Posts Tagged ‘identity’

20
Jan
2016

work // present

categories: me, new york

As I lay stretched out on my rainbow yoga mat, staring at the beautifully shaped ass of my 22-year-old colleague I couldn’t help but have a twinge of nostalgia. For being able to dress however I wanted. For dying my hair and piercing my body parts. For eating anything and everything and suffering no metabolic consequences. Am I old? Or, am I just around too many young people?

Being a teacher sort of ages you. “Ages” isn’t quite the right term. It places you in a professional stratosphere that automatically gives you respect and power–which, feels like something that comes with “age.” Spending your days with little kids doesn’t make you feel old. It makes you feel young, playful, energetic, silly. Yes, you are exhausted by the end of the day in a way that your tiny-human counterparts are not. But, you feel young at heart. And, for the first ten or so years, you are younger than the parents of your students. Which contributes to a second level of power and prestige.

When you work with millennials and listen to their conversations–sometimes beautifully thoughtful and thought-provoking about gender and class; sometimes absurd, about sick dance parties and hilarious hookups; and sometimes offensive, “it’s just that I really thought my parents were going to keep paying my phone bill until I was, like, at least 25″–it gets you thinking about your own world. The small little bubble that you live in–filled with parenting tips and toddler tantrums, meal-planning and grocery lists, bills and savings accounts. Versus the little bubble that they live in–hookups and trash-talking, parent-drama and student loans, friendships ending and new relationships blooming. Certainly there are similarities in our lives–sometimes I come in and Glynis tells me that we are twins, wearing cuffed boyfriend jeans and oversized sweaters. Other times I come in with aches and pains, marriage woes and mom-struggles, angst over why we can’t afford to buy a damn house and we just feel decades apart. Our priorities, our goals, our relationship to the world around us. We are looking at the same sky but seeing very differently shaped clouds.

I read an article a few years ago about how much the people around you impact your life. Sounds obvious. But, this article claimed that we were not only affected by our friends and family but also by their friends and families. That, in fact, we were being shaped by people 3 steps removed from our circle. And, not just affected in an emotional sense but in many ways we are being molded by others: the way we eat, the music we listen to, our outlook on the world, our daily emotional state–whether we are prone to anger or calm, taking deep breaths or becoming anxious. This frightened me at the time. I was teaching with a nasty human who was angry at the world and angry at herself. She seethed with animosity and jealousy, rage and fear. “Oh my god,” I thought. “I am going to become like her.” I’ll start eating snickers bars for lunch and listening to Michael Buble! The horrror!

Of course, it isn’t so simple. We don’t just emulate the people around us, we are affected in subtler but deeper ways than I think we can even pinpoint. I’m not sure how Patricia affected me. Is it her fault that I am more defensive than I used to be? Can I attribute my fear of being alone to Danielle who bought a dog so she would never have to sleep solo? Did Rachel make me a better friend? Did Sara make me more courageous? Is Julie the reason I can stand up for myself? Can I thank Adam for my sense of humor? We are shaped by our circumstances, we are shaped by our families (whether we want to be or not), we are shaped by our choices and our education and our neighborhoods. But where do we end, and the exterior influences that shape us begin?

19
Jan
2016

work // past

categories: alzheimers, family

“You’ll get over him,” she whispered as she downed a shot of creamy, unfiltered sake. I’m not sad because of some guy, you twit, I thought as the 19-year-old waitress crouched down behind the sake bar with me as I sobbed. Something had set me off. Some movement of a plate or a gentle hand gesture, maybe it was the way that elegant woman had unfolded her napkin–something had unleashed the well of sadness that had been lingering just below the surface. I had turned from the table, plates in hand, a stream of tears falling from my chin, and silently slid down the wall until I was out of sight. I had planned on a quiet cry, just letting the sadness valve open for a short time–until I could find some way of plugging it up and getting back to work.

