This blog is now closed.

Please direct your attention to my new web site.

(You'll find the details of why I chose to do this over there, too.)

Shifting gears

There are a lot of things I've been thinking about. And writing about.

But not here.

I've kind of neglected this blog recently. Sure, I've updated from time to time, but mostly just to say that I'm still alive and (miraculously!) haven't burned down the kitchen in my attempts to keep myself fed.

This is a far cry from what I was doing with this blog a year ago, at which point I was an active participant in feminist blog carnivals (This is What a Young Feminist Looks Like, NARAL's Blog for Choice Day, and I Stand with Planned Parenthood, among others). I also wrote posts reflecting on books I read, and shared my thoughts on things like education, young adult literature (because I will not-so-secretly always love it-- no matter how old I get), and general 20-something-type stuff: feelings of inadequacy, uncertainty, etc, etc.

But I think it's important to put those posts against the backdrop of where I was at in life last year. At the time, I'd just transferred colleges, moved in with my parents, and was--even though I was hesitant to admit it then--incredibly lonely. My self-indulgent blogging habit (as I came to call it) helped me not only to organize my thoughts and figure out what the hell I was doing, but also kept me connected to people who shared my interests.

And some of those online connections turned out to be far more profound & long-lasting than I would have ever expected. This year, I've had the chance to meet and work with feminists from across the country, and have gotten involved in a couple of projects that I'm really excited about.

(And yes, I've also made some friends at my new school. I couldn't be more glad about that.)

Anyway, I've thinking of making a zine. As I mentioned in an earlier post, I got the idea from my friend Lucy, who, in the editor's note of her inaugural issue, explained her reason for replacing her blog with a zine: "Every time I try to do a blog it ends up feeling like I'm pulling teeth to say what I want and make it politically correct for any future employment. This zine is created on my terms and with my own words."

I have been very busy and active-- infinitely more so than I was a year ago. As I mentioned, I'm incredibly excited about the stuff I've been doing, and have a lot to say about it. But here just isn't the place to share my thoughts on those things.

So I've been looking for a more appropriate venue for sharing my thoughts with a few friends and fellow activists. And just as I was pondering that, a copy of Lucy's new zine arrived in the mail.

I've spent the past couple of weeks reading up on zine-making. Lucy's also given me a few tips. She and I are both former editors-- she of the student newspaper at NMU, and I of two art/literary magazines (Looking Glass in high school and Cardinal Sins at SVSU). And yet this is an endeavor very much unlike either of those publications. I have some graphic design know-how, but don't really intend to use it. Lucy's zine was a mix of things: typed stuff that she photocopied, pages of handwritten material, and a few images. She took pages of 8.5 x 11" computer paper, folded them in half, and stapled the pages together. I will likely do something similar. I like that what she made looks very much like a scrapbook. That, I think, is well-suited to what I hope to accomplish by doing this: something tangible to show for what I've been up to lately-- a more interesting way of communicating with people than Facebook messaging. Maybe it'll eventually evolve into something a little bigger than that, but who knows; it's all a big experiment for me right now.

I'll still update this page from time to time; unlike Lucy, I have no plans to delete my blog anytime soon. When I joined Google+, for example, I didn't leave Facebook. I just post whatever's most appropriate for the audiences on those respective sites. Same thing with this. Assuming my zine actually materializes, it'll certainly have a much more limited audience than my blog does. Therefore, it'll contain different information.

Anyway, that's all for now. See ya around, Internet.

Lollapalooza and other Chicago adventures

Aside from the fact that I came home from Chicago to news that my cat had passed away while I was out of town, the weekend was fucking awesome.

Going to Lollapalooza was my friend Toni's idea. She spent last summer campaigning for someone who ended up not getting elected, so decided that this summer, she deserved to have as much fun as possible.

So I spent months being a hermit in order to be able to afford to go with her.

'

And damn, was it worth it.

Toni was excited for Lollapalooza itself, as was I. But I felt oddly luckier than her, because I had another good reason to visit Chicago. My friend Stephanie lives there. I've written about her before-- a fellow feminist and poet, she has long been a great source of sanity for me.

A few months ago, she started a literary collective called the West Side School for the Desperate, and offered to let Toni and me crash there for the weekend. I'd been really curious to see it; from talking to her, I knew that it wasn't a normal apartment. But I didn't really know what to expect.

As it turns out, the WSSD is actually listed as a commercial property. It used to be a Good News Bible Church (lulz), and before that, was a bakery. Now, Stephanie and her roommates use the main area as a performance space. Near the back of said performance space, there's this tiny door leading to a kitchen. There's a bathroom back there too. And they sleep in what I guess used to be closets. The walls to those rooms don't go all the way to the ceiling. It's hard to explain without a visual. But it's really interesting and open.

The night Toni and I arrived, Stephanie and her roommates were hosting a poetry workshop at the WSSD. So we sat in on it. It was a weird experience for me, in both good and bad ways.

