To the Brethren

Yesterday* in Sunday School we had a really great lesson, but I completely missed out on the last 10 minutes or so because the spirit left me. It was my own contentious feelings that caused it. Shock, hurt, and anger came at me so fast and so strong that they made a loud bang like a door slamming shut. I'm still upset today. 

This is about ankles.

The teacher made a joking reference to the fact that our bishop has had to speak to the brothers in our ward about not being so picky when a girl has unattractive ankles. Ankles! I couldn't laugh about it, although it's ridiculous. It was all I could do not to start crying, or cursing people out. Hearing this, I knew there was no hope for me.

Maybe you think I'm being dramatic, but here's why it struck me so hard.

I am a person made of weaknesses and strengths, inside and out. If you look, you can find flaws in every quadrant of my body. If you start at my head (which is a logical place to start), you won't even MAKE it to my ankles. I have blemishes, scars, and bulges from my crown to my toes. I also have beauty, but it can be hard to focus on that. The flaws are easier. So when I hear that I'm being scrutinized to the ankle it makes me wonder what's the point of trying? I can never be enough.

And who are you to make me feel this way? 

Do you brethren know we can see your ears? Your hair is cut short and you sit on pews in front of us. They're rarely symmetrical. They're rarely graceful. They stick out at odd angles. There are flat places and crushed looking places and creases. We can see your ears better than you can. What would it do to your self esteem if we cared about them? If they were a deal breaker? Do you think the bishop has ever told the relief society to stop obsessing over your ears? He hasn't. He hasn't mentioned baldness or tubbiness or wrinkles or poor fashion sense, either. 

I don't know which of you are so concerned about ankles - Is it some of you? Is it most of you? I know it's more than one of you - but whoever you are, you should know that it's creepy. It makes you sound like the bad guy from an 80s movie. It makes me feel insecure and angry. I don't come to church for your approval.

Nevertheless, I was having a really hard time about the ankles. I went to my car and cried. I came back to relief society and, nope, had to go to the bathroom and cry some more. I cried when I got home. I needed an extra long hug from my nephew later at dinner. Then when I was alone again there were more hot tears, heavy and abundant. It was just one judgement, one insult, one blow too many. I'm not in a very strong place right now, and your opinions broke me a little bit.

But then I started really thinking about my ankles. My ankles are actually amazing, and not just in that, "Everybody's bodies are amazing because God made them," way. My ankles are amazing because I'm a tap dancer. My ankles can do things you've only seen in movies. My ankles are fast and strong. They enhance the music with sound and furious movement. They beat out the rhythms of an American art form. I'm a hoofer. My ankles are a legacy. They are a part of something bigger than themselves. My fat ankles have more discipline, more grace, more soul, than your entire lower half.

My ankles reject you.
My ankles think you are a bad person.
My ankles have never let me down. I can't say the same for you bretheren. 

*actually sometime in August 2015

Hello

Sometimes, when I haven't updated my blog in forever, I log in and see my stats and see that someone is still checking in on me pretty regularly. That's awesome. Who are you? I'm making it a goal to update more regularly. I'm kind of a mess, so thank you for hanging in there with me.

A Book Request for Kathryn Stockett

I want a sequel to the Help about Mae Mobley coming of age in the late 1970s. I need to know that that child turned out ok.

A Quick Update

I'm in the process of moving in with my parents. A rapidly diminishing part of me is embarrassed by this, and as the days go by I find I'm more and more excited about it. Today we moved several large pieces of furniture. I expect to be fully relocated in a week. As I climbed into my lonely bed tonight I realized my bedroom of the last 10 years didn't feel quite like home anymore. I found myself wishing for another bed in another room. I guess  this is the right decision, even if it is odd.

School is not going well. I'm having a bit of a rough semester.

50... Ugh, Whatever.

1) The first thing I remember hearing about the book Fifty Shades of Gray was that it's very sexual.

2) Then I heard that it was actually pornographic.

3) The next thing I heard was that it wasn't very well written. It was worse than Twilight. It sounded like a 9th grader trying to be sexy.

4) Later I heard that the type of sexuality it employed was in the BDSM arena.

5) Then I heard that it was popular among moms, whatever that means. I mean, I know what, "Mom," means, I just don't know what the label, "Mommy porn," is saying about the book or our society. Are they insulting the book or mothers, or both? A lot of diverse people are moms so whatever the implication is, it's unclear.

6) Then I saw an article about how badly it represents the BDSM community. Apparently, one character ignores the other's safe word, which is a code word for, "Stop, this isn't fun for me anymore," which is rape.

7) Then I heard that the main character is more blank than Bella Swan, and that somehow she doesn't have an email address or use Google, and that all of the characters are equally flat.

8) Then I heard about more of the abusive, controlling behavior in the book. The female has to sign a contract that puts the male in control of their sexual relationship and, really, her whole life. This is objectification and abuse.

9) Then I heard that it was originally Twilight fanfiction, which explained the earlier comparisons I heard but actually left me with more questions THAT I DON'T WANT TO ASK BECAUSE I DON'T WANT THEM ANSWERED.

10) Then, THEN I heard that it propagates the idea that if you're nice to the mean person who doesn't respect you, and you do everything they say, eventually they'll come around and you can be healthily in love with each other. You'd think that'd come out sooner. That's total crap.

11 - 50) I'm getting sick of hearing about this franchise. Why is it even popular? I don't want to read it. I don't want to see the movie. I'm done talking about it. Onto the next controversial craze, please!

Beck Who?

Beck won album of the year at the Grammy's on Sunday, prompting a resounding, "Who is this guy?" from young people on social media. I won't pretend that it's more atrocious to not know Beck than it is to not know Paul McCartney, but it is still pretty sad.

The thing that really shows their ignorance, though, is NOT that they've never heard of Beck Hanson - they are young, after all - it's that these kids have never lived in a world without Google. Rather than putting what they don't know on display for the whole world, why not just look him up real quick?

But search engines won't really tell them what they need to know. It won't tell them that the first day the amusement park started running their best roller coaster backwards, Loser was blaring over the loudspeakers, or that Devil's Haircut was playing the first time their mom and her best friend snuck out of a sleepover to meet boys, or how excited their uncle was when he found out the high school marching band was going to get to play The New Pollution, or that Two Turn Tables and a Microphone was the first song that played as their favorite teacher left the DMV with her new driver's license. It won't make them get it. It won't make them feel it. It won't make them teenagers in the correct decade for being a teenager.

On the other hand, it will make them look a little less obnoxious.

New Semester

So far, this semester is really hard. It's not even my classes, really, it's me. I'm finding it difficult to try or feel excited. Last semester I felt like my life was finally back on track. This semester the goal of graduation seems somehow further away, and the future after that even more uncertain.