I don't know what's wrong with me. I feel like I'm jumping out of my skin, and this has been going on for a week or two. Maybe this is because I went through 3+ years of turmoil, and now that things have calmed down, I don't know what to do with myself. A lot of things in my life, things that I wanted, have worked out. I have a job, and I love it. We finally have caught up on our bills. We have pets we love. I've lost weight, and am only a few pounds from my goal weight.
But there's something else, something wrong, and I don't know what it is. I'm on medication. I was in therapy for years. Maybe I can't be happy. Maybe nothing makes me happy. Maybe I'll never be happy.
I feel like I need something to do, but I don't know what it is. I lack the ability to stick with anything or to bring anything to fruition. People tell me to exercise, but I lack the desire or dedication to do it. People tell me to find religion. I found a church in Columbia I loved, but the congregations up here either sing too much or have stupid hippie-dippie sermons or are just too far away. People tell me to do something musical; I lack musical talent, I can't sing, and although I love to dance, I've had people tell me I'm too clumsy to do it. I don't have the "crafty" gene; I see other people making jewelry, and sewing their own clothes, and making pottery, and all these other nifty things . . . and I don't do anything. I can't even clean the house correctly.
Of the things I like, I can't do them as much as I want, and there's a hole inside that may never be filled. I like shopping, but I have a serious problem with it and have to be careful. I like eating, but (and I hate to admit this) I have an eating disorder that is barely kept in check. I like drinking, but I don't want another episode of "Sally's an alcoholic; let's have an intervention."
Of the things I've thought I was good at: I used to think that I had a talent for art. I don't, and that's okay.
I used to think I was a talented writer, but my time at USC wrung that right out of me, made me doubt myself, made me want to stop, made me believe that I wasn't good at the one thing I thought I could do (which is probably why I hate USC so much).
I see people having children, and think "Maybe that's what I should do," and then I realize that isn't it at all. I want pets, and then we get pets and Curtis takes care of them.
I try to reach out and meet new people, but I'm failing at that. I haven't made friends at work. I don't know how to make friends anymore.
I feel like I need to do something, change something, but I don't know what that something is.
Monday, August 20, 2012
Monday, June 11, 2012
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
Finally, I get to use my degree
When I first told my friends and associates and family that I was going to go back to school to get my Master's degree in Library & Information Science, I was met with, at best, confused support.
Most of the time, people seemed gently baffled by my choice of a career. Many people think of those with my degree (MLIS, in my case; others have an MLS or MIS) in the classical sense: a birdlike old woman wearing a cardigan, a bun, and a pair of glasses, sitting behind a large desk, angrily shushing children and stamping books.
With this stereotype in mind, many people also think of my degree as a waste of money. For example, when I was looking for a job after graduation (during the recession that is actually a depression), I was having trouble not only finding something in my field, but also finding something PERIOD. Desperate for money, I went to an employment agency to try to find something to tide me over until I found something permanent (and preferably in my field). When I went to Spherion Staffing Services in Columbia, SC, the moron "helping me find a job" (she neither helped me nor found me a job, so I have to use quotation marks) said, in my initial interview with them, "Wow, I can't believe you have to get a degree to stamp books." She made this statement while laughing like a hyena.
So, yes, to a large swath of people, this is All We Do, and they can't imagine why we'd possibly need a degree to do this. While I knew people who had this degree, I'll admit: until about 2003 - 2005, I had no idea what they did with it, either.
My first introduction to this new way of thinking about library services was through my talented and nifty friend Laura. Laura had a job with the State of South Carolina, doing something with computers (as I understood it at the time). I assumed she had a degree in Computer Science and didn't think much about it. However, at some point, I learned that, no, she had a Master's degree in Library Science, and my mind was blown. What? Shouldn't she be off stamping books somewhere? Did she just not put her hair in a bun the times I saw her?
I learned a lot from Laura, and I started to look into the field myself, later. And I found out that it's much more varied than I had ever suspected.
