HUMMINGBIRDS IN WINTER
When Texas froze over, with power failures across the state, my mother boiled water—not just for herself, but for two companions: a pair of Rufous Hummingbirds.
When Texas froze over, with power failures across the state, my mother boiled water—not just for herself, but for two companions: a pair of Rufous Hummingbirds.
Every day, during my time visiting over Christmas, the little birds flew to the bright plastic flowers and fed on the sugar water she’d so diligently prepared. A small part of normalcy in an all too abnormal world, I could trust the birds to keep my parents company while I was hundreds of miles away.
When we lived in Oregon, and every summer was spent with doors and windows wide open, we’d find hummingbirds stuck in our skylight. Buzzing wildly like blossoming beetles, I’d try to catch them with a net, hoping not to damage their delicate little wings. But as soon as they escaped into the open air, they zoomed out of sight, the moment already miles behind them.
Hummingbirds are resilient, but to keep their tiny hearts pulsing at 1,260 beats a minute, they need a constant supply of nectar. For nectar, you need flowers, and for flowers, you need warmth. In lieu of all those things, you need my mother: the most gifted green thumb I’ve ever known.
Typically, Rufous hummingbirds have the longest migration routes of their kind, traveling up to 3,000 miles to winter-over in Mexico. But these two stragglers had stayed behind, basking in the Texas sun of my parents’ backyard until the weather turned, and the state saw its coldest temperatures in decades. While millions of homes lost heat and power, a crisis intensified by our already crippling pandemic, my mother focused on the hummingbirds—in isolation, this was one thing she could help.
Every few hours without fail, she checked that the hummingbird feeders were full and defrosted, topping them off with fresh sugar water whenever necessary. She recorded every sighting of the two birds, noting their movements and size. There was something so desperate and heartbreaking to see them zip between the snowflakes, hide under the eaves, bristle and puff up their feathers in the frost.
Then, no sightings for days. When Friday came, only one hummingbird visited the feeder: the female. After feeding, she zoomed away, and the next day, the weather began to warm. Electricity returned, though the boil notice remained. My mother assessed the damage to her garden, and lifting a tarp, she found the male Rufous hummingbird, unmoving. Cradling his small body, she hoped in the warmth he would spring back to life. It’s strange to see something so animated lying so still. But after a day of waiting, he didn’t budge.
On that same day, we found out that half a million lives have been lost to COVID-19. Human beings can't process numbers like 500,000. At a certain point, the weight of each life lessens as the number grows. Yet the impact of this little hummingbird was enough to make it all come crashing down, and my heart hurt for hers.
At times like this, it’s important to remember that winter doesn’t last forever. As the ice melted, my mother caught sight of the elusive female hummingbird, flying through the air. Maybe she was hightailing it south to warmer pastures, beckoned by her natural instinct. Or maybe she’d found a new home on her own. But the sight of her still thriving was one of resilience and hope—both things we needed more than we knew.
THIS IMMIGRANT VOTED
The most expensive credit card purchase I’ve ever made was $725 to the U.S. Department of Homeland Security, and it was a charge that would change the course of my life.
The most expensive credit card purchase I’ve ever made was $725 to the U.S. Department of Homeland Security, and it was a charge that would change the course of my life. This was the price for my first step toward citizenship.
With it, I submitted my N-400, the 10-page naturalization form to prove that I was worthy to be a citizen of the country I’d lived in for just short of 20 years. It’s a form I’ve started and stopped countless times in the past. At 20, I became eligible to apply, yet I sat on the decision for six more years. I'd think, I should just wait until we can start the process as a family. Or, If I move back to the UK, I’ll just have to pay double the taxes. Or even, How do people afford this application fee?? (It wasn’t until 2015 that USCIS began accepting credit card payments). But one thing was clear; under this current administration, there was no more time to stall. And now, this administration is bumping up the price of admission for simply applying to be a citizen to $1,160—an 81% increase.
For some, you must compound that with the additional cost of having a lawyer represent your case, as my family did when we originally came here. We shame immigrants for not taking measures to become naturalized, and yet we make it harder and harder to do so, despite that fact that the majority of us were, at one point, immigrants ourselves. For my parents who had hoped earlier this year to follow my lead in citizenship, the pandemic and further bureaucratic delays will continue to keep their votes out of reach this election. Votes that could have made a difference in their small town in Texas. It hurts.
I so, so badly wanted the representation promised with taxation. I was infuriated by those who had the ability to vote and chose not to, or essentially threw their votes away. I’ve lived in apartments before where prior residents’ mail-in ballots were sent to my door. I’d look at the envelope, their name, and think, what if? Would they even miss it?
