Obligatory end-of-year summary

What did you do in 2011 that you'd never done before?

Made a zine! Went to Lollapalooza! Did legitimate feminist activist work! Rode a Greyhound bus for 14 hours straight!

Did anyone close to you give birth?

Rose did. :) My cousin Sandy also had twins, but I don't know if that counts, because she and I are not especially close, and I haven't yet met her kids.

Did anyone close to you die?

My cat Mac. Really, though-- he was my very best friend and I miss him a lot.

Which countries did you visit?

The only country outside of the U.S. that I've ever visited is Canada, and I don't count that because I have citizenship there. I did visit a number of states, though: Oklahoma, Pennsylvania, Illinois (for the millionth time), and Kentucky. In that order.

What would you like to have in 2012 that you lacked in 2011?

Some kind of job or extracurricular activity that actually pertains to my interests.

What dates from 2011 will you always remember?

Technically, all of them. My memory for dates is completely absurd. That said, some are more memorable than others.

What was your biggest achievement of the year?

My grades this semester are AWESOME.

What was your biggest failure?

Being afraid to take risks. Wasting too much energy on people who don't care about me at all.

Did you suffer illness or injury?

Other than menstrual pain, no. Really, though, my uterus developed such a distinct personality this year that I named her Maude, after the 70s sitcom. She is obnoxious, demanding, and opinionated, but means well.

What was the best thing that you bought?

Lollapalooza tickets. That weekend rocked. I'm being literal, of course.

Whose behavior merited celebration?

My mother's. Somehow, I managed to get her to jump on the organic food train with me (this can also be counted as one of my greatest accomplishments of the year).

Whose behavior left you appalled and depressed?

The haters. You know who you are. Wise up, fools.

Where did most of your money go?

I gave it all to Trader Joe! In exchange, Trader Joe gave me food and cute tissue boxes with cute sayings on them.

What did you get really excited about?

My birthday, because I'm not-so-secretly an overgrown child about that every single year. Other than that, there wasn't much to get excited about, because most of the awesome things I did this year occurred pretty spontaneously. "What? You guys are leaving Saginaw for Pittsburgh RIGHT NOW and will be at my house to pick me up in less than two hours? Okay-- I will be ready!"

What song will always remind you of 2011?

My taste in music is so varied and questionable that it is quite impossible to answer this question. Ask me which 1,000 songs will make me think of 2011, and then we'll talk.

Compared to this time last year, are you:

Happier or sadder? Much, much happier. Much better-adjusted, also.

Thinner or fatter? Thinner. One of my mom's reasons for giving in to my demands for organic food was that I apparently refused to eat anything in our house, and she became concerned, because I lost a lot of weight.

Richer or poorer? Financially, poorer. My life feels a lot fuller than it did at this time last year, though.

What do you wish you'd done more of?

Reading. Risk-taking. Speaking up.

What do you wish you'd done less of?

Babysitting.

How will you be spending the holidays?

Quietly, at home, in a food & wine coma.

What was your favorite TV program?

The Golden Girls. This, I'm sure, will remain a constant throughout my lifetime.

What was the best book you read?

Killing the Black Body: Race, Reproduction, and the Meaning of Liberty by Dorothy Roberts. If you're interested in race, class, and reproductive justice, I highly recommend that you read it. It'll break your heart and fill you with rage. But it's worth it.

What was your greatest musical discovery?

The Penny Loafers. They're an a capella group I discovered via Pandora Radio this year. I think they're cool because instead of singing without instrumental accompaniment, they use their voices to create the background music. It's really interesting.

What did you want and get?

FRIENDS! The beginning of this year was rough because I'd transferred schools but didn't know anyone on my new campus. The people I've met through the women's studies program have made things much better, and I'm so grateful for their friendship.

What did you want and not get?

A pony and infinite naps.

What did you do on your birthday, and how old were you?

I turned 23. I kept things pretty low-key because my birthday fell on a Thursday during finals, so not only did I have things to study for, but I had to babysit, because I babysit every Thursday. Also, I had the worst cold ever. It turned out great, though. I got a pair of warm slippers from my parents (seriously guys, they're awesome), and the kids I babysit teamed up with their mom to surprise me with all kinds of goodies, too. It was really sweet.

How would you describe your personal fashion concept in 2011?

Well, see, that's just the thing. I lack a fashion concept. I wear whatever's on top of the clean pile. And those things don't always match and people assume I'm mismatching on purpose and trying to make some kind of statement. But I'm not a hipster. I'm just lazy.

What kept you sane?

I don't really claim to be sane, but talking to people who care about the same issues I do really helped me to feel better about things.

Which celebrity/public figure did you fancy the most?

I think most people are aware by now of my huge-o celebrity crush on Emma Stone.

What political issue stirred you the most?

I don't know how anyone could turn away from the Occupy movement. Also, all of the anti-choice bills pushed through congress this year really got my ire up, of course.

Who did you miss?
The many friends I met at SVSU-- I haven't visited Saginaw very much this year. Also, Stephanie and Sarah, because I always miss them (I got to see them more times this year than I usually do, though, so that's good). And my cat, who died in August. :(

What new friends did you make?

At WSU: Lura, Kali, Alie, Kaitlyn, and Ashley. And then there's Stef, who I met via the Intarwebs. She lives in New York. I haven't yet met her IRL; maybe that'll be a goal for 2012. :)

Share a valuable life lesson you learned in 2011?

Warm slippers will make your life immeasurably more satisfying.

Today I am 23.

Which isn't any kind of milestone. And please don't remind me about that one Blink 182 song.

In the past 23 years, I've written countless poems and published some, written a ton of stories, but published none of them. And I've written a bunch of other things. Blog posts, letters, birthday cards for my pets. I've edited two school-sponsored art & literary magazines and then had this (poorly developed) idea to make my own zine. It'll get better someday.

I had something like a 20% chance of survival at birth due to my failure to adjust to the idea of breathing outside of the womb. But then I conquered that obstacle and screamed for three months (sorry about that whole colic thing, Mom & Dad), thereby developing one hell of a set of lungs. I've since used those to grow into a singer who has danced onstage in horrible shiny pants. And then later I became a loudmouth feminist. I wonder what's next.

I've read a lot of books. And I think I wrote a novel when I was fifteen because accidentally, out of nowhere I realized I'd created a 237-page Word document-- a story that went on way longer than I had intended it to.

I had knee-length hair as a child because my mom couldn't bear to part with my baby curls. So I've gotten my hair stuck in an escalator and also pooped on it. And then I wrote slam poems about those things and performed them at the Grand Hotel on Mackinac Island and won a swanky trophy.

I've lived in the suburbs and also in a cornfield, but that's really it. I like to make birthday cakes out of healthy foods.

I am kind of a square, mainly because I'm the only person of my generation who uses the word "square."

I've seen Chantal Kreviazuk in concert three times. I also met her and was a little bit bummed out when she spelled my name incorrectly.

I floss compulsively but still get reprimanded every time I go to the dentist. I'm convinced that dentists are just used to reprimanding everyone for not flossing enough.