And, to be sure, there are people with my degree, or one similar to it, who shush children and stamp books and sit behind a desk. Because this is a varied and changing field, though, not everyone does the same thing. Not even close. I have friends from school who work in Special Libraries (law libraries, medical libraries), who are Library Media Specialists (the new version of everyone's favorite, the school librarian), who work in reference in various libraries (public, academic), who are catalogers, who are archivists . . . the list goes on and on.
My job, for example, is hard to classify. I straddle the fence between the library and the graduate school, and I do a bit of both. I'm simultaneously in public services ("Hi, how can I help?") and technical services (we make sure you find the book you're looking for) and digital libraries (metadata!), but I rarely handle books, and I do no stamping whatsoever. I don't catalog, and I don't shelve. I don't answer reference questions.
Therefore, to many, it must seem like I've wasted my degree.
But, never fear: I was able to use my degree the other day.
Because of the placement of my office (right next to the elevators, at a dead end in a hallway), I have become the de facto Information Desk. I'm asked everything from "Can you help me find the Reference Desk?" to "Where are the bathrooms?" And, every time, I help.
A few days ago, three baffled-looking students past my office, conferred quietly out of sight next to the elevators, and, as I expected, finally peered around my door. "Excuse me . . . can you help us find a book?"
They were each looking for something different, and they had no clue where to look. The Library of Congress classification system was baffling for them, and they'd been wandering around, fruitlessly, for half an hour.
I helped them find their books, and also taught them how to use the classification system.
So, see, I DID need this degree.
And, actually, both of my Master's degrees came in handy. I asked what class their books were for, and they said English. I mentioned that I'd been an English major, and, for whatever reason, this absolutely DELIGHTED them.
Back to non-librarian work (i.e., no stamping).
Most of the time, people seemed gently baffled by my choice of a career. Many people think of those with my degree (MLIS, in my case; others have an MLS or MIS) in the classical sense: a birdlike old woman wearing a cardigan, a bun, and a pair of glasses, sitting behind a large desk, angrily shushing children and stamping books.
With this stereotype in mind, many people also think of my degree as a waste of money. For example, when I was looking for a job after graduation (during the recession that is actually a depression), I was having trouble not only finding something in my field, but also finding something PERIOD. Desperate for money, I went to an employment agency to try to find something to tide me over until I found something permanent (and preferably in my field). When I went to Spherion Staffing Services in Columbia, SC, the moron "helping me find a job" (she neither helped me nor found me a job, so I have to use quotation marks) said, in my initial interview with them, "Wow, I can't believe you have to get a degree to stamp books." She made this statement while laughing like a hyena.
So, yes, to a large swath of people, this is All We Do, and they can't imagine why we'd possibly need a degree to do this. While I knew people who had this degree, I'll admit: until about 2003 - 2005, I had no idea what they did with it, either.
My first introduction to this new way of thinking about library services was through my talented and nifty friend Laura. Laura had a job with the State of South Carolina, doing something with computers (as I understood it at the time). I assumed she had a degree in Computer Science and didn't think much about it. However, at some point, I learned that, no, she had a Master's degree in Library Science, and my mind was blown. What? Shouldn't she be off stamping books somewhere? Did she just not put her hair in a bun the times I saw her?
I learned a lot from Laura, and I started to look into the field myself, later. And I found out that it's much more varied than I had ever suspected.
And, to be sure, there are people with my degree, or one similar to it, who shush children and stamp books and sit behind a desk. Because this is a varied and changing field, though, not everyone does the same thing. Not even close. I have friends from school who work in Special Libraries (law libraries, medical libraries), who are Library Media Specialists (the new version of everyone's favorite, the school librarian), who work in reference in various libraries (public, academic), who are catalogers, who are archivists . . . the list goes on and on.
My job, for example, is hard to classify. I straddle the fence between the library and the graduate school, and I do a bit of both. I'm simultaneously in public services ("Hi, how can I help?") and technical services (we make sure you find the book you're looking for) and digital libraries (metadata!), but I rarely handle books, and I do no stamping whatsoever. I don't catalog, and I don't shelve. I don't answer reference questions.
