BEDD #13: Feminazis and Complexity

Today, a history teacher at my school came into my Government class (which he doesn't teach) and decided to make some really sexist remarks. This teacher is known around school as a bit of a... fire cracker? He's an advocate of the TEA party and says outlandish stuff a lot, and everyone just kind of laughs it off. I've never taken a class with him, (I had a class with him my sophomore year, but my schedule was changed. Frankly, I thought he was pretty okay.) but some of my friends have and hate him with a passion. To be fair, some of my friends have taken his classes as well and were pretty fond of him. I ignore him most of the time. He calls me by my older sister's name. It's a good relationship.
Last year, things shifted a little for the worst. He's our school's track coach and has been historically... how to say this? unkind toward our reporters. He doesn't generally grant interviews, and when he does he is curt and borderline rude. I'm an easily agitated person, so I instantly took this very personally. When I covered Track and Field I knew it was impossible to write the story without interviewing the coach, so I tried to be gracious and as polite as possible. He was pretty incredibly rude, but did end up answering my questions so yayyyy. Later in the year, however, he nearly pushed our soft-spoken sports editor into a nervous breakdown by telling her she had to change the entire sports page less than 24 hours until deadline. (It didn't matter in the end because our journalism teacher calmly explained to him that he had no jurisdiction over our publication, and if he wanted more input on our sports reporting he'd have to be far more cooperative with our reporters from the get-go.) But this was a very dramatic incident, and soiled my few vestiges of respect for the man.
Then again, this fall he led our senior class around Washington, D.C. and planned a very spectacularly fun trip for us all. He knew a ton about the city, and even gave a small group of students (me included) a tour of Arlington Cemetery that was the highlight of the trip for me.
Today's incident, however, made my blood boil. I actually gagged a little as he explained that there are certain things "women just can't do." Take a hammer and a nail, for instance, and show it to a women. He challenged us to find any woman that could pound in a very durable class of nails. He said he was "sick of Feminazis demanding equality."
I sat in the class, trying to remain calm, while saying that I can't pound nail because no one's bothered to teach me. Society decided that those skills are not important for me to learn because of my genitals, and I'd be ridiculed and called "butch" if I expressed interest in learning the finer points of tool use or tried to work my muscles into the strength quality required for swinging a heavy hammer. It was the end of class, however, and the teacher didn't hear what I was saying. I didn't feel like yelling because I knew arguing with him was kinda pointless.
After class, I had a fellow (pretty awesome) student come up to me and say something along the lines of, "Oh, please keep going. Lay your feminism on me, I love this stuff." (He wasn't joking, either. It made my day.) The bottled-up emotions spurted out as a few shouted phrases about rape culture, but the anger passed. The little blogger-reminder that's growing in the back of brain made a little "today's topic" pinging noise and I tucked the rest of my thoughts away.
I tried to organize my feminist rant, but I ended up feeling/sounding like an idiot. There's still a lot for me to learn about gender issues, and I'm passionate about what I think is right, but I know people are complex. I know this teacher isn't the spawn of Satan, he's just a very traditional asshole ahem, gentleman who is doing the same things I am. He's fighting for what he thinks is right.
I happen to think he's wrong, and it hurts me greatly, but all I can do is live a life that I'm proud of, fight for gender equality in positive, constructive way, and ignore all the idiots who aren't going to change their minds anyway.
It's hard. (IT'S REALLY HARD. I'll preserve this bit from my earlier rant: WTF IS THE PHRASE FEMINAZI?! DO YOU NOT SEE THE IRONY OF NAMING A GROUP WHO IS FIGHTING FOR THEIR EQUALITY AFTER THE MOST FAMOUS EVIL GROUP OF OPPRESSORS IN THE WORLD?! DO YOU EARNESTLY THINK THAT WOMEN WHO DESIRE EQUALITY ARE OPPRESSING YOU?! YOU ARE A WHITE MAN IN THE MIDWEST, NO ONE IS OPPRESSING YOU. YOU ARE NOT OPPRESSED YOU HAVE NEVER FELT OPPRESSION ADLKF;ADF. ALSO I'm a middle-class white girl in the midwest. I have very little first-hand oppression experience as well. I recognize that. Ahem.)

So, anyway, I feel like I could keep thinking-through-the-keyboard on this subject because it's something I feel strongly about, but I think it's very not-black-and-white. Unfortunately, I must make my leave and get to sleep because I've got a crazy-early morning tomorrow. Fortunately, it's because I'm going ~downtown~ for a field trip! Ahhh nothing says Christmas like winter in Chicago to me, so hopefully tomorrow will be a wonderful day. Adios for now!

BEDD #12: THE SCARF

Warning: I'm really not sure if this makes any sense. Heheh.

Earlier today, I thought to myself, "Hm. I have nothing to blog about. Maybe something interesting will happen when I get home."
My blogging topic arrived in the mail encased in a shiny red package.
'Twas a mysterious article of clothing. A scarf, to be exact, which I had not paid for or ordered in any way.
Weirdly enough, the only University that's bothered to toss an acceptance letter my way, decided to butter me up with some swag. I mean, they don't know they're the only ones, so I suppose they think they're competing, but at this point... they're really not. There's a comparison involving dating to be made here, but I haven't done enough of that to nail it down.
This happens to be at the bottom of my list as far as potential schools, (I mean, that doesn't mean much, since I only applied to schools that I have a genuine interest in... I DON'T GOT TIME FOR "SAFETY" SCHOOLS!!!! ahem.) but I'm a liar if it didn't feel freaking awesome to feel important and wanted.
The one thing that sucks is the weird duality of telling the incident of the scarf (and wearing the scarf, being me, requires me to tell the story), is how to go about not being obnoxious. I could downplay the exciting-ness of it all because frankly, it isn't all that exciting. This is a college I'm probably not going to attend, with some "famous" sports teams I really don't follow, and the scarf was a symbol of a scholarship I'd already been notified about. I did my celebrating then, and I don't really want congratulations for it. It's not false humility; it's just that sometimes I feel guilty about how many good things happen to me. I'm extraordinarily blessed, and I know college acceptance is this really sensitive and stressful thing to a lot of people, and I'm not terribly interested in/excited about a school that many many people are passionate about makes me feel weirdly guilty.
Alternatively, I could make a big ol' freaking deal about the scarf. A University wants me to attend their  school so so badly that THEY SENT ME FREE CLOTHING. WHAT?! THAT'S FRIGGEN AWESOME! I feel like a professional athlete getting offers from different teams! I'm so gosh darn important I should hold off on "officially" picking a place to learn to see how much swag I can bleed outta these people! Wow. This feels wonderfulamazingsauce yay!
Not only does that approach run the risk of sounding completely ridiculous with my over-inflated ego, remember: it's also not a big deal. They sent this scarf to every student who was an in-state applicant and met certain grade requirements. It wasn't because I'm an outstanding individual or anything. In reality, it's a pretty clever market scheme. Glorified advertising, nothing more and nothing less.

Since the college mail phenomenon (the flattering postcards from universities who get your name/address one way or another) started my junior year, I've been excessively annoyed with my peers. Many of the students of my high school got really competitive about who-got-mail-from-whom, and shared such information obsessively on social media. So of course, come senior year, my newsfeed is clogged with constant I GOT ACCEPTED HERE!!! and the like. It drives me absolutely nuts. I know I have little to worry about because even if I get three rejection letters in the future, I still have a pretty fantastic school to go to. But when my dream schools have done little besides promise an "early April" decision date, it's hard to not get jealous/anxious when my peers get to make concrete plans for the future a lot earlier.
Jealousy eats away at the soul, man. Sometimes I feel like Facebook/Twitter only exist to create more of that discontentedness in me, and it drives me crazy. But when I spend a crazy amount of time thinking about every piece of information I share, especially about college stuffs, and how it will affect different groups of people and getting incredibly hurt when something I say is taken the wrong way, is it too lofty to ask a smidgen of courtesy from my peers? We're all anxious and ;adlsfjka;ld. Am I being over-sensitive? DEFINITELY.
All-in-all, this is a cozy-ass scarf. I mean, we're talking high-quality knitting.
Plus it striped.
I freakin' love stripes.

Screw it.
I'm wearing the scarf.

*toss toss*
haters, you know where to go (~da left~)

BEDD #11: Hatred and Haterz

• I was going to write this long, interesting blogpost that summed up this grand, important lesson of high school-ness that I was finally able to articulate today.
• And then some not-so-fun stuff happened and I got dragged right back into the negative-immaturity-cycle that I was going to write about getting out of.
• I realized the similarity between these thoughts and Study Hall Rambles already on this blog.
• I pondered how, at age seventeen, it's tempting to paint my story with broad strokes. I want to mess up, learn a lesson, and be happy. Real life, however, is rarely that simple.
• I'm learning the same lessons over and over again. It sucks.
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• The lesson is two-fold: Hatred isn't worth your time, and never NEVER let the haters keep you from doing your thang. (Also spell the word "thing" correctly if you ever hope to be taken seriously.)
• I've been spending a lot of my time/energy holding grudges. You know what those grudges accomplished? A lot of pain. And who suffered from that pain? Me, and in one instance, those I love. Never did any of the grudg-ees (people I was holding grudges against) suffer from the fantastic amount of hatred I was harboring toward them.
• I wrote a sentence very similar to the previous one in an essay last spring. Here I am, relearning. Again and again and again and again andddd
• The people I am going to have to forgive don't deserve forgiveness. They never will. And that's the thing about forgiveness, true forgiveness, I have to give it anyway. 
• AND MAN IS IT HARD.
• There are moments of light, of course, but it's not like letting go of a balloon. I don't get to watch this grudge float away and get to start on the rest of my perfect-bright-shiny life now. It's something I am going to have to choose to do on a near-daily basis.
• It's not easy. It's better.
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• And as far as the haters... Just whip your hair back and forth. 
• If you have to make a playlist of Glee songs from the first few seasons (back in the good ol' days :'( ) and belt some show tunes, DO IT. You'll be amazed.
• For some reason, I thought bullet points would give the illusion of the coherent thought I'm not capable of at the moment. Because I'm interested in blogging in fairness, this was a spurt-out-in-a-few-minutes type thing because I actually had a really productive night homework-wise. I highly doubt I'll say that again for awhile.

BEDD #10: A Haiku Triplet

I am so lazy

I had time to write a post...

I did not. Alas.

Sun sets so early

I am forever saddened

Emo kid poetry

(That last line had too

many syllables. this one

doesn't make much sense)

Parenthetical

haikus don't actually count

I am the worst. Est.

BEDD #9: I want my cat's life

As I write this post, my actual priorities (applying for a scholarship, analyzing F. Scott Fitzgerald, and studying the many functions of the human brain), are open in other tabs. I've got 139843 things to do before tomorrow morning because I frittered away the weekend lounging and napping.

Minerva, y i no b u?

You know who else frittered away the weekend? And has lounged and napped professionally for the majority of her life? The very feline who is perched on my lap at this very moment, purring and watching my fingers move across the keyboard with curiosity and amusement.
Cats have it so good. They're stereotypically supposed to be sassy and mischievous,  watching their owners live their silly human lives with distain through half-lidded eyes. My cat does that, anyway. And when I sleep in and don't cuddle her, she just whines until she gets her way. That never works for me! She also uses a sandbox for a bathroom, and drinks out of whatever receptacle she chooses. (I don't envy her smelly, weird-looking food, I'll give you that.)
As a kid, I was obsessed with the idea of transforming into an animal-- no doubt due to multiple viewings of X-men and the Harry Potter series--  because household pets seem to have it so good. Sure, they're basically prisoners, but prison really doesn't seem so bad when faced with the prospect of a Monday Human Physiology test.
Plus, cats have internet fame/love. God. Everything I want in life in one furry package.
That's all I got today, kiddos.

Days left of BEDD: 22
People who don't want to go to school tomorrow: Me
Cuddles I want to have: Many
Cats left to own: ∞

BEDD #8: This is a blog post

Tonight, I was covering a story for my school's paper about one of our students who sets up THE MOST EPIC light show in his yard every year. You can check out his website for ~deets~
But I got lost driving on the way home, and I started doing the narrate-your-life-and-evaluate-all-of-your-life-choices-while-driving thing, so it was forty minutes of anxiety producing self deprecation and I've felt pretty crappy all day.... SooOOO have some blurry pictures of pretty lights and I'mma sleep.

LIiiiights.

There was a snowman that sang it was about the coolest thing ever.

:)

It had facial expressions and blinked. Lyk a bozz.

Yeah okay I'm bad at pictures it was much cooler than this good night

BEDD #7: IKEA

Although I've seen (500) Days of Summer more times than I can count, and although I enjoy shopping for funky home furnishing as much as the next aesthetically-interested teen, I had never set foot in an IKEA... UNTIL TODAY! *Triumphant Mario Sound*

Just in case you're unaware of the shiny, well-organized joy that is this home furnishing retailer, let me break it down for you: Basically, Sweden undercover colonized America by building these blue and yellow fortresses in all our major cities. These places run for blocks and blocks, and almost never have only one floor. They display these beautifully decorated home setups for aisles and aisles, providing goods for infant bedrooms to home offices to Mars. I mean, they have entire rooms just full of rolly, spinny chairs that you can roll and spin in and no one judges you for it. Seriously. I rolled down and aisle, and the employees didn't react. AND THE NUMBER OF BEDS I WAS ALLOWED TO SHAMELESSLY FLING MYSELF ON! Don't even get me started on those fluffy, down-stuffed pieces of heaven. I'm pretty sure one of them was a crib that was clearly intended for toddler twins. It didn't stop me. I curled up in that thing like I belonged. 