One of Stephanie's roommates Julie (who also went to high school with us) has a background in visual art, not poetry. But she still wanted to find a way to contribute to the workshop. So she handed each of us a piece of surrealist art and had us write poems about them.

I hadn't written a poem in a very long time, and doing so felt really good.

Workshopping others' pieces was another story. Toni realized just how much of a nerd I was in high school, because I explained to her that that's all I did in my free time. But I hadn't taken part in a productive workshop session since early 2009, so when Stephanie put me on the spot and asked for my opinion on someone's piece, I stumbled through a response. It was weird, because that's something I used to feel confident about.

After the workshop, we all wound up at a nearby karaoke bar, and after a couple of pitchers of beer, Stephanie and I sang "Fuck and Run" by Liz Phair together. It's good to know that even though I've not been active on the poetry scene lately, Stephanie and I are still close-- even though our interest in poetry is the reason our friendship developed in the first place.

The next day, Toni and I finally headed off to Lollapalooza. But not before a delicious lunch at a sushi place across the street from Grant Park.

I love hanging out with people who love seafood as much as I do.

That day, we saw The Kills, The Mountain Goats, Crystal Castles, and Ratatat. The last one was probably my favorite. The only group that was sorta disappointing was Crystal Castles, if only because they stopped playing abruptly and disappeared forever and no one knows why or where they went. :-(

I think Toni and I were both surprised at how utterly exhausted we were after our first day at Lolla. Having been on our feet all day, we literally limped back to the West Side School for the Desperate-- arriving, appropriately, both looking and feeling pretty desperate. We slept for 600 years that night. It felt awesome.

The next day, Toni caught a train to Oak Park to meet up with her aunt for lunch. This gave Stephanie and me some time to spend alone, which was nice.

A few years ago, Stephanie and I got together on Christmas Day and watched a few episodes of "Curb Your Enthusiasm." One of the episodes we saw was the one about the Larry David Sandwich. In it, Larry has a sandwich named after him. And he's disappointed, because the sandwich is made up of whitefish, cream cheese, and capers. And who the fuck likes those things?

Stephanie and me, that's who. We were like, "Man. People need to stop hating on the Larry David Sandwich. That shit sounds delicious."

We proceeded to raid her parents' fridge for fish. This was especially hilarious because her family had just eaten Christmas dinner, so there were piles and piles of delicious leftovers for us to eat. But did we want any of it? No. We wanted whitefish.

For the record, we didn't find any, and ended up eating leftover ambrosia instead (mmmmm). But since then, we've said that we'd someday eat seafood sandwiches together.

Soon after that, Stephanie discovered a classy sandwich shop in her Chicago neighborhood. She has been nagging me for literally years now to come visit her so that we could eat delicious sandwiches together there.

One in particular is named after Alice Walker. It contains salmon, avocado, cucumber, feta cheese, and wasabi mayo.

So, needless to say, we officially (finally!) declared Saturday, August 6, 2011 "Sandwich Day," and went to this sandwich shop together. And I ate an Alice Walker sandwich and my life was forever changed.

After that, I met Toni downtown for more Lollapalooza madness. We saw the Black Lips, Death From Above 1979, Ellie Goulding, and Beirut. Again, the last one was my favorite, mostly because they played an encore, which is virtually unheard of at Lollapalooza.

Sunday was pretty intense. Stephanie took us to a classy breakfast place for crab benedict. Except they were out of crab benedict. :-( So we ate various other delicious things instead. And then Toni and I headed off to Lollapalooza, day 3.

We got drenched, and our electronic devices (namely my cell phone and her iPod) were taken as casualties. But it was my favorite day of the festival.

We saw Dale Earnhardt Jr. Jr. in the blazing sun. They did a rock cover of "I Will Always Love You" by Whitney Houston, which was the most hilarious thing I have ever experienced.

And then the clouds rolled in and the temperature dropped 10 degrees. During that time, I ate a delicious vegetarian wrap thing that completely blew my mind.

All I care about is food. Don't judge me.

We headed off to see the Arctic Monkeys, and that's when it started pouring. It poured for at least half an hour, which was long enough to turn the ground to muddy mush. Also, our clothes were completely soaked through.

I danced in it, because I have no shame. You have not lived until you've experienced an outdoor concert in the pouring rain. Just sayin'.

But that was just the beginning. The skies cleared (there was even a rainbow), and once the Arctic Monkeys finished their set, we wandered over to another stage to see Explosions in the Sky.

After that, the skies darkened again and it poured even harder than it had the first time. The whole park flooded. We watched the Foo Fighters from a distance and then got delicious falafel pitas. (Yeah, yeah, yeah, more food.)

We heard the Cold War Kids playing nearby, but didn't stick around long enough to figure out whether they played "Hang Me Up to Dry." It would have been extremely appropriate.

We found our way back to Stephanie's, where we took turns showering. Stephanie had milk and cookies out for us, which was super cute, and then we went to bed at 11 p.m. because we're old and boring.