Therefore, to many, it must seem like I've wasted my degree.
But, never fear: I was able to use my degree the other day.
Because of the placement of my office (right next to the elevators, at a dead end in a hallway), I have become the de facto Information Desk. I'm asked everything from "Can you help me find the Reference Desk?" to "Where are the bathrooms?" And, every time, I help.
A few days ago, three baffled-looking students past my office, conferred quietly out of sight next to the elevators, and, as I expected, finally peered around my door. "Excuse me . . . can you help us find a book?"
They were each looking for something different, and they had no clue where to look. The Library of Congress classification system was baffling for them, and they'd been wandering around, fruitlessly, for half an hour.
I helped them find their books, and also taught them how to use the classification system.
So, see, I DID need this degree.
And, actually, both of my Master's degrees came in handy. I asked what class their books were for, and they said English. I mentioned that I'd been an English major, and, for whatever reason, this absolutely DELIGHTED them.
Back to non-librarian work (i.e., no stamping).
Friday, February 17, 2012
And while I'm on the subject . . .
I'm really disturbed by the sudden backlash against women's reproductive rights, both on the macro and micro levels. I'm concerned for our society, and I'm concerned for women's rights overall.
I'm also concerned for myself.
Let's say abortion is completely outlawed. No one can perform it anywhere. At all. Back-alley abortions may still exist, but who wants to endanger her life?
So, with this in mind, I am on birth control, as my husband and I have made a conscious choice to remain child-free. We love our friends' and family's children dearly, but we simply do not want to be parents ourselves. We've given this a lot of thought, and have come to this decision.
But let's say something goes wrong, as things do, from time to time. The birth control we're using fails in some way. And I find myself pregnant. And cannot have an abortion. But do not want children.
Yes, there's adoption. And adoption is great. There's my answer.
First though, let's think about who I am. I am 37 years old, in good health overall. I am married to my husband, and we have no other children. We are both gainfully employed, and we are both educated, successful adults. We're not rich by any stretch of the imagination, but we are comfortable enough. We pay our bills and we do fun things from time to time--we have some disposable income, in other words. While I enjoy my adult beverages, that's the end of it. I am not 16 years old. I am not homeless. I am not a drug addict. I am not unemployed. I am not a single mother, which means that I would not be struggling with the issues that may come from raising a child alone. I'm not below the poverty line.
So, in other words, I'm a responsible adult who really has no reason NOT to have children. The only thing that keeps me from having them is that I don't want to be a mother.
With that in mind, let's say you, and society as a whole, hears that a person just like me has decided to give up her child for adoption. How does that sound? It makes me sound like a selfish monster, doesn't it? Sure, I didn't have an abortion, which some people would applaud, but I am a mother WHO GAVE UP HER OWN CHILD. The women who want to have children but can't will be horrified by my decision. They'd do ANYTHING to have a baby, after all, and here I am, pregnant . . . but I DON'T WANT IT? What is wrong with me? I'm just another mindless, soulless, pretentious, liberal yuppie who likes her toys and wine and vacations and car and clothes more than a precious gift from God.
And that doesn't even get into the issue that it would create with our families. Because we live 4 - 8 hours from every family member, I suppose it's conceivable that we could keep my pregnancy a secret before we gave the baby up for adoption. But if we didn't . . . I cannot imagine that our families would react to my decision very well. "You're giving up your own child? My grandchild/niece or nephew/cousin? How COULD you?" Before you think that you'd just do it and not care about what your family thought, if you were in my position, think about it. Really think about how your family would feel if one of their flesh-and-blood members was out there SOMEWHERE being raised by strangers. Do you seriously think they'd just shrug it off and say, "Your decision. Do what you want." Maybe they would. I don't know your family. But you don't know ours. And I can guarantee you that they would not like this.
So, realizing that I would become a pariah, a villain, I decide that I'll keep it.
