Where 2019 Took Me

Here's the tea: the decade challenge is too dense for me because I'm in my late teens. Of course a lot has changed since 2009 because I went through (and survived) puberty.

Good meme, good meme.

As I close the door on my third semester at Luther and lounge alone in my couch until my parents get home from their adult jobs, I write this blog in attempt to not rewatch the last season of Schitt's Creek or eat all of the cookies left over from my mom's birthday party. Merry Christmas everyone.

I stay active on social media, but I close of many parts of my life to the world. It's not because I'm busy (although that doesn't help). Many aspects of my life are painful to talk about.

Yes, I know the old phrase "It's not about how many times you fall down, but how many times you get back up." But 2019 has been a slippery set of stairs. I've progressed beyond the points where I fell, but I still feel my bruises with every step.

I felt unreasonably insecure when the people around me had different experiences than I did. Either I was behind on something that happened at different times for everyone, or I was a worse person because of something I had no control over.

The ways I differ from many people in my environment are the following:

- religious upbringings
- decisions to continue religious practice or not
- romantic relationships/sexual experiences or lack thereof
- relationships with our parents
- relationships with our friends from high school
- use of alcohol or drugs
- medical needs
- view of how intelligent we are
- political views
- socioeconomic status
- gender and sexual orientation
- personality
- body image
(most importantly)
- combinations of how all of these shape our lives

When I started writing this post, I had been kicking myself for not "getting everything out of my college experience" because I hadn't partied as much as my friends in the year ahead of me or that I hadn't had a relationship since last May while my classmates are getting engaged. This semester will also be the first time I have gotten anything below – here it is – an A- since eighth grade.

All of these things that make me stumble continue to catapult my simple reflection into a fundamental attribution spiral. Maybe I'm not in a relationship because of the weight I've gained or how my hair hasn't achieved "maximum femininity." Maybe I don't talk to my classmates from high school because of how isolated I feel in terms of my sexual orientation and political views.

Now I want to tell you how I got out of it.

Over the last year, I've been talking to my friends for whom I originally had romantic interest (bear with me). What sucks is that I never really thought to ask why things didn't work out the way I thought they did or why they decided to continue a platonic relationship. Like anyone else, I was afraid of the answer. Whether I've asked or the conversation naturally progressed in this direction, the crazy thing is that I found a common denominator of why they wanted to be my friend. The conversations usually have these elements: "It's because I think you're cool."

"I'm COOL? *weird laughter* Well then I tricked you, because you are surely mistaken..."

"You seem so confident. You  own every (weird) thing about you. At the same time, you try to lift people up and help them see how they're cool."

"Because you are cool. You're a baller,"–I didn't say that because I'm a white choir kid, but that's how I thought to summarize my thoughts.

"You'll get to that person or those people that want that feeling all of the time, and they'll hold onto you."

I want to address my fellow college cohorts and prospective students: what makes you different does not make you wrong or right. It also doesn't make you better or worse. The people that you will encounter and will inevitably never see again after a certain point won't remember you in a positive or negative light solely because of how you vote, who you do or don't date, or how you look. They remember you for being the person that you are and how you become the person you were meant to be. That person is always going to be so uniquely you that it feels isolating. But people are going to like it. It took me a few years to understand, but great things are going to happen to you in your own time.

Why pronouns outside of he/she are so incredibly valid ❤️

PC: Charlie Langton

Matt Walsh, an influencer who credits himself as a voice for the young, religious right, posted a blog on the DailyWire with this title: "You Get Your Own Name. It Can Be Whatever You Want. But You Don’t Get Your Own Pronouns." His rationale can be summarized in these points.

1. The new pronouns such as "ze" are fabricated and make no coherent sense. Pronouns other than he/she are grammatically incorrect.
2. People don't use pronouns when they speak directly to a person, so the concept of using correct pronouns does not make sense anyway.
3. People genetically don't exist outside of male or female, so there is no reason to use these pronouns anyway.

