I often feel like I just keep playing a weird part in other people's love stories, over, and over again. I'm that girl the hero thinks he's in love with, and then he meets someone else, or he realizes he's still in love with that other girl he thought he wasn't in love with anymore. Or I'm the quirky friend urging the heroine to follow her heart or stay careful or chase her dreams. Except in this rom-com, the quirky female friend doesn't fall in love with the awkward male friend. Not yet at least.
And likely someday I'll have a love story of my own, where I get to play the heroine and I get to share romantic adventures with the hero. And those who's parts I've played in their love stories? They will be the strange characters in my love story, the boys who didn't love me enough or who lost my love, the boys I fell for but who weren't meant to stick around. They will be Sally's Joe, or Prince Humperdink (ha!) or Kathleen Kelly's Frank Navasky. Some of them will be Franks, the dutiful boys who would have stayed with me had I not let them go, but more of them are Joe's.
But for now I'll be Parker Posey or Judy Greer or (worse) James Marsden before 27 Dresses.
This is the story of the boys who loved you
Who love you now and loved you then
And some were sweet, some were cold and snuffed you
And some just laid around in bed.
Some had crumbled you straight to your knees
Did it cruel, did it tenderly
Some had crawled their way into your heart
To rend your ventricles apart
This is the story of the boys who loved you
This is the story of your red right ankle.
But wait, why does my story have to revolve around love and romance and relationships? Who said that the only story worth telling is about a man and a woman falling in love? Ok, everyone says that, it's all over our culture, everywhere you turn around. But do I have to buy that, hook, line, and sinker? Why should I write my story around someone else? What kind of a frail human actually holds that kind of power in my life, that I would want to write my story around him? Why should I believe that my biggest desire, my greatest source of fulfillment is in falling in love?
The first few paragraphs of this blog are sadly easier for me to feel and believe at times, but despite all the confusion I feel, I really do believe that the above paragraph is more true. That I have a life to live, and purpose to pursue and it's happening NOW, whether I'm single, engaged, married, a mother, a daughter, a student, a psychologist, a sister, whoever I am, I am me and I have so much to give and offer to those around me. I'm just as much me now as I would be me if I were married or with a Ph.D. in my hand. Why do we keep believing that single people are just married people who haven't found their "better half" yet? Why do I swallow these lies again and again?
Sometimes, I'm freed from those lies. I spent most of this semester remarkably happy to be single, loving my life and my relationships, and not even really desiring to be in a relationship, because having a dude around would just mess up all the good things I've got going on, and he's got to be really worth it for me to mess my life up for him. I wish I felt that happy and content this consistently now, but lately it still comes in moments and waves. It comes in moments when I'm surrounded by my family that loves me, when they wrap themselves around me with love and support. And it comes in quiet moments, when I sit on my bed and type and contemplate these things and when I stretch back onto my pillow and pray and remember that I have all that I need, that my Father doesn't withhold any good gifts from me, and that this is good. That it's good to be me, a student, a counselor, a friend, a sister, and I don't need to be anyone else right now. It's good. And those boys that loved me or who didn't love me? Well, it's good for them to be themselves, they're not some pawns in mine or anyone else's story, they're valuable humans created by God, just as I am. If I'm just a character in someone else's story, it's not a silly human fable, it's a divine story, a sacred story.
Besides, Parker Freakin' Posey is pretty freakin' fabulous.
Showing posts with label story telling. Show all posts
Showing posts with label story telling. Show all posts
Thursday, May 13, 2010
Sunday, January 25, 2009
it is written
I've been back for over a week now, and wondering how to restart this blog thing again. Whenever I go away from it, it's always a little hard to know how to return. I've gotten out of the groove, and I lack inspiration. I know that you would probably enjoy reading about my trip, and I'd like to write more about it, but it's hard to know what to write without it becoming a list of my itinerary, and Ben has already written some great posts about Amsterdam, that what could my writings add? My perspective, I suppose, but a lot of my perspective from the trip is best shared one-on-one, and not through a blog. Instead, I found other inspiration this morning.