And yes, I completely understand that there's a chance that I will receive the rush of maternal instinct and endorphins, and I will fall in love upon first sight and regret any thought I ever had about not having a baby. That is certainly a possibility, and I do not discount that. I know that many women who decide to give their children up for adoption are absolutely heartbroken when they actually have to go through with it, even when they are 100% sure that that is what they want to do, and that that is the best decision for everyone involved. Many women who give their children up for adoption spend some time, if not their entire lives, regretting their decision and wondering if they did the right thing, if they shouldn't have just TRIED . . .
With that in mind, I know that there's a chance, in this hypothetical situation, that I would not choose adoption, and that I would keep my child, and be thrilled that I did.
But maybe I won't. I know that I am not in love with every baby I see, and I know that I do not long for one. Furthermore, I know that I have trouble imagining being okay with having a child with serious disabilities or a substantial deformity. Again, yes, I'm a monster--but I'm a monster who knows herself. I know that I would have real trouble reconciling myself to the fact that I have a child that might not ever be able to tie his or her own shoes. That is one major reason I chose not to have children--because it takes a special person to have a child with disabilities, and I fear that I could not handle it. And I don't know that I'm that special. I don't think I am. They say "God doesn't give you more than you can handle." Well, I think that's complete bullshit. Because I see people struggling daily with what is dumped on them.
Lest we forget, there's another person in this scenario: my husband. He also knows that he does not want children. While there is a chance that he could fall instantly in love with our child, there's a chance that he might not. In that case, he very well could leave me, and the baby. Should that happen, I will suddenly find myself with half the income I had before, no husband to assist me with raising our child, and a child I may or may not want, that I was forced to have, and chose to keep due to societal pressure.
Yes, that is a great environment for a child. Definitely better than terminating a pregnancy at 6 weeks.
We are doing everything within our power to keep from getting pregnant, and we are considering maybe a permanent fix. For now, though, I like knowing that, if there is a true, real emergency, a huge mistake, I have an option that I can undertake, that no one ever has to know about. Society never has to see a perfectly healthy, capable women give up her child. My family never has to know what happened. I never have to worry about the "what if"s: what if I don't love it? What if my husband doesn't love it? What if there's something wrong? What if we can't do this?
I hope that my option never goes away. If it does, I suppose we'll both just get fixed. If the government still allows us to.
I'm also concerned for myself.
Let's say abortion is completely outlawed. No one can perform it anywhere. At all. Back-alley abortions may still exist, but who wants to endanger her life?
So, with this in mind, I am on birth control, as my husband and I have made a conscious choice to remain child-free. We love our friends' and family's children dearly, but we simply do not want to be parents ourselves. We've given this a lot of thought, and have come to this decision.
But let's say something goes wrong, as things do, from time to time. The birth control we're using fails in some way. And I find myself pregnant. And cannot have an abortion. But do not want children.
Yes, there's adoption. And adoption is great. There's my answer.
First though, let's think about who I am. I am 37 years old, in good health overall. I am married to my husband, and we have no other children. We are both gainfully employed, and we are both educated, successful adults. We're not rich by any stretch of the imagination, but we are comfortable enough. We pay our bills and we do fun things from time to time--we have some disposable income, in other words. While I enjoy my adult beverages, that's the end of it. I am not 16 years old. I am not homeless. I am not a drug addict. I am not unemployed. I am not a single mother, which means that I would not be struggling with the issues that may come from raising a child alone. I'm not below the poverty line.
So, in other words, I'm a responsible adult who really has no reason NOT to have children. The only thing that keeps me from having them is that I don't want to be a mother.
With that in mind, let's say you, and society as a whole, hears that a person just like me has decided to give up her child for adoption. How does that sound? It makes me sound like a selfish monster, doesn't it? Sure, I didn't have an abortion, which some people would applaud, but I am a mother WHO GAVE UP HER OWN CHILD. The women who want to have children but can't will be horrified by my decision. They'd do ANYTHING to have a baby, after all, and here I am, pregnant . . . but I DON'T WANT IT? What is wrong with me? I'm just another mindless, soulless, pretentious, liberal yuppie who likes her toys and wine and vacations and car and clothes more than a precious gift from God.
And that doesn't even get into the issue that it would create with our families. Because we live 4 - 8 hours from every family member, I suppose it's conceivable that we could keep my pregnancy a secret before we gave the baby up for adoption. But if we didn't . . . I cannot imagine that our families would react to my decision very well. "You're giving up your own child? My grandchild/niece or nephew/cousin? How COULD you?" Before you think that you'd just do it and not care about what your family thought, if you were in my position, think about it. Really think about how your family would feel if one of their flesh-and-blood members was out there SOMEWHERE being raised by strangers. Do you seriously think they'd just shrug it off and say, "Your decision. Do what you want." Maybe they would. I don't know your family. But you don't know ours. And I can guarantee you that they would not like this.
So, realizing that I would become a pariah, a villain, I decide that I'll keep it.
And yes, I completely understand that there's a chance that I will receive the rush of maternal instinct and endorphins, and I will fall in love upon first sight and regret any thought I ever had about not having a baby. That is certainly a possibility, and I do not discount that. I know that many women who decide to give their children up for adoption are absolutely heartbroken when they actually have to go through with it, even when they are 100% sure that that is what they want to do, and that that is the best decision for everyone involved. Many women who give their children up for adoption spend some time, if not their entire lives, regretting their decision and wondering if they did the right thing, if they shouldn't have just TRIED . . .
With that in mind, I know that there's a chance, in this hypothetical situation, that I would not choose adoption, and that I would keep my child, and be thrilled that I did.
But maybe I won't. I know that I am not in love with every baby I see, and I know that I do not long for one. Furthermore, I know that I have trouble imagining being okay with having a child with serious disabilities or a substantial deformity. Again, yes, I'm a monster--but I'm a monster who knows herself. I know that I would have real trouble reconciling myself to the fact that I have a child that might not ever be able to tie his or her own shoes. That is one major reason I chose not to have children--because it takes a special person to have a child with disabilities, and I fear that I could not handle it. And I don't know that I'm that special. I don't think I am. They say "God doesn't give you more than you can handle." Well, I think that's complete bullshit. Because I see people struggling daily with what is dumped on them.
Lest we forget, there's another person in this scenario: my husband. He also knows that he does not want children. While there is a chance that he could fall instantly in love with our child, there's a chance that he might not. In that case, he very well could leave me, and the baby. Should that happen, I will suddenly find myself with half the income I had before, no husband to assist me with raising our child, and a child I may or may not want, that I was forced to have, and chose to keep due to societal pressure.
Yes, that is a great environment for a child. Definitely better than terminating a pregnancy at 6 weeks.
We are doing everything within our power to keep from getting pregnant, and we are considering maybe a permanent fix. For now, though, I like knowing that, if there is a true, real emergency, a huge mistake, I have an option that I can undertake, that no one ever has to know about. Society never has to see a perfectly healthy, capable women give up her child. My family never has to know what happened. I never have to worry about the "what if"s: what if I don't love it? What if my husband doesn't love it? What if there's something wrong? What if we can't do this?
I hope that my option never goes away. If it does, I suppose we'll both just get fixed. If the government still allows us to.
Oh, Virginia, I'd hoped you wouldn't be insane.
Growing up in rural West Virginia, I was convinced that 85 - 90% of the population was absolutely insane. Living there, I ran into daily occurrences of racism, misogyny, homophobia, and blind fundamentalism that would curdle milk. The state voted solidly Democrat (WV was one of only five states that voted for Michael Dukakis), but most of its residents were extremely socially conservative. Christianity was the only religion, the Second Amendment was held up as a standard for living, women were second-class citizens, African Americans were never called that and were barely tolerated (much less anyone of any other race), members of the military were uniformly worshiped as heroes (NO MATTER WHAT), and there was simply no such thing as gay.
After spending my childhood as "the weird smart girl," in high school, I further alienated myself. Not only did I not play (or like) sports, not only did I read books, not only did I do well in school, not only did I enjoy writing and art, I then made the terrible choice, as a Caucasian female, to date African American males. That didn't go over well.
I was harassed on an almost daily basis, by both enemies and friends. One fellow student told me that she thought interracial dating just wasn't right. When I said, "Your boyfriend is Vietnamese," she said, "That's different." A "friend" sent me a letter telling me that she didn't agree with what I was doing, it was awful, but she'd pray for my everlasting soul because she was a good Christian and she didn't want me to burn in hell. And this treatment was not only by people my age--teachers made snide comments to me and ignored verbal abuse that happened right in front of them. Another friend invited me out for dinner for her birthday; her mother spent the entire dinner haranguing me about being a bad daughter and a bad person. I was brought in by the pastor of the church I belonged to for "conferences," in which I was told that interracial dating was just wrong, wrong, wrong. The best answer I received was that God commanded that we not be "unequally yoked." Which only said to me that God didn't think everyone was equal, and that was not a god I wanted to believed in.
And it wasn't as if I had a haven to run home to after all of this. My father was oblivious to everything--everything--I did, so he wasn't the issue. No, my mother was. My mother and I had always been extremely close, as close to best friends as possible, and I'd always been a "good" kid. (Even with all of this, I was my class's valedictorian, the president of the National Honor Society, and on the state level of a charitable organization.) But my dating habits drove a deep spike in our relationship, because my mother, who had graduated from high school before Integration, thought it was Just Wrong. She couldn't ever give me a good reason why it was Just Wrong. It was Just . . . Wrong. And the abuse I received at school translated at home to alternating periods of cold, stony silence and violent outbursts and cruel insults.
All of this led to me hating my high school, hating 98% of the people in my town, and wanting to get the hell out of this shithole and never look back. I still loved my mother . . . but for the last year I was at home and the first year after I left, it was hard to like her. I forgave her in later years, but with the knowledge that we would never, ever agree with one another.
I went to Virginia Tech, and I was ready to start over. I left a tiny school (400 people total, 85 in my graduating class) and a tiny town (2,000 at the most), where everyone, for better or worse, knew me, and went to a large school (28,000 students), where no one knew me. And I loved that. I loved the anonymity. I wanted to remake myself. No one knew me. I could be anyone I wanted to be.
Best of all, I thought, I am in a new place, where everyone is open-minded and tolerant. No one here could possibly be racist or homophobic or misogynistic. Everyone was equal, and everyone believed in and supported that equality. Only in my hometown, only in West Virginia, did those things exist. Everywhere else in the whole world was progressive.
Wow, was I wrong.
I learned pretty quickly that that was not the case. It didn't make me love my hometown any more than I had; I didn't have any "Aw, we're just like everyone else, only with a small-town sensibility!" revelation. No, I just became convinced that Virginia Tech was in a beautiful, pastoral place, that was still filled with morons. I loved Virginia Tech, loved my four years there. I made wonderful, amazing friends, and still think of that time, 15 years after graduation, as the best time of my life.
Even though I found out that idiots were there, too.
But then I moved to an even BIGGER place. I went to the University of South Carolina for graduate school, and I thought that, finally, now that I was in an even larger place, there was more of a chance that people would be tolerant, open-minded, blah blah blah.
I know, you're laughing at me. I laugh now, thinking about how naive I was. I've always thought of myself as a pessimist, but I suppose I really am a hopeless dreamer.
I moved to Columbia, South Carolina with only the very best of intentions and hopes and dreams. I believed that I was going to go there and have a great life, meet interesting, worldly people, and find myself. Maybe I'd even meet the man I'd marry.
Well, part of it was true. I met interesting, worldly people. I met the man I later married. And I found myself.
But I consider it a minor miracle.
I happened to find, through the Art Bar, a collection of people who were Just Like Me. It was a miracle. Especially because I'm pretty sure we were the only people in the entire state who didn't have to look left to see Hitler. Well, that's not true. I know of a few other people who lived in other parts of the state who weren't unbelievably racist, utterly misogynistic, completely homophobic, and blindly fundamentalist. But not many.
I lived in Columbia for 13 years, and I met some of the best friends I've ever had, or ever will have. I met my beloved husband there. I had some good times. I found wonderful places to go, and fun things to do.
But I did not leave South Carolina with the best overall impression. In fact, by the time we left, I just wanted everyone I knew there to move with us, to save them.
We moved to Fairfax, Virginia because I got a job in the area. (I seemed incapable of buying a job in Columbia.) And, because I'm stupid, I believed that Virginia would be different. This part of it, anyway, as it's 10 miles from the liberal bastion of Washington, DC.
Well, for a while, it was like that, and then this happened.
Oh, Virginia.
I'd hoped you wouldn't be insane.
After spending my childhood as "the weird smart girl," in high school, I further alienated myself. Not only did I not play (or like) sports, not only did I read books, not only did I do well in school, not only did I enjoy writing and art, I then made the terrible choice, as a Caucasian female, to date African American males. That didn't go over well.
I was harassed on an almost daily basis, by both enemies and friends. One fellow student told me that she thought interracial dating just wasn't right. When I said, "Your boyfriend is Vietnamese," she said, "That's different." A "friend" sent me a letter telling me that she didn't agree with what I was doing, it was awful, but she'd pray for my everlasting soul because she was a good Christian and she didn't want me to burn in hell. And this treatment was not only by people my age--teachers made snide comments to me and ignored verbal abuse that happened right in front of them. Another friend invited me out for dinner for her birthday; her mother spent the entire dinner haranguing me about being a bad daughter and a bad person. I was brought in by the pastor of the church I belonged to for "conferences," in which I was told that interracial dating was just wrong, wrong, wrong. The best answer I received was that God commanded that we not be "unequally yoked." Which only said to me that God didn't think everyone was equal, and that was not a god I wanted to believed in.
And it wasn't as if I had a haven to run home to after all of this. My father was oblivious to everything--everything--I did, so he wasn't the issue. No, my mother was. My mother and I had always been extremely close, as close to best friends as possible, and I'd always been a "good" kid. (Even with all of this, I was my class's valedictorian, the president of the National Honor Society, and on the state level of a charitable organization.) But my dating habits drove a deep spike in our relationship, because my mother, who had graduated from high school before Integration, thought it was Just Wrong. She couldn't ever give me a good reason why it was Just Wrong. It was Just . . . Wrong. And the abuse I received at school translated at home to alternating periods of cold, stony silence and violent outbursts and cruel insults.
All of this led to me hating my high school, hating 98% of the people in my town, and wanting to get the hell out of this shithole and never look back. I still loved my mother . . . but for the last year I was at home and the first year after I left, it was hard to like her. I forgave her in later years, but with the knowledge that we would never, ever agree with one another.
I went to Virginia Tech, and I was ready to start over. I left a tiny school (400 people total, 85 in my graduating class) and a tiny town (2,000 at the most), where everyone, for better or worse, knew me, and went to a large school (28,000 students), where no one knew me. And I loved that. I loved the anonymity. I wanted to remake myself. No one knew me. I could be anyone I wanted to be.
Best of all, I thought, I am in a new place, where everyone is open-minded and tolerant. No one here could possibly be racist or homophobic or misogynistic. Everyone was equal, and everyone believed in and supported that equality. Only in my hometown, only in West Virginia, did those things exist. Everywhere else in the whole world was progressive.
Wow, was I wrong.
I learned pretty quickly that that was not the case. It didn't make me love my hometown any more than I had; I didn't have any "Aw, we're just like everyone else, only with a small-town sensibility!" revelation. No, I just became convinced that Virginia Tech was in a beautiful, pastoral place, that was still filled with morons. I loved Virginia Tech, loved my four years there. I made wonderful, amazing friends, and still think of that time, 15 years after graduation, as the best time of my life.
Even though I found out that idiots were there, too.
But then I moved to an even BIGGER place. I went to the University of South Carolina for graduate school, and I thought that, finally, now that I was in an even larger place, there was more of a chance that people would be tolerant, open-minded, blah blah blah.
I know, you're laughing at me. I laugh now, thinking about how naive I was. I've always thought of myself as a pessimist, but I suppose I really am a hopeless dreamer.
I moved to Columbia, South Carolina with only the very best of intentions and hopes and dreams. I believed that I was going to go there and have a great life, meet interesting, worldly people, and find myself. Maybe I'd even meet the man I'd marry.
Well, part of it was true. I met interesting, worldly people. I met the man I later married. And I found myself.
But I consider it a minor miracle.
I happened to find, through the Art Bar, a collection of people who were Just Like Me. It was a miracle. Especially because I'm pretty sure we were the only people in the entire state who didn't have to look left to see Hitler. Well, that's not true. I know of a few other people who lived in other parts of the state who weren't unbelievably racist, utterly misogynistic, completely homophobic, and blindly fundamentalist. But not many.
I lived in Columbia for 13 years, and I met some of the best friends I've ever had, or ever will have. I met my beloved husband there. I had some good times. I found wonderful places to go, and fun things to do.
But I did not leave South Carolina with the best overall impression. In fact, by the time we left, I just wanted everyone I knew there to move with us, to save them.
We moved to Fairfax, Virginia because I got a job in the area. (I seemed incapable of buying a job in Columbia.) And, because I'm stupid, I believed that Virginia would be different. This part of it, anyway, as it's 10 miles from the liberal bastion of Washington, DC.
Well, for a while, it was like that, and then this happened.
Oh, Virginia.
I'd hoped you wouldn't be insane.
Monday, August 22, 2011
Crazy people are everywhere.
A few months ago, I met someone in my neighborhood.
We were having a nice, pleasant conversation, and then she asked me what religion I practiced. I said I was a Unitarian.
Her face literally dropped at that point, and she fixed me with a cold stare.
"You must stop this," she informed me gravely. "This is not good. You must stop your adherence to this false religion and you must find the true God."
I said I appreciated her concern, but I was happy with what I practiced.
She continued to stare at me. "I will pray for you. I will pray for your eternal soul, that you do not burn in hell."
Honestly, if heaven is full of delightful people like her, I can't wait to get to hell.
We were having a nice, pleasant conversation, and then she asked me what religion I practiced. I said I was a Unitarian.
Her face literally dropped at that point, and she fixed me with a cold stare.
"You must stop this," she informed me gravely. "This is not good. You must stop your adherence to this false religion and you must find the true God."
I said I appreciated her concern, but I was happy with what I practiced.
She continued to stare at me. "I will pray for you. I will pray for your eternal soul, that you do not burn in hell."
Honestly, if heaven is full of delightful people like her, I can't wait to get to hell.
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
Proof That I Am Not Evil Incarnate (I know, I was totally shocked too)
I have four modes of lunch:
Today was option #4. This is an easy option, as I have to walk across the quad and downstairs, and the nice lady at the counter knows exactly what I want.
After lunch, I made my way out of the bowels of SUB I, and as I gained the front sliding door, I heard an insistent BEEP BEEP BEEP.
I turned and looked at the ATM, which was flashing something. "Do you need more time?" the screen asked. I pressed "no."
A card ejected.
Oh dear.
I called the credit union and reported the card missing. The customer service rep thanked me, said she'd tell the customer his card was safe and unmolested.
I felt really good about me.
Now I'll have to kick THREE kittens tonight, instead of just one.
- No lunch at all
- Lunch off-campus
- Lunch on-campus, in which I eat a slice of startling delicious pizza and a salad
- Lunch on-campus, when I go to the on-campus bar (AN ON-CAMPUS BAR, PEOPLE)
Today was option #4. This is an easy option, as I have to walk across the quad and downstairs, and the nice lady at the counter knows exactly what I want.
After lunch, I made my way out of the bowels of SUB I, and as I gained the front sliding door, I heard an insistent BEEP BEEP BEEP.
I turned and looked at the ATM, which was flashing something. "Do you need more time?" the screen asked. I pressed "no."
A card ejected.
Oh dear.
I called the credit union and reported the card missing. The customer service rep thanked me, said she'd tell the customer his card was safe and unmolested.
I felt really good about me.
Now I'll have to kick THREE kittens tonight, instead of just one.
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