And that, my friends, was my Lollapalooza/Chicago adventure. It was both excellent and delicious, even if it ended badly.

I'm not just referring to the death of my cat.

When my mom heard about my waterlogged cell phone, her solution to the problem was to dig through drawers until she found my very first cell phone (circa 2005). She took it to Verizon and got it activated for me.

So until it's time for an upgrade, that's what I'll be using, I guess. Lollapalooza and Mother Nature teamed up to force a reunion between me and my 16-year-old self.

Never thought it would have ended that way, but okay. I still count the weekend as a win.

Beer and a new book that you should read!

Earlier today, I went to Bell's Brewery in Kalamazoo, MI for the launch of Bonnie Jo Campbell's new novel, _Once Upon a River_. The book was released less than a week ago, so I haven't gotten around to reading it yet. But if it's anything like her earlier work, it's going to be excellent. And I have a signed copy now, so will be reading it soon. :)

I first met Bonnie Jo Campbell in April of last year. She came to SVSU to give a reading, and because I was the editor-in-chief of the student art/literary journal at the time, I was invited to have lunch with her. She also taught a fiction workshop at the Controlled Burn Seminar for Young Writers in 2009, which, because I'm a loser, was actually the first year I didn't attend. I know, I know, I missed out. I tried to make up for that today, however.

That's a picture of the two of us, taken this afternoon at the book launch. I lost my camera a few months ago and had to borrow my sister's, so wasn't aware that all of the photos were going to come out with a pink tint. But they did. Oh well.

For more photos, click here.

Suffice it to say that the experience was awesome. I've been looking for a good excuse to visit Bell's for a long time; Oberon is perhaps my favorite beer ever.

I also ran into a good friend of mine from the Controlled Burn Seminar, Patric. It was great to have a chance to catch up with him, but, going through my photos, I see that there aren't any photos of the two of us. Lame. :(

Anyway, go find yourself a copy of _Once Upon a River_. It's bound to be great. I wish I could say that I'm going to sign off now to go read it, but I should probably read about the Bolshevik Revolution instead, so I don't make an ass of myself in class tomorrow. I am a nerd so I do things like go to school in the middle of July. Don't hate.

See ya later, Internet, and happy reading!

Happy birthday to my self-indulgent blogging habit!

Nearly two years ago, on July 10, 2009, I was sitting in my bedroom in Saginaw, wasting time on the Internet. It was 4 in the morning, and Facebook was pretty dead. So, since I couldn't sleep and had no one to talk to but myself, I started a blog--this one, in fact.

I named it "Plenty of Otherwise," after a poem I'd written several years prior; I had no idea what the hell I wanted to write about.

To this day, I'm not quite sure what to do with this blog. I think that the best blogs focus on very specific issues, and mine does not. I've actually thought about retiring it and starting a brand new pro-choice blog or something, since that seems to be the feminist issue that gets my ire up the most. I've also considered just revamping this blog. I don't know. There are a lot of things I could do.

But wherever this blog winds up, I'm happy about the opportunities it has given me thus far. Last summer, I participated in the "This is what a young feminist looks like" blog carnival. Through that, I met a lot of other feminist bloggers, and found out about all kinds of other blog carnivals (badges from all of these can be found to the right of this post).

As anyone who knows me well is aware, I'm kind of a walking calendar. So I thought I should acknowledge the anniversary of my blog, but wasn't sure how.

And then I remembered the poem.

I wrote it six years ago at the Controlled Burn Seminar for Young Writers, which was actually something I wrote about here the day I created this blog. Things have changed a lot since then; I'm no longer pursuing a career as a writer/editor of literary magazines. And I think that this blog has reflected that, with its gradual shift toward feminism/politics.

So, here's something I wrote at the age of sixteen. It's a little embarrassing, but I think that's why you'll enjoy it.

Plenty of Otherwise

For Jenna

Sixteen years--technically seventeen, but I wasn't born 'til December. And it's only July. Friday, July 8, 2005, 11:01 p.m. You're twenty-six hours, nine minutes old.

I don't really know you (yet), I just

know the tears--

your first,

and mine too, I suppose.

Because these are my first, it seems

that aren't in the angst

of a teenaged

heart, soul, and blah, blah, blah.

I'd really rather not elaborate on my life--regrets and otherwise (and I'm happy to say that there's plenty of otherwise). In the grand scheme of things, it doesn't matter much who I am, who I've been, and inevitably, who I'll become (I know I seem old to you now, but I'm only sixteen). I've spent my time, and I'll spend my time writing poetry

for you,

and I think it's a great way

to spend my time,

don't you?

Don't waste yours, darling. I won't tell you how to keep from wasting your time. If I did, you probably wouldn't agree with me anyway. So, simply enough, two words: love yourself,

and find beauty

in little things:

cliches like that and

homemade gifts

for your parents,

the ones

that I hope you won't be embarrassed

to see on the refrigerator

in the next decade or so

to come.