Last night, I saw Slumdog Millionaire. If you haven't seen it, please see it as soon as possible! I'm going to do my best to talk vaguely about plots points and avoid giving any spoilers, but if you'd prefer to wait to read this until you've seen it, then wait. One of the friends I'd seen it with had already seen it before, and she told me about things that she hadn't noticed the first time, like the depth and complexity of one of the main characters, and how even from childhood, you see the changes that this character undergoes.
This morning, I found myself thinking about the female character from Slumdog, Latika. This movie is many things, and it is most definitely a rescuing the damsel in distress story. When I reflected on that this morning, at first it irked my quasi-feministic side. Why couldn't Latika rescue herself? Why was she so dang submissive toward the men in her life? Why couldn't she have been a more dynamic character, like the boys in the film? But the more I thought about it, she was indeed a complex character. I believe that feminism is about choice, and at a key point in the movie, Latika makes a difficult choice, a choice that probably saves someone else's life, and a choice that leads her to continue her life of submission and degradation by men.
I continued to reflect on this damsel in distress aspect of the plot more, and thought that really, it was a beautiful love story. In our heart of hearts, all women (and probably men too) want this kind of love, of a man who never forgets her. Years may pass, but she is still the love of his life, and he continues searching for her, and will never be satisfied until his love is safe in his arms. He's willing to put himself through danger, and do whatever it takes to be with her. A couple of times in the film, someone asks, "What? Not her again," and encourages the main character to give up on chasing after her. Yes, her, who else but her? No one will compare, and he will continue after her, never giving up hope that they will be together again. Gosh, who doesn't want that?
And I've never been one to get a lot out of the imagery of Christ as the bridegroom, and the church as the bride, but thinking about this film this morning, that image clicked with me. I saw the gospel in this film. I saw a woman, so defiled, so degraded, living with the enemy, first being forced into this awful lifestyle, and then choosing to stay in it. And I saw a man, who loves her infinitely, and more than that, he looks at her and doesn't see her lifestyle, doesn't see the ugliness of her actions and the actions against her, but he sees her for who she is, he sees her as beautiful and pure, and because he does, that is how us, the audience sees her. She's radiant and gorgeous.
Last night, I saw Slumdog Millionaire. If you haven't seen it, please see it as soon as possible! I'm going to do my best to talk vaguely about plots points and avoid giving any spoilers, but if you'd prefer to wait to read this until you've seen it, then wait. One of the friends I'd seen it with had already seen it before, and she told me about things that she hadn't noticed the first time, like the depth and complexity of one of the main characters, and how even from childhood, you see the changes that this character undergoes.
This morning, I found myself thinking about the female character from Slumdog, Latika. This movie is many things, and it is most definitely a rescuing the damsel in distress story. When I reflected on that this morning, at first it irked my quasi-feministic side. Why couldn't Latika rescue herself? Why was she so dang submissive toward the men in her life? Why couldn't she have been a more dynamic character, like the boys in the film? But the more I thought about it, she was indeed a complex character. I believe that feminism is about choice, and at a key point in the movie, Latika makes a difficult choice, a choice that probably saves someone else's life, and a choice that leads her to continue her life of submission and degradation by men.
I continued to reflect on this damsel in distress aspect of the plot more, and thought that really, it was a beautiful love story. In our heart of hearts, all women (and probably men too) want this kind of love, of a man who never forgets her. Years may pass, but she is still the love of his life, and he continues searching for her, and will never be satisfied until his love is safe in his arms. He's willing to put himself through danger, and do whatever it takes to be with her. A couple of times in the film, someone asks, "What? Not her again," and encourages the main character to give up on chasing after her. Yes, her, who else but her? No one will compare, and he will continue after her, never giving up hope that they will be together again. Gosh, who doesn't want that?