He claims that the reason that he argues these points is, "Nobody can provide any proof for any of these claims or any coherent answers to any of the questions I have posed. We are supposed to just accept their assertions, however incoherent, and timidly cooperate as they mutilate our language and make nonsense out of everything." (https://www.dailywire.com/news/walsh-you-get-your-own-name-it-can-be-whatever-you-want-but-you-dont-get-your-own-pronouns/?fbclid=IwAR1HCp4ilYObwYvRndODtpfLMGYj3X33P2Py8ybmm4VZcs2P3HD__llVqmU)

Luckily, I have learned a lot from being in a community with non-binary and trans individuals (even one that studies linguistics). Hopefully, this does them justice:

Point 1: New pronouns exist because individuals argue against using "they/them" as a singular pronoun (although using the singular they is not actually grammatically and conventionally incorrect [https://www.merriam-webster.com/words-at-play/singular-nonbinary-they]). The use of non-gendered words exists in many languages as much as gendered words exists outside of humans such as the word "el lapiz"–the pencil in Spanish. As one of my lovely trans friends says, "If Spanish-speaking people can correctly gender a pencil, anyone can correctly gender me." There is also historic use of finding gender neutral pronouns outside of they/them for the last century (https://www.merriam-webster.com/words-at-play/third-person-gender-neutral-pronoun-thon). The main reason people are angry about it now is because of the so-called destruction of language. As long as the subject is written before the predicate, the English language is as complicated and beautiful as it was before.

Point 2: Walsh is correct in saying that someone doesn't refer to an individual in conversation by their pronouns (unless more than two people are gathered). Still, it is not self-absorbed to refer to an individual by their preferred name and pronouns. Cisgender individuals do not enjoy being called the incorrect pronouns, so people will automatically correct an individual if they do not correctly identify that specific individual. That should not be different for our trans siblings in the community.Learning manners such as "please" and "thank you" does not come across as excessive and implying an arrogance to another person. It's simply polite to call people by their names and not misinform others about who they are.

Point 3: Although convoluting the synonymity sex and gender is another discussion that should be had across gender identities, gender has expanded beyond male and female in other cultures. For example, the indigenous people of North America employ the concept of two-spirited people, a third gender within their tribes (https://www.ihs.gov/lgbt/health/twospirit/). Likewise, sex itself goes beyond binary with intersex people. These are people that are born with both male and female genetic characteristics such as chromosomes, hormones, and even genitalia (https://medlineplus.gov/ency/article/001669.htm). Unfortunately, much backlash and intervention have occurred from cultural and physical assignment of gender and sex for people without their consent. This is a complicated subject that needs further individual discussion about what is best for them.

Overall, the world is more diverse and inclusive than it ever has been. There is also a tangible anger among people who have the privilege to refuse to accept other people as they are. Hopefully, individuals are able to look past the initial email signature that signifies "she/her/hers" pronouns and join in the conversation.

Oh my. Where to start.

As I was turning the page of my "Inspiring Women" calendar for the weekend (wonderful stocking-stuffer, thanks Mom), this quote came up:

A few months ago, I probably would have chuckled at this. I love when women are able to respond to seemingly patriarchal comments. But not today. I'm bothered by this. I'm reminded of a conversation:

I was talking to two of my friends from first semester–one cis male and one trans female–and, per usual of this group of people, we start talking about social issues. When the male friend started making disagreeable claims about women's rights (not reproductive rights–women's rights), I responded to him out of frustration and recklessness: "Hey, no uterus, no opinion!" To which my female friend says without skipping a beat, "Excuse me, I don't believe whether or not I have a uterus affects my rights in this respect."

This was one of those "Oh shit," moments. The moment she started speaking I knew I screwed up and hurt her feelings. And those words weren't something I could ever take back.

Because I'm trying to know better, these were my problems with the calendar when I saw it:

Male same-sex couples, especially those that want to be parents, by far don't need a uterus in order to raise a child.

Single working fathers–widowers, divorcés, adoptive parents–have to use their brains and their hearts to overcome the challenges of parenting on their own. (This isn't reverse sexism: this is attributed to the fact that women are grossly expected to be the "mothering" people in this world.) The single fathers, cis or trans, don't need a uterus to raise a child.

Women who are unable to conceive or safely deliver a child, who have had struggles with losing a pregnancy are capable and wanting to be mothers. There's hope with processes such as surrogacy and adoption, but they need this reminder: your organs that have so tried to hold a child but couldn't has nothing to do with your ability to raise one.

Trans women wanting children, whether through conception and birth, surrogacy, adoption–they don't need a uterus to raise a child.

When I've walked alongside the heartbreak of infertility, lack of trans visibility and so-close-but-yet-so-far adoptions, I get how this sentiment of uterus=woman=parent hurts. Think before you speak, my friends.

Part 2: Hearts being stirred on a college campus

Last week, I talked about my eyes being opened to the struggles of people of color. Even if race issues have been embedded into my society for as long as American history can tell, some concepts were unclear to me until I actually listened to the voices of people around me. Since then, I've been keeping my ears open around my campus. I want to observe where there still needs growth and education that can't be taught in a class room.

Now, I'm in the middle of a new impasse that I can't quite wrap my head around yet. It's related to the following:

Have any of you ever stopped watching a TV show because of the political opinions of the lead actor?

Ever stopped listening to an artist because they we were accused of misconduct?

Have you unfollowed someone because of their miseducated claims about a group of people?

Up until recently, I would have only answered with, "Depends on the severity of the circumstances." Until this:

In one of my required humanities classes, our open unit is discussing the rights of people with disabilities. It's fascinating. Especially in our definition of disability: while impairment is a physical state of being, disability is what happens when the society and environment doesn't allow them to function in it. Disability is not set in stone wherever one goes. For example, in an environment where there are ramps and elevators verses on with rocky crevices and stairs, a person in a wheelchair has a different level of disability in those two environments, even if they have the same impairment.

Continually thought this unit, I absolutely loved watching my classmates discern how society is inclined to patronize the disabled, underestimate one's needs or hesitate to even communicate with an individual with a disability. Regardless of partisanship, my classmates agreed: disabled people have been consistently mistreated.

After a day of discussion and good feelings about research, my teacher stood up at the end of class with five minutes left in class. She first established that she doesn't usually preach from a soapbox. Most of the students would agree that she is a very respectable and reasonable individual. That's what made what she said all the more difficult to process.

"Let's talk about...the Greatest Showman."

The poor student that prematurely burst out saying, "Oh my God, I love the Greatest Showman!" before realizing that was probably not the most fitting thing to say. I knew just by word of mouth the P.T. Barnum, the subject of the movie, wasn't actually a good person, but I justified it by thinking about how much I don't like Alexander Hamilton as a politician but love the Broadway musical by Lin-Manuel Miranda (thus the picture). Still, my professor continued to say something along the lines of this:

Do you know how P.T. Barnum first got into his career? He bought a severely disabled blind slave woman, presumably 60-70 years old–but she isn't on record because she was a slave. He displayed the woman to the public, falsely claiming she was 161-years-old and that she was George Washington's nursemaid. Not only did he pedal her around on the road for people to humiliate her and have people make fun of her. He sold tickets. To her autopsy.

I don't care about how great the music is. This movie knowingly depicted him as a champion of people with disabilities when he was the total fucking opposite. He normalized the notion of publicly humiliating disabled people in the media as well as in American society. I don't care if I ruined the movie for you. He ruined thousands of people's lives, and I'm not going to stand behind that.

(I looked this up, it's true. Her name was Joice Heth):

https://daily.jstor.org/joice-heth-how-an-elderly-slave-launched-p-t-barnum-career/

https://www.biography.com/news/joice-heth-pt-barnum-george-washington-nurse

I know she wasn't necessarily calling us to action, to destroy every copy we can find and delete every single song off Spotify. But I didn't know what to do at that point. Up until that point, I had such respect for all that went into the movie. I adore Hugh Jackman and Keala Settle as performers. Benj Pasek and Justin Paul are the Rodgers and Hammerstein of our generation. The movie has one of the most diverse casts in a modern movie. I'd like to say that it's a hiccup that can be forgone, and it can continue to be one of my favorite movie musicals.

But I can't. Because I as a special education student vividly remember being told on the playground,

"Abby, get up and dance!" There was no music, but I did it because I thought they would like me if I did.

"Abby, go give that guy a hug!" I didn't know why he ran away. Why was the teacher scolding me after I came to her crying that he pushed me away?

"Abby, I don't like Broadway." I was ready to go off. I would go into a screaming rant while people giggled along.

"Abby, she's mad at you, go hit her." Just to see what would happen.

My playground was a circus, and I wasn't the ringmaster–I was the freak show. I, as the person who actually really respected most everyone at my school for some reason, still have to bite my tongue whenever I talk to or about the girls who would do those things to me.

A bittersweet truth is that I'm not alone. I'm not the only person that's had this, "Kids can be cruel," experience. Referencing a few sermons that I've heard recently, I use perfectionism as a shield for the areas in which I find inadequacy. I keep people at an arms distance. The less they know me, the less they can humiliate me.

Now imagine people who were sold into dealing with this trauma for a living. That's the Barnum & Bailey Circus.

I haven't talked to my music-loving friends about this, and maybe it's better that I've talked about this openly without a prompt to call anyone out. I can't say that I'm calling anyone to action yet. But my heart has been stirred. Things will change going forward.