I've developed some really embarrassing celebrity crushes and some not-so-embarrassing ones. My most recent one is of the latter variety, so I'll spill: Emmastoneemmastoneemmastone!

I've skinny dipped at 4 a.m. in Higgins Lake and napped in the sunshine. I've had way too many dreams about having sex with people I really shouldn't ever even think about have sex with.

I've mastered the art of fighting with soccer moms in SUVs over parking spots outside of the elementary school at dismissal time. Because I babysit a lot.

And yet I've never had kids and can't ever picture myself having any.

I named my uterus Maude. I like to tweet about it.

I've flown to Colorado on Christmas Eve. And have had pizza and vodka for breakfast on Christmas morning. We mixed the vodka with Powerade because that's all we could find at the gas station, which was the only place open on Christmas morning.

I think Karen Carpenter's voice is totally gorgeous, even if no one my age even knows who Karen Carpenter was.

I got in big, big trouble with my mom one time because I decided to stop at the candy store on my way home from school one day in the second grade.

I've injured my sister badly enough to have her sent off in an ambulance... not just once, but twice.

I've developed and maintained a pretty impressive coffee addiction. And memorized a lot of random facts and dates and numbers. I'm fairly certain I know the birthdays of just about everyone I've ever met.

At sixteen I attended a summer writing seminar because I'm a nerd and it completely changed my life. And then I went back every summer for years.

I wish I could do that with everything I love. But I hear that living in the past is unhealthy.

So, I'm off to be 23-- which, for the immediate moment, means babysitting and getting some last-minute studying in for an exam I've got tomorrow morning. And also eating cake. And telling my cat that I love him even though he's asleep and can't hear me and doesn't even speak English anyway.

Wait... what?

By writing this, I run the risk of sounding whiny and ten years younger than I am. But I'm going to put it out there anyway, because it's something that's been on my mind all semester.

Where did I come from, and what the hell am I doing here? I live with my parents and sister in the epitome of white, middle class suburbia. All three of them smoke. Though they deny it, they're pretty racist. They drink as much Pepsi as I do coffee and don't consider a meal complete without a decent-sized portion of red meat. They don't believe in turning off the TV-- ever. They each own a car and drive everywhere-- even to visit friends who live around the block in the middle of summer. Neither of my parents went to college and my sister's dropping out of community college after this semester.

Don't get me wrong, they're pretty accepting of my feminism and lesbianism and commie/hippie tendencies, even if they'll never understand any of it. I even got my mom to jump on the organic food train with me (although she says she only did it because I literally refused to eat anything she cooked and lost about ten pounds).

But I just don't understand where I got any of this; they're different from me in every way possible. I want to say that I came to believe what I believe because of outside influence: friends, teachers, whatever. But that's really not the case. I grew up here, in Grosse Pointe, and moved to Saginaw for three years before moving back into my parents' house.

For me, it's always just been a matter of common sense (emphasis on the word always). Maybe all kids are born with this mentality and most outgrow it, but I just didn't? I don't know. But I remember being a little kid and feeling totally floored when I learned that my parents paid a water bill. I didn't understand (and I still don't understand) how anyone could put monetary value on a substance that makes up about 70% of a person's body. And I've applied that mentality to food, too, or anything people need to survive. Like a place to live. Around the age of nine (fearless little thing that I was), I told my friend's dad that I thought it was wrong of him to own a vacation home on Lake Charlevoix, because it was vacant most of the year. What a goddamned waste.

I don't know. I've always surrounded myself with like-minded people, of course. That's what we do. And it's made life bearable-- even enjoyable. But I can't say that I grew up thinking one thing and then went to college and met people who changed my way of looking at the world. Because, as illustrated above, that just didn't happen. I've always felt this way. And then I got to college and was disappointed because I still didn't really feel like I identified with anyone.

I've been kind of angry at myself lately, mainly due to my lack of involvement in things like the Occupy Movement. It's right up my alley and yet I'm utterly absent from it. I justify this to myself by pointing out that I live near Detroit, and Detroit is vastly different from Wall Street, where this protest originated. But that's really no excuse; this isn't the only thing I've (cowardly?) shied away from. There's also some other activism that I'm not as involved in now as I was just a few months ago. And although I'm generally pretty good at following the news and being aware of what's going on, I'm certainly not posting witty commentary on everything the way many of my friends are.

And yet, I know that I've always expected way too much of myself, so I'm trying to look at the whole picture. Given my upbringing and current living situation, I'm pretty strong. I may be taking a million years to get through school, but I haven't quit. And even though I get really effing overwhelmed by the news and my readings for class and the harsh realities of the kind of stuff I'm drawn to, I haven't turned away from it. I can't.

Here are some of the things I've got going for me: I'm more aware of things than I've ever been; if I wasn't, I wouldn't be reading almost compulsively, and working so hard to drag my family into the twenty-first century. I'm on track for a straight-A semester, so I must be doing something right, something productive. I have a job for which I earn money. I get out of bed every single day.

I realize that by writing this, I'm beating myself up for not doing this and that and the other thing, which tells me that I'll be back to it eventually. As Audre Lorde said, "Caring for myself is not self-indulgence. It is self-preservation, and that is an act of political warfare."

We all do what we need to do.

RIP Mac, 2002-2011

I spent the weekend at Lollapalooza in Chicago, so had been planning a pretty epic post about that. And maybe I'll still write it. But not right now.

Because when I got back to Michigan yesterday, I received some terrible news. My mom picked my friend Toni & me up from the train station, and of course, the first words out of my mouth were, "How's Mac?" Just a few hours earlier, I'd updated my Facebook status with, "I'm on a train now, headed toward home. Although I would have liked to spend more time in Chicago, I'm very excited about reuniting with my cat."

My mom told me that she knew I'd ask about Mac, and then said that she'd been dreading me doing so. She pointed to a box of tissues by my feet and told me that Mac had died over the weekend.

Although I knew she'd never joke about something like that, I spent a few moments in the "Are you fucking serious?" stage. And once it sunk in that it had really happened, I cried for what felt like ages. I felt guilty for not having been there when he died, of course. And the night before we'd left for the train station, Toni and I had camped out in my basement, watching Bette Davis movies on TCM. So Mac hadn't slept in my bed with me like he usually does. It had crossed my mind to go upstairs, find him, and make him join me on the couch. But I didn't.

So it helps to know that he didn't suffer. My dad found him dead near his litterbox on Sunday morning. It actually looks like he had a heart attack after taking a huge shit. Last night Toni said, "Your cat was a badass. He died like Elvis."

We've actually long suspected that Mac had a bad heart. His breathing has always been noticeably labored. And he lost a lot of weight over the past few months. We took him to the vet back in June, but he found nothing wrong with Mac, and just said that he was underweight and dehydrated (weird, given that Mac has an impressive appetite). But we took the vet's advice and put him on a high-calorie diet of super delicious kitten food that Mac loved.

He was always a very enthusiastic eater, just like me. :)

Waking up this morning was hard, not only because Mac usually sleeps with me at night, but also because I usually feed him first thing in the morning. I'm one of those people whose glasses live on her face unless I'm asleep or in the shower. So Mac knew not to bother me if my glasses were off. But the moment I took them from the nightstand and put them on my face, he'd start begging for food. Loudly.