And I've never been one to get a lot out of the imagery of Christ as the bridegroom, and the church as the bride, but thinking about this film this morning, that image clicked with me. I saw the gospel in this film. I saw a woman, so defiled, so degraded, living with the enemy, first being forced into this awful lifestyle, and then choosing to stay in it. And I saw a man, who loves her infinitely, and more than that, he looks at her and doesn't see her lifestyle, doesn't see the ugliness of her actions and the actions against her, but he sees her for who she is, he sees her as beautiful and pure, and because he does, that is how us, the audience sees her. She's radiant and gorgeous.
Saturday, May 10, 2008
Immortality
The past couple of weekends, while I've been writing and studying until I dropped, my mom, aunts, and cousins have been sorting through items at my grandmother's house. I wish I could have been a part of the process, because the things they've found have truly been amazing. They found several diaries that no one even knew my grandmother kept! These go back as far as her teenage years, when she writes of dates she went on, years before she married my grandfather at 29. Apparently she kept these diaries off and on throughout the years, and I think they've found one from every decade through the nineties. After reading a few passages, my oldest aunt stated how she doesn't like reading diaries of people who are still alive and would like to wait until our grandmother is gone before these are read anymore. Everyone agreed.
I've kept prayer journals off and one through the past several years, and I've kept a travel journal of places I've traveled to since I graduated college, which I intend to give to my daughter when she turns 18 or 21. And then there's this blog, an online diary. Will someone find these journals in my home when I'm 80 and in a nursing home, or will Google maintain these blogs sites and we can email our grandchildren links? One of my classmates has kept a diary since she was 14, and she writes exactly one page, no more no less, every single day. I feel like were I to start a diary like that, I'd soon lose interest in a couple of months. If my grandchildren want to learn about this season of my life, they can piece together photographs, travel journals, and blog entries, and it will tell them something. But what kind of picture am I painting of myself?
Also, my cousin and I used to play all sorts of creative games together at my grandmother's house. One of our favorites was to make "robots" out of the bedposts, which consists of drawing, coloring, cutting, and taping clothing, eyes, and mouths onto the bedposts to design different "robots." When we were done, we always stashed the materials under the dresser, and sure enough, when my cousin looked, they were all still there! She told me she'll get them laminated so we can save them.
My mom's main interest in this endeavor was saving old pictures. She's collected most of the pictures found in the house, and has bought a scanner/photo printer and has begun scanning them. Since I've been home, I've been looking through these photos. There are pictures of my mother when she was 2 weeks old, her and her sisters as children, as long-legged, long-haired teenagers, but the pictures of the most interest to me are before my mother and aunts were born. There are many pictures of my grandmother before she had children, when she was my age, posing dramatically with her college girlfriends, wearing dark lipstick, cat-eyed glasses, rarely smiling, always looking serious, but something about the poses and the other girls expressions tells me that these were just a few college girls goofing off for the camera, much like my friends and I do now. There are my grandmother's brothers, who I never knew, and their charming, carefree attitudes ooze from the photographs. Uncle Waymon, the womanizer, gives a smarmy smile while wearing a bowtie and holding a cigarette toward the camera, trying to pose like a movie star or something. You look at this picture, and you can't help but hear him saying, "Hey doll, got a light?" My mother held this picture next to my grandfather's serious portrait in his Corps uniform, and said, "Isn't it interesting that a woman who came from this family married this man?"
