"Raising a Girl is too hard," says almost everyone.

What I write on here is dictated largely by my daily experiences.  This week I noticed something really interesting.  I was talking to two completely different social groups of twenty-somethings and somehow the same topic came up- having kids.  This is not an unusual thing for our age group.  We are watching friends and peers have kids.  We are excited/confused/terrified/anticipating doing this ourselves.  We chat about it at work or while eating meats cooked over fire.  It's all very natural stuff to chat about.

At work this conversation spontaneously came up- I am not sure how (now that I am trying to remember, my mind is blank).  I think we were talking about siblings and birth order, and someone commented on how they hope they don’t have daughters because they are terrified of dealing with them.  That comment was followed by a chorus of “Oh yeahs” and “I only want boys”  or “girls are trouble.” 

*Full disclosure- In the past I have only wanted boys, too.  My reason for this is totally different than those voiced in the 2 conversations I participated in this week.  I will get to my history in that arena later.  All you really need to know now is that I do not want only boys anymore.  

I was shocked that everyone in the ethnically diverse room- 8 people, 6 women and 1 man- all agreed that they wanted only boys (I am the 8th person, just in case you were using your fingers to count).  I am no statistician (despite acing college stats TWICE), but the odds are not looking good that all 7 of these folks will have male-only-offspring.  It makes me sad that when they find out they are having a girl, they will be disappointed, even if it is only a little disappointing.  I am sure they would feign happiness.  I am sure that if some of them had boys, they would then want girls.  I hate that girls would only be desired as an afterthought, though.  That is a disgusting shame.  

I spoke up about this. 

I said, “I want to raise strong women who love themselves.  And I want to raise strong men who love themselves and respect women.”  This response elicited a pretty solid chorus of head nods.  But their faces betrayed that they really didn’t want to be bothered.  Raising women who love themselves in this world is a tall order.  Yo.  

Then yesterday, I was in a different social setting (informal backyard party), with a pretty homogeneous racial make-up.  Again the issue of having kids came up, and people expressed that they only wanted boys.  I think I was so surprised that I heard this same information again that I neglected to contribute to the conversation.  It is actually kind of shocking that I didn’t say anything.  I was too busy thinking about how I needed to write all of this down.

I think the thing that broke my heart the most about both of these conversations, was that the majority of people who did not want to raise daughters were women.  I won’t lie to you about this; I felt betrayed.  I wanted to say, “Come on guys, it’s not so bad.  Just be the mother you always wanted to have. Bam.  Get it done.”  

I have a hard relationship with my mother.  So I never wanted kids, no matter their gender, because I did not want my future progeny to feel about me the way I have felt about my mother.  I have thought some pretty not-nice things about my mom.  Since I am a woman and my mother is a woman, I have some intense fears about repeating bad things and making the same mistakes she did.  It terrifies me, especially when I catch myself sounding like my mother. 

But here is the thing- I was not raised by a feminist.  I was not raised by a woman who is even my own race.  So I was/am ashamed of a what makes me ME.  I already have a cardboard children's book on my bookshelf that is full of different colors of children that uses really fun adjectives to describe how all the colors are good and beautiful.  I want to be able to share that with my kids.  I want my kids to feel at home in their skin, no matter what color their skin happens to be.  I want them to feel like their hair is just perfect, no matter if they have little wispy frizz curls or beach waves.  I want my daughter to respect her own body and not look at menstruation as some dirty burden.  I want my boys to respect what women’s bodies can do (which is anything boy’s bodies can do) and not what they look like.  I will do this because I really wish that I was given that foundation.  

I wasn’t proud of my Black history until I studied it myself in college (after being encouraged by my sister when I had the most epic identity crisis).  I wasn’t cool with my period until I read some great feminist literature and found the right products for my body (menstrual cups- it might be the product for you).  

When I started my new job a few weeks ago, I went to the Target and bought myself a little make-up bag looking thing and filled it with all of the things I would need in case I got caught with my period at my work place (my cycle is just starting to regulate so I always need to be prepared, and I appreciate that you didn't need to know that).  It has hand sanitizer, a mini bottle of advil, pads, tampons, liners.  I use a menstrual cup, but I don’t always remember to toss it in my bag.  I also know other people may come to my home and I like to have supplies for them just in case.  So I have my kit and I keep it in my bag (my co-workers think it is awesome and I am more than just a little jazzed that all the ladies come to me when they need supplies).  I said to myself, “boy, I wish my mom had made me one of these to keep in my backpack when I was in middle school.”  It would have made me feel so secure knowing I didn’t have to worry about getting my period at school.  And the make-up bag keeps everything nice and tidy and you don’t have stray tampons opening up in your bag and ibuprofen isn't spilling out everywhere.  And if you carry a make-up bag to the bathroom, everyone just thinks you are gonna put on some lip gloss in there.  Note to self: make these kits for my daughters.  

I am still terrified of being a horrible mother.  But I want to raise secure young people who love themselves and respect themselves.  I don’t want my kids to oversexualize their bodies or the bodies of others because they are not affirmed in their won sexuality or unacknowledged as sexual beings.  I also do not want them to be underprepared or uneducated about sex (am I the only person who never got the talk?).  I think if you raise kids to respect their bodies, they will respect everyone else’s bodies.  And if they are raised to love themselves, they will be loving towards others.  If they are raised to appreciate how they are unique and that being different is not bad, then they will see that people different from them are not terrifying.  

I want to raise daughters because I want to raise good people.  And I really think you should raise some girls, too.  Odds are- you are gonna have to.  So better change your mind about it now.  I don’t think we can positively progress as a society, expect equal pay for women, get better maternity/paternity leave,  and respect for our bodies (Republicans: get out of my uterus.  I already told you I have a menstrual cup in my vag.  There is not enough room in there for the both of you.  Now git on home to your yacht or whatever) until baby girls are valued and wanted.  If you do not want to raise a girl, care for one, raise one to be a good citizen, then you can’t really be surprised when half our government doesn’t give a shit about them either.

Sexual Harassment and Bros- New Job Shenanigans

I am a Mid 20s, Latina/Native-American looking woman, in a world where women make 70 cents on the dollar compared her male counter parts.  White men are presidents.  They make up the casts of entire movies.  They run most companies.  They make the rules and the rules suit them.  

My body can grow and feed other humans and because it can it is expected to do so by most men.  Over time we ladies have just ended up at the bottom of shit.  I think it is because we prefer not to kill and injure things.  We are too busy giving life to shit.    

Third day of my new job- I sit in the middle of the room so I can see most of the room and have access to the door.  I sit next to a guy that I haven’t sat next to before because I am trying to be outgoing and win at this new job.  This guy’s bro sits in front of him.  Then another bro of theirs sits next to that new bro.  I am suddenly the 4th corner in this square of white bros.  Oh Lordissa.  The bro that is diagonal to me is a blond bro.  He is the head of the bros and he has peer pressured his fellow men into being bros for the day by association.  The slightly geeky guy and the fat guy have to be this guy's bros so they can keep their manhood intact.  

The day goes alright.  I am quick and I am focused and there is limited interaction with the bros.  We work in small groups only a few times; bros cubed and the ethinicly ambiguous girl.  

During one exercise the broiest of the bros is messing around and waisting our time.  I tell him to hurry up so we can finish our task.  His fellow bro looks at me and says, “Ooooh, you’re a sassy one.”  I almost punched him in the neck.  I knew a blow to the trachea would really hurt and I wanted to hit him so bad.  I think I gave him a look that said, “I mean business.  Shut up.”  We all carried on with the group work.  

I have a problem with sassy/spicey ethnic woman jokes/comments/stereotypes.  I am a serious professional person that my father raised to do my best and give 200%.  I will smoke you on any job.  Watch me do it.  When a man is serious in this department, he is a hard worker and good man.  When a woman does this, best case scenario- she is feisty, worst case scenario- she is a giant bitch on wheels.  So if you want to get me, a serious worker who will give you a professional pounding and make you look like an incompetent idiot, on your bad side- just go ahead and call me sassy.  

A bit later, the bro who called me sassy was in the washroom.  I dropped my pencil and bent down to get it.  The rotund bro, my table mate for the day, almost elbowed me in the face on accident as I was on my way up from retrieving my pencil.  He was very apologetic and kind and relieved that he did not injure me.  He is a kind bro at heart.  We laughed it off and I told him to forget about it.  No harm, no foul.  Lead bro, turned around to put his nose in our business to see what we were laughing about.  Rotund bro says, “Dude, I almost just nailed her right in the face with my elbow.  It woulda been so bad.”  I was trying to harness my inner bro (the one who likes beer and pork rinds and bowling and burping and farting and large sweatpants) and I said, “Don’t worry.  I have an older brother.  I got nailed in the face plenty of times before.”  Lead bro leans into rotund bro and says with a smirk, “I bet she’s been nailed in the face before.”  They laughed heartily.  My brows furrowed with worry, shock, and questions.  I turned to lead bro and said, “That is disgusting.”  I was pretty sure I knew what he meant by saying that.  I assumed he was referring to getting hit in the face with sperm- not work appropriate.  I told him, plainly, that his comment was disgusting, and I was also fishing to see if he would explain himself or apologize.  But all he did was laugh more.  This is a workplace- this is a school we were in.  So I said, “I am pretty sure I could get you in trouble for saying that.”  I was fishing for more info at this point and I wanted to see if he was saying what I thought he was saying.  He didn’t deny it.  He didn’t apologize.  He just kept laughing harder.  He did mean this joke in a sexual way.  He wasn't sorry about it. 

I also saw him gawking at a girl and giving her attention she really didn’t want.  And he of course didn’t stop (Google: Schrodinger’s Rapist).  I felt disgusted about the whole thing and I was able to change seats after lunch.  When I sat next to this new person she gave me her condolences for having to sit with the bros I was sitting with previously (even she knew from across the room that those guys where all bad news).  I suddenly dreaded the fact that this lead bro might be at my work site and I felt really bad for any woman he would work with in the future.  These 2 things prompted me to think that I should maybe tell someone about what happened- like my boss or HR.  I wasn’t sure though because I wondered if I was being over sensitive and I was also afraid for some reason.  I was afraid that no one would believe me or that they would blow it off.  I told my husband what happened and he was pissed.  He works for lawyers and they have zero tolerance for this kind of thing.  He was shocked that we had no sexual harassment training (we still haven’t and I don’t think we will).  He encouraged me to email my boss (a woman).  I emailed my boss and she set a meeting with me and her and HR.  

In my meeting with HR (an older woman), I told them everything and I told them that I wanted to be honest and transparent.  I won’t go into the details about the meeting but, long story short, the HR person told me that what happened did not constitute sexual harassment, nor was it really harassment at all.  She reduced it to a joke that I interpreted one way because I was sensitive.  

I regretted saying anything.  Deep regret. 

She gave me a few options and none of them really made me happy because none of them could be anonymous.  I voiced my fear about retaliation and she gave me this whole lecture about professionalism and about how retaliation would not be tolerated.  But all I could think of was - but you are tolerating sexual harassment so retaliation may be tolerated, too.

Ugh.  

They kept telling me that they “take things like this very seriously” but then they didn’t take it seriously.  I walked out of the meeting feeling demoralized and alone and angry.  I walked out of there thinking- I would have encouraged my friends and my future daughter to tell her bosses what happened, telling is the right thing to do.  I did “the right thing.”  Yet nothing good came from it.  This guy is going to continue to do this in the workplace because it is obvious he thinks it is ok.  He has never been seriously held accountable for it, and I have this strange feeling that he never will.  I also felt really betrayed by the 2 women in this meeting with me- my boss’s boss and the head HR lady.  I tried to justify it in my  head by thinking- this older woman doesn’t know what this joke means- but she could have asked me what it meant.  I tried to and I still try to explain it all away- both the joke and how HR handled it.  I have not been successful.  This is a really great microcosm of white male privilege and the patriarchy and all that awful bullshit.  This type of thing just cements the fact that I will always feel out of place and really isolated and that I am not welcome here, in white-male-America.  I truly don’t belong.  I hate that that fucker gets more money than me for half the work.  I hate that I am upstanding and respectful and bright and that in an interview he would get picked over me (statistically speaking).  After the HR meeting I was very numb.

I came home and told my husband and he was shocked and angry.  At his workplace people get fired for less.  I am not sure what I wanted to happen or what I expected to happen.  I guess I just wanted some accountability.  I think I wanted him to get a firm talking to- maybe get pulled aside and warned and a letter in his file.  I am sure that with his "firm talking to" he would not have known what incident they were talking about because I found out later that he had done this to another person.  I told a new work friend that I had to go meet with HR about some harassment and she instantly guessed who it was.  She told me that she gotten the creeps from him because she heard him make an inappropriate comment to someone about their mouth and how they drank from the water fountain.  

In this story there are so many things that went wrong.  At least 3 other people (the one I saw him gawking at, the hearer of the drinking fountain joke, and the receiver of the drinking fountain joke) did not see that it was important to mention to HR that this guy was out of line.  I won’t mention it to HR because those are not my stories to tell.  But I sure wish they would have.  Who knows what else this guy said or did?  I hate that women have been socialized to accept this type of behavior.   

I have a hard time being angry on my own behalf.  It is always delayed.  I tell myself I am ok and I carry on.  It hits me later that something really shitty happened to me.  Today my husband and I were walking in a very rich suburb.  Like this suburb is so rich I feel very uncomfortable being there.  Then my husband joked about me being the only brown person in the area and that they need to watch out for me because I am probably trouble (he was joking but it was also kind of true- I bet some people did think that- and so I nervously laughed).  We were  crossing the street when this SUV with 4 white, polo shirt wearing, guys yells out at us, “Hey! Could you go any slower?!”  And they laughed and squealed their tires as they drove away.  For some reason, with my raw nerves from this week, some fresh and tender wounds, and the fact that it was a car full of bros, plus my ever present feeling of never belonging- I had to hold back tears.  My husband knew I was upset and he tried to comfort me.  I just wanted to enjoy our time together so I tried to distract myself.  But it just made me so angry.  I was having a very long, internal, rant about how much I dislike white men.  I mean, I can count on 1 hand how many white guys I think are acceptable and that I trust.  But I also know that my hate contributes to the pool of hate that is ever growing in the universe and I try my best not to contribute to that.  I am having a lot of feelings.  

I am exhausted by all of this.

Finally

I called my grandmother tonight on the phone just to see how her brother was doing.  Of course I have other things I want to tell her and I also want to see how she is doing.  I call her a few times a week now.  I never used to do that.  As my grandfather became ill, about 6 months ago, I began to call her once a week.  As he worsened my calls increased.  Now that she is a widow, I try to call 3 times a week.  

The calls are short.  I don’t want to be a burden to her.  I know that so many people call her all day and, in being such a classic and lovely woman, she will put her best smile on even for a phone conversation.  Recently I did call her because I needed her.  I felt really hesitant to do that, especially because the call had to do with my own marriage troubles.  I didn’t want her to hear about my marriage (even in its state of disrepair) and then consequently long for her marriage.  But, I have to realize that she will do that anyway.  And then something incredible and surprising happened, but also not so incredible and amazing, I suppose.  I poured my junk out for her to see.  I knew she would understand and she did.  She empathized with me about how hard marriage is.  And then she was able to tell me how hard it is for her that my grampa is gone.  Then we both cried on the phone.  

Back in December we threw this huge party at our house for a family member.  It was too much for me.  I can plan these things, but the execution makes me itchy.  I played the perfect hostess and tried my best.  The next day I called my grandmother and I told her that I don’t know how she did that for years with my grandfather.  And for some strange reason it cracked her up.  She just laughed and laughed on the other side of the phone.  It was hearty, belly, tear-producing laughter.  It was contagious and we both just laughed.  I called to tell her about it because as I was in the midst of serving appetizers, I thought of my grandmother entertaining in the 1950’s.  Her and I are so much alike.  We are best suited in the work place and out of the home.  I am a much better cook than her, but we are wild women.  We need to be free range.  We will do things that we have to do, but it will kill us.  We will serve our nicest food to the biggest bull-shitters and roll our eyes fiercely as we stroll back to the kitchen for more.    

I told her about my experience out of exhaustion and we connected in this funny little way.  And then she just couldn’t stop laughing about how ridiculous it was.  I know exactly what she looked like on the other side of the phone.  Her breath got wheezy she laughed so hard.  

This evening, during our phone call, I shared with her another thought that I knew she could relate to.  Again she laughed and laughed.  My mother and aunt were with her and they didn’t know what was going on.  I laughed with her.  I laughed because she was laughing, and because life is ridiculous, and because I knew that her laughter was genuine.  I didn’t intend to make her laugh, I never do.  But I am so glad I did.  She told me that she will probably wake up in the night and remember and laugh some more.  I believe her.  I have seen and heard her do this.  It’s like she stores little bits of funny jokes in her pocket for a late night snack that she can enjoy on her way to the bathroom to sustain her for the long night of darkness and loneliness.  

In the moments after laughing where you sigh, and giggle remnants pop up, my heart felt full and glad and satisfied.  You see, it is not just that my mother and I have a strained relationship, it is that out relationship is non-traditional.  My mother is biologically my mother and she carried me in her womb and she has the cesarian scars to show for it.  But for all intensive purposes, she was not able to be the mother I needed when I needed it.  We do not have a traditional relationship.  I am her peer.  She is my peer.  She did not mother me.  In fact, I mothered her.  So our relationship exists because we have a similar family circle.   

I have always wanted a traditional mother, though.  Everyone does.  When we don’t have one we have a huge hole in our souls.  I am lacking in the parental unit department.  It has been a long and lonely road.  Yet my grandmother has been my constant.  She has been my sun.  I can safely orbit her and know where I am and where my home is.  I have realized that my grandmother is my mother.  When we share these moments and they make me feel whole, I have these tastes of pure happiness and completion I have been looking for.  It doesn’t make up for the times that I have felt like I have been hurled toward a black hole, or a concrete wall, but it helps.  Those moments where we are so strongly attached over the phone, draw me out from the event horizon of the black hole.

In my college anatomy and physiology course I remember the day we learned about gametes.  Males produce sperm constantly.  Their bodies are on a clock where they constantly make new, fresh, sperm.  This is why Larry King has tons of babies and he is an old, wrinkly, man.  Females produce a fixed number of eggs and these are always with us.  We are born with these eggs.  All of our ovum that we are ever gonna have are in our little baby bodies before we are born.  This means that the egg that made me were once in my mother's ovaries whilst she was in her mother’s womb.  My grandmother once carried me in her own womb.  That shit is profound.  When I heard that in class I thought, well at least the woman I love the most carried me in her womb.

I feel so glad for my snippets of joy that I get to have with my gramma.  I appreciate all of the memories and I cling to them.  I am so happy that I get to go through the relationship evolution and maturation with her that most children go through with their parents.   

Thank you, more please.

I hope and pray so desperately for all the motherless children out there to find someone that can bring them this feeling, too.  I hope for you, I really do.  I pray for you, I really do.  

Biracial Baggage- more on race...Surprise!

I was dealt this hand.  It is a strange hand, or at least that is what I think about it.  I am biracial.  My mother is white and my father is black.  To be an american with that parentage is no walk in the park.  I will not explain any of that in this post.  That is hard and exhausting.  But I will explain my experience, which is also hard and exhausting.

I do not look like my parents.  If I am in any store with my mother or any member or her family, it is not assumed that we are together.  If I am in a restaurant waiting with anyone in my father’s family, it is not assumed that I am one of their party.  I am brown.  I look Latino.  I look Hispanic.  I look Mexican.  I do not pass for Black.  I do not pass for white.  It was not a problem for me that I did not look like anyone in my family (except for my brother and my sister), until I was 5 when someone so kindly pointed it out to me (proof that race is a social construct; but a construct that is given so much weight).  

It was hard to feel anxious as a child.  I felt anxious because I didn't look like my father.  I was afraid someone would take me from him.  It was hard to have people admire my mother for adopting brown siblings.  I hated explaining myself and my existence.  I mean, who likes to do that anyway?  No one.  No one likes to explain who they are or how they are.  It is dehumanizing.  

I knew that I belonged to them and they knew that they belonged to me, but everyone else needed convincing.  That quickly tires a child.  Grown ups thought of me as a pleasant child.  I had good manners.  My hair was always creatively displayed.  I was energetic, witty, and talkative.  I could engage adults in a conversation.  And then suddenly they would look at me and say, “what are you?”  This continues to this day.  As an adult, I get it less, because I intimidate people (this is what friends tell me).  But I will occasionally find a brave person whose curiosity gets the best of them and they blurt out, “what are you?  what is your backround?  what ethnicity are you?  what is your heritage?”  They try to be diplomatic about it.  But once you open your mouth to ask a stranger these things, you can no longer be considered a kind person or a diplomat.  

You are being a nosey shithead.  

I know that people hear the way I speak and they see my skin and the 2 things do not sit right with them.  They want to know about my race because then they can categorize me and put me in a box.  They want a cheat sheet on how to treat me.  Latina, Middle Eastern, Native American, Indian, Southeast Asian- who knows?  

But, oh my, they are curious.  Then they find out that the only language I speak is english, and they really get confused.  I recently found out that was another way for people to ask about my race. I thought it was kind of genius of them.  But my answer only confused them more, which pleased me greatly.  

I used to answer people, gladly.  Or I would have them take a guess.  Now, I just sigh in exasperation.  I should just come up with some smart ass answer.  But I was raised to be more polite than that.  And I also know that I am still a minority, so I need to be kind and diplomatic so people won’t judge other minorities harshly because of me; the of the many burdens for People of Color.

Once when I was in high school my mother and I were at a large craft store finding a pattern for a costume.  A woman with a cart wandered over to look at patterns, too.  In her cart was a little girl, all of 4 years old.  The woman looked at my mother and I and said, “Can my daughter meet your daughter?  Can she meet you both?  I want her to see people that look like us.”  The moment was profound and charged with a kind of electricity I have never felt before or since.  Sometimes I feel something similar when I see a biracial family, but it is not as poignant as this moment was.  The woman was white and her daughter was brown like me.  The woman saw us and immediately knew what we were.  She truly saw us.  And she wanted us to see her and her child.  Most importantly of all, she wanted to give her child a taste of seeing people like them- a person like her.  My mother said, “Sure,” and we walked over to wave at her daughter sitting in the cart.  The mother said, “Look!  This girl is just like you.”  And she smiled at her daughter who shyly glanced at me.  I was glad that this woman was brave enough to speak with us.  Seeing them together was just as important for me as it was for the girl.  When we see people that look like us, we feel less alone. 

It is just so rare that I see someone just like me.  

My sister always says that she feels complete when we are all together as a family.  Or at least, when there is a heard of brown people orbited by a stray white or black person, we are better equipped to handle the side eyes or the comments.  Together it more easily rolls off our collective brown skins.  Together we can laugh about it in the car afterwards.  Together we can joke about how we couldn’t put an entire spanish sentence together if our life depended on it.  Together we can make jokes about race to lighten the mood, and our laughter eases the tension because we all understand how awkward the jokes are.  

Thinking of this moment, with the young girl and her mother, makes me weep.  I know what that loneliness feels like and I know that insatiable desire to fit somewhere.  This thirst is not often quenched when you inhabit the kind of skin that I do.  I never feel black enough.  I never will be white enough.  Alas, I am not Latina and I never pretend to be.  I straddle these 2 divided worlds and I have to make my home somewhere in between.  And I know that no matter where I rest, someone in my family doesn’t quite get it or doesn’t understand why I placed myself here or there or anywhere.  