Since my family became green card holders in 2002, the government has had my picture, my fingerprints, my signature, my skin/hair/eye color, and even scans of my irises. They have known everywhere I have ever lived and every job I’ve ever held. In turn, they gave me the opportunity to grow up in this country, and pay $540 every 10 years to have that right renewed. Any time my brother or I had a brush with bad behavior, we were reminded that our place here was not guaranteed. Freshman year of high school, I was joyriding in the back of a friend’s convertible, pulled over going 100+ mph. And besides the obvious danger of the situation, I was presented with a new vulnerability; any blemish on my record would make it that much harder to prove I deserved to be here. Anything more drastic could lead to my deportation to a place I hardly knew anymore.
This disconnect of being raised in the U.S but never fully feeling American made me especially cynical of U.S. politics. There’s nothing quite like sitting through your first Pledge of Allegiance, aghast at the collective reciting, but you catch on as you desperately try to assimilate. Every elected official I’d ever known seemed so far removed from their immigrant background and any empathy tied to it, whether Republican or Democrat. I don’t blame them; being born abroad, first generation, or even faintly pro-immigrant can be political suicide. It’s almost as if your legitimacy and allegiance can immediately be called into question if you can’t trace your lineage back to the founding fathers. Any foreignness is seen as a red flag. Consider the conspiracy theories around Obama’s natural-born right to presidency; these rumors spurred essentially because he wasn’t white and didn’t have a traditional English name. Then examine Ted Cruz, who was indeed born in a different country, yet no one challenged his claim to presidential candidacy.
To this point, I never felt truly represented, and learning about America’s dark past made me feel the need to distance myself even more. (Note: Great Britain also has such a brutal imperialist history, but we spent only about two weeks studying it in school.) A big part of me longed for the motherland we’d left behind, and I wondered whether I’d feel more complete there. I had an idealized version of my head of what it would be like to live there where I belonged. But the older I grew and the more time I spent abroad, the more I realized I was more American than anything else. This was my home, and it was about time to have a voice in how it was run.
Marching to the Utah State Capitol. Photo by Tamarra Kemsley.
In 2017, following Trump’s “Muslim ban”, I marched with friends in Salt Lake City in a rally for refugees and immigrants. I walked alongside my friend Nicole’s mother, who had come to the U.S. as a refugee from Poland. I shared my current situation with her which she met with wide, sobering eyes. She warned me that I shouldn’t wait another day because we had no idea what this administration would do next. That was my first real “Oh shit” moment—that without even realizing, I was marching for my own right to reside here. I recognized that even with a green card, I wasn’t as safe as I thought.
Fast forward a year. I conceded to the cost and dug deep into the N-400. The form makes you list every residence you’ve lived at for the past 5 years. You must also list every time you’ve left the country, and for how long. There are questions like, Have you ever tried to overthrow a government? Have you ever been a prostitute? Are you an active member of the communist party? Between March 23, 1933 and May 8, 1945, did you work with the Nazi government of Germany? And my favorite, Have you ever been a habitual drunkard? I can’t make this up. All these questions can be dealbreakers.
You must list any association, club, society, etc. that you have ever been a part of, and no matter your gender, you must agree to bear arms or provide non-combative services in the armed forces. If you disagree, you must explain and provide documentation to back your case.
Once the form is submitted, your next step is a biometrics appointment where they once again take your picture, fingerprints, and signature. To enter the building for these steps, you must go through a metal detector and keep all electronics off for the entire duration. Then you wait (and wait, and wait…) for your interview, which includes your English comprehension test, a review of your application, the results of a thorough background check, and of course, the famous civics exam. This was the first exam I’d studied for in years, and arguably the most important test of my life. There are 100 questions to study, 10 of which are asked. You must answer at least 6 correctly. If you fail, you only have one more chance to retry.
Can you name the U.S. territories? How long does a U.S. senator serve? How many members are there in the House of Representatives? What are two cabinet-level positions? Who wrote the Federalist Papers?
If you’re stumped on any of these, don’t worry (unless you’re an immigrant). Apparently two-thirds of Americans would fail this test. Even with the kindest of interviewers, it’s a nerve-wracking process. But being told that you’ve passed… It’s the biggest sigh of relief I’ve had in my life.
Strutting to accept my naturalization certificate.
The following year, my first oath ceremony was canceled due to snow (thanks, Vermont). For the second, I asked two of my closest friends, Anna and Jackie, to attend as my surrogate family (and even borrowed Jackie’s blazer for the event). It’s surreal, taking a long lunch from work to become an American citizen. And honestly, it was a moving, emotional experience, standing in the courtroom pews with two dozen brand new Americans. The judge spoke to the incredible impacts immigrants have made in our country, from monumental inventions to philanthropic efforts to medical and scientific discoveries, and shared how we too have the power to better our nation. I was one of two white immigrants seated, and the only native English speaker. Even in Burlington, I was surrounded by people from Nepal, China, Papua New Guinea, Sri Lanka, Sudan, Chile, so many different places and different walks of life.