And then there's my grandfather, who died when my mom was 12. I love hearing stories about him, but I feel like he'll always be a mystery to me. It seems like every year another piece of the puzzle is added. High school math teacher turned principal. Amputee from an accident working in Illinois, who survived when a nun prayed for him all night long. A&M Corps member. Musician. Husband. Brother. Father. But I still don't know how to describe him. My mother describes him as hard-working and honorable, "a man of character." Those are great things, but they tell me nothing about his personality, what he was like to be around, what he was like as a husband or father. I found a photo of him that I love. He's canoing on a lake in 1950, one year after him and my grandmother married, a couple of years before my aunt was born. He's in the shadowy right hand side of the photo, gazing out into the water, light streaming from the upper left hand corner of the photo, and mossy trees in the background. My mom scanned this for me and found one of my grandmother, posing on a big tree stump in a forest, who's setting matches the forested lake setting of my grandfather's picture. Somehow, these pictures capture how I conceptualize each of these grandparents. My grandmother is posed for the camera, and her body takes the center of this clear, crisp photograph. My grandfather, however, was just captured by the lens, clouded by light and shadows. My memories of my grandmother will always be as clear as this photograph, but my ideas of my grandfather are sketched together through other's memories, clouded by light and shadows.
I've kept prayer journals off and one through the past several years, and I've kept a travel journal of places I've traveled to since I graduated college, which I intend to give to my daughter when she turns 18 or 21. And then there's this blog, an online diary. Will someone find these journals in my home when I'm 80 and in a nursing home, or will Google maintain these blogs sites and we can email our grandchildren links? One of my classmates has kept a diary since she was 14, and she writes exactly one page, no more no less, every single day. I feel like were I to start a diary like that, I'd soon lose interest in a couple of months. If my grandchildren want to learn about this season of my life, they can piece together photographs, travel journals, and blog entries, and it will tell them something. But what kind of picture am I painting of myself?
Also, my cousin and I used to play all sorts of creative games together at my grandmother's house. One of our favorites was to make "robots" out of the bedposts, which consists of drawing, coloring, cutting, and taping clothing, eyes, and mouths onto the bedposts to design different "robots." When we were done, we always stashed the materials under the dresser, and sure enough, when my cousin looked, they were all still there! She told me she'll get them laminated so we can save them.
My mom's main interest in this endeavor was saving old pictures. She's collected most of the pictures found in the house, and has bought a scanner/photo printer and has begun scanning them. Since I've been home, I've been looking through these photos. There are pictures of my mother when she was 2 weeks old, her and her sisters as children, as long-legged, long-haired teenagers, but the pictures of the most interest to me are before my mother and aunts were born. There are many pictures of my grandmother before she had children, when she was my age, posing dramatically with her college girlfriends, wearing dark lipstick, cat-eyed glasses, rarely smiling, always looking serious, but something about the poses and the other girls expressions tells me that these were just a few college girls goofing off for the camera, much like my friends and I do now. There are my grandmother's brothers, who I never knew, and their charming, carefree attitudes ooze from the photographs. Uncle Waymon, the womanizer, gives a smarmy smile while wearing a bowtie and holding a cigarette toward the camera, trying to pose like a movie star or something. You look at this picture, and you can't help but hear him saying, "Hey doll, got a light?" My mother held this picture next to my grandfather's serious portrait in his Corps uniform, and said, "Isn't it interesting that a woman who came from this family married this man?"
And then there's my grandfather, who died when my mom was 12. I love hearing stories about him, but I feel like he'll always be a mystery to me. It seems like every year another piece of the puzzle is added. High school math teacher turned principal. Amputee from an accident working in Illinois, who survived when a nun prayed for him all night long. A&M Corps member. Musician. Husband. Brother. Father. But I still don't know how to describe him. My mother describes him as hard-working and honorable, "a man of character." Those are great things, but they tell me nothing about his personality, what he was like to be around, what he was like as a husband or father. I found a photo of him that I love. He's canoing on a lake in 1950, one year after him and my grandmother married, a couple of years before my aunt was born. He's in the shadowy right hand side of the photo, gazing out into the water, light streaming from the upper left hand corner of the photo, and mossy trees in the background. My mom scanned this for me and found one of my grandmother, posing on a big tree stump in a forest, who's setting matches the forested lake setting of my grandfather's picture. Somehow, these pictures capture how I conceptualize each of these grandparents. My grandmother is posed for the camera, and her body takes the center of this clear, crisp photograph. My grandfather, however, was just captured by the lens, clouded by light and shadows. My memories of my grandmother will always be as clear as this photograph, but my ideas of my grandfather are sketched together through other's memories, clouded by light and shadows.
