August Goals

Well, summer has been great these past 2 months. School starts on the 18th and marching band on the 4th, though, so summer is nearly over. Time for some August goals:
-finish reading The Reason for God
-read at least 2 other books (I used to read a book a day so I know that's possible)
-do 3 art projects I have planned (a quote board, a sketch collage, and a drawing)
-have a good start to marching band and senior year of school
-spend time every day with Jesus
-exercise 5 days a week
-choose colleges to apply to (yikes!)
-drive somewhere that's not in your neighborhood (I NEED to get my license soon but I have such anxiety about driving in general and I need to practice more on real roads going to real places with real traffic)
-make another blog post sometime this month about something a bit deeper than your to-do list
Let's see where I am in 31 days!

Last One

This is my final creative writing blog entry. While I do hope to keep this up over the summer and my senior year, I will no longer be frantically blogging the weekend before they're due. And I hope to have some more thought-through, well-written posts rather than my usual rambles.
Writing has been a solace for me. As much as I hate getting up and hauling my butt to school at 7 AM, this class taught me that sometimes writing is a discipline. I write something every day now. Sometimes a sentence. Sometimes 5 pages. Sometimes crap. Sometimes great. But either way, writing has comforted me and helped me.
Summers aren't always easy. The structureless weeks can seem endless, lonely, and boring. But with friends, books, Netflix, music, and writing, I am sure to be okay.
See you in the fall.

Eva's Dance

“Play it again, Sam.”

           “Okay, Eva,” I said as I pressed my long, thin fingers down on the keys once more. I closed my eyes; I knew the song by heart and didn’t need the sheet music any more, even though it still sat on the music stand before me, the edges frayed and the ink faded from years of use. I knew that behind me, Eva would be swaying to the music, eventually twirling and dancing around the room as the music swelled to a crescendo and then quieted, still and peaceful, like our lives.

           Or the way we wished our lives could be.

I can’t remember the days before my twin sister and I fell ill; perhaps we had always been sick in some way or another. All I remember is our lives after: constant hospital visits and doctor’s appointments, endless tests and medicines and experimental treatments. Countless doctors stood before my parents in waiting rooms as the two of them clung to each other and prayed for good news, longed for a diagnosis, a treatment, a cure, some hope. Well, they got the diagnosis at least: familial pulmonary fibrosis, a disease that caused us to have too much connective tissue built up on our lungs. They suspected a genetic link. Eva and I were four. Our prognosis wasn’t good. The rest of our lives, however shortened the disease had made them, would be filled with medical problems and the subsequent treatments necessary to keep us alive. We would always have difficulties with our lungs and possibly other complications, and since the medicine to counteract the scarring on our lungs suppressed our immune systems, we would have to be extra careful.

           Eva and I had always been close. We were twins, after all. But after our diagnosis, we became inseparable. We were  homeschooled together since kindergarten. We had a few friends from preschool, but whenever we tried to hang out with them, they wanted to run around and play outside. That wasn’t an option for us, so we became each other’s best friend, rarely apart for a minute. Even in the hospital during our many medical treatments, we shared a room. The nurses and doctors always joked that it was like treating one patient with two bodies, since we had the same symptoms and complaints. Today, Eva and I are fifteen.

           “Eva, stop it! You’ll overexert yourself!” My mom’s voice interrupted my thoughts. I stopped playing and turned around on the padded piano bench. Eva and Mom sat on the couch. Eva was wheezing, and Mom had a worried look on her face as she grabbed Eva’s inhaler. “You know you’re not supposed to exercise like that, honey!”

           “But, Mom, I was only dancing!”

           “I know you enjoy it, dear, but your health comes first. It’s not good for your lungs. You’ve got to be able to breathe deeply, so your body gets plenty of oxygen. You know this! I’m sorry you can’t go to dance classes or do a lot of the things the other kids do, but it’s for the best! That’s why we bought the piano, so you and Samantha could have something nice and relaxing to do and stay safe indoors.”