Part 1: Hearts being stirred on a college campus

At my wonderful, small liberal arts college, I've had the opportunity to hear from individuals with a plethora of different ideals. Some speakers have spoken about the trips they made around the world while others talk about the impact they have had on their own community. Part of the reason I came to Luther College was because of the intellectual conversations I've had in my diverse community.

February was no different in terms of my excitement. I was especially excited because Black History Month + the 50th anniversary of the founding of my college's Black Student Union = a full month of stories. Although I knew at the beginning of the month I couldn't come to any of the chapel talks (I work during that time), I made sure that I could go to the speakers in the evenings. I even got to hear an overwhelming story of compassion and empathy from the teacher of whom the movie "Freedom Writers" was based. 

Last Sunday, I volunteered two weeks ahead of time to read on Gospel Sunday. Before the service, I thought to myself "This is great! A choir of Luther students and alumni, a diverse crowd, a black alumna preacher: my college knows what's up."

Here's where my inner conflict began:

The preacher was a lovely pastor from a college in Wisconsin. Her love for God was tangible when she sang in the gospel choir, and she was incredibly kind. So last Sunday, after I read the lessons and the choir sang the gospel acclamation, she spoke the gospel: "Love your enemies, pray for those who persecute you..." I waited to hear what good news she was going to bring.

Then, her spoke her sermon's opening sentence: "This Sunday is hard." Now, I was nodded my head in agreement, as the text had to do with turning the other cheek. But her message was beyond non-conformity. The pastor, as I mentioned before, was an alumna and, like me, the daughter of two alumni–now I was really excited. I kept imagining:

Was her experience like mine? Maybe she found a group of friends that were activists in their own respect, people she could sing songs with and talk about how it was here when her parents were here. Maybe this message is how college was a safe space to explore yourself...

Unlike me, she was a black daughter of two white alumni. Coming into her first year, her class had the largest population of people of color in the school's history. When she graduated, she was the only one left. Wow.

The message of reconciliation was difficult for her. While she was in school, there was no place for her voice to be heard. It wasn't that she wasn't used to being the only person of color in a room–she had that experience growing up. But in a new place, the white students didn't think of her as apart of their community, and the black students didn't think she was "black enough." Other than her loyal cousin, college people weren't her family. College wasn't a home, and unless it was for her parents, she didn't have intentions of returning. She came back with hope in her heart that maybe the few students of color listening to her understood that they weren't alone in their struggle to find a home at school.

The good news, as she mentioned, didn't come in the sermon, but in the music. We were all connected through this soulful prayer of intercession:

I need you, you need me.

We're all a part of God's body.

Stand with me, agree with me.

We're all a part of God's body.

It is his will, that every need be supplied.

You are important to me, I need you to survive.

You are important to me, I need you to survive.

Each individual prayer was followed by this verse:

I pray for you, You pray for me.

I love you, I need you to survive.

I won't harm you with words from my mouth.

I love you, I need you to survive.

It is his will, that every need be supplied.

You are important to me, I need you to survive.

My eyes, blurred with tears, looked at the congregation, looked at the pastor, looked at the choir. That's the moment where my heart was being stirred with a rotation for every beat in my body. I felt a rainbow of different emotions.

I'll be honest–this was my "a-ha" moment: up until this point, I didn't understand the pain of my brothers and sisters of color. I often thought of my school as a place of inclusion, just not a whole lot of people to include. Now, I realized that security is not in the hands of an individual: it's in the hands of the community. No one should go to school afraid that they will be ignored. Afraid that they will be targeted. Afraid of not being normal.

After a long time of sitting still in the name of oppression, a light was shone on what I had left undone. I felt the urge to hold everyone I knew in my arms and tell them "You always have a home with me. Let me know if you need that right now."

I don't often use my blog, and when I do, I don't often use it as a pedestal for me to preach on. I know some people on my Facebook feed aren't going to agree with what I'm typing. If that's the case, I want to say that I care. I want to know how you feel. Right now, I feel more strongly than ever about this, and if you don't, message me. I'll get a cup of coffee with you and talk it out in person or on the phone, not in the comments.

Right now, I want to apologize to my friends and family of color: I'm sorry I have not stood up for you when you needed it. I'm sorry I sat back and watch you mourn a brutal act of crime or oppressive speech without believing it was a problem of your concern. I'm sorry that I took advantage of the privilege of watching destruction happen.

From now on, call me out if I say something inaccurate to the struggle of your community. I am an open advocate for all. I love you, I need you to survive.