He was very vocal. When I moved to Saginaw, I took him with me. And he'd howl in protest all the way up and down the I-75. For a guy with a bad heart, he sure had great lungs.

And he charmed my friends with them. Talked politics with people who came to my apartment. At one point, my friend Tracy said, "Dude, you're going to hate this, but I'm pretty sure that your cat is a Republican." She had a number of solid reasons for this, but my favorite was that he was an old man from Grosse Pointe.

Political disagreements aside, he loved Tracy's cooking. And everyone's cooking, for that matter. As I said, he was as enthusiastic about food as I am. My mom told me that he devoured some leftovers from Olive Garden with her the night before he died. I'm glad that he had a great last meal.

I've had many pets throughout my lifetime, and losing them isn't new to me. My dog Wylee died last year. My cats Poe and Smokey both died while I was in high school. And I've also buried two hamsters.

But Mac was my favorite. And I guess that's just because he decided that I was his favorite human, and was loyal to me even during the two years I spent living on campus at SVSU and couldn't have him with me.

I even had my senior photos taken with him when I graduated from high school. And he had his own Facebook page ("Mac the Feline," just in case you'd like to check it out).

People keep telling me that I'm handing this really well. I don't know about that, really. I'm a mess. But even though I wasn't here when Mac died, I know that he was well cared for. My parents and sister had a tendency to spoil him with affection whenever I wasn't home.

And everyone else knows how much I loved him (see the part about the senior picture and Facebook page), and has been really good to me, too. It helps to know that despite how obnoxious I've been about how much I love my cat, people seem to accept the fact that I'm a giant cat lady. Mac was kind of the center of my universe.

RIP, Stinky Head. That was kind of a dick move you made, leaving without giving me a chance to say goodbye. But you made up for it by being awesome in every other way possible, and I just hope that I will someday meet a cat who is as wonderful as you were.

Victim blaming is bullshit. Also, the personal is political? Advice, please.

Yesterday I was sitting in the backyard with my parents, telling them about the various events I plan to attend in downtown Detroit next month: namely Motor City Pride and SlutWalk.

My dad made a comment that, for reasons I'll explain in a minute, was both racist and sexist: "You know I don't like you going west of Alter Road."

It was about the twentieth stupid comment he'd made all weekend, so I finally told him that if he isn't going to change his way of thinking, he needs to at least have the decency to keep his fucked up ideas to himself.

My mother, ever the peacekeeper, intervened. But instead of supporting my stance, she told me (for the zillionth time) that I need to accept that my dad's not going to learn/change, and ignore his comments.

Now, let me back up a bit and explain the context of my dad's remark:

The thing about most Detroit suburbs is that they're not actually very close to Detroit at all. Royal Oak, for instance (where I was born) is in Oakland County. Detroit, meanwhile, is located in Wayne County.

But Grosse Pointe--where I have lived most of my life--is one of the few Detroit suburbs that's actually in Wayne County. We even share the 313 area code, made famous by Eminem and Faygo ads such as this one.

Which is funny (read: sad and embarrassing) because Grosse Pointe, in stark contrast to its neighbor, is both affluent and overwhelmingly white.

Our house is a block from the border.

And so that's why my dad's comment was both racist and sexist. He was basically saying, "You know I don't want my pretty little girl to venture into the ghetto." Never mind that I'm twenty-two years old and in the process of earning a degree from a university in downtown Detroit. BUT ANYWAY.

So, here's my dilemma: In some cases, I do accept that certain people just aren't going to change. It depresses me more than I can express. But I'd rather focus my energy on people who might come around to the idea of equality. The kids I babysit, for example. They're young (four and seven). I see them three days per week, so hope to have some positive influence over their lives.

But in the case of my dad... it isn't easy to place him into the category of haters that I ignore. I share his genes. And we live together. I actually think it's healthier (for all parties involved) for me to speak up--and release all the pent-up energy I have--rather than keep quiet while he makes comments that upset me to the point of needing to email the people I know who care about the same things I do just to thank them for being there. (I've done this a couple of times, most recently, this past April.) My energy has to go somewhere, you know?

Another example of my dad's outlook: Last week there was a story in the news about a woman on the campus of Wayne State who "says [that a] campus cop pulled her over just after midnight and demanded a sexual favor in exchange for letting her go." She reported the incident; he was taken into custody and suspended without pay.

Upon seeing the story on the 5 o'clock news, my dad rolled his eyes and said, "That woman probably just wants money and came up with a creative way to get some."

Do I even need to explain why that's the worst thing anyone could possibly say? I know firsthand (as I'm sure many people do) how hard it can be to come forward about something that fucks with the whole power structure.

Secondly, I know that if I were to tell my dad that something like that had happened to me, he'd stop at nothing to make sure that the cop in question got his balls chopped off.

I babysit just a few blocks from my house, so I ride my bike or walk to and from work most of the time. I get off work at 9:30, by which point, it's dark outside. The first time I walked home from work, I entered the house to find my dad standing in the entryway. "Don't you ever pull a stunt like that again," he snapped. "I know you don't see yourself as a girl anymore, but you're still my girl."

*Headdesk*

I'm not an idiot. People know where and when I'm walking. But the idea of "some big burly black man lurkin' in the bushes" isn't enough to make me drive the three blocks to and from work instead of walk. This is my world, too, and I'm sick of being part of a culture that teaches women not to get raped instead of teaching people not to rape. Which is why I'm such a vocal supporter of the SlutWalks that have been popping up literally all over the globe.

I digress.

So, what to do? Part of me just feels helpless, heartbroken, and exhausted because if I can't get through to my dad of all people, how can I possibly expect to have any influence over people who aren't related to/don't live with me?

I believe in living honestly. That's why I don't eat red meat or drive if I can help it, openly identify as a feminist, and told my parents that I'm gay, among other things. My mom, though she disagrees with me, knows that I'm adamantly pro-choice. So I find it really difficult to just shut up while my dad makes racist/sexist comments. I don't understand why I'm the one who's expected to shut up and let him say his piece. Because if I make a feminist remark, he's able to tell me stop because he's my dad and therefore, trumps me in terms of authority.

Furthermore, because I know my dad to be a pretty good person overall (or at least, someone who tries to be in the ways he knows how), I think it's unfair to him to act as my mom does. I can't just say, "Well, he's from Poland. And he never went to college. So he's just never going to get it." Um. He accepted the fact that his daughter's a lesbian, so I like to think that he can be a little more open minded if I do a little bit of work, you know?

Or is my mother right? Am I just wasting my energy?

Lemme know, Internet.

30 Day Blog Challenge: Day 19

Disrespecting your parents.

Suffice it to say that I don't see "disrespect" as being synonymous with "disobey."

I don't want to have kids.

I make a point of saying that out loud (or in this case, writing it down) every now and then because it's taboo but shouldn't be. Not wanting to be a mother does not make me lazy. It just means that I realize how much work it is, and would rather be productive in other ways. Many of my friends are parents. I respect the hell out of them for it. But parenthood just isn't for me.

No doubt some people saw the title of this blog post and chose not to read it. You're not supposed to tell people that you don't want to have kids. And this is especially true if you're a woman.

Usually, two things happen when I mention that I don't want to have kids: People assume that I hate children, and then they tell me that I'll eventually change my mind. (Would you really want someone who hates children to change her mind? Just sayin'.)

I don't hate children. Please. I used to work at a vocational preschool. And since August, I've been babysitting two girls, ages four and seven, three times per week. While the job sometimes makes me feel like some kind of premature soccer mom, I do love the girls. And because I realize that they are the future, I make a point of treating them with respect. This is a concept that seems to be lost on a lot of people.

As for the people who tell me that I'm just too young to understand that I'll eventually want children, well. That's offensive. For one thing, I may very well change my mind. Life happens. But I'm 22. While I'm young, I am of child-bearing age. Who are you to tell me that I don't know my own mind?

It's especially fun for me to pin this argument up against the backdrop of my grandmother's wish for me to find a man, marry, and reproduce, ASAP. If I'm old enough to do that, then I'm old enough to decide not to.

And really, this is something that I've thought about all my life. My mom told me recently that she saw signs of my feminism very early on. She noticed that when I was a kid, I had a fascination with women who worked outside of the home, likely because she herself did not. I was in the first grade when I realized that many of my friends' mothers did things a lot differently than my mom. I also have an aunt who lives in the Yukon. She never married and doesn't have kids. And she has always been one of my favorite people on Earth. My mom assumed (accurately) that it was because her reality was vastly different from anyone else's.

The unfortunate thing about Kerrie (aforementioned aunt) is that her parents and siblings (all of whom did the whole get married & have kids thing) treat her as if she's some kind of overgrown child who just refused to grow up. Respect others' choices. Kerrie can do a lot of things that they can't, because she lives by herself in a very cold, remote place. You have to be really freaking strong and independent to pull that off.

I want to be strong and independent too, and am still figuring out what that means for me. I doubt I'll ever move to the Yukon--super low temperatures aren't really my thing. Nobody's shaking their finger at me for saying that. So I don't see how it's so unacceptable for me to say that I don't want to have kids.

Failure to launch

I haven't posted much to this blog this month, even though there's so much going on in the world and just as much I could say about it.

I've actually sat down at my computer several times in the past week or so to write about all of it: the devastating earthquake in Japan (and the YouTube video from a crazed Catholic who saw it as some sort of "beautiful" sign from God); the Wisconsin loss; Governor Rick Snyder's plan to destroy my home state of Michigan; the victim-blaming piece of bullshit I read in the New York Times about the gang rape of an eleven-year-old girl in Texas; and the news that a woman in Nebraska--thanks to her state's anti-choice legislation--was forced to watch her newborn die because she had not been permitted to terminate a pregnancy that doctors told her would result in the death of her baby.

But each time I've started writing, I've gotten too overwhelmed/tired, given up, and gone to bed. Lately, I've felt too deflated to accomplish much of anything.

I feel as disappointed in the world as I did in the first grade, when a classmate called and asked if I'd like to come over and play Candy Land with her. I envisioned her house--which I'd visited many times--transformed into a castle made of candy. I pictured the two of racing through it, sugar adding to the energy I already had just from my level of excitement. And I eagerly said yes.

But Candy Land turned out to be just a board game.

I read a really great Between the Lines article last week called "The kid aren't all right," about how my generation isn't going to stand for any anti-LGBT bullshit. One part in particular gave me some much-needed hope: "This generation is often ridiculed for having a sense of entitlement. But these kids show that they feel entitled to basic human rights. And if those rights aren't there, they're going to organize, ask, demand, and fight to have them."

If that's true, then I need to find a way to join in. Part of why I'm so down about things lately is that I feel like I'm the only person who gives a shit about anything (even though from reading my friends' posts on Facebook, I know that I'm not).

But I feel so terribly alone because my current living situation and babysitting job make it really hard for me to go out and pursue my interests. I live with my parents twenty minutes from campus, don't have a car of my own, and work on Tuesday, Thursday, and Friday evenings. And because I'm a transfer student, I don't really have any friends in the area.

So, woe is me. I keep telling myself to be strong and stick it out until June, when the kids I babysit will be done with school for the year and I can think about moving on to something else, freeing up my evenings. But that's not real strength.

When I transferred to Wayne State, I moved in with my parents because doing so would save money. I knew that transferring would mean taking longer than four years to finish up my BA. So I thought that by moving in with them, I'd be making them happy. Because if there's one surefire way to make my parents happy, it's by saving money.

But it just hasn't turned out that way. My parents, though they mean well, are stuck in some kind of time warp, and are waiting for me to "launch." Their word choice scares me. I'm afraid that by their definition, I'm never going to "launch." I got my driver's license three and a half years after it was legal for me to do so. I won't finish college in four years. And to top it all off, I'm gay, so even if I were in a committed relationship, it's not like I could get married anytime soon.

I mean, it's understandable for my parents (like any parents) to want to watch their kids grow into successful adults. But what they don't understand is that for so many reasons, they can't hold me to the standard to which their parents held them. For one thing, there are obvious economic obstacles to making it through college in four years (thanks, Rick Snyder, for slashing state funding to Michigan colleges/universities by more than 20%).

And more importantly, there are so many ways to be successful. And success, to me, is happiness. We can agree that I've failed. But I'm not a failure because I got my driver's license three and a half years later than my peers. I'm not a failure because I won't graduate from college on time. And I'm not a failure because I have no desire to marry and have children. Instead, I am a failure because I've settled for living in Grosse Pointe. I'm a failure because two hours from now, I'm going to leave the house for an evening of babysitting instead of leaving it to go after what really inspires me.

Life has told me to settle for board games. Living, however, has taught me that if I have any hope of doing something good for this world during my time here, I need to build a candy castle--even if right now, it only exists in my imagination, and no on else can see or understand my need to create it.

A letter from a feminist/first generation college student to her parents

Dear Mom & Dad,

I love you a lot. And I appreciate how supportive you've been, both financially and emotionally. Despite all your good intentions though, there are still a lot of misunderstandings between us. So hear me out:

School is really important to me. I transferred to Wayne State because for a number of reasons I don't feel we need to go over again, things fell apart at SVSU. I moved in with you so I could stay in school and save money, which is something I thought would make all of us happy. But I feel that the money I earn babysitting is more important to you than school is, even if you'd never say it.

Don't get me wrong: I'm not against earning money. I lived in Saginaw for three years. Students have soul-draining jobs to defray the cost of school. The economy is terrible; life is life. And given what my interests are, I think it's important to have worked jobs like that so I can understand people who rely on those types of jobs to make a living.

But both of you need to understand that right now, earning money is not priority #1. School is. And even though I love it, it's not a hobby. Mom, you said something to me recently about how I need to suck it up and stop hating my job because my whole life will be like that, and I'd better get used to it.

Dad, your whole life has been like that. But I'm in school because I'd like mine not to be. I know that you worked 80 hours per week because you had a wife and kids to support. I am grateful to you for that. But even though I'm the same age as you were when you started working that hard, you need to see that I'm not in the same position. I am single, for one thing. And childless. And gay. The list goes on.

Abundant idealism aside, I am also, somehow, decently realistic. Maybe I inherited that from you. I don't expect to graduate and get a job that I love right away. But I'm willing to do the work to hopefully get me somewhere where I can do something other than babysit or clean houses or work as an aide in a preschool or anything else I've done so far.

And so you need to understand that as much as I enjoy school, it is work. I'm more than willing to help out around the house. But it bothers me that of the four of us who live here, I'm the one who is always expected to drop whatever she's doing at the drop of a hat when the dishes need to be done, just because I always have my nose stuck in a book. I still have to have that book read within a certain frame of time. And reading, though enjoyable, is time-consuming. Especially when you're planning to write a research paper on it later.

I get that you're scared. Your kids are both grown, and you want to see us move on with our lives so you can move on with yours. But our lives are different than yours. I'm in college. Neither of you went to college. So already, there's a huge difference in our respective versions of reality. And that's exactly why it's unreasonable to gripe about how I'm not going to graduate in a typical four-year time frame while trying to convince me not to take summer classes in favor of earning as much money as possible.

Now, my majors/interests: Those scare the shit out of you too, no doubt. I get that you're afraid of seeing me go off the "Commie deep end" or something. Understand, though, that my intentions are as good as yours. People that both you and I respect see what I believe in as a good thing. You only see what I do as "militant" or "extremist" because your God-fearing parents told you to believe that. You knew better than to fear God, and did not raise your kids in church (THANK YOU for that).

You never gave me a hard time about being a creative writing major. For one thing, I loved it too much to consider doing anything else (which is why, having known me all my life, you need to trust that if I'm going to go after something else, it's only because I love it just as much). And secondly, you were okay with it because creative writing seemed neutral to you. I mean, your kid spent her childhood up in her room, writing. Can't cause too much damage doing that.

But take a closer look at what I wrote about. It isn't like I went to SVSU and had one conversation with someone who "turned me into a feminist" overnight. It is something that has tugged at me my entire life. I got it from examining how much we differed from other families in Grosse Pointe, and wondering why the hell it is that we live here. I got it from seeing the literal brick wall that exists along Alter Road on the border of Grosse Pointe and Detroit. And I got it from moving to Saginaw and realizing that it's really no different there, either. There was so much unfairness right in front of me, wherever I went. How could I not take notice? Now that I'm aware of it, how can I let it be? You should be proud of me for being moved enough by it to want to change it.

I've worked really hard to try to understand your perspective. Maybe I'm missing something: If so, let me know. But in the meantime, please try to understand mine. And know too, that it's okay to be different. Just because I didn't graduate from high school and immediately get married and have kids like you did, doesn't make me a failure. And it also doesn't mean that you're failures as parents because your kids didn't turn out the way you thought they would.

Love,
Amelia

Let's be honest for a second, here.

Tomorrow I'll be twenty-two (which I guess just means that I can -officially- relate to just about every single Lily Allen song ever written). This one's my favorite.

And like everyone else, I'm trying to convince myself that it's okay--okay to be unsure, okay not to know, okay to acknowledge that I feel a little lost (or a lot lost, even). Okay to admit that even if I am strong, I often don't feel that way.

People keep asking when I plan to graduate from college. The truth is that I don't really know or even care. I finally looked at my credits and figured out that I'll probably be able to graduate sometime in 2012. But I only did that so I'd have a "real answer"to give. I'll get there when I get there. It's kind of hard to pinpoint it when I'm not even sure what "getting there" means to me yet.

I spent the day working on my women's studies final--a series of short essay-length responses to questions about articles we've read throughout the semester. I was geeking out so hard. I loved it. I'm lucky. At least I know that there's still something out there I love, even if I don't quite have a firm grasp on it just yet.

I keep repeating to myself that we're all different--myself included. And we all have our own ways of handling things.

Tragedy, for instance, affects me more profoundly than it does many people, no matter how distant it is from me. And I was surrounded by a lot of it last year. I felt as though I was expected to to push it aside because it wasn't "mine." My friend Liz (who's my age) lost her parents and brother suddenly. A month later, Tracy's house burned down. And three months after that, Sharon's six-year-old daughter drowned in Otsego Lake during a church outing.

I tried to focus on my own shit. At the time, I was very busy with work I didn't really find fulfilling. The trouble wasn't the workload or even the fact that I didn't find it meaningful, but rather, that I couldn't bring myself to admit it. And time was a'wastin'.

Everything that had happened to Liz, Tracy, and Sharon, plus the fact that I was still closeted and thus living dishonestly, made me realize that life's too short. Well-intentioned adults (my parents, professors, etc) kept telling me to chill out because I was only twenty and had all kinds of time to figure shit out. But I had learned the hard way (by attending a funeral for a six-year-old) that you don't know how much (or how little) time you have. No one can really afford to live the way I was living--if you can even call it living.

So this year, I've tried really hard to be honest. I came out to my parents (and just about everyone else who hadn't known). I gave up on editing, transferred colleges, and am undoubtedly happier than I was a year ago.

But since I'm being honest, I'll admit that I'm still scared shitless. I don't really know what's next and know that it's not over because I'm still living and therefore, becoming.

Life is messy. I am messy. Admit it, you're messy too.

It'll be okay.

Thanksgiving

Okay, so I guess I take back what I said in an earlier post about not being a fan of holidays. I freaking love Thanksgiving. This is because like birthdays, Thanksgiving gives me a chance to celebrate who and what I love. (I also like that it just means I get to eat myself into a food coma and drink wine and lie around doing nothing on a weekday. And Thursday is actually my busiest day of the week this semester, so I'm really diggin' the fact that I'm writing this from the comfort of my bed.)

So, here's a (non-exhaustive) list of things I'm thankful for, in no particular order:

1) My mom
...Without whom there would be no Thanksgiving dinner (or no dinner ever, for that matter). Who comes along with me on all my crazy adventures (i.e. "let's skip real life today and go see Michael Franti in Ann Arbor"). Who does all kinds of wonderful things; it'd take me a lifetime to list 'em all.

2) The "blogosphere"
I usually read a lot in the summer, but for some reason, that didn't happen this year. Instead, I watched oily pelicans on the news and when that became too overwhelming, I'd switch to The Golden Girls. Rinse, repeat. I was pretty bummed out about it. I did read a few books: short novels, collections of poetry, that sort of thing. But it didn't occur to me to ditch books altogether and turn to the Internet for good reading material.

Thanks to the "THIS IS WHAT A YOUNG FEMINIST LOOKS LIKE" blog carnival (held this past August), I was made aware of just how many blogs are out there. There are the big ones (like Feministing), and the funny ones (like Hyperbole and a Half), and then there are the ones written by college students procrastinating on their homework (ahem). It's endlessly interesting to me, how much is out there, and how many perspectives there are. I was telling my mom the other day about how much I love blogging. It's got me reading and writing again. I've really missed that. No wonder I'm happier now than I was at this time last year.

3) Everyone's support when I came out to my parents
Even though my parents are wonderful and took it well, telling them I'm gay was still one of the most draining experiences of my life. I was blown away by all the support I received from people who helped me through it: my fellow LGBT friends who answered my endless questions about their coming out experiences, people who listened even if they couldn't relate, and everyone who left comments on my Facebook page and here on Blogger. It meant so much. I say this because, to put it lightly, things haven't gone as well with my extended family. It's been really hard, actually, and I'm not ready to write about it yet. But suffice it to say that all the support I've received has given me the strength to deal with the reactions of those who haven't been accepting.

4) Angela
I met Angela in an English class earlier this year--right before I transferred to Wayne State. I was hesitant to make new friends that semester, because I knew I'd soon be leaving SVSU. Therefore, I was purposely standoffish. I regret that now. She has done a better job of keeping in touch with me since I moved than anyone else has (and that really says something, because I'm still very close with quite a few people from the Saginaw/Bay City area). But lately, Angela and I have talked literally every day, and she's coming to visit next month. It's wonderful, and I'm sorry that I was at first so hell bent on preventing this friendship from forming. Lesson learned.

5) Libraries
Okay, I know it's the 21st century and all, but libraries are awesome. I say this as someone who hasn't read very many books recently. I say it as someone who spends way too much time online. I still think libraries are fabulous. I hope they never go away. Also, if you live in Michigan and don't use MeLCat, you are missing out. Interlibrary loans = endless knowledge, endless geekdom, and endless fun...for free! This nerd is getting off her soap box now. But really, libraries win.

I should sign off now and help my mom do whatever she's doin' in the kitchen. Happy Turkey Day, everyone. What are you thankful for?

How I became a feminist

A week or so ago, I was poking around on Twitter and came across a link to this post titled "How I Became a Feminist." And I realized that while I've blogged quite a bit about feminism, I haven't actually written about how I got here in the first place.

I come from a very traditional family. My dad's the breadwinner, and my mom's always done the stay-at-home thing. I like to think that my parents might not have assumed traditional gender roles had they been given the chance to figure out what else was out there, though. They were both raised in very traditional settings, and married young.

Kids worry about all kinds of weird things. And because my parents were the people with whom I spent the majority of my time, I tried to picture myself in their shoes and worried incessantly about what my future would be like. Neither of my parents were born in the United States; they're not native speakers of English. I remember thinking that in order to ever be considered a "real adult," I, like my parents, would have to learn a whole new language/culture. And it scared the shit out of me.

But the funny thing is that in becoming a feminist, I've done exactly that.

Although feminism was not a part of my upbringing, it entered my consciousness when I was still very young--long before I had a word for it. I distinctly remember being in the first grade and going to a friend's house after school to play for a few hours. I was surprised to find a babysitter there instead of my friend's mom. I'd never had a babysitter before, and asked my friend where her mom had gone.

"She's at work," my friend replied (with a tone suggesting I was an idiot for not having known that instinctively).

She didn't know it, but she had, in only three words, eliminated the anxiety I'd felt about my future. I didn't have to grow up to be a stay-at-home mom. Maybe that meant I didn't have to be a mother at all. Maybe I didn't even have to get married. To this day, I think this is the most liberating realization I've ever made: Holy crap, people have all kinds of ways of going about things; there are choices.

From that point forward, I looked for affirmations of what I'd discovered at my friend's house: that as a female, I was equal to males and wasn't limited to gender-specific roles in society. This was hard to do, being that I was an elementary school student with a limited vocabulary. (Feminism? What's that?) But I got lucky anyway. I grew up in the 1990s--a time when women dominated the music scene. My mom was a big Tracy Chapman fan. And I don't even think she paid all that much attention to the socially conscious lyrics, but I couldn't help but take notice. I've always had a fascination with language, and can't deny that those lyrics shaped the perspective from which I viewed the world.

I finally came to identify as a feminist as a high school senior. I have my friend Stephanie to thank for that. She had transferred from Interlochen Arts Academy, where she'd focused on her poetry. That year, I was the editor-in-chief of Looking Glass, the art/literary journal at school, and Stephanie joined my editorial staff. We were also in the same AP literature and creative writing classes.

She and I entered the same poetry contests and submitted our work to the same journals. We were both recognized with Detroit Free Press Writing Awards and placed in the Albion College Michigan High School Poetry Contest. We were on the school poetry slam team, and got to compete at the Grand Hotel on Mackinac Island.

Because of that, Stephanie and I got to spend a lot of time traveling around the state together, and I took advantage of every opportunity to pick her brain. I was passionate about writing, but she brought something to hers that was missing from mine: focus in terms of subject matter. She viewed the world through a feminist lens, and was able to articulate everything I'd believed in all my life, but had never had the words for.

Armed with what Stephanie had taught me, I enrolled at SVSU. Not having her around actually gave me the chance to further develop my own views. And the classes I took gave me a safe environment in which to do that.

I took a zillion English classes at SVSU, but none of them had anything about gender or feminism in their titles. Still, many of my professors did an excellent job of integrating feminism into their classes--such an excellent job, in fact, that I craved more and was disappointed when I had trouble finding it. Most of what I learned about feminism during my years at SVSU came from the English classes I took, rather than classes such as The Psychology of Sex, Sexuality, and Gender.

And so I learned firsthand what makes women's studies an interdisciplinary topic. I find it impossible to separate feminism from any of my other interests. It's a mindset, a lifestyle. I don't think I ever "became a feminist," exactly. I just learned that there was a word for my version of common sense. I try my best every day to use that word well and often.

What's funny is that even though I've openly identified as a feminist for quite a few years now, I'm still surprised whenever I hear anyone refer to my "reputation" as such. Maybe that's because of the negative connotation. Again, I don't separate feminism from anything else I believe in or do. It's not like I'm this average, ordinary woman with a "secret life" as a feminist behind the scenes. Please.

I'm still learning, and will be as long as I live. That's what's so incredible about it. I'm in awe of just how much I don't know. Maybe that means I'm still becoming a feminist (which would explain why I can't pinpoint the moment when I "became" one).

Growing up in Grosse Pointe, AKA "capitalism personified"

I live in Grosse Pointe Park, Michigan, and have most of my life. A friend of mine once referred to it as "capitalism personified."

Accurate? Yeah, basically. But weirdly enough, as a kid, I thought we were poor. Why? Because the majority of my wardrobe came from K-Mart. Smart move on my mom's part; why buy nice clothes for kids who are just going to outgrow them anyway?

Anyone who has seen where I live knows that I sure as hell didn't grow up poor--not even close. Or if we are, in fact, drowning in debt (which I'm pretty sure we're not), we're still living really comfortably. My sister and I each have our own balcony off our respective bedrooms, for crying out loud.

It was weird to grow up thinking I was poor and then realize that I actually have way more than many (if not most) people do.

That realization came long before I moved to Saginaw in 2007. Actually, I don't doubt that my awareness of it factored into my decision to move to Saginaw, of all places. I guess I just wanted something a little more normal.

Let me explain why it is I once thought we had so little. Many of the kids around here had literally everything and more (not that I can remember now what kinds of toys were popular in the '90s). Plus, virtually every vacation from school (Christmas break, mid-winter break, spring break) meant I'd chill at home with my books and toys while my classmates went to Hawaii or Florida or in some cases, Europe. Obviously, that wasn't everyone's experience. But enough people did that on a regular basis that I felt as though I didn't measure up.

I realized quite some time ago just how ridiculous that is.

So I've really struggled with the fact that I'm from Grosse Pointe. I try to avoid talking about it. The "Hometown" section of my Facebook page is blank. It is something that I'm almost cripplingly insecure about. Just talk to anyone who has ever asked me where I grew up. I beat around the bush like nobody's business. I get really defensive about it. Shit, even right now, I'm being defensive about it.

One of the best books I've ever read is _Let Me Stand Alone: The Journals of Rachel Corrie_. Corrie grew up in Olympia, Washington, was incredibly aware of how privileged she was, and understood that as someone who had so much, she had a certain amount of responsibility to those who weren't as fortunate as she was.

And I think part of why I struggle with my hometown is that as much as I hate this place, I've been here long enough to notice that a decent number of the people who live here realize this about themselves. Some of the most generous and creative people I know live in Grosse Pointe.

And so I try not to make generalizations about this place, because I know that for one thing, there are some great people here. And furthermore, I know that it's hard to be a great person in a place like this. I'm definitely not there yet. I'd like to be. I'm working toward it. But I'm definitely not there yet. If I was, I wouldn't find it necessary to write a blog post like this. I wouldn't give disclaimers to my friends who visit from Saginaw, and I wouldn't get offended when those people comment on what they see when they come here.

What prompted me to write about this in the first place: Last summer, a friend of mine who lives in Cass City told me that he had to volunteer at a Tigers game for his fraternity, and asked if he could crash at my place rather than drive all the way back home so late at night. I told him that he could. It was nice; we drank beer, caught up on things, blah, blah, blah.

Last night he told me that he plans to drop out of college (he's currently a student at SVSU). I told him that I wasn't sure how I felt about that. For some reason, whenever I hear that a friend of mine plans to drop out of school, I feel tremendously sad, even though some of the most amazing people I've ever met have done that (including my mom). I didn't mean to place judgment on his decision, but I think that's how he took it. He said something like, "Well, unlike you, I didn't grow up in Grosse Pointe. I'm not as lucky as you are. I don't have as many options as you had when you fell apart last year. I have nothing, and no one, to fall back on."

I can't disagree with that; he's right. I had a lot to fall back on: namely parents who are both financially and emotionally supportive.

If nothing else, though, at least I can say that I'm aware of how much I have, and am trying to make the most of that. Let's be honest: A year ago, I was profoundly unhappy and seriously considered dropping out of college to live in the Yukon with my mom's free-spirited older sister. But I realized how much of a cop out that would be, especially given that I have the resources to stay in school. So I stayed.

At least Grosse Pointe didn't shelter me. At least it didn't make me greedy. I'm getting there. But I still have all kinds of guilt that I need to get rid of. And I know that until I can rid myself of that guilt, I can't really live the full kind of life I'm striving for, which means, ultimately, feeling lucky instead of guilty, and using what I have to help those who don't have it.

Coming out

Oh, wow. What an intense couple of days it's been.

I came out as a lesbian to my mom last night, and then came out to my dad today.

They both took it really well; I couldn't have asked for a better reaction from them. I'm relieved, grateful, and incredibly happy. I'm also exhausted. This was very emotionally draining; I can't imagine what it would have been like had they not been accepting of it.

I've felt ready to take this step for a while, and promised myself that I'd begin by telling my mom sometime this week. A few people have asked me if I was planning to do it because of National Coming Out Day, and the answer to that is no. I think it's pretty neat that I just happened to be ready to come out to my parents around this time of year. But regardless of what the calendar says, I couldn't have done this had I not felt 100% ready to do so. And it has taken me a long time to feel ready.

I had an opportunity to tell my mom yesterday. My sister was taking a nap and my dad wasn't home. And I figured that waiting wouldn't make it any easier. So I just did it. She was on the back deck reading a book. I interrupted and asked if we could talk. And then I just kind of told her. She looked taken aback and was silent for a few seconds; it was so awkward that I'm pretty sure I started rambling about who knows what. But then she said very calmly, "Okay. Tell me how you figured this out."

I told her everything: where I was at in high school, what happened during my three years in Saginaw. And then I told her where I'm at now, and why I hadn't told her sooner. I finished by giving her the opportunity to ask questions.

One of the things she asked me is whether I support gay marriage. I told her that yes, I do, and she asked me why. I explained that I believe "civil unions" (which she supports) would only segregate heterosexual and homosexual couples. I used the example of segregation in the South, and pointed out that the facilities blacks were permitted to use were not actually equal to those reserved for white people. I told her that the only way to achieve equality is to use the word "marriage": if heterosexuals can marry but homosexuals can only enter into a civil union, the wording would allow lawmakers to limit the rights of homosexual couples.

I don't know whether I changed my mom's mind on the matter, but she told me that my argument made a lot of sense, and didn't argue with me about it. That meant a lot to me. She just surprised me by accepting what I was telling her--all of it.

After we talked, I went to my room and sobbed for a solid ten minutes (which doesn't sound too ridiculous, but believe me, ten minutes is long time to cry that hard). I just couldn't believe I'd finally told her, and that she didn't think any less of me. It really, really means a lot to know that even though there's just so much we don't "get" about each other (she's pro-life, for crying out loud), she's still able to accept me for who I am.

This morning, I woke up feeling drained but happy. My mom and I had breakfast together before I left for school. And while we were eating, she told me that she had talked to Dad, and though she hadn't outed me to him, she had told him to expect me to tell him something very important soon. (Hint, much?)

I was a little annoyed with her for doing that. It took a long time to talk myself into telling my mom I'm gay. And it took a lot out of me; I didn't know how soon I'd be up to talking to my dad, especially since I figured telling him would be more difficult than telling my mom had been.

But today at school, the GLBTA hosted a National Coming Out Day celebration. One of the events was a speech by Dr. John Corvino, and one of the things he said really struck me: I'm paraphrasing here, but basically, he stressed the importance of coming out (if/when it's safe to do so), in order to live by example. People are more supportive of LGBT issues than ever before because they know us, and know that our sexuality doesn't keep us from functioning in society. Not only is coming out healthy, it's imperative. If we aren't honest about it with ourselves and others, we're enforcing the idea that homosexuality is a "dirty little secret." It infuriates me that people who build their lives/politics around love are made to feel ashamed of that. And with the startlingly high number of recent teen LGBT suicides, it's important to be honest and vocal. Doing so could literally save lives.

And so not only is this why I decided to come out to my dad tonight, but also why I decided to post this. I wanted (nay, needed) to write about it, but at first didn't think it wise to do so in a public venue. Wrong-o. Now I realize it'd be wrong not to.

As for coming out to my dad: It was pretty anticlimactic. I told him I'm gay. He asked me how I knew. I told him everything I had already told my mom, then gave him the opportunity to ask questions. He didn't have any. He just told me that he didn't understand it, but still loved me. And that was that.

I know that this is a process. It took me a long time to come to terms with my sexuality, and it'll take my parents a long time too, I'm sure. But I couldn't be more proud of them for how they handled what I told them. I really needed them to accept it, accept me. And they did.

Sincerely, "that feisty feminist bitch"

I found out the other day that some random douchebag I pissed off in Texas referred to me as "that feisty feminist bitch" after I left.

I was flattered, and posted what he said to my Facebook page. Four people "liked" my post. One friend left a comment that made me feel like my awful experience in Texas had been worth it: "For this, you have my love and respect."

What did I do to be called a "feisty feminist bitch," you ask? Well, he called his girlfriend a cunt about five times in as many minutes, and--upon noticing that she wasn't going to defend herself--I gave him a dirty look and told him to shove it. Then I hopped on a plane and flew home, because I didn't want to deal with his bullshit anymore.

He was clearly being a huge dick. I don't think you could argue against that. But at the end of the day, I'm the one who looked like an asshole. Because I had the audacity to tell him that he didn't deserve a girlfriend if he was going to treat her like shit.

I talked to someone recently who was referred to as an "extremist" (by someone who was obviously very close to her) for pointing out that the percentage of female CEOs in the Fortune 500 does not accurately represent the female population of 52%.

I'm flattered by the Texas douchebag's comment because I don't care about what he thinks of me. But I too have really struggled with comments made to me by people I care about.

At a recent family gathering, my aunt asked me why I had decided to transfer colleges. I listed a few reasons. And when I was done, my mom said, "The bottom line is that Amelia left because she needed to find a place where it would be easier for her to be a feminist."

At that word, many of my extended family members winced. I was grateful to my mom for saying it.

At times I've found myself frustrated with my family to the point of avoiding them. (Instead of spending Christmas with them, I spent it with my friend Victoria.) It makes me sad that I have to avoid them just to feel comfortable in my own skin. I don't want to have to cut anyone out of my life. But I've had to figure out what really matters more to me: Making Grandma proud, or identifying as a feminist. If I really can't do both, she shouldn't be part of my life. Even if she is my grandmother.

How's that for a tough truth to swallow?

It hurts to know that people will call me "a feisty feminist bitch" and mean it as an insult, or that someone else will use the word "extremist," knowing it carries a negative connotation.

Because all we're asking for is respect and equality. And I don't understand why that offends people so much.

"Hold your head up, you silly girl."

I have a lot on my mind lately, and don't know where to start. That said, this post will likely be all over the place. You've been warned. Proceed at your own risk.

I'll begin with some good (albeit belated) news: On August 4, California's Proposition 8 was deemed unconstitutional by Chief Judge Vaughn R. Walker.

As I think I've mentioned before, I'm a total news junkie. I watch both CNN and the local news every day, follow various news sources on Twitter, and read whatever my friends post to Facebook, as well as articles in the papers I find lying around the house/campus. But the day Prop 8 was overturned, I happened to be out of town with a friend (more on that later), and therefore, wasn't near the TV or computer. I didn't hear about the ruling until the following day.

Figures. I tune out for a grand total of twenty-four hours, and just look what I miss!

But I'm so happy about this. And hopeful. Incredibly, incredibly hopeful.

And I guess this leads me to something else:

Despite the good news, I don't feel like I have much of a right to celebrate. I'm not contributing enough to the effort to better the world. I keep finding myself in situations where I can't decide whether it'd be best for me to shut up or speak out.

I'm pretty opinionated, but I know that trying to discuss particular topics with certain people would be futile, and choose not to waste my energy on such interactions.

And yet, as someone who believes deeply in diversity, and knows that achieving it is impossible without communication, I find it tremendously difficult to be quiet. By shutting up, I'm going against what I believe in. Yet by speaking out, I'm only pissing people off, because so many of them don't want to listen to what I have to say.

I think people are afraid to communicate because they assume that by accepting what I have to say, they're agreeing with it. That's not what I'm asking for. (We wouldn't be very diverse if we all thought the same way.) All I want is to be able to speak as loudly as those who get away with spouting off every day as if theirs is the only opinion that counts.

Earlier this month, I went to Memphis, Tennessee and Cleburne, Texas with a friend who wanted to visit some of her friends and relatives. Being in the South was one hell of a weird experience for me: Every little thing got on my nerves. I heard a song on a radio station down there that began: "Our houses are protected by the good lord and a gun." And all the way through Arkansas, I made a game out of counting bumper stickers that mentioned Jesus and/or Glenn Beck.

So here I am, telling people I believe in diversity, and yet, whenever I find myself surrounded by people whose mindset is different from mine, I want to be with people who think like I do.

And I've found myself in this situation many times: My decision to leave Saginaw was largely based on the fact that I felt like I was wasting too much of my energy defending what I believed in, instead of actually accomplishing anything.

And yet, I even find it difficult to communicate with members of my own family. My mom gets all up in arms whenever I mention that I'm not a fan of capitalism. My grandmother refuses to accept that I don't believe in God.

It's frustrating, because all I want is to be accepted, and yet how can I ask for that when I can't seem to accept others for who they are?

It's all way more complicated than it needs to be.

If you're going to be a bigot, I'm going to be a "spaz."

My sister has this bad habit of saying "you're so gay" when she means to refer to something as "dumb." She uses the n-word with alarming regularity. And today I said something to which she responded, "You're such a Jew."

I always call her out on it. And her response is always the same: "Stop being such a spaz."

This morning our parents were sitting there with us when I called her out on it. Paige again told me to "stop spazzing." I went on about how I was quite serious, and wouldn't have bothered to call her out had I not found the comment offensive.

My parents then told me to stop overreacting, because it's "just a phrase" that doesn't mean anything.

Well, cool. If it's just a phrase without meaning, could you remove it from your vocabulary, then? Because it obviously won't be missed.

Paige

I only have one sibling, a sister who's younger than me by more than four years. She's a junior in high school and still lives with our parents.

I haven't been back to Grosse Pointe since early January, when I flew home from Colorado. Paige has since turned 17 and fallen in and out of lust several hundred times.

The two of us have always lived according to how our parents (and everyone else we knew) narrowly defined us; I have always been the "book smart" one, while my sister has always been the "street smart" one. We embraced these roles, but I see now that the labels have been extremely limiting for both of us. I'm a bit of a Cowardly Lion and Paige doesn't have very high expectations of herself or her future.

I worry about her. My mom told me recently that Paige hasn't brought home a report card in over two years. I was stunned--not by the fact that Paige hasn't shared her report cards with our parents, but by the fact that they haven't gone to the school to get it themselves.

My mom thinks Paige should be responsible for herself (as I was at her age). If she flunks, she'll suffer the consequences.

But Paige is still in high school. She's not 18 yet. So I think my parents have a responsibility to see that she makes it through high school. If they really think we're so radically different, why do they expect her to approach school the same way I did?

I just sent my sister a text message asking her to come visit some weekend. I think a drunken heart to heart is in order. Besides, I still owe her a birthday gift.

Now all we have to do is convince our parents to let her borrow the car...