           Indoors. Where Eva and I had spent the majority of each day since our diagnosis. Any venture outside had to be planned in advance, with extra antihistamines taken to prevent any flare-up from the allergens that seemed to attack us the moment we set foot out our front door. Even when we drove to the hospital, we never once spent a moment outside: from the car in the garage attached to our house to the parking deck attached to the hospital and back. Never a breath of air that wasn’t constantly filtered. We were two sisters destined to spend our lives looking out of windows, never participating in any of the activities we so longed to do.

That is, until the day we got the piano. I still remember it clearly. Eva and I were six. We were playing with our dolls when we heard the crunch of gravel on the driveway. We ran to the window and saw a big white delivery truck parked in our front yard. We rushed downstairs, ignoring Mum’s calls not to run and raced to the door just as Daddy opened it to greet the delivery man, who held a clipboard and a pen out for my dad to sign. I caught a hint of a breeze on my face as I quickly leaned outside. Before Daddy nudged me back in, I saw three other men unloading the piano from the back of the truck. They wheeled it up the brick walkway and somehow got it through the front door and into the living room, where it sits today.

From the very beginning, I was enchanted.  The moment they placed the bench before the piano, I was glued to the seat, tracing my fingers lovingly over the smooth ivory keys. Eva, however, showed little interest in playing the piano for herself. All she ever wanted to do was dance to the music.  

           Mom and Dad didn’t like it when she danced. We were supposed to rest most of the time and not elevate our heart rates too much, because then our bodies would demand more oxygen than our lungs could give. I was okay with resting all the time. I even adjusted to rarely ever going outdoors. As long as I had the piano, I was okay. Playing the music made me happy. When I sat before the piano, I was alive. I just knew that when my disease took control and my body stopped being able to fight, I would be one of those angels in heaven making music for all of eternity. Eva, however, wasn’t made to be still. Dance was her catharsis, and since she was my best friend and twin sister, I played the songs for her. It was our little secret.

           “Are you okay now, Eva?” I asked as I walked over to the couch after Mom had left. I sat next to her and gently massaged her back. The dose of corticosteroids had stopped the wheezing, but I knew Mom’s scolding wouldn’t work. She’d want to dance again tomorrow, and the next  day, and the day after that, no matter the consequences.

           “Yeah, I’m fine,” she responded. “I think I’m just going to rest for a while.”

           “What, no more dancing today? Mom’s gone. You know I won’t tell,” I teased.

           “No. No more dancing today!” she snapped. “I could’ve stopped breathing! Sometimes I think you forget how much danger we’re in!” She stormed out of the room and stomped up to our bedroom. I sighed and went back to the piano, blinking back tears.

           “Eva! Samantha! Dinnertime!”  

           “Coming, Mom!” I shouted from the living room. Gathering up the sheet music, I put it in a neat stack, folded the top of the piano down, and turned off the lamp. I met Eva, Mom, and Dad in the kitchen. Eva returned my smile with one of her own. I knew things were right between us.

           After  we finished dinner, cleared the table, and loaded the dishwasher, Eva tugged my sleeve to get my attention. “Yes?” I turned to her.

           “Can we talk?”

           “Sure.”

           Upstairs, we lied side by side on my bed. Eva hugged a stuffed animal to her chest and began. “Sorry for snapping at you earlier. I’m just so scared sometimes. I know we don’t talk about it much so I don’t know about you, but I’m getting worse. Sam, I’ll probably need to use an oxygen tank soon. I won’t be able to dance forever, so I have to while I can. Do you understand that? I have to, but it’s so scary to think that someday soon I won’t be able to.”

           “I understand,” I lied. How could I really? I would always be able to play piano for as long as I could sit on a bench. Oxygen tank or no oxygen tank, my passion would always be accessible. But it wasn’t so for Eva.

           After a moment of silence, I said, “You know, you’ll be dancing in heaven.”

           “I guess so.” She smiled. “Thanks, Sam. You’re the best.” She rolled over on her side and was soon asleep. I moved to her bed and, after an hour or so of tossing and turning, fell asleep as well.