She offered me a shot, “If they don’t drink it, we shouldn’t just let it go to waste.” We had a policy of eating any untouched sushi and drinking any unfinished sake. “It’s not like they’re drinking from the bottle,” we’d told ourselves. “They didn’t actually touch the sushi. I mean, it’s on an entirely different plate. It’s totally not gross to eat off a platter of unfinished food,” we’d convinced each other. I didn’t have the energy to explain to her that I was mourning. Mourning my mothers slow decline into nothingness, watching her body finally decay the way I had watched her mind rot over the past five years–not the demise of some crush. I didn’t have the patience to watch as she attempted to grasp the seriousness of my situation, the weight of the truth. I couldn’t bear to politely nod as she fumbled around for some platitude that would serve only to make her feel better. You live in a bubble, I thought as I stared into her dark eyes, following the shine of her tightly pulled back ponytail, down her slender shoulders, over her perfect tits.

I was only a few years older than her but it felt like we lived on different planets. She, with her pressed black pants and heels, next to my threadbare Dickies and black sneakers–how did she wear those heels all day? We must have covered two miles during our 8-hour shift–not to mention all the bending down to place the bowls just so and the ginger to the left and the wasabi on the right and all the trekking back to the kitchen, carrying boxes of avocados and bags of shredded cabbage. I got a weekly lecture on how my shirts weren’t clean enough, “But, I washed them, I swear,” I lied. I had two shirts to wear to work, which meant if I worked 5 days a week, I’d have to do laundry twice during my workweek. I didn’t even have a car–I hitchhiked to work every day–how was I supposed to hitch (arms filled with dirty clothes) to the laundromat twice a week? Meanwhile, she looked like she’d bought a new shirt for each shift. I was fresh out of college–filled with sermons on feminism and class struggles, on systemic racism and the wealth gap. I had traveled Europe and the U.S., I’d lived outside our small town for four years and would never have returned had my mother not been dying. She was fresh out of high school, no desire to go to college, no desire to do much beyond wait tables and look beautiful. What a wonderful life, I thought, staring at her manicured hands. I’ll never feel that. I will never know what it’s like to be unburdened, to be young, to be free from responsibility.

“Yeah, he’s a real shit,” I said–creating the version of my life she could comprehend. “But, I’ll get over it, him, whatever.” I faltered. “Totally,” she said through her bright white teeth. “Now, let’s get back to work before Madame sees us!” She grabbed my arm, handed me another shot of sake and stacked my plates. “You’ll so find someone better,” she offered as a parting sentiment. “Yeah,” I responded. “Totally replaceable.”

 

05
Jan
2016

things i will love about (small-town) california

categories: california
  • access to water: lakes, rivers, oceans
  • access to deserts, forests & towering redwoods
  • a backyard
  • a house
  • driving a car
  • buying beer and liquor from the same place
  • buying groceries, toothpaste and tylenol from the same place
  • the glorious california produce
  • being near family
  • camping
  • hiking
  • the fresh air
  • open space
  • evergreens
  • dirt & mud
  • dry heat
  • cool evenings even in the summer
  • a slowed-down pace
  • people smiling at you
04
Jan
2016

processing

categories: me

It’s amazing to me how much bitching is required in order to process crap situations or encounters. Conversation after conversation retelling the same slight, emphasizing your side in the way only you can, which is to say: without any understanding of the other persons (possibly totally legitimate) perspective. In my head, I am like, so evolved–a skillful communicator, problem-solver, capable of being unemotional, objective and compassionate all at once. But, really, I’m mostly just wading in a pool of toxic emotions–a place where envy and self-doubt reign supreme–where judgments, misunderstandings, inconsistencies and pure acrimony live amongst dread and apathy. This is an image of myself that just doesn’t fit with the one I have in my head. It’s discouraging to upset the portrait of this joyful, optimistic, driven and contented person. The thing that is even more difficult to grasp is the fact that in reality, I am both. Perhaps not all at once. But, certainly I am one thing in one moment and another under contrasting circumstances.