Friday, June 15, 2007
Just Another Typical Love Story
Five years ago, Boy meets Girl. Boy likes Girl. Boy makes mix tape and asks Girl out. Girl says yes. Three weeks later, Girl breaks up with Boy. Boy and Girl stay friends. Boy wants to get back together with Girl, but Girl says no. Girl is friends with Girl 2. Girl 2 asks out Boy. Boy says yes. Girl says, "Rebound." Boy really likes Girl 2. Boy and Girl 2 fall in love. Girl, Boy, and Girl 2 all stay friends. Four years later, Boy buys ring and asks Girl 2 to marry him. Girl 2 says yes.
Today, Girl receives card -
"Thank you for being part of our special day and thank you for the Battle of the Sexes. We remember how it was really all your fault that we're together! Of course it's a fault in a good way :)
[Man and Wife]"
Girl smiles. A lot.
The End
PS - Girl still has mix tape somewhere.
Today, Girl receives card -
"Thank you for being part of our special day and thank you for the Battle of the Sexes. We remember how it was really all your fault that we're together! Of course it's a fault in a good way :)
[Man and Wife]"
Girl smiles. A lot.
The End
PS - Girl still has mix tape somewhere.
Thursday, January 11, 2007
hail all, hail
Yesterday morning at work, I noticed a customer’s credit card had a New Mexico Lobos logo on it.
“Oh, New Mexico, are they in the Mountain West conference?”
He gave me a funny look before he answering. Maybe he thought I was trying to memorize his credit card number. Like I could do that, maybe if I were Cara.
“Yes, I believe they are.”
“I thought that sounded familiar. My Alma mater plays them.”
It has not even been a month, and the words just rolled right off my tongue. “Alma mater.” No correcting myself, no stammering, and I did not even have to think about it. There it was. When I first graduated, people kept asking me if I felt very different. I usually replied, “No, not yet, it just feels like I’m on Christmas break again. I’m sure in January when everyone else starts going back to school it’ll really start to hit me.” My prediction was correct.
Some of you had asked me to keep you updated on my poetry entries. A few weeks ago I received an email basically saying, “Thanks for your submission, but this is not what we’re looking for this year.” It was mildly disappointing (maybe a 2 or 3 on a scale of 1-10), but mostly I’m just thankful that I tried something and took a risk.
However, I just let go of another risk I was planning on taking. I was going to apply to graduate school at NYU. I knew it was a long shot – they accept only about 3 a year in the program I’m applying to and most of them already have their masters. But I knew if I were accepted, I’d go there in a heartbeat. This past weekend, I was working more on my application when I discovered in a PDF file a recommendation form that I was supposed to give my recommenders. Months ago, when I was acquiring recommendation letters from professors and supervisors, I scoured the websites of the schools for the specific forms they were to use. Some schools had forms, others just wanted a general letter. I never found a form on NYU’s website, so I just asked my recommenders to write me letters. This discouraged me, but I decided I would wait until Monday and call and find out if my letters were acceptable. On Monday, in that same PDF file, I came across a listing of four reasons why they would rarely invite sometime to interview, and 4 reasons why they would invite someone for an interview. Three of the four negative reasons applied to me. The first two reasons demonstrated that I am not the kind of student that NYU looks for. The final reason showed me that NYU is not the sort of the program that I’m looking for – my career goals contradict what they want from their graduates. It was because of this final reason that I have decided not to apply.
I think this was a wise decision that was made from pure motives. I did not do it because I was insecure and was afraid of taking a risk; I just realized all around, it was not right for me. I just hope I don’t regret it later. I never had my hopes up, I never expected to be admitted if I had applied, but I felt it was just a leap I needed to take, just to see what would happen. Now, I think I know what would have happened. Just to apply, I would have had to alter completely my dreams and goals. For what? To go to a top rated school? To live in New York for a few years? If my heart is really set on living there, I can move to New York after I graduate.
I have several posts rolling around in my head, and I plan on posting more often – as time allows. Sadly, I haven’t written any poetry in a while. When I was writing poetry, it usually just came to me or was something I felt compelled to turn to when going through a difficult situation. I want to continue writing poetry, but I also don’t want to push it. Oye vey. Any suggestions? Also, I have noticed in my verbal story-telling, I have a tendency to give lots of details when I probably could just summarize and tell a more effective account. Did I do that in this blog? In that big long paragraph up there, could I have just summarized generally, or did the details add to the tale? I enjoy writing, but I don’t want to just write for the sake of writing. I want to write when I actually have something to say.
“Oh, New Mexico, are they in the Mountain West conference?”
He gave me a funny look before he answering. Maybe he thought I was trying to memorize his credit card number. Like I could do that, maybe if I were Cara.
“Yes, I believe they are.”
“I thought that sounded familiar. My Alma mater plays them.”
It has not even been a month, and the words just rolled right off my tongue. “Alma mater.” No correcting myself, no stammering, and I did not even have to think about it. There it was. When I first graduated, people kept asking me if I felt very different. I usually replied, “No, not yet, it just feels like I’m on Christmas break again. I’m sure in January when everyone else starts going back to school it’ll really start to hit me.” My prediction was correct.
Some of you had asked me to keep you updated on my poetry entries. A few weeks ago I received an email basically saying, “Thanks for your submission, but this is not what we’re looking for this year.” It was mildly disappointing (maybe a 2 or 3 on a scale of 1-10), but mostly I’m just thankful that I tried something and took a risk.
However, I just let go of another risk I was planning on taking. I was going to apply to graduate school at NYU. I knew it was a long shot – they accept only about 3 a year in the program I’m applying to and most of them already have their masters. But I knew if I were accepted, I’d go there in a heartbeat. This past weekend, I was working more on my application when I discovered in a PDF file a recommendation form that I was supposed to give my recommenders. Months ago, when I was acquiring recommendation letters from professors and supervisors, I scoured the websites of the schools for the specific forms they were to use. Some schools had forms, others just wanted a general letter. I never found a form on NYU’s website, so I just asked my recommenders to write me letters. This discouraged me, but I decided I would wait until Monday and call and find out if my letters were acceptable. On Monday, in that same PDF file, I came across a listing of four reasons why they would rarely invite sometime to interview, and 4 reasons why they would invite someone for an interview. Three of the four negative reasons applied to me. The first two reasons demonstrated that I am not the kind of student that NYU looks for. The final reason showed me that NYU is not the sort of the program that I’m looking for – my career goals contradict what they want from their graduates. It was because of this final reason that I have decided not to apply.
I think this was a wise decision that was made from pure motives. I did not do it because I was insecure and was afraid of taking a risk; I just realized all around, it was not right for me. I just hope I don’t regret it later. I never had my hopes up, I never expected to be admitted if I had applied, but I felt it was just a leap I needed to take, just to see what would happen. Now, I think I know what would have happened. Just to apply, I would have had to alter completely my dreams and goals. For what? To go to a top rated school? To live in New York for a few years? If my heart is really set on living there, I can move to New York after I graduate.
I have several posts rolling around in my head, and I plan on posting more often – as time allows. Sadly, I haven’t written any poetry in a while. When I was writing poetry, it usually just came to me or was something I felt compelled to turn to when going through a difficult situation. I want to continue writing poetry, but I also don’t want to push it. Oye vey. Any suggestions? Also, I have noticed in my verbal story-telling, I have a tendency to give lots of details when I probably could just summarize and tell a more effective account. Did I do that in this blog? In that big long paragraph up there, could I have just summarized generally, or did the details add to the tale? I enjoy writing, but I don’t want to just write for the sake of writing. I want to write when I actually have something to say.
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