           “Sam, SAM!”

           My eyes flew open. I sat up in bed and saw Eva on the floor, gasping for air. “Sam, get Mom, I can hardly breathe!” I sat down beside her, noticing how her face was getting paler and her eyes more panicked by the second.

           “Mom, something’s wrong with Eva!” I yelled.

           Mom and Dad rushed into the room. “Call 911!” Mom cried as she tossed the cell phone at Dad and grabbed Eva’s inhaler. “Breathe, Eva, just breathe,” she begged. “The medicine’s not working!”

           “The paramedics are on their way right now!” Dad leaned down next to us on the floor.

           The next few minutes were a blur. Eva’s face was turning blue, and she was losing consciousness. Dad went downstairs to let the medics in; they rushed past him and were immediately by her side. They had an oxygen mask on her face and loaded her on a stretcher.

           “No, Eva, NO!” I screamed and rushed to her side. “Eva, no, don’t die, Eva, please, PLEASE!” Dad pulled me back and held my arms behind me when I tried to fight him off. I sobbed into his arms as I watched them take my twin away and cried even harder when I heard the sirens fade away as the ambulance raced down the street.

           After that, there was only numbness. Numbness as Dad carried me to the car and we drove to the hospital. Numbness as we tensely waited in the lobby. Numbness when the doctors told us they were sorry, they had done everything they could, but her weak lungs had been unable to supply enough oxygen to her heart, causing cardiac failure. Numbness during the following days, and numbness now, as we sat in our pastors’ office and planned her funeral.

           “Sam? Sam, honey, did you hear me?”

           I looked up at the pastor. “What?” I responded, not even trying to hide the “just-leave-me-alone” tone of my voice.

           “I was asking if you wanted to play a song or two for the funeral, since Eva enjoyed your music so much.”           

           I couldn’t speak, couldn’t cry. I only nodded.

           Later that day, I sat down at the piano bench. I didn’t lift the cover. I didn’t turn on the lamp. I simply stared at the sheet music in front of me and remembered the last time Eva and I were in this room together. The last time forever.

           And so that’s why, two days later, when the pastor called me up on stage--“And now, a special song from Eva’s sister, Samantha”--I sat down and played the final song that Eva had danced to, because I knew in heaven, she heard me. I knew she was smiling. I knew she was dancing.

    

 

 

           

Battlefield Songs

I received a telegram last night.

I opened it, not knowing what it would say.

My lover a fallen soldier, sacrificed his life that day.

“He died bravely, honorably, won the fight.”

 

I opened my eyes this morning.

Sunlight streamed inside, the birds sung their song.

Don’t they know that I’m in mourning?

Don’t they understand that everything’s all wrong?

 

Today they’ll be sending his body on the train.

Nobody will be here to understand my pain.

But the birds will keep singing when they lay him in the ground,

Their song will guide me to a light I will have found.

For they sing of hope, a song bright and true;

A song that he heard on the battlefield too.

 

 

 

Andrea Gibson

Andrea Gibson is everything I hope to be as a writer.