Upon playfully teasing my hubby about his snoring it came out that the reason he gets so defensive when I report the behavior is because being “someone who snores” just doesn’t fit with his own self-image. I laughed at first but then it made complete sense to me. There are all of these things–the way we look, the way we respond to situations, where we work, what we wear, how we speak–that define the version of ourselves we have in our heads. When someone on the outside challenges one of those things–however small the detail may seem to them–it completely breaks down that self-image. “But, I’m quirky, eccentric, unpredictable! It’s a good thing, right? Right?” I found myself saying during an argument where my husband scolded me for something or other I had said–something that seemed lighthearted and funny and joke-y and me. There are things about myself that I believe. I believe them wholeheartedly and any attempt to undermine the me-ness of me is an attack on who I am at my core. In my head these things are unchangeable and factual and permanent. But, they’re not. We grow, we change–slowly sometimes, more quickly other times–sometimes without even realizing it. Our “higher selves” exist as an idea, a goal–as someone who would have, should have, could have said something more intelligent, less reactionary, more eloquent.

I’d really like to meet this idealized version of me. The version of me who always knows the right thing to say, who always looks put-together, who is kind but strong, intelligent and funny, self-assured and self-aware. This is the version I could use right now. Because if life is a mountain–with highs and lows and everything in between–then I am in the river basin looking up, paddling against the current in a starless sky. And, she’d sure as shit know what to do.

22
Dec
2015

leaving

categories: brooklyn, new york

In my experience, watching people flee this place, there seem to be only a few ways to leave NYC:

1. “The big fuck you.” When New York has skinned you alive. You leave filled with animosity for a city that is relentless and cruel. The New York you know is merciless, dark, dangerous, hateful. You leave broke and broken, forever changed by the darkness you felt.

2. The, “I’m done with you.” New York no longer fits your needs, or fulfills your lifestyle requirements. You’re not pissed, New York just doesn’t offer you what you need. Whether it’s a new school, new job, a small town, a change of scenery, a different pace of life–it’s not here, it’s somewhere else. You leave knowing that there’s something better out there for you but grateful for what you’ve learned from this sometimes wonderful, sometimes awful, city.

3. The “Nooooo!” exit where you leave kicking and screaming. Your partner gets a job elsewhere, you get into a school, but not in New York. You just CANNOT afford it. You are devastated to leave behind the most exciting and beautiful city in the world. You preemptively long for the skyscrapers, the beautiful brownstones, and late nights, the takeout and public transportation. You spend the next two years romanticizing life in the city, depressed, and forlorn, unable to move forward with your non-NYC life.

4. The “whatevs” ambivalent exit. I could stay I could go, easier to go. I’ll come back to visit. Not too many of these. The people in this category know they aren’t lifers. They come to experience the “energy” but are always talking about their plan to return to their small hometowns.

Where do I fit in? A little from column A, a little from column B. Throw in a little C and D just for kicks.

12
Dec
2015

the shadow

categories: me

It comes out of nowhere, oozing edges from the depths of my insides and just sticks–to the underside of my skull and the inner membrane of my ears. To the back of my throat and the tips of my lungs. It stays, takes up residence for a while–turning blue skies into deep seas. Stretched out, creeping into all that lies ahead and consuming all that is left behind. And then it’s gone. I hardly even remember how it got there–how long it stayed or exactly how I felt being in the dark for so long. Then the cloud comes briefly overhead, blocking out the sun, just for a moment. Long enough to remind me that I cannot control the weather–not the direction of the wind, the depth of the snow or the fullness of the moon. That in fact, I am helpless to shadows. And so, I welcome them back like an old friend. Come on in, I say. Won’t you stay for tea?