My parents still hang my schoolwork on the fridge: a quiz I took on _A Farewell to Arms_ in American lit sophomore year, and the first math test I ever got an A on. I've learned to live with it, even though it's really the poetry I'm proud of. And there's never been a poem tacked to the fridge.

I have vegetarian leanings, and love cats; your dad hunts, and your mom likes dogs. So I'll leave my pretty little spin on animals out of it, except to say that you should always remember your first pet (Riley). Luckily, he's young. Like you. I had a dog when I was born, but he was pretty old by the time I showed up, so he was kind of grumpy, and I blame him for my fixed idea that cats are better.

That said,

you're lucky,

beautiful, alive (officially, finally), and

you amaze me, already

with your

way of being

not quite human, and yet

more genuine than any life fully lived.

Not that there really is such a thing,

but you could defy that--

and I know you will,

in growing.

Saturday, July 9, 2005, 12:14 a.m. You're twenty-seven hours, twenty-two minutes old.

I only hope

I've gotten the math right.

30 Day Blog Challenge: Day 28

Something that you miss.

See, this is tricky. Because it's not really about what I miss, but who.

I miss my friends; they're all over the place. Chicago, IL. Stillwater, OK. The Bay City/Saginaw region of MI. I've been thinking lately about how people take for granted the fact that people they care about live nearby. That is not the case for me.

But I guess if we're going to pinpoint a specific "thing," I'll go with the Controlled Burn Seminar for Young Writers, which I attended every summer as a teenager.

Liz, a friend & fellow Controlled Burn attendee, summed it up really nicely:

"It kind of feels nice to be in your element, you know? Everyone is constantly drinking coffee even though it tastes like ass... because they need to stay awake in order to finish their homework. We play pool at 1 a.m. and distract ourselves and it's just so laid back, you know? It's just a bunch of kids existing without judgment. Maybe there is judgment but it doesn't get in the way. No one cares. I love it here."

At Controlled Burn I felt, for the first time, like I really connected to people who cared about the same things I did. 2009 was its final year; it was canceled because of funding & other issues. I'm really sad that it doesn't exist anymore, because I wish more kids could have the opportunity that I had. But I'm very glad that I got to be a part of such a wonderful thing.

30 Day Blog Challenge: Day 8

A time when you felt the most satisfied with your life.

You're going to make fun of me, but honestly, I was probably the most satisfied with my life during the 2002-2003 school year, when I was in the eighth grade.

Everyone hates the eighth grade. But not me. I owned that shit.

Academically, I excelled. The worst grade I got all year was a B+, and that was in math.

And thanks to the effort of a very dedicated English teacher who had had me in class before, I got to do some really awesome things with my writing: I placed in a statewide essay contest, had a poem published in an anthology printed by the Michigan Reading Association, got to attend a young authors' luncheon in Grand Rapids, and at the end of the school year, was presented with a writing award from the English Department.

That year, I was in the choir and also had a role in the school musical, Guys and Dolls. Ironically, I was cast as a missionary, so I had a lot of fun with that.

It was, I think, the only year when I was really active in a lot of things that I loved. During all my other years of school, I focused on either writing or music, but not both.

I think the reason I was so busy was that things were sort of falling apart at home. Both of my paternal grandparents passed away, and we moved into their house. It was stressful, so I just focused on school to keep my mind off things.

Since then, I've kind of been all over the place. That's not necessarily a bad thing: I've figured out a lot of things, gained some interests, and lost some, too. But the eighth grade was great because I excelled at all kinds of things I loved, and was surrounded by people who seemed to care about me.

On vulnerability

I've been listening to Adele's new album, 21.

Her voice is the most gorgeous thing I have ever heard.

I love Adele. She's young, ambitious, and (I'll say it again) has an incredible voice. Also, she recently told Rolling Stone, "I don't make music for eyes. I make music for ears."

So much win in those words.

Until recently though, I took issue with most of her lyrics. It bothered me that someone as strong and beautiful as Adele was on her knees in so many songs, most of which, she has told the public, were inspired by a bad breakup.

But then I started thinking about my own writing habits. And I came across a note I made to myself in January of 2009:

I don't know why I'm so opposed to sounding vulnerable in a poem when I know that I'm the narrator. Like, if I take on the voice of someone else, I have no problem with sounding vulnerable. But when I know it's me narrating, I can't. I have to be a super strong feminist allthefreakingtime. So. My new goal is to write a poem in which I, as narrator, expose my vulnerability.

I never wrote it.

Last night I was out at a bar with a friend from high school. And I ran into someone I met at SVSU, of all places. This particular person was once a very close friend of mine, but we aren't really in touch anymore for a lot of complicated reasons. There is a lot of pain connected to my friendship with her. So it hurt to see her again, and brought to the surface a lot of emotions I didn't exactly want to deal with.

So I look at Adele, who confronts her pain, and I have to admire that. It takes strength to admit that you've been betrayed, because in doing so, you admit that you trusted someone you perhaps should not have.