The Nutritionist

The nutritionist said I should eat root vegetables
Said if I could get down 13 turnips a day
I would be grounded,
rooted.
Said my head would not keep flying away to where the darkness is.
The psychic told me my heart carries too much weight
Said for 20 dollars she’d tell me what to do
I handed her the twenty,
she said “stop worrying darling, you will find a good man soon.”
The first psychotherapist said I should spend 3 hours a day sitting in a dark closet with my eyes closed, with my ears plugged
I tried once but couldn’t stop thinking about how gay it was to be sitting in the closet
The yogi told me to stretch everything but truth,
said focus on the outbreaths,
everyone finds happiness when they can care more about what they can give than what they get
The pharmacist said klonopin, lamictil, lithium, Xanax
The doctor said an antipsychotic might help me forget what the trauma said
The trauma said don’t write this poem
Nobody wants to hear you cry about the grief inside your bones
My bones said “Tyler Clementi dove into the Hudson River convinced he was entirely alone.”
My bones said “write the poem.”
The lamplight.
Considering the river bed.
To the chandelier of your fate hanging by a thread.
To everyday you could not get out of bed.
To the bulls eye on your wrist
To anyone who has ever wanted to die.
I have been told, sometimes, the most healing thing to do-
Is remind ourselves over and over and over
Other people feel this too
The tomorrow that has come and gone
And it has not gotten better
When you are half finished writing that letter to your mother that says “I swear to God I tried”
But when I thought I hit bottom, it started hitting back
There is no bruise like the bruise of loneliness kicks into your spine
So let me tell you I know there are days it looks like the whole world is dancing in the streets when you break down like the doors of the looted buildings
You are not alone and wondering who will be convicted of the crime of insisting you keep loading your grief into the chamber of your shame
You are not weak just because your heart feels so heavy
I have never met a heavy heart that wasn’t a phone booth with a red cape inside
Some people will never understand the kind of superpower it takes for some people to just walk outside
Some days I know my smile looks like the gutter of a falling house
But my hands are always holding tight to the ripchord of believing
A life can be rich like the soil
Can make food of decay
Can turn wound into highway
Pick me up in a truck with that bumper sticker that says
“it is no measure of good health to be well adjusted to a sick society”
I have never trusted anyone with the pulled back bow of my spine the way I trusted ones who come undone at the throat
Screaming for their pulses to find the fight to pound
Four nights before Tyler Clementi jumped from the George Washington bridge I was sitting in a hotel room in my own town
Calculating exactly what I had to swallow to keep a bottle of sleeping pills down
What I know about living is the pain is never just ours
Every time I hurt I know the wound is an echo
So I keep a listening to the moment the grief becomes a window
When I can see what I couldn’t see before,
through the glass of my most battered dream, I watched a dandelion lose its mind in the wind
and when it did, it scattered a thousand seeds.
So the next time I tell you how easily I come out of my skin, don’t try to put me back in
just say here we are together at the window aching for it to all get better
but knowing as bad as it hurts our hearts may have only just skinned their knees knowing there is a chance the worst day might still be coming
let me say right now for the record, I’m still gonna be here
asking this world to dance, even if it keeps stepping on my holy feet
you- you stay here with me, okay?
You stay here with me.
Raising your bite against the bitter dark
Your bright longing
Your brilliant fists of loss
Friend

if the only thing we have to gain in staying is each other,
my god that’s plenty
my god that’s enough
my god that is so so much for the light to give
each of us at each other’s backs whispering over and over and over
“Live”
“Live”
“Live”

Car Radio

Because I feel the need to post these lyrics. Car Radio by Twenty-One Pilots.

I ponder of something great
My lungs will fill and then deflate
They fill with fire
Exhale desire
I know it's dire
My time today

I have these thoughts
So often I ought
To replace that slot
With what I once bought'Cause somebody stole
My car radio
And now I just sit in silence

Sometimes quiet is violent
I find it hard to hide it
My pride is no longer inside
It's on my sleeve
My skin will scream
Reminding me of
Who I killed inside my dream
I hate this car that I'm driving
There's no hiding for me
I'm forced to deal with what I feel
There is no distraction to mask what is real
I could pull the steering wheel

I have these thoughts
So often I ought
To replace that slot
With what I once bought
'Cause somebody stole
My car radio
And now I just sit in silenceI ponder of something terrifying
'Cause this time there's no sound to hide behind
I find over the course of our human existence
One thing consists of consistence
And it's that we're all battling fear
Oh dear, I don't know if we know why we're here
Oh my,
Too deep
Please stop thinking
I liked it better when my car had sound

There are things we can do
But from the things that work there are only two
And from the two that we choose to do
Peace will win
And fear will lose
There's faith and there's sleep
We need to pick one please because
Faith is to be awake
And to be awake is for us to think
And for us to think is to be alive
And I will try with every rhyme
To come across like I am dying
To let you know you need to try to think

I have these thoughts
So often I ought
To replace that slot
With what I once bought
'Cause somebody stole
My car radio
And now I just sit in silence

I ponder of something great
My lungs will fill and then deflate
They fill with fire
Exhale desire
I know it's dire
My time today

I have these thoughts
So often I ought
To replace that slot
With what I once bought
'Cause somebody stole
My car radio
And now I just sit in silence

 

 

Europe

So in approximately one year I will be heading off to Europe with my friends and some classmates that I tolerate and call acquaintances. It'll be a wonderful time and we will be there for about 10 days. I looked at the itinerary today and I'm really excited. We go to London and Paris and Rome and probably some other places I can't remember. I'm really looking forward to the Eiffel Tower. I am pretty much in love with the Eiffel tower and yes this is an exciting thing. But what I'm really looking forward to is seeing Les Miserables. When I saw that on the schedule I literally started crying out of happiness and running around my house (yes that is a thing that happened) and listening to the various soundtracks and singing in the showers and I'm probably going to cry throughout the entire show whilst fangirling because yes. Les Mis. In Europe. Is a thing. That is going to happen in my life in less than a year.

Motivation

I have 7 more blogs to do, some math problems, and 2/3 of an essay to write before tomorrow. It's almost 7 PM and I have no motivation to get any of it done. I kind of just want to lie in bed and do anything else but I have to get this done.
And then when I get home tomorrow I have to study for my history exam on Tuesday and then when I get home on Tuesday I have to study for my math exam on Wednesday and then after that I have to study for the SAT on Saturday and then I'm free. But not really because next Tuesday I'm getting my wisdom teeth taken out and I'll have to recover from that which will not be fun so...there goes the first week of my summer. At least I can lie in bed and read and watch TV shows and be lazy and drink milkshakes.
On to more interesting things, I've been listening to Car Radio by Twenty-One Pilots for the last 3 days and it is so much more than a song it is like a religious experience and words cannot describe it and yeah, I swear if it weren't for music I wouldn't be here. Music keeps me sane when other things can't.
The little things in life are important. Including finishing my homework and going to bed.

The Jesus Agenda

Every Sunday, I go to church, sit through 3 hours of youth group and a sermon, and return home, very confused and a bit sad. I thought Christianity was about following Jesus. I thought Jesus was all about loving others. Therefore, shouldn't Christianity be all about loving others?
Then why don't I see it at the very place that bears His name in its title?
I see judgment. I see a bunch of people who are very alike and a few who are very different. I see the many casting judgment on the few. I see the many casting judgment on each other and on themselves and I don't think God meant for things to be this way. I think He meant for church to be a safe place for anyone to be able to go. I think He meant for us to love Him and others and ourselves and for that to be what's very important. Let God do the judging.
I listen to sermons and come away with the sense that this Christian life is very restrictive, with all these rules and regulations about what you can and can't do in order to be "holy" and "set apart". You have to be really careful with what you watch and what you listen to and you can't cuss and it's dangerous to hang around non-believers and no, you can't ever do things just for yourself because that's selfish and you have to read your Bible every day and pray like all the time and go to church at least every week and volunteer and go up to people and tell them about Jesus.
Last thing I heard, all you had to do was believe.
Just believe.
This is the God I believe in, the God who just wants everyone to believe in Him and acknowledge how awesome He is by doing stuff to love other people because they love Him and He loves them. The God who doesn't focus on building your life inside a "Christian environment" but focuses on spreading the message about Him to the world. The God who just wants us to love everybody we can because that's what He did.
John Muir said it well: "I'd rather be in the mountains thinking of God, than in a church pew thinking of the mountains."
And so, no, I will not be a "Christian girl". I was not made to read devotional books and frequent Lifeway and listen to K-Love and Instagram pictures of my modest yet fashionable outfits. Not that any of those things are bad. They just aren't me. And if you say that you can only connect with God through a certain step-by-step way, well then, I think that limits God. A God of infinite limitless power.
And so, what I will be is a Christ-follower who relies on Him, a Jesus-imitator who tries to love people.