05
Dec
2015

pre-nostalgia

categories: new york

Standing outside a dark, gothic church, on a granite sidewalk, staring into warmly lit brownstones across the way. A thick sandwich–fluffy white roll and a large chunk of meat, with just a sliver of lettuce and tomato. There are a multitude of small moments, sights, sounds, tastes–that are distinctly New York. The meat-heavy sandwich, the stone sidewalks, the silhouetted skyline, the people passing by, all of it, only here in this place. There will be new sounds, new faces, new smells that will stick to the insides of my nostrils and adhere themselves to my memories–creating with them a new sense of home, a new aura of self. But these things, these belong to New York City alone. These sensations and sights, these cobblestone streets and gas lamps. These are the romantic images of films, the backdrops of prom photo booths–this is the living, breathing snapshot of New York. No late-summer garbage reek can taint this image. No crowded subway car–hands groping, men preaching, women screaming, people begging–can erase this experience. No neighbors’ blaring talk show radio or NYU drunken frat boy, no snowy March day or shit-filled puddles can diminish this sparkle, this brightness, this feeling of belonging and centeredness.

There are two New Yorks: the one you live in and the one you dream of living in.

It’s the latter that breaks your heart. And, that’s the one you imagine you’ve always lived in, that’s the one you remember and mourn after you’ve gone. Even if that New York was really just a figment of your imagination.

05
Nov
2015

identity

categories: me, new york

In New York you’re constantly bombarded with people on the street. People living on the street, people hanging out on the street, passersby on their way to and from work, red-eyed dads trying to get their kids to sleep at 2 AM, all sorts of folks on any given day. I would say I’m hit up at least a half-dozen times for money or a donation, a contribution, a signature or a flyer about god, about a new restaurant, about a salon giveaway, there’s always something–in fact, there’s always a million things.

Sometimes I give, sometimes I don’t. Sometimes I stop, sometimes I’m in a hurry. Sometimes I shoo them off, exasperated and frustrated–usually that’s on a really hot day when I’m in a big rush, and can’t they see my kid is having a miraculous nap in the stroller? But the interaction that always seems to leave me reeling is when I get stopped with, “Excuse me ma’am, are you Jewish?” Every single time I am stopped in my tracks. Do I lie? Is it really a lie? I’m not a practicing Jew. It’s my father’s side, so, does it really count?

And then I get to thinking about religion versus cultural ethnicity and internal identity versus external realities and how those all intertwine and get boggled up. You would think that after fifteen years in New York–and since I am besieged by this question during every high holiday–that I would have an answer at the ready. But, I don’t. Sometimes I say yes and other times it’s no.  And, no matter what I say I end up feeling kind of lousy.

Is it a fabrication to say yes? Is it a lie just to say no? Do I really want that horn blown in my face? Am I really expected to repeat that Hebrew verse? But, no matter what the answer, I feel like a fraud. If I say yes then I feel like the minute I can’t recite properly they know I’m full of shit. If I say no, I envision them walking away mumbling under their breath about how I’m so obviously Jewish and why would I lie? And, I get this queasy feeling in my gut.

Who am I versus who I am perceived or expected to be? Where do I fit in? Who do I belong to? If not to them, then to whom? Am I an island? And I start romanticizing organized religion. Which is not a useful pastime. Because, I have yet to find one organization that I would truly want to be a part of. Am I the only one for whom this happens? Is it strange that a simple question turns into a deep philosophical dialogue about selfhood and identity? Perhaps. Or, maybe everyone’s walking around questioning who they are, not internally, but who they are in relation to the world around them. Which is a very different investigation than who we are on our own–what we do, what we believe in, who we love, how we live–those are somewhat simple to determine. It’s a question of belonging and of community, having nothing to do with confidence or success or education.

Are we all still in high school, searching for our clique?

15
Sep
2015

pretend

categories: me

OK, here’s the thing about why being an actor is do damn appealing. You get to try out being all these different people — a teacher one day, a ballerina the next. You can be a bitch, a fool, a comic genius, a jealous spouse, an angry teenager, a brilliant surgeon…You get to experiment with a smorgasbord of personalities, and professions, and relationships.

It’s thrilling.

You don’t choose just one look, just one job or just one partner. You switch it up every day. It’s like multiple personality disorder without the social stigma.