The Abby Twins modeling in IKEA My friend Abby and I (yes we have matching names and we also have matching haircuts and we dress the same sometimes see left!~ ) ran around the store and planned out our glamourous apartment when we inevitably move in together. We picked out cool loft beds and entertainment centers, made room for multiple coffee makers, and even found a tiny table and chairs set for our cats to enjoy dinner on. In a fit of improv hilarity, she sat down at one of the office displays, consulted her iProp™computer, and informed me that Yale had reviewed my application, and despite my lacking ACT score, had decided to "full ride yo' ass!"

I haven't touched on the best part: THE FOOD COURT. See, this wasn't just a Let's-go-to-Ikea-and-look-at-pretty-things outing. My friend Abby is what I like to call a SUPER SWEDE. Her mother's cultural background is very Swedish... and so is her Father's. She is so super super Swedish, and I don't think there's a bigger time of year for Swedes than Christmas. For those unfamiliar with Swedish culture, maybe this traditionally Christmas-associated image will conjure up some associations? (If you were raised on the American Girl books like I was, you probably get where I'm going with this at least a little.) From what I understand, there's something with a Saint Lucia and she brings Christmas joy and light to all Swedish families by singing a lot and wearing candles in her hair. My friend Abby was THE SAINT LUCIA for all Chicagoland last year, but she sings in an all-Swedish choir year-round. She's got killer pipes, so I've always kinda wanted to see her sing in an entirely different language. IKEA, forever proud of its Swedish wonderment, hosts the choir around Christmas time. And LET ME TELL YOU. Watching little children dressed all in white with halos of sparkly stuff is enough to give anyone a little dose of holiday spirit. Throw in that the boys wear these totally comical cone hats with stars on them, and one special little boy who dresses in all red with his ears sticking out of a stocking cap to make him look thoroughly elvish, and even I became a little high on Christmas Cheer. And then. AND THEN. The most magical words in American vernacular mixed with the title of "Traditional Swedish Christmas Meal," rung like church bells in my ears:

"ALL YOU CAN EAT BUFFET"

Little Swedish angels sang glorious praises on high as IKEA employees piled vats of potatoes, trays of smoked salmon, and bowls of glorious Swedish meatballs on a long buffet table, all ready for my plate. It was completely acceptable (in fact, I felt awkward not conforming to my fellow buffet-eaters) to take a tray with two plates and just load them up for yourself. The suspiciously baby bump-esque bulge in my dress in the photo above is nothing of the reproductive nature. I JUST REALLY LOVE GOOD FOOD. And when it available and delicious  I do not intend on denying myself these sweet pleasure life has to offer! I swore multiple times during the night that I was going to move to Sweden and become morbidly obsese, and by the end of the evening, even though I had been sipping what I was told was non-alcoholic Glogg, I raised my glass high into the air and told the leaders of the Nordic Choir group, "GOD BLESS SWEDEN!" 

I drank the Lingonberry kool-aid, and I totally want to be Swedish now. That, or I just really appreciate this culture's unabashed Christmas cheer.

There's a Doctor Who quote from my favorite Christmas special, "A Christmas Carol," where Kazran says, "On every world, wherever people are, in the deepest part of the winter, at the exact mid-point, everybody stops and turns and hugs. As if to say, "Well done. Well done, everyone! We're halfway out of the dark." He later turns this into a rant about how he hates Christmas, but when peace is restored and everyone is happy at the end, the Doctor smiles to himself and repeats, "Yeah. Halfway out of the dark." And every part of me can't help but smile. That's exactly how I feel about this whole Christmas season. It's so dark, inside and out, and it's just about when I can't handle the stresses of life anymore. So I go out of my way to spend time with the best of friends, eat, drink, and be merry. And that's what I did tonight, and it was utterly wonderful :)

Days left of BEDD: 24

Now Playing: Ed Sheeran forever because asd;lfkjas

Number of Beds I've flung myself onto today: Approximately 8.

Number of Swedish Meatballs in my belly: 11? I stopped counting.

Number of Steps I have to take to move my lazy bones from my couch to my actual bed before I go to sleep: 17

People who are probably going to post this and fall asleep on the couch: Me.