Aquarium

At the aquarium, I wander from tank to tank, watching the fish swim back and forth. I wonder what they're thinking, if they can think. I wonder if they miss the ocean, if they're lost like Nemo was, or if they never knew any different. But most of all, I envy them, because they can't know what it's like to drown.
And I wish my lungs were gills, because maybe then I wouldn't be drowning in waves and waves of self-pity. Maybe then I would know how to swim. Maybe then I wouldn't feel lost in this great big ocean that is life.
But my lungs are just lungs and they do not know how to carry on underwater. They burn and they fail me and suddenly I am coughing, drowning. I need oxygen. Without it I can't breathe. Maybe the fish will show me how.
I sit at the bottom, on the ocean floor of life and I wonder how I got here. How I arrived at this hostile environment where a two-lunged no-gilled human like me cannot possibly survive. And then I realize, I'm the only one making myself stay.
It takes pushing away from the bottom, swimming upwards towards that ever-hopeful light, breaking through the barrier, gasping for breath, to realize that you knew how to swim all along.
Just keep swimming.

What is Rock Bottom, Really?

I think that I've already hit rock bottom. I thought that when I was eleven and suddenly found it harder than usual to be happy. I thought that when I was twelve and I believed that pain on the outside would make pain on the inside go away. I thought that when I was thirteen and I sat on the floor of my room and wrote poem after poem about how much I wanted to die. I thought that when I was fourteen and felt like my heart must be forty because why else would I be having a midlife crisis? I thought that when I was fifteen and felt as if my experiences with depression had alienated me from the outside world, as if I could no longer relate to people my age who cared about the trivial. I thought that when I was sixteen when my chronic pain turned into a chronic illness diagnosis.
That makes six times in six years that I have hit rock bottom and gotten up again. Maybe I like a battered, bruised bird with a broken wing, still trying to fly. And this world keeps pushing me back down. But I tell you, I will fly one day. I will keep trying.
The interesting thing about rock bottom is that once you get there, there's nowhere else to go but up. You can stay there, of course, but I've never been able to keep still for long.
But it's also scary, to realize that this may not have been the worst, that life may have even more troubles for me down the road. But I'll figure out what to do when I come to them, and I'll pick myself up again. If and when that time comes, I'll still be here, trying to fly.
And someday, someday I'll take off, and I will.

Ramblings

Some people spend the whole week waiting for the weekend, or the whole school year waiting for summer. Me? I don't know what I'm waiting for, just that I always am.
Lana Del Rey said it right when she called it summertime sadness. But maybe what it really is is always sadness. Maybe everyone is always sad. Maybe everyone is always searching. Maybe all these things that make them say, "Oh, I'm so happy" are merely distractions. And when they're all alone and they can't sleep, they realize how empty they really are. And how everything they used to fill themselves up is really nothing.
Maybe I want more than this. Maybe I want more than nothing. I'm not looking forward to summer, because summer has always meant days filled with nothing, and I need to live. I need to really live.
Maybe it's true, that you have to give meaning to your own life. Maybe we're all a little bit crazy, and the ones labeled "insane" are the ones who stopped trying to distract themselves. Maybe the ones trying to recover from that insanity are the only ones learning how to actually deal with life and fill the emptiness without the distractions. Maybe, we really are amusing ourselves to death, and maybe we're all cowards in this brave new world.
I know I've been conditioned. You have, too. Conditioned to think it's all fine and we're all okay, that society is doing great and moving forwards. None of that is really true. But realizing this and breaking free from it are two very different things.
What I know is that I don't want to wait any longer. I want to read and write and learn and work and live and love and laugh and dance and run and play and sing and listen and see, touch, smell, taste, experience my world around me. I think I can do anything. I know I can do anything, even something as seemingly impossible as be okay. I know I can be okay.
Maybe sometimes I'll spend the whole night reaching out longingly to that green light. But what is true is that I will find what I am looking for, and at the end of the day, the season, the year, I will still be here. Amen. Amen. Amen.

Maya Angelou

Maya Angelou is no longer with us, and this makes me very sad. Her presence in this world was as a wonderfully influential woman. Her books have changed lives, offered words of hope and courage to all who read them.
Yes, as a black (African-American? What's the politically correct term these days?) woman, her words were  written to her fellow black people. But I think we can all take something away from her words of wisdom that instilled hope into their lives. I think that we all need to understand the racism that still perpetuates our society in order to do anything about it. (And yes, I do believe we need to do something about it.)
Anyway, back to Maya Angelou. Her life is sure to leave behind a legacy that only happens every so often. I would like to think that God allows people who have made a special mark on the world to become stars in the sky. Maya would make a beautiful star.
Remember when Michael Jackson died? And how every radio started playing his songs, stores sold out of his albums because people rushed to buy them, people hung posters in their rooms and schools did concerts and they even made a movie? I hope the same hype happens over Maya, that bookstores need to order more copies because there's such a high demand, that her poems will be searched for on Google, that people will hang posters in their rooms and English classes will teach about her and students will recite her poems at speech meets.
I hope she is honored.
I hope she is remembered.

Why I Need Feminism

I need feminism because I am a teenage girl becoming a woman in a world that is not safe for me.
I need feminism because in ten years when I have a job, my paycheck will be less than my male coworkers', simply because I am female.
I need feminism because everywhere I go, whether it is school or church or even just out shopping, I am told to cover up much of my skin so I'm "not a distraction."
I need feminism because my parents tell me at least once a week to "never go anywhere by myself" when I'm in college. "Especially not at night."
I need feminism because when I meet a guy, I automatically feel like I cannot trust them. Even if they're nice. Especially if they're nice.
I need feminism because in 225 years of US presidents, every single one of them has been a man, and maybe I'm tired of studying men all the time in my history class, maybe I'm ready to vote for the woman on the ballot even if I don't agree with her views because I am ready to see my gender represented.
But these things only affect me, and I'm not the one who needs feminism the most.
Over 200 girls in Nigeria need feminism because they were taken from their families and their lives while they were at school, trying to get an education so they could secure a safe future for themselves in an unstable country.
Six people in Santa Barbara need feminism because a young man went on a premeditated killing spree over his anger about women. Because he thought he had a right to "have" women.
The 20 percent of the American female population that will, statistically speaking, be a victim of rape at least once in their lifetime need feminism, because too many men don't know what the words "no" and "stop" mean. (Really, do we want these men driving on our roads and highways if they can't understand the word "stop"? That sounds pretty dangerous to me.)
If 20 percent isn't enough for you, consider the fact that that's just in the United States. That it doesn't factor in the number of women who have been stalked, threatened, or harassed.
Colleges offer self-defense classes for women. Self-defense tools and pepper spray come in cute keychain forms. But when are men told simply not to rape? What college offers a class that teaches men how to not rape, teaches men how to stand up for women who are?
I need feminism because this is my world, too.

The Shattered Vase

The day I first saw you, I thought, “Wow, how beautiful.”

And that night my confused young  heart cried

Because I knew you would never notice me.

They call it a crush, because it doesn’t just break your heart,

It shatters it, as if the four chambers and all their valves and ventricles

Are pieces of a fragile vase, that the dog accidentally knocked over onto the floor.

 

I have since learned that I only want what I cannot have.

 

The day we became friends,

My slightly less confused but still vulnerable heart felt so much joy

Because finally I could love you in a way that wouldn’t break me.

And when I loved you like this, almost immediately,

No more crush. No more shattered heart.

 

Maybe because I’m shy, or maybe just messed-up,

But my relationships with people had always been tainted with confusion. 

They aren’t now, but back then, I went through the beginnings of my teenage life

Not understanding a single thing about what was going on, or what I felt.