It sounds wonderful, doesn’t it? No daily routine, no singular identity. It’s not that I’m unhappy in my existence. It’s just that I think it would be so fun to experience a life outside my own. To live, briefly in someone else’s world. Where every choice — from the clothes I wear to the people I love and the place I live — is made by someone else, some other version of me.

31
Aug
2015

on not trying

categories: california, me

When I was in high school my daily uniform was a pair of blue or black Dickies with a belt, a faded thrift store t-shirt and a cardigan. I donned one stars or converse and I wore my hair in a short pixie cut.

If I decided to dress up, I wore platform shoes, a thrifted dress or skirt and a grandpa sweater. Occasionally my mom would save up or my grandmother would give her some cash and we’d go to JCPennys and splurge on new shirts. Or, we’d hit Ross for a new dress and a nice pair of shoes. I wore makeup onstage. Never off.

My friend Joanna was like a different species. She had stacks of high fashion magazines, books about how to apply makeup for different occasions and a credit card that her parents entrusted to her for whatever she deemed necessary. Her bathroom looked like a pharmacy — filled with tonics and creams, toners and foundations, a rainbow of lipsticks, eyeshadow and a garden of perfumes. I remember lifting the lids from those delicate glass bottles, each like a tiny potion, magical, mystical, enchanting. She had a weekday scent and a weekend scent, a special occasion smell and an eau de date elixir which was particularly jasmin-y.

Joanna had a walk-in closet filled with designer clothes. Her parents were both doctors and they lived in a giant house at the top of a hill overlooking a gorgeous vineyard. She had a hot tub and cable television and her own car. To me, she was living like the rich and famous.

Joanna introduced me to glitter. And, to accessories. She loaned me her makeup books and gave me tubes of gels and lotions she deemed unfit for her skin type.

She had a brother and a sister, both of whom played instruments, went to college and led what could only be considered normal, healthy lives. In stark contrast to my siblings who were getting kicked out of school (if they were attending at all) deeply involved with drugs and alcohol, and either in serious (and seriously abusive relationships) or living unhealthy lives of solitude and loneliness.

Joanna’s life represented the life I could have led. If my parents were honest and driven and, you know, not polygamists.

We were both good students. Great, even. Honors classes, tons of extracurriculars, college-bound. We had focus. And drive. Something not a lot of our peers had. Joanna was determined to be rich and famous. By any means — modeling, acting, music, writing — whatever medium got her there, she didn’t care. She knew exactly what she wanted.

I, on the other hand, was fueled by the theater. I loved to sing and dance too. But, I knew I needed to be an actor when I grew up. Broadway in New York City. That was my fantasy. I knew it wouldn’t be lucrative but I didn’t care. I would be fulfilled and I would be living my dream in the big city. Where no one knew who I was and no one knew where I came from.

Life took a few turns. I zigged and zagged and ended up on a very different path. When I got into my dream college, which had been chosen for its impressive theater program, I immediately decided to put acting on hold. Academics, I decided. That’s what college is supposed to be about. I did a few productions my first year, The Vagina monologues and some modern take on Greek dramas, but mostly I studied. And read. And, attended lectures and sit-ins. I protested and I drafted petitions, I fought close to home (unionize our food service employees) and far from home (WB/WTF, anti-war, anti-Bush) I marched and made signs and attended workshops on what to do when you get arrested.

I lost acting somewhere along the way. I got more interested in change. And, then education and reform and living the change I wanted to see.

I’m still not so skilled at applying makeup. I don’t use any special creams. I don’t know a thing about moisturizers or toners (what is the point of a toner?) But, I’m very okay with that. I buy mascara from the drugstore and leave my hair almost exactly as it naturally falls. I loathe blow dryers and I just do not have the patience to put on a full face of makeup every day. I choose comfort over style and efficiency over cutesy. I like the way I look all dolled up but it’s just not sustainable for me. I think you have to really enjoy the process. And, you have to put forth the energy required. I just don’t have it in me. And, something tells me that if it’s not there at 34, it probably ain’t ever showing up.

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