That's something I struggle with because if you admit all of that to yourself, you then have to acknowledge the fact that some people do some pretty hurtful shit. And it's hard to accept that if your entire philosophy is built around loving everyone.

I own a copy of Ani DiFranco's album Canon. And between two uncharacteristically sad songs, she says:

And so now like, it's so funny like, all the righteous babes--well, not all of 'em, just a few who have got their panties on a little too tight--they're all up in a twitch because they're like, "Oh, well, you fucking wench, just writing about like, love n' shit. What happened to your politics? What are you just gonna sell out? Is this a conscious move away from overly political songwriting?" And I'm like, "No man. It's just. I got kind of... distracted."

Distraction then, is good. And necessary. You can't be strong if you merely bury your weaknesses/vulnerabilities. Because then they will inevitably turn up out of the blue and join you for a drink right before final exams.

Much as I've been trying to deny it all this time, the truth is that (as Adele puts it), "Sometimes it lasts in love, but sometimes it hurts instead."

Guess I'm off to write some poems about the times when "it hurt instead."

Lonely transfer student talks about poetry

Poetry has been on my mind a lot lately. It kind of hurts.

A couple of things in particular have got me thinking about it:

• In her latest blog post, Lucy wrote about how she loved poetry in high school, but has since moved on to different things. I agree with her that connecting with people through venues such as journalism, nonfiction, and social networking just isn't the same as connecting through poetry; an important emotional element is missing. Her post really spoke to me, and was especially poignant because I met Lucy at the Controlled Burn Seminar for Young Writers nearly six years ago. So I've workshopped and participated in readings with her. I understand exactly how much she loved poetry, and how weird it feels to not be immersed in it anymore.
  
• When I found out that Carolyn Forche will be at SVSU on Thursday, I cried. I cried because I'm no longer an SVSU student, so getting there is a lot harder than simply penciling it into my planner. I cried because I work on Thursday nights. I cried because I took last Thursday off work to spontaneously run off to Pittsburgh for the weekend, and probably can't get away with pulling the same stunt this week. And most of all, I cried because I realized that I really, really wish I could be there, which means that I still love poetry a lot, even if I've been trying to talk myself into accepting the fact that I don't.

I remember the last productive workshop I took part in. I was a sophomore at SVSU, and had recently joined the editorial staff of the campus art/literary journal, Cardinal Sins. Then editor-in-chief (a fellow writer and friend of mine) mentioned that his first semester of editing had made him realize how much he missed workshopping. So while we were waiting for submissions to come in, he organized a meeting for anyone interested in a workshop. Four of us (three students and one faculty member) showed up on a Friday morning at the end of January.

I'd like to share the poem I brought to the workshop that day. And I'm doing this because as Lucy mentioned, doing so feels strange. I never in a million years thought that I'd use poetry to leave my comfort zone.

Crossing Jefferson in the Rain

We're the only ones
who speak this language. Words splash
against the windshields
of passing cars, seep through our clothing,
soak into us.

But nothing is permanent.

The fabric will dry and
you'll leave this town, whose
lawns and sidewalks meet
like lock and key,
form a pattern and click
into place.

And I'll keep my eyes closed--
feel every breath of the ground
beneath my step,
each of its shy gestures.

Funny how the last poem I wrote is about a friend who isn't really part of my life anymore. So many things have shaped me in ways that I hadn't expected them to. I'm trying to figure out just how everything fits into my identity without getting hung up on the ways in which they're not significant parts of my life anymore. And I don't want to shut out new things.

I don't know. I wish I had the time/energy/resources to match my capacity to love. But I don't. So, what to do? Who to be?

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

Cardinal Sins in the spotlight

During the 2009-2010 school year, I was the editor-in-chief of an art & literary magazine called Cardinal Sins. It's been in existence since 1981 and is published twice annually, during the fall and winter semesters at SVSU.

I found out today from my former faculty adviser that the winter 2010 issue (my last as editor-in-chief) received a first place award from the American Scholastic Press Association. :-)

This really says very little about me (even though my editor's note--which referenced something like seven Lady GaGa songs--was pretty awesome). It's more about my editorial staff and the others who found themselves tangled up in this project (like Katie Karnes, a graphic design major whose ability to reason with Adobe InDesign saved us from a huge technological mess).

Being in charge of Cardinal Sins was the most exasperating thing I've ever done. The experience forced me to question my entire career path. If I may be 100% honest, I found it incredibly unfulfilling at times, so much so that I questioned why I'd ever taken the job in the first place.

That isn't to say that it was an entirely negative experience--it wasn't. It just isn't something I'd like to do again. I'm glad that Cardinal Sins gave me the opportunity to figure that out as an undergraduate, while I'm still in a good position to change my mind.

It's about damn time I learn to have faith in my abilities--including my ability to recognize when I'm not as happy as I could be and move on to something else.

As editor of Sins, I shared an office with Sara Kitchen, editor of The Valley Vanguard--a student newspaper on campus (the two of us are pictured above). Whenever we'd find ourselves still working in the office after 10 p.m. on a weeknight, we'd listen to this song and lip sync with gusto.

