard, and I want to make everyone in the world see it. I want people to empathize with the victims of assault, to despise those who violate others, to learn the painful lessons of forgiveness and loving again. This movie was my everything!
I was interested in seeing Maleficent, but I hadn't actually thought to see it in theaters until a friend asked to see a movie and I thought, "Why not?" I was so ignorant. Maleficent blew me away with all the usually awesome movie stuff--excellent acting (Angelina Jolie is magnificent) and breath-taking fantasy landscapes and creatures. But what solidified my love for the film was its beautiful feminist messages.
For starters, it is an undeniably female-driven movie. Maleficent and Aurora are the center of everything. The three fairies provide comic relief and a significant amount of screen time. There are three male characters to round things out--men to round things out! One as the sidekick to a female! Oh my gosh, what a wonderful thing to see women as the stars of a fantasy epic, living adventurous stories and making terrible and wonderful decisions.
Second, Maleficent continues what Frozen began: the assertion that love comes in many forms, and that female love relationships are just as strong as male-female romantic ones. (It also continues a hesitancy to rely on the rape-like "true love's kiss" while a person is unconscious. I adored Prince Philip saying, "I don't feel right about this! I barely know her!" when the fairies urge him to kiss the sleeping Aurora.) But he does kiss her, and nothing happens. She's still asleep. And man, oh man, then Maleficent steps out, apologizes and cries and repents; she kisses the princess whom she loves and cares for, AND SLEEPING BEAUTY AWAKES. True love's kiss is one woman caring for another.
And most importantly, I was completely surprised by the entire plot. Maleficent is essentially a rape allegory. The young carefree fairy befriends a human boy. She thinks she loves him and she trusts that he loves her back. Years later, out of greed and ambition, he drugs her so that she falls asleep, physically violates her, taking something of hers without her permission, and when she wakes alone, she howls in physical and emotional agony. Dear God, that scene was crazy painful.
Seeing the action as rape makes the movie so incredibly powerful. Her vengeance is understandable. I rooted for her to make the guy crawl. Her turn to darkness is a bandage for her pain. I was behind her 100%, even though I was uncomfortably aware that she was acting the villain.
But it doesn't stop there! Maleficent learns to love again, albeit by loving the child she cursed. She saves the princess, risking her life in the process. And then love saves her, quite literally. The child she loves frees the wings that had been ripped from her, and in a burst of bright light, they reattach and Maleficent is whole again.
There is still, however, that pesky king rapist. He attacks her in exactly the way he knows will hurt her, and clings to her as she tries to fly away. I'm entirely sure that the fight scene at the end was probably nothing overwhelming or particularly epic. But seeing it as an abuser and a rapist attacking his victim made me so uncomfortable. I was cringing at the screen the whole time. I honestly didn't know what would happen, what I even wanted to happen. Should she kill him? YES, I WANT JUSTICE. But that would turn her into the villain we assumed she was. In the end, she breathes deeply and says, "It is over," releasing him and turning away. She chose FORGIVENESS. Not in like, the way where everything is okay. But in the real forgiveness way, where she chooses not to let him have a hold on her anymore, where the victim says, "I will not let you make me less than I am." It is SO AWESOME. Of course, because justice is still demanded, he throws them both off the castle walls. He, being a terrible rapist, falls to his death. She, being a redeemed survivor with returned wings, flies away. And it is soul-wrenchingly beautiful.
I loved this movie. I loved it so hard, and I want to make everyone in the world see it. I want people to empathize with the victims of assault, to despise those who violate others, to learn the painful lessons of forgiveness and loving again. This movie was my everything!
Friday, May 23, 2014
Coward
As a struggling-to-reform perfectionist, I try pretty hard to be vulnerable and okay with weakness in front of Anju and Ketan, both of whom are well on their way to being full-blown neurotic perfectionists. This means freely telling them, "I didn't know that," and "I was wrong," and "Whoa, that made me nervous!" I also tell them about all the things I'm scared of, from failing to heights to spiders.
When they both started reading Divergent, we naturally began categorizing each other into factions. We have had this conversation approximately twenty billion times.
Anju: You're definitely Amity, Miss Trish.
Me: Yeah.
Ketan: And Erudite!
Me: Yup.