The Oath of Allegiance to swear us in as citizens.
It’s this realization at every step of the process that’s made me check my incredible privilege. Growing up, people were always shocked to hear I wasn’t a citizen because 1) I speak and sound fluently American, and 2) my skin is white. They had no reason to question my nationality because of those facts. There were lots of things new to my family that I’d figured out myself, paving the way for my younger brother: SATs, driving exams, applying to college, securing student loans, and now, citizenship. I can’t imagine approaching these rites of passage with additional intersections stacked against me. At the mildest inflection of an accent or tint of melanin, my nationality could be doubted. Instead, unintentionally, my white skin became camouflage for me to move through a highly inefficient and, at times, very subjective system with relative ease. It felt like every person next to me that day worked harder to get there and yet at this moment, we were all equals. There would always be other places we were from, but no longer other places we called home. By becoming citizens, we’d resigned our prior allegiances and embraced this country as our own with the hope that it would embrace us too.
On October 17th, 2020, I voted in my first presidential election. I am the first in my family to do so. Pitt and I dropped our ballots directly into the ballot drop box, with its bright stars and stripes, and all around, people were doing the same. People were lined up at the City Hall polls next door for early voting. Spirits were high, even if we’re not sure what will happen come two weeks' time. And with so many things canceled or postponed this year, I can’t find the words to describe this feeling. Fulfillment? Relief? Maybe even pride? This year has been riddled with uncertainty and hopelessness, yet it felt so, so good to be part of something bigger.
Bottom line: Never, ever take your vote and voice for granted. Some spend so much of their lives chasing that opportunity only to have the carrot dangled further and further away. And yes, we’re all aware of the tangled mess of this country, and its flawed political and electoral system. But we still have power, and it’s never been more important to use it. After all, it’s your right. And now, it’s mine too.
DEAR BODY, I'M SORRY
“It’s easier to love yourself when there is less of you to love.”
You don’t take up as much room. You feel less self-conscious about the things you eat around other people, the clothes you wear, the volume of your voice and brazenness of your attitude. As if just by being bigger, just being, you offend people. And it is near impossible to shed that feeling deep down without shedding the weight that made it so. But even years ago, when I weighed far less, I constantly felt ugly and inadequate. I wish now I could reach back and shake myself, but if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that you can’t force self-love.
“It’s easier to love yourself when there is less of you to love.”
You don’t take up as much room. You feel less self-conscious about the things you eat around other people, the clothes you wear, the volume of your voice and brazenness of your attitude. As if just by being bigger, just being, you offend people. And it is near impossible to shed that feeling deep down without shedding the weight that made it so. But even years ago, when I weighed far less, I constantly felt ugly and inadequate. I wish now I could reach back and shake myself, but if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that you can’t force self-love.
I’ve had a complicated relationship with my body from a young age. I sprung from the awkward preteen years of growing breasts too fast and hips too wide and decided this would be a phenomenal time to start ballet, where my curves and broad shoulders had no place in a leotard. But I wanted to build stage presence, better my posture, and hopefully embody some kind of girlish grace that I’d been chasing for years.
My biggest assets were my long, steady legs, and striking arches that never quit on pointe. Every other trait worked against me, and the constant dysphoria of my clumsy form in this beautiful setting kept me hiding myself under layers of clothing, even when I was hot and uncomfortable.
Despite my oddities, I worked hard and grew stronger, and I was invited to join our dance company for year-round performances. Ballet became part of me, and my whole heart lived for the beauty of the music and the delicate movements that accompanied it. And while my self-assurance should have grown with my skills, it opened up a new abyss of insecurity which can be encapsulated entirely in the phrase “Monthly Weigh-Ins”.
Stretching before a show.
We were never punished for our shortcomings. This wasn’t some tyrannical studio saddled with cutthroat competition, although it wasn’t without its disordered eating. There were girls I danced with who survived off a single apple a day, or some days, just several cups of coffee. One of our principal dancers passed away abruptly, and the cause of death was never clear. Yet these were not warning signs to me; I internalized the pressure said and unsaid to be slim and took it to a whole new degree. Every month, 125 pounds was the limit, no matter your height or age. Every month, I stepped on the scale, and every month I prayed it would read a number to make me proud, that abstaining from food for the past two days would have magically worked. (I found out quickly that it doesn’t, and neither does vomiting either.) The best weigh-in day I had was when our instructor misread the scale, and thought it read “121” instead of “131”. She congratulated and cheered me. I felt like I’d cheated death.
With that “new low” came a reward: the chance to dance with a partner. I swooned at the thrill of accompaniment, of feeling feminine and “good enough” to be there. Having my partner’s hands on my hips to lift me higher in my jumps, or turn fouetté turn after fouetté turn with perfect ease—I was elated, if only for a short while. I scrutinized his face for the slightest hint of a struggle, for the signal that I was too heavy, too lumbering to live up to this.
At another rehearsal, our beloved instructor had our star dancer and I stand side-by-side. It was to show how my legs were just as long as hers, if not longer—some strange way to build morale, as if I too could aspire to look like her one day. But seeing our shapes pitted together devastated me. Her, near 20 and an elegant, slender prima ballerina, vs. me, 13, a lumpy, freckled imposter in a Looney Tunes t-shirt and pink tights that only inflated my thighs. Little moments like these quietly ate away at my confidence and carefree attitude. Little comments about muffin tops, the constant reminders to suck in, and my fellow, gorgeous doll-like dancers pointing out their slightest flaws made mine feel impossible to ignore.
While I truly loved being on stage, I hated seeing myself in photos and videos afterward; I looked so out of place. I reached a point eventually where I knew I’d either have to commit my life to this futile pursuit or leave it behind, and following our final performance before I turned 17, I didn’t return to ballet. Our instructor called my house, and I never picked up. Eventually, too much time had passed to make polite amends and I simply buried the shame and moved on with my life.
Even after breaking up with ballet, I still obsessed over my appearance, as many teenage girls do. I poured hours into my eyeliner and straightening my hair every morning. Between that and my easy-going attitude, I hoped that something appealed to people. I even found out that one of my closest friends in high school had a thing for me, which made a jab from one of his friends hurt even more:
“Why her? She’s kinda fat and weird.”
This was said by a boy I’d known since elementary school. He’d reduced my entire existence to “kinda fat and weird”. The word “fat” itself felt like a curse word, whether or not it was true, and it’s taken me years to realize that it’s not. If a friend of mine ever called themselves fat, I impulsively denied it. Because that’s what (I thought) friends do. But instead of “No, you’re not!”, I should have been saying, “Why does it matter? You’re beautiful.”
When you’ve felt like this your whole life, the word “skinny” feels like heroin. It’s a simple, often well-intended compliment that helps foster a weight-obsessed society where someone’s worth is defined by their shape—something that has no indication of fitness at face value. If someone’s skinniness is due to self-starvation, addiction, depression, or other illness, is that really the ideal we want to enforce in one another?
College gave me a chance to meet all new people who had never known my past, but it was definitely a place of first impressions. My freshman year, I went out and watched as men flocked to my two best friends like moths to a lamp. Meanwhile, my game was to try and make conversation—something that’s fraught at frat parties. What could I change? The answer always fell to my weight, and I was always trying to find a quick fix for it. One month, I tried taking diet pills I found online to give me an edge; instead, they gave me hives and tremors so bad I couldn’t hold a pen.
I survived on $100 monthly grocery budgets those first couple years and shift meals from my café job. Between work, school, and extracurriculars over the years—magazines, organizations, unpaid internships I was a part of—I was busy 12-14 hours a day. I got sick often, outgrew my clothes, and before I knew it, I’d gained over 20 pounds since starting college. However, this a familiar story for many young people. I accepted it and bought more pairs of leggings.
After graduating, I was on my own. I moved states and dove headfirst professionally, launching my career while letting go of everything I’d ever known. With a long-distance relationship and few friends around, I started working out more as a way to fend off the loneliness. It was something that took up time, and that took away my worry. I ate less, and I ate alone, rarely venturing out of my bedroom or away from my office desk for meals. For the first time in my life, I received compliments for losing weight, and I kept craving more. Then, as summer came to a close, I went through heartbreak. I coped with the guilt through heavy drinking and tumbled into a dark, depressive period, undoing any progress I’d made toward a “healthy” ideal.
A portrait by Chloe Brobst, shot on film.
Months past and I met someone new. Someone who really loved to cook. Something shifted in me; I entered a whole new love affair with food, and with life. Me, who shied away from spicy foods, blue cheese, pickled things, anything fishy beyond a California roll was now dousing stir fry in sriracha and ordering octopus, embracing this fresh world of colorful bliss. Food has always been a troublesome comfort for me—I’m a classic compulsive eater, especially when stressed. But this was different. I learned to really enjoy the meals we made, for the first time since leaving home, and particularly taking joy in trying new things.
It quickly occurred to me that previously, by depriving myself of delicious foods I loved, I wasn’t really living. Any time I’d tried to adhere to a strict, unforgiving diet, I’d only been setting myself up to fail. So slowly I opened my heart while reigniting my relationship with exercise. The goal this time wasn’t to lose weight or pass the time. It was to blow off steam from stressful workdays, to enjoy a challenging but fun activity with friends, and to feel my body growing stronger and more capable of anything I’d imagined, even in my ballet days. It was also an exceptional aid to a larger effort I’d been taking to get my anxiety under control.
I tapped into that special kind of euphoria that hits as you finish your very last sprint. I tried barre, spin, running, snