I woke up early this morning, well, I mean it was technically morning, because it was after midnight, with violent leg cramps, the kind that drag me out of bed to walk in hobbling, cussing arcs back and forth around my bed. Cussing more because I didn't turn on the light and stumbled into the corner of my bed frame. New bruise. It can join the fifty or so others sprinkled all over my body. My favorite right now might be the foot shaped bruise on my forearm - complete with toe prints! Thank you, Maria - nothing like a surprise souvenir from jiu jitsu. But my early morning pacing wasn't from rolling, but rather from running.
My children will tell you, I don't run. I walk, I sprint, I amble, I sometimes hobble and limp, but I don't run. Or at least, I don't run often. I'm trying to change that. There are deterrents - leg cramps, shin splints, sore feet, the time I dislocated my shoulder, the fact that I only have time to run at night, and there are some creepy people hanging out on the trail at night...but, still I try. My first attempt at running came about three years ago, when I woke up one day and said, "well, that's enough of sitting around on my ass," and I walked out the door and started slowly circling the park. That first month, I was in so much pain it became my constant companion. I could have named the pain, taken it out to dinner, bought it a drink or two, because it was real and tangible and never left my side. My shins ached, my hips burned, my back felt broken, and for some ungodly reason, my arms hurt. I didn't understand what arms had to do with running. But running brought me to kickboxing, which brought me to jiu jitsu, and so I suppose in some ways, those first couple of months of running in my neighborhood changed my life - and possibly saved it along the way. But I still hate running, and I let it go in favor of cardio classes and weights and boxing. Now I'm back at it, for no reason other than I'm turning 44 this year (this month really) and while I'm no longer young and spry, I'll never again be as young as I am right now. I have no way of knowing what parts of my body will give out tomorrow, or next year, or ten years from now. If I'm going to do something, I might as well start it now.
A friend joked with me not too long ago that I must really hate myself to punish myself physically the way that I do. I don't look like I'm as active as I am, but I put my body through a lot in a week - jiu jitsu, cardio classes, MMA, running, yoga, not to mention normal day-to-day wear and tear from working and hauling groceries, and cleaning my house, and laughing and drinking and being alive. But I had to clarify that I don't hate myself - I spent enough years doing that. I do the things I do because I actually LIKE myself, I like my body, and I want to celebrate the fact that it can do so many things. I just wish I'd figured that out long before I did.
Growing up, "body" was a dirty word in our house. Bodies were dirty and most parts were better off being covered up and kept secret, even from ourselves. Young girls didn't look at their bodies, didn't think about their bodies, except to keep them thin, because that was what men wanted. Girls who touched their bodies were dirty and my mother was willing to beat the dirty right out of me, or out of my brother, who I suppose was a dirty boy in his own right. That duality was confusing - how could something so shameful be something worth so much? As a child, the message received was that I had no real control of my own body. My mother would control how it looked, how I dressed, how I wore my hair, because my body was really only there to transport me from place A to place B until there was a man who wanted my body enough that he would take over where she had left off. And only a man who wanted to marry me had any right at all to my body in any way, and what I felt about it had no bearing in one way or another. It was my body, but I merely lived in it, had no ownership of it or what I did with it.
Rebellion as I grew up meant being careless with my body. Reckless. I broke bone after bone, learning to ride a skateboard, falling off a balance beam, trying some crazy stunt involving roller skates and a bike and a really high hill. And as I got older, being careless and reckless meant giving other people access to my body. It'd never been mine to control, and so I didn't know how to take back ownership at that point, and the only thing I discovered was that there was some power over those to whom I had given the privilege of touch, whether it was the power over the creepy old guy in our neighborhood who liked to grope preadolescent behinds and wouldn't want his wife to know, or over the teenage boys who just wanted to touch some girl's boobs for the first time and were willing to pay for an icee if it got them a trip behind the 7 Eleven.
As an adult, I have abused and punished my body in every conceivable way - eating crap and gaining weight, not working my body the way it was intended, alcohol, sex, and at one time, self-harm. It's been easy to accept things done to my body, abuse heaped upon it, being raped, being taunted, and being controlled. There's truth in the statement that I am not my body - it's not the heart of who I am, any more than the car I drive is a representation of me. But my body is where I live, it's what I use to represent myself to the world, and it's what keeps me tied to this earth and to the people I love. I owe it respect and I owe it some care. In return, I'm finding myself amazed at what my body will actually do, and how much it can endure without breaking.
I have friends who are struggling with illnesses, their bodies partially out of control, and fighting every single day to take back ownership of all of their bodies. From a friend who lives every single day with a disease with which she negotiates for daily necessary movement and function, to a friend who is kicking the ass of cancer and went to her surgery wearing a tiara and a smile, because she knows who owns her body, and it's not cancer. They don't take their bodies for granted, and it would be insulting for me to do so, when I have so many fewer obstacles to go over.
So, I'm turning 44 soon, and my body is carrying around over four decades of wear and tear. Gravity has won several battles, and I carry the scars of a whole lot of others - stretch marks, surgical scars, imperfectly mended bones, and some that are only visible on the inside. But as I start my 45th year, I'll take nothing for granted, and I'll not allow myself excuses. I will push my body to do the things it was made to be able to do, and celebrate those things and reward my body with bubble baths, and long stretches, and a soft bed stocked with a warm kitty. I'll appreciate all the things my body can do, and accept the things it really can't do (I really, really can't climb a rope, even if it were to save my life). And I don't say that no one is ever going to touch me again, but now it happens on my own terms. And I won't say that no one is ever going to hit my body again, but now I know how to hit back. It took four decades, but I finally took ownership of the house I live in - and you know, despite the cellulite and the scars and the sagging, I kinda like what I've got. It's gotten me a lot of places in life, and there are a whole lot more places I want to travel with it.
And I say to my friends, celebrate your own bodies. Listen to them, and pay attention when they tell you something is wrong. Give yourself love, and push yourself to find your limits and go past them. There will come a time all too soon when our bodies won't be able to respond the way that we want them to. Until then, I'm going to enjoy every moment in my vintage edition. Even if some of the parts are hurting - at least they're letting me know they still work.
Wednesday, November 30, 2016
Friday, November 11, 2016
Nasty Girls
It's been a fuck of a week. No, it's been a fuck of a 2016. Every week I seem to have friends saying, "when will this year END?" Every day I turn on the news to hear about mass shootings, bombings, natural disasters, race riots, police shootings, ISIS, and the list goes on and on and on. All of this has galvanized one of the most heated elections in my memory - gone is the apathy with which most recent elections seem to have been met. Gone is the feeling that it doesn't matter who our leaders are, really. This election became personal. The two candidates became symbols for everything that is right and everything that is wrong in our country, each of them becoming little more than cartoon effigies for the issues plaguing our news and waking us up in the middle of the night.
I am a single mom, raising two teenage daughters. So many things have terrified me in the last year, so many things wake me up from nightmares these days, because a parent's first and foremost thought is how to keep their children safe. Everything else can be fixed later, just keep your children safe. But I can't keep them safe from knowing all manner of things waiting just outside our front door. For my oldest, legally an adult now, she's becoming more and more aware of the dangers and the inequality of our world. As a young woman, she's startlingly aware of both all her future potentials and the limitations that are placed upon her, sometimes because of her gender. This election season drove so much of that home to her and, in return, to me.
To Katie, neither major candidate was all that appealing, but she did her homework, she recognized the futility of voting third party, and she sided with what she saw as the only logical choice. She was a young woman, voting for the first time, for a woman presidential candidate. That was pretty exciting in itself. As time got closer, there were so many news reports, and we had quite a few late night discussions over those. My daughter values her friends, and those come from a wide scope of minorities, backgrounds, sexual preferences, genders, socio-economic classes. The things that Trump was saying in press conferences and debates scared her. Actually frightened her to think of a future where he could make those things happen - where presidential decisions could impact her and the lives of people she cares about. She began to care more and more about the outcome of our presidential election.
It was something that was said that stuck with my daughter, and so many of my women friends in the last few weeks. Trump referred to Hillary Clinton as a "nasty woman." For me, that goes deeper. "Nasty girl" was one of my mother's favorite phrases, along with "dirty girl." Growing up, nasty girls played too much with the boys. They showed too much skin. Any girl who touched herself, pretty much anywhere between the shoulders and the knees, was being nasty. Nasty girls were loud, and opinionated and, well, had better be smart because no man was ever going to want to marry them, and take care of them. I guess I've been a nasty girl pretty much all my life. I guess I'm raising my daughters to be nasty girls too. At least, I hope so.
How confusing is it to be a young woman growing up in a time when it appears that so many doors are open, and yet, there's a giant pit between themselves and the doors? If my mother's version of nasty girls touch themselves, we have a president elect who thinks it's OK to touch other women any way he likes. I hope my own girls know, those are their bodies, and they get to touch their soft bellies and their strong muscles, and their bony feet, and all the things that belong to them. And no one else has the right to ever touch them unless they give permission. And I've made sure they know how to break the arm of anyone who tries. I want my daughters, and all the young women I know, to know that they should be kind, but they should never be silent unless they choose. No one has the right to take away their voice. They have the right to defend those they love, regardless of where they come from or who they love. Skin color is only that, and my nasty girls get it, and how we all need to stick together - not tear one another apart.
I've spent the last three days listening to rants from friends and families, both elated and heart broken over the results of our 2016 presidential election. My own feelings on who should or should not have won don't really matter at this point. I'm not a defeatist, but what is done is done. But now is not the time for those I love to run and hide or hold their voices. It's the time when we most need to love one another, most need to embrace our differences and listen to the words coming from each other. As long as there is an "us" and a "them," we are never going to be strong.
There are issues that we face that are much larger than who is at the apex of our government. And let me say, he's leading our country, so we better hope pretty hard that Trump pulls his shit together and does a decent job of things and gets some smart people in some pretty important offices, because I'm not ready to watch wars start, civil riots break out, or friendships fracture over a giant "I told you so." Nor will I be silent if things do not go well, but what I won't do is use things not going my way or disasters falling as an excuse to hate or to blame or to name call. None of those things are productive. Please, Mr. President-Elect, take a note on that one, because you'll be repping us to the rest of the world. Don't be that nasty boy on the playground calling all the other boys and girls names, just because you think you can. Enough people in this country decided you were their right choice, please rise to that occasion. Prove some of us pleasantly wrong.
With this past election, I've seen so many reminders of the suffragettes of the past, the ladies who laid their own safety and relationships on the line to stand up for their right to vote. This year, women stood in line to put "I voted" stickers on the headstone of Susan B. Anthony, and I like to think she'd be proud, that she's a nasty girl who's saying, "next time, ladies, next time." One friend, who I have dearly loved for most of my life, dressed in her big ass hat, and her pearls, and her ankle length dress and walked down the streets of North Hollywood to her polling station, because she's classy like that. She dressed up to vote, because she is privileged enough to do so, and she paid homage of all those who paved the way for her to be able to do so. Well done, Sammy Kate, well done. And to those lady friends of mine who didn't vote, who thought their voices didn't matter and their opinions didn't count, get your shit together, step it up next time. Educate yourself, stiffen your spine, and understand that your voice matters. There are other parts of the world where no one gets a voice in who their leader will be, and you do, use that power every step of the way.
I was born in the 1970's (yes, that long ago), and despite the advent of NOW, and the sexual revolution, and the long past Vatican II decisions, women were still seen as extensions of their fathers and husbands. I was raised to be educated, but with the expectation that I would never need it, if I just stayed pretty enough and kept my big, opinionated mouth closed long enough. Now I gladly dedicate myself to being a mother and raising my daughters, to be women who I hope DO find love and marry - no matter who that person is, no matter their gender, no matter the color of their skin - but because they want to and never because they think they need to do so. And I want those girls to be nasty girls who sometimes talk a little too loud, who are just smart enough and just skilled enough that they make the boys a little nervous, but are never quite tacky enough to point it out. And I want my nasty girls to know that they can make a difference in the world, in big ways and in small ways, and the only things I expect from them are kindness and understanding, and maybe a little ass kicking when it's absolutely necessary. Educate yourself, and fill your life with compassion - only good things can follow that, no matter how nasty you might be.
I am a single mom, raising two teenage daughters. So many things have terrified me in the last year, so many things wake me up from nightmares these days, because a parent's first and foremost thought is how to keep their children safe. Everything else can be fixed later, just keep your children safe. But I can't keep them safe from knowing all manner of things waiting just outside our front door. For my oldest, legally an adult now, she's becoming more and more aware of the dangers and the inequality of our world. As a young woman, she's startlingly aware of both all her future potentials and the limitations that are placed upon her, sometimes because of her gender. This election season drove so much of that home to her and, in return, to me.
To Katie, neither major candidate was all that appealing, but she did her homework, she recognized the futility of voting third party, and she sided with what she saw as the only logical choice. She was a young woman, voting for the first time, for a woman presidential candidate. That was pretty exciting in itself. As time got closer, there were so many news reports, and we had quite a few late night discussions over those. My daughter values her friends, and those come from a wide scope of minorities, backgrounds, sexual preferences, genders, socio-economic classes. The things that Trump was saying in press conferences and debates scared her. Actually frightened her to think of a future where he could make those things happen - where presidential decisions could impact her and the lives of people she cares about. She began to care more and more about the outcome of our presidential election.
It was something that was said that stuck with my daughter, and so many of my women friends in the last few weeks. Trump referred to Hillary Clinton as a "nasty woman." For me, that goes deeper. "Nasty girl" was one of my mother's favorite phrases, along with "dirty girl." Growing up, nasty girls played too much with the boys. They showed too much skin. Any girl who touched herself, pretty much anywhere between the shoulders and the knees, was being nasty. Nasty girls were loud, and opinionated and, well, had better be smart because no man was ever going to want to marry them, and take care of them. I guess I've been a nasty girl pretty much all my life. I guess I'm raising my daughters to be nasty girls too. At least, I hope so.
How confusing is it to be a young woman growing up in a time when it appears that so many doors are open, and yet, there's a giant pit between themselves and the doors? If my mother's version of nasty girls touch themselves, we have a president elect who thinks it's OK to touch other women any way he likes. I hope my own girls know, those are their bodies, and they get to touch their soft bellies and their strong muscles, and their bony feet, and all the things that belong to them. And no one else has the right to ever touch them unless they give permission. And I've made sure they know how to break the arm of anyone who tries. I want my daughters, and all the young women I know, to know that they should be kind, but they should never be silent unless they choose. No one has the right to take away their voice. They have the right to defend those they love, regardless of where they come from or who they love. Skin color is only that, and my nasty girls get it, and how we all need to stick together - not tear one another apart.
I've spent the last three days listening to rants from friends and families, both elated and heart broken over the results of our 2016 presidential election. My own feelings on who should or should not have won don't really matter at this point. I'm not a defeatist, but what is done is done. But now is not the time for those I love to run and hide or hold their voices. It's the time when we most need to love one another, most need to embrace our differences and listen to the words coming from each other. As long as there is an "us" and a "them," we are never going to be strong.
There are issues that we face that are much larger than who is at the apex of our government. And let me say, he's leading our country, so we better hope pretty hard that Trump pulls his shit together and does a decent job of things and gets some smart people in some pretty important offices, because I'm not ready to watch wars start, civil riots break out, or friendships fracture over a giant "I told you so." Nor will I be silent if things do not go well, but what I won't do is use things not going my way or disasters falling as an excuse to hate or to blame or to name call. None of those things are productive. Please, Mr. President-Elect, take a note on that one, because you'll be repping us to the rest of the world. Don't be that nasty boy on the playground calling all the other boys and girls names, just because you think you can. Enough people in this country decided you were their right choice, please rise to that occasion. Prove some of us pleasantly wrong.
With this past election, I've seen so many reminders of the suffragettes of the past, the ladies who laid their own safety and relationships on the line to stand up for their right to vote. This year, women stood in line to put "I voted" stickers on the headstone of Susan B. Anthony, and I like to think she'd be proud, that she's a nasty girl who's saying, "next time, ladies, next time." One friend, who I have dearly loved for most of my life, dressed in her big ass hat, and her pearls, and her ankle length dress and walked down the streets of North Hollywood to her polling station, because she's classy like that. She dressed up to vote, because she is privileged enough to do so, and she paid homage of all those who paved the way for her to be able to do so. Well done, Sammy Kate, well done. And to those lady friends of mine who didn't vote, who thought their voices didn't matter and their opinions didn't count, get your shit together, step it up next time. Educate yourself, stiffen your spine, and understand that your voice matters. There are other parts of the world where no one gets a voice in who their leader will be, and you do, use that power every step of the way.
I was born in the 1970's (yes, that long ago), and despite the advent of NOW, and the sexual revolution, and the long past Vatican II decisions, women were still seen as extensions of their fathers and husbands. I was raised to be educated, but with the expectation that I would never need it, if I just stayed pretty enough and kept my big, opinionated mouth closed long enough. Now I gladly dedicate myself to being a mother and raising my daughters, to be women who I hope DO find love and marry - no matter who that person is, no matter their gender, no matter the color of their skin - but because they want to and never because they think they need to do so. And I want those girls to be nasty girls who sometimes talk a little too loud, who are just smart enough and just skilled enough that they make the boys a little nervous, but are never quite tacky enough to point it out. And I want my nasty girls to know that they can make a difference in the world, in big ways and in small ways, and the only things I expect from them are kindness and understanding, and maybe a little ass kicking when it's absolutely necessary. Educate yourself, and fill your life with compassion - only good things can follow that, no matter how nasty you might be.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)