Anju: But not Dauntless. You're scared of everything. Haha, you're such a coward!
So I clench my teeth and nod and admit that, yeah, I'm scared of a lot of things. I do not, no matter how badly I want to, point out that she is scared of infinitely more things than I am, because I am (barely) above comparing myself to a seven-year-old. And when Ketan boasts that his nickname would be Three, thereby claiming to be braver than Tobias, I hold my tongue and do not mention how he sometimes cries himself to sleep.
We went to Six Flags today, and I hate roller coasters, which combine two stupid things: heights and falling. That lurching feeling in your stomach that makes you think you're going to die? I am totally fine going throughout my day without intentionally afflicting myself with it. I want them both to know that it's okay to say no, that no matter how many times they whine at me or tease me, I'm allowed to say no and peer pressure isn't going to change that.
I mean, I'm like really saintly towards these kids. They had better look back some day and think, "Wow, Miss Trish actively and lovingly shaped us into confident, self-accepting human beings." But if they keep needling me about how big of a coward I am, one of these days I'm going to pull a Severus Snape and scream, "DON'T CALL ME COWARD!" before fleeing into the Forbidden Forest.
When they both started reading Divergent, we naturally began categorizing each other into factions. We have had this conversation approximately twenty billion times.
Anju: You're definitely Amity, Miss Trish.
Me: Yeah.
Ketan: And Erudite!
Me: Yup.
Anju: But not Dauntless. You're scared of everything. Haha, you're such a coward!
So I clench my teeth and nod and admit that, yeah, I'm scared of a lot of things. I do not, no matter how badly I want to, point out that she is scared of infinitely more things than I am, because I am (barely) above comparing myself to a seven-year-old. And when Ketan boasts that his nickname would be Three, thereby claiming to be braver than Tobias, I hold my tongue and do not mention how he sometimes cries himself to sleep.
We went to Six Flags today, and I hate roller coasters, which combine two stupid things: heights and falling. That lurching feeling in your stomach that makes you think you're going to die? I am totally fine going throughout my day without intentionally afflicting myself with it. I want them both to know that it's okay to say no, that no matter how many times they whine at me or tease me, I'm allowed to say no and peer pressure isn't going to change that.
I mean, I'm like really saintly towards these kids. They had better look back some day and think, "Wow, Miss Trish actively and lovingly shaped us into confident, self-accepting human beings." But if they keep needling me about how big of a coward I am, one of these days I'm going to pull a Severus Snape and scream, "DON'T CALL ME COWARD!" before fleeing into the Forbidden Forest.
Wednesday, May 7, 2014
Supervision
It's so great having a counseling supervisor who knows my flaws and gently makes fun of them. It's great because it means 1) I don't have to hide my flaws, and 2) Acknowledging them is the first step to healing. When I find myself in a relationship like this, I'm tempted to create a Facebook status that says something like, "I love when people make fun of my flaws!" but inevitably some rando will "jokingly" insult me, and I am reduced to frowning at my screen because someone didn't understand. The difference is that I have to feel safe with the person who is insulting me.
Supervisor makes me feel safe because he says things like, "I can counsel a pedophile, but ask me to answer the receptionist's phone, and I'll run screaming in the other direction," and "The majority of your married clients will be here because the husband cheated--ugh, men." (And before any reader who is overly invested in my love life starts arching their eyebrows, Supervisor is married. I like to envision our relationship as wise-cracking buddy cop counselors. Please view all these stories through that lens.)
Next week Supervisor is going to make Other Intern and I do a two-hour art therapy session. I say "make" even though I suppose I could technically refuse. Today he said,
Supervisor: Good work today. And next week you can take another step!
Me: Ugh. Another step?
Supervisor: You get to express emotions!
Me: ....Gross.
Supervisor: But it's your favorite thing!
Which is funny, because three weeks ago I was feeling a lot of emotion in supervision, and it was so embarrassing. I finished up with my clients and burst into Supervisor's office.
Me: Am I allowed to be mad at a client??
Supervisor: Um, I think you are mad at a client.
Me: No! Well, yes, but I mean to their face. Can I yell at someone in session?
Supervisor: Oh. No. You shouldn't do that.
Me: Well...can I have a Bullshit Button? I know other sites have those. Can I just obnoxiously press it every time he lies?
Supervisor: You know, I had one, but I think I threw it away. I think you'll just have to learn to empathize with him.
Me: UGH, NO.
Thus began a half hour conversation about why this guy had made me so furious, by the middle of which I had substantially raised my voice, was sitting on the edge of the couch, gesticulating wildly, heaving deep angry breaths. Suddenly I noticed Other Intern looking (nervously?) at me out of the corner of his eye. Oh, no. I had become carried away with emotion! I clutched at my head and said, "Ugh, I am so angry I can't think properly." Suddenly I had a mental image of me, a female wearing a dress, clutching her head while two men watched her emotional breakdown. I sat up straight and mentally freaked the hell out. I do not want to be that person.
The person who feels emotions.
So art therapy next week will be really interesting. I tell that story in horror, but I'm also super proud of myself. There are a lot of things I wish Therapist could have helped me learn, but I am really pleased that together we unlocked my anger. For the first twenty-four years of my life I thought I was somehow immune to anger. Turns out I just bottled it all up and let it flow inward, feeding my depression and self-hate. It was actually a huge accomplishment for me to let myself get so angry in front of two co-workers.
It is such a joy to work somewhere that allows me to be my worst and, in fact, celebrates my honesty in letting it out. Especially since I'm not so much working as learning a trade, and I can't imagine a safer environment for me to struggle and triumph and fail without worrying about anyone else's opinion. I could not ask for a better place to work than one where I am greeted with,
Supervisor: Are you moving? Because I had a dream last night that you were and you needed my help to move your collection of shopping carts. You had one from Korea and one from Japan, and we were, like, pushing them down the freeway.
Me: Well. I'm not moving, but I do have a collection of shopping carts.
SEE. Wise-cracking buddy cop counselors. It's totally a thing.
Supervisor makes me feel safe because he says things like, "I can counsel a pedophile, but ask me to answer the receptionist's phone, and I'll run screaming in the other direction," and "The majority of your married clients will be here because the husband cheated--ugh, men." (And before any reader who is overly invested in my love life starts arching their eyebrows, Supervisor is married. I like to envision our relationship as wise-cracking buddy cop counselors. Please view all these stories through that lens.)
Next week Supervisor is going to make Other Intern and I do a two-hour art therapy session. I say "make" even though I suppose I could technically refuse. Today he said,
Supervisor: Good work today. And next week you can take another step!
Me: Ugh. Another step?
Supervisor: You get to express emotions!
Me: ....Gross.
Supervisor: But it's your favorite thing!
Which is funny, because three weeks ago I was feeling a lot of emotion in supervision, and it was so embarrassing. I finished up with my clients and burst into Supervisor's office.
Me: Am I allowed to be mad at a client??
Supervisor: Um, I think you are mad at a client.
Me: No! Well, yes, but I mean to their face. Can I yell at someone in session?
Supervisor: Oh. No. You shouldn't do that.
Me: Well...can I have a Bullshit Button? I know other sites have those. Can I just obnoxiously press it every time he lies?
Supervisor: You know, I had one, but I think I threw it away. I think you'll just have to learn to empathize with him.
Me: UGH, NO.
Thus began a half hour conversation about why this guy had made me so furious, by the middle of which I had substantially raised my voice, was sitting on the edge of the couch, gesticulating wildly, heaving deep angry breaths. Suddenly I noticed Other Intern looking (nervously?) at me out of the corner of his eye. Oh, no. I had become carried away with emotion! I clutched at my head and said, "Ugh, I am so angry I can't think properly." Suddenly I had a mental image of me, a female wearing a dress, clutching her head while two men watched her emotional breakdown. I sat up straight and mentally freaked the hell out. I do not want to be that person.
The person who feels emotions.
So art therapy next week will be really interesting. I tell that story in horror, but I'm also super proud of myself. There are a lot of things I wish Therapist could have helped me learn, but I am really pleased that together we unlocked my anger. For the first twenty-four years of my life I thought I was somehow immune to anger. Turns out I just bottled it all up and let it flow inward, feeding my depression and self-hate. It was actually a huge accomplishment for me to let myself get so angry in front of two co-workers.