I wasn’t confused about you, or me, or us. 

You were mine, and that always meant friend, safe person.

 

The psychologist said that I was afraid of people leaving me.

That I was afraid of saying, “I need you,” to anyone.

And so I pushed people away.

Because as long as I had people I would need them.

I hated needing, hated the feeling that I was not enough on my own

While simultaneously feeling like there was too much of me.

The more I pushed people away, the more I desperately craved them.

 

I wanted validation. Affection from people.

Not attention, because that implies scrutiny, and I hate being scrutinized.

 More of something that said, “You are worthy and deserving of my love and care.” 

 

I was scared, as I am now, that I would lose that something.

For the most part, my worries have proved in vain. People have not left.

But you have. You’re still here, but you’ve left, which is even harder.

You don’t even realize you’re gone.

You think I am all grown up, and I don’t need you anymore.

Well, I do. I need you and I hate every moment of that need.

Because I feel invalidated.  I feel unworthy. And then I feel stupid, because of course that’s not true.

But I want it anyway. And then I feel horrible and selfish. Maybe I am.

But, “I need you. I need you. I need you.”

 

When I dreamed of this, I imagined consistency.

I imagined that I would be important to you.

I am your hello in the hallways.

I am your occasional text message conversation.

 

It would hurt less if you were trying to hurt me.

It’s easy to push away people when they are trying to hurt you.

But see, that’s the thing. You love me. I can’t push that away.

Whatever we do have, it’s better than nothing at all.

 

It would hurt less if you did this to everyone.

But no, you have your people. And I do not seem to be one of them.

But of course, I still am. Of course, I’m being stupid.

We have our thing. We have our friendship. And isn’t it wonderful?

Then why do I feel like I am

Only a second-class citizen in your world?

 

The thing that makes me feel so selfish about all of this,

Is that you are so happy. You have everything,

All that you could ever want.

You have all of these things and how could you possibly need me?

I don’t have any of it and how could I possibly not need you?

 

This letter isn’t supposed to make you change anything. I’m fine with things the way they are.

This letter is to let you know how I feel about it. So I’m not lying anymore.

But the scary thing is, I don’t think things will change.

I know if I died, you would miss me and you would cry.

But don’t worry. I would never kill myself over my own selfish invalidated feelings.

 

But if we didn’t have whatever we do have,

If I wasn’t your hello and your occasional text

Would you miss it? Would you try to get it back?

Would you need it? Or would the others be enough for you, so you didn’t need me?

Would I be another forgotten one?

Don’t worry. I won’t play hard to get.

Partially because it’s not in my nature, but mostly because I’m afraid you wouldn’t try to come after me.

 

I’m afraid you wouldn’t even notice.

You have everyone you need in your world.

There is no room for me.

 

You gave me so much in the beginning, and all I wanted to do was return the favor.

I watched you need things, and go somewhere else to find them.

I was always there. I’m always here.

 

You should know that this is not a good-bye poem.

I will still be all those things that I try to be for you.

I will still try to contact you, and pretend it doesn’t hurt when you don’t answer.

When the darkness comes, I will still be there, just like before.

I want you to know I’m not going anywhere.

 

But people say that when you feel something, you shouldn’t keep it inside.

You should say it.

I tried, God I did. But a crowded hallway is not the place, and a text message is not the medium,

And our time alone felt too precious to spoil.

 

You said once you liked poems because they showed that the person spent time thinking about the subject.

Well here. Have this poem.

The time spent on this is only a fraction of the time I spent thinking about you.

 

So I’m sorry, if I need more than you have to give. I’m sorry, if there’s not enough room for me.

I’m sorry, I know, I’m being stupid. But I think that my feelings have validation.

 I think it’s time you knew

The vase is falling.

Catch it, if you so desire. Place it back on the table and be gentle.

Pick it up when it falls and breaks and spend hours gluing it together again.

Sweep up the shattered pieces and throw them in the garbage, because it was never that pretty anyway.

I am shattering.