It is quite lonely here.

Thank you. More, please.

i want to be the type of happy and content where i am not bitter and resentful when good things happen to other people.  i guess i have always felt like there isn't enough.  it must be the consequences of being a poor kid.  i hoard goodness.  i believe in scarcity because it seems to haunt me and follow me wherever i go.  i cannot watch others enjoy the sweetness in life because somehow i think if they get the good stuff that somehow means i don't get to have any.  it is like there is a large steamy bowl of fresh, hot, happiness at the dinner table.  and if everyone before me takes a big scoop, then i am screwed and i don't even get to lick the spoon.  

for years i have avoided choir concerts and music performances because singing makes me so happy and it is painful to watch other people have that joy.  i resent everyone who ever had a honeymoon.  we paid for our own wedding so we never got to observe that highly popular tradition.  every vacation our friends take, every plane ride, trip, facebook photo on the beach- makes me so bitter.  

when i see someone with their best friend it makes me so sad that mine lives too far away to share the mundane things of life with.  and when someone has a job that they love, i think i look at them as if it is their fault i am unhappy at mine.  it is as if i believe there has to be some universal balance of misery.  so if someone else is happy, that means that i have to be served a heaping plate of shit to eat.  a very sane, small, part of my brain knows that this is simply not the way the world works; and that all this nonsense is actually contrary to what my faith says.  but it is simply how i feel and how i perceive things.  i wish i didn't think this way.  but i do and it is absolutely miserable.
  

i watched this movie about a year ago and it made me weep.  WEEP.  It is called "Happythankyoumoreplease."  i hate telling people the things that i like.  It feels to vulnerable and i fear being judged for my taste.  like how i watched the Tim Burton version of "Alice in Wonderland" and i thought it was the best thing ever.  It spoke to me really deeply- i am not even kidding.  i keep it a secret because that is really intimate information.  i don't usually like Tim Burton movies, as his style is too dark for my taste.  but this one got me.  adult Alice makes her way back to Wonderland but never remembers being there.  everyone else remembers her and so she spends the rest of the film trying to figure out if she believes she is the same Alice everyone else remembers.  more weeping.  

"Happythankyoumoreplease" is another movie that poked a little too hard at my gaping, festering, wounds.  the female protagonist struggles with self esteem and worth and she doesn't think she is beautiful or worth loving.  i am giving away a lot of info here.  but her character says some stuff that resonated deeply.  her name is Annie.

Annie: So, I’m trying to let go of the whole idea that we have to pay for our joy with sorrow or tragedy; that there has to be some sort of karmic balance, but it sure feels that way.  You know what I mean?
I do this thing...I can’t believe I’m telling you this...about a year ago, I was in this cab and this cab driver- this indian guy- started telling me all sorts of stuff.  He was just looking at me in the rearview mirror and he said, “Bliss.  Bliss is your birthright.”  And I was like, “Uh...? 45th and Madison?”  He said, “You have great potential in this lifetime. The key to your life is gratitude. You do not give enough thanks.”  I said, “Well- how do I do that?” And he said, “Simple.  Say, ‘thank you.’” I said, “Well...when?”  He said, “All the time- right now.”  And he said when I say thank you I should say ‘more please.’
Tony: “Wait.  Thank you, more please?”
Annie: “Yeah.  That with gratitude the universe is eternally abundant.  So I’ve been giving gratitude a shot.  Thank you, more please.  Thank you, more please.  Thank you, more please. How crazy am I sounding here?

• later in the film

Annie to her best friend via voicemail: “So here’s what I have to say to you before the damn beep cuts me off: Sadness be gone.  Let’s be people who deserve to be loved...who are worthy.  Cuz we are worthy.  You’ve told me that for years, and now I get to spit it back at you.  Yeah, I know.  I’m totally gonna get nominated for the Sincerity Award.  Fuck it, I don’t care, I want to win it.  You’re a good man.  Go get yourself loved.  That’s all I got.”

i am right there with Annie.  

happythankyoumoreplease.