It is such a joy to work somewhere that allows me to be my worst and, in fact, celebrates my honesty in letting it out. Especially since I'm not so much working as learning a trade, and I can't imagine a safer environment for me to struggle and triumph and fail without worrying about anyone else's opinion. I could not ask for a better place to work than one where I am greeted with,
Supervisor: Are you moving? Because I had a dream last night that you were and you needed my help to move your collection of shopping carts. You had one from Korea and one from Japan, and we were, like, pushing them down the freeway.
Me: Well. I'm not moving, but I do have a collection of shopping carts.
SEE. Wise-cracking buddy cop counselors. It's totally a thing.
Monday, May 5, 2014
Torn
I've finished my second of three years at graduate school. While this is definitely a significant event, it feels less important now that I am nearly certain I'll stay in Dallas after I graduate. Not forever, because I haven't yet learned how to commit to something beyond "Sure, maybe for a few years!". But my plan to stay in Dallas for three years looks like it will expand to five, at least.
It's weird, realizing this sprawling city will be home for longer than I initially planned. This weekend my grandparents visited, and one of my favorite parts of the weekend was introducing them to people from my new church. It was lovely to have people come up to us who recognized my family from Facebook. It felt like another step toward "these people are my new faith family."
But.
But there's always a but. Even as I settle into a place where I have "my people," I can so easily fall into discontentment. Because Lindsay and I talk on the phone, or Jenna texts, or Mark says something unabashedly sweet on Facebook, and I think, "Those are my people." I miss the endless hugs on Sunday mornings. I miss being involved in everything, and I miss people knowing my talents better than I do, requesting and occasionally forcing me to use them. I miss going out to lunch after the service because no one wants to say goodbye. I miss the Bible studies and Tuesday night dinners and any excuse to hang out with my faith family as many nights of the week as possible. I miss the friendly insults and the utter comfort with which I knew the men, women, boys, and girls who made up Woodland.
I don't know what to do with this. I don't know how to parse out the difference between the evidence that God is using me in this new city with the fear that I came here because I'm terrified of good things and wanted to start over. I don't know how to hope for a homecoming when I worry I can't take my new self home without regressing. I don't know how to celebrate the life I have now without feeling like I'm villainizing the life I used to know. I don't know how to fast forward through these years of sloughing through relationships, hoping for the level of comfort and vulnerability and trust that I enjoyed before.
I don't know how to be excited and sad at the same time. Life is really good lately. I'm doing something I adore in a place where I feel safe and challenged. Those words--safe and challenged--kind of typify my experience in Dallas. That's a really good place to be, so I'm going to be here for a while longer. But I guess when the future starts solidifying, the past starts tugging at me.
It's weird, realizing this sprawling city will be home for longer than I initially planned. This weekend my grandparents visited, and one of my favorite parts of the weekend was introducing them to people from my new church. It was lovely to have people come up to us who recognized my family from Facebook. It felt like another step toward "these people are my new faith family."
But.
But there's always a but. Even as I settle into a place where I have "my people," I can so easily fall into discontentment. Because Lindsay and I talk on the phone, or Jenna texts, or Mark says something unabashedly sweet on Facebook, and I think, "Those are my people." I miss the endless hugs on Sunday mornings. I miss being involved in everything, and I miss people knowing my talents better than I do, requesting and occasionally forcing me to use them. I miss going out to lunch after the service because no one wants to say goodbye. I miss the Bible studies and Tuesday night dinners and any excuse to hang out with my faith family as many nights of the week as possible. I miss the friendly insults and the utter comfort with which I knew the men, women, boys, and girls who made up Woodland.
I don't know what to do with this. I don't know how to parse out the difference between the evidence that God is using me in this new city with the fear that I came here because I'm terrified of good things and wanted to start over. I don't know how to hope for a homecoming when I worry I can't take my new self home without regressing. I don't know how to celebrate the life I have now without feeling like I'm villainizing the life I used to know. I don't know how to fast forward through these years of sloughing through relationships, hoping for the level of comfort and vulnerability and trust that I enjoyed before.
I don't know how to be excited and sad at the same time. Life is really good lately. I'm doing something I adore in a place where I feel safe and challenged. Those words--safe and challenged--kind of typify my experience in Dallas. That's a really good place to be, so I'm going to be here for a while longer. But I guess when the future starts solidifying, the past starts tugging at me.
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