Add that to the list of things that made this whole experience worthwhile.

Ridiculous, but worthwhile.

Feminism and crappy limericks

"Part of getting older is owning the facets of your identity that frighten you the most." - Jessica Valenti

2010 has been a year of transition, of change. I transferred schools and finally gave myself the opportunity to explore interests of mine other than poetry (which, until a year or so ago, was the one thing I was totally comfortable with and felt 100% confident about). This year I learned to be patient. For once, I did not expect to come out on top. And let's get real for a second: I hit rock bottom (perhaps more times than I made known).

I made one hell of a mess. This mess looked much like the one I made when I was nine and just starting to familiarize myself with poetry (I'm referring to the stage where I spent all of my time writing crappy limericks). What's different now is that I'm not nine. I'm twenty-two. And crappy limericks aren't so cute anymore when you're trying to convince people to start treating you like an adult.

Anyone who knows me knows that identify as a feminist. And I have since my senior year of high school. Back then, my green-haired friend Stephanie and I spent all our time spouting off in AP Lit class, thinking we were total badasses.

But the more I explore the zillion layers of feminism, the more I realize that it isn't easy. It takes effort the same way honing my poetry did.

And man, poetry and me go way back. I attended the annual Controlled Burn Seminar every summer for years. I studied at Interlochen. At SVSU, I majored in creative writing. I competed in poetry slams (one of which was held at the Grand Hotel on Macinac Island). I worked as editor-in-chief of two art/literary journals (Looking Glass in high school, Cardinal Sins in college). And I had my work published in a couple of national undergraduate literary journals.

I lived and breathed poetry. But it took a lot of time to cover that much ground. And it wasn't even one solid thing. At nine, I wrote limericks. At fourteen, I wrote couplets and quatrains. By sixteen, I had moved on to free verse. By nineteen, that free verse was better polished. A never-ending process. Endless change and (I like to think) a great deal of growth.

And so even though I've identified as a feminist for three or four years now, I still feel like I'm in the crappy limerick stage of it--the stage where I litter my Facebook Wall with angry shit and walk around with Audre Lorde quotes pinned to my tote bag. But don't really know where I fit in in the midst of it all.

I just finished reading a book called _Click_, which is a collection of essays written about "that moment" when its contributors knew they were feminists. Feministing editor Courtney Martin wrote, "It makes me sad now to think that much of my first feminist searching was born out of such desperation. I wish I had come to feminism celebratory or even outraged. Instead, I came like so many...on my knees, confused, heartbroken" (90).

I've never thought of it like that. (Strange image to couple with feminism, yes?) But the same is probably true for me. Even though I've considered myself a feminist for years now, I had to experience a couple of things that hit a little too close to home before I could realize that it's more than believing in equality--it's also acting on that belief.

And that's some tough shit.

And so I've finally moved past desperate and heartbroken (anyone who knew me a year ago knows what that looked like). Now I'm pissed. Pissed and frustrated because there's so much out there to be done and I don't even know where to start, or how to start. Because I'm still just learning to trust myself and my voice.

You know, limericks.

But despite my inability to trust myself, people have told me for years that it's obvious to them that I'm a feminist. Well, duh. I scream it. But like I said: I've got angry shit all over my Facebook Wall, and Audre Lorde quotes on my tote bag. Lots of noise. (Eloquent noise, but still.) I hide behind all that noise. Where the fuck is my own voice in all of that?

So to me, growing as a feminist is a lot like writing poetry. As a poet, I subscribed to the idea of "saying as much as possible in very few words." A lot of the women I admire don't even have to go on raging, long-winded tirades for me to understand that they mean business. I can just see it in their actions--in the way they live their lives.

I want to reach that point, whatever that means for me. I know that these interests of mine aren't mutually exclusive. I could just write feminist poetry and call it good. That is, in and of itself, a form of activism. But right now, that isn't fulfilling enough for me.

I'll admit that I don't really know what the hell I'm going to do to satisfy this need. But I'm going to find it and live it. If it brings me back to poetry, awesome. If not, I'll keep moving on to whatever's next. I've taken one huge step away from my comfort zone. I can take a few more.

I'm pretty excited to see what 2011 has in store for me.

Why I blog

I started this blog in July of 2009, but have only recently started updating it often (several times per week instead of only once every couple of months). And because I have friends who maintain blogs with a specific focus (book reviews, feminism, etc), I've been thinking about my own blogging habits, and why it is I choose not to focus on any particular topic.

And I've come to this conclusion: This blog is an experiment. For me, it's as much about the writing process as it is about the subject matter of my posts.

It's been nearly two years since I last wrote a poem. Crazy, right? After devoting damn near all my time to poetry, suddenly being so uninspired felt unnatural and weird. I got sort of mopey and tried to make myself accept the frightening idea that writing just wasn't a part of my life anymore.

But after a while, I started experimenting with forms of writing less familiar to me. I didn't make a conscious decision to pursue something else; I just started writing and what came out wasn't poetry. I actually spent quite a bit of time over the summer working on a memoir. It was sort of silly; I doubt I'll ever finish it. And even if I do, I don't intend to share it with anyone, much less publish it. I just wrote it because it was there inside me and well, to quote the late Rachel Corrie, "Stories go rancid inside of you if you don't let them out."

And the same pretty much goes for this blog. I'm aware that it's a bit self-indulgent. I occasionally post links to my entries on Facebook and/or Twitter; sometimes people read what I post, and sometimes they don't. Whether they do doesn't make much difference to me. I'm just enjoying the chance to familiarize myself with a form of writing I didn't engage in much previously.

Over the past year or so, I've really embraced the fact that there's really so much I'm interested in/fascinated by/passionate about: politics, feminism, literature--the list goes on and on. I'm so much happier now that I've allowed myself to venture beyond my comfort zone. And I see this blog as an extension of that.

A letter to who I was a year ago

Admit it. You're scared shitless.

You're at the top of your game, and you're afraid you'll fuck it up.

Well, guess what? You're going to fuck it up. Epically. Or at least, that's what it'll look like on paper. Your GPA will go down the drain. You'll cry in front of people you really don't want to cry in front of. (You'll even end sentences on prepositions. For shame! Some editor you are.)

You'll meet a few people who will force you to admit that there really are huge douchebags in this world. You'll fight it, because you don't want to believe that. You're a lover, not a hater. But in the end, you'll have to confront people who will fail to respect your boundaries. And because it'll be an entirely new experience for you, you will not handle it all that well. You won't succeed. People will continue to step all over you. And that won't make you feel any better about things.

You're going to feel like shit for a long time.

But not forever. And after spending so much time outside your comfort zone, you'll get used to the idea of being away from yourself. You will meet a side of yourself you never knew existed before. You won't know whether to trust her at first: she's so unlike you. She won't write. And she'll tell a couple of the aforementioned douchebags that they're douchebags. She will be mean. And it will work. And that will break your heart.

But it'll be the best thing that ever happened to you. And the most terrifying, the most painful. And you're going to hate yourself a little bit. Okay, a lot. But it's all just part of getting out of your comfort zone. You're going to give this hatin' thing a try. And you won't like it one bit. But you're going to have to learn how to deal with it.

And this is how you'll deal with it: You'll leave. You won't ask for anyone's opinion. You'll just do it because you'll know it's what you need to do. You will do this over and over again. You'll think you're being selfish, and you might be, but so what? You won't like the side of you that can't follow through with anything. But the side of you that can't follow through with anything is also the side of you that will get you out of this mess (and that one, and that one too): by dragging you out, by forcing you to leave right in the middle of something, several times over.

You'll beat yourself up because you'll think you can't handle it. But it's not that you can't handle it. It's just that you'll learn not to tolerate certain things from people. And that's one of the best things about you. If someone calls you a "feisty bitch" (and someone will), take it as a compliment. Make it into fuel, and go somewhere, even if you get lost. Because you will get lost: if you don't, you're not doing it right.

Hell, I don't know where I'm at in life. All I know is that I'm going somewhere.

"It took me four days to hitchhike from Saginaw. I've gone to look for America."

Last night I was a featured reader at the monthly "Free Speech, Spoken Word, Music, and Open Mic" event at Espresso Express in Bay City. Directly afterward, I drove to my parents' house in Grosse Pointe, where I'll be living until I figure out what the hell I want to do with the rest of my life.

I couldn't have asked for a better way to spend my last few hours in the Bay City/Saginaw region of the state. So many great people turned up: my parents, former Cardinal Sins editors, people who teach (or have taught) at SVSU, plus a few friends I've made recently and wish I'd gotten to know earlier than I did.

And at the end of the night, my friend Ben got up to the microphone, picked up a guitar and said, "This is dedicated to Amelia." He then busted out a medley of Lady GaGa songs. (!!!)

At some point during the winter 2010 semester, I decided not to return to SVSU in the fall. And it's funny: once the decision was made, I was suddenly at peace with myself. I was happy with my decision to leave, but not particularly anxious to get going. I spent my last few months in Saginaw enjoying my classes, my job as editor-in-chief of Cardinal Sins, and the company of those I've met since I enrolled at SVSU nearly three years ago.

Quite the contrast from how I went about things during the fall 2009 semester, right? I stopped worrying about things (or--more accurately--I worried less about things). And stuff still somehow managed to fall into place. I did well in my classes, and was really proud of this semester's issue of Cardinal Sins.

And I had a hell of a lot of fun as well. I got to spend a day hanging out with Bonnie Jo Campbell when she came to campus [insert fan girl giddyness here]. I took part in a spontaneous game of kickball (never mind that I suck epically at kickball). And late one night, I helped a friend paint "the rock" outside the freshman dorms for his LGBTQ lit class. As he put it, it was our last chance to "make a mark" before I left at the end of the semester.

All's well that ends well, right? I'm glad I came to SVSU, and I'm even glad I stuck around as long as I did. But at the same time, I am content with my decision to move on.

What's next? I'm not sure. (That's right. For once, I lack a solid plan.) While I love and will never abandon writing, I'm not so sure I want to major in it. I thought about running off to save the world for a year while I figured out what I wanted to do instead, but I can't imagine not being in school for the first time since I was but a wee babe. So I'll be at Wayne State in Detroit. I can't justify going to an out-of-state school unless I find a program I love (especially since money is tight right now--my dad's no longer working full time and we lost our health insurance). I don't know what I want to do, so I figured I'd just live with my parents & get my BA from Wayne State. And I'm going to pretend I have enough money to travel. I know the I-75 a little too well, and can't picture myself spending my whole life in Michigan.

But I could be wrong. If you told a younger version of myself that I'd someday want to pursue something other than writing, she'd laugh in your face and tell you to stop telling filthy lies. :-)

Bay City Gallery Walk - 04/01/2010

I'll be reading some of my poems tomorrow evening, April 1, 2010, sometime between 5 and 8 p.m. at Ward Studio, 904 N. Water Street in downtown Bay City, Michigan.

I would love to see you there. :-)

Tripping over things

For the past year or so, I've been hatin' on my major (still officially creative writing), and what said major has gotten me into (editing and publishing). Hence the quarter-life crisis.

But every now and then, something tugs at my memory and reminds me how much I love to write, and even edit.

My good friend Britt (a fellow writer & feminist) came to town at the end of January for the first time since moving away over the summer. We went to a poetry reading and then out for a few beers. We ended up workshopping some poems in the bar. I fell back in love with writing, and called my mom the next morning to babble on about how wonderful I felt. It's hard to think I once felt that way all the time. My love of writing fueled everything I did, which explains why losing it left me stagnant.

The other day I was in the student publications office on campus, laying pages for this semester's issue of Cardinal Sins. And I found myself enjoying it (which is how it should have been all along). We were on spring break, so the campus was dead, and I think the stillness eliminated the pressure of deadlines and whatnot. It wasn't anything like the euphoria I experienced when Britt came to visit, but oddly, it was better, because it wasn't joy, it was contentedness--something else I hadn't felt in months.

It'd be easier for me to change my mind & do something else with my life if I didn't have these constant reminders of how much I love what I do.

You'll be there, right?

On Friday, August 7, 2009, I will be reading at the Magic Bean on State Street in Saginaw as part of the monthly First Friday art, music, and poetry event. Starts at 7.

It's a pretty spiffy gig. All the cool kids will be there.

Matthew Falk and Dan Schell will also be reading. And there will be music by Paradox Theory and Blue Oldman, as well as art by Amanda Simons.

See you soon, folks!

Controlled Burn

The annual Controlled Burn Seminar for Young Writers starts this Sunday, July 12. And for the first time in five years, I won't be attending.

I don't regret my decision not to return this summer. But as I was thinking about it today, a friend and fellow Controlled Burn attendee posted some photos to her Facebook page. They were from 2005--my first year with the seminar. So I started digging through my own collection of photos and well, here I am.

Controlled Burn changed my life. That's a pretty big statement, but a true one. I cannot imagine where I'd be right now--as a writer, as a person--had my dad not come across an article about the seminar in a northern Michigan newspaper and shown it to me.

I was sixteen when I first came to Controlled Burn. Like every other first timer, I figured I'd spend the week hiding in my room, writing.

And like every other first timer, I was wrong.

I met my first boyfriend at Controlled Burn. As my friend Sarah (a fellow CB student) pointed out to me after my relationship with him ended, there is a beautiful intensity about Controlled Burn. There's a bit of euphoria that goes along with being there. And because of that, any relationship forged there is going to hold higher esteem in one's mind, because it's romanticized with that unique environment.

I had not expected anything like that to happen. For that matter, at sixteen, I did not expect much of myself. Controlled Burn changed that.

Because none of my family members are educated, I did not expect that I would be able to go very far with my own education, even though school is what I've always been good at (I mean come on, I was spending my summer vacation at a writing seminar of all things).

There were less than twenty students enrolled in Controlled Burn that summer, and about four faculty members running workshops. Class sizes were very small (and remained small as the years passed). Because I was able to work so closely with everyone, I found that I was no longer intimidated by the degrees held by the people I was working with. I finally figured out that we're all just people, and the social divisions we create in our minds do not (or at the very least, should not) have any tangible counterparts in the real world.

I'm now about to start my third year of college. I'm still writing, and my work has been published in several reputable literary venues (both in print and online). I'm currently the editor-in-chief of Cardinal Sins, and I'm interning with a local small press.

I like to believe Controlled Burn gave me the confidence to claim this territory as my own.

At the risk of sounding dangerously cheesy, Controlled Burn affected me in a way that nothing else ever has. Yes, I've moved on. But that doesn't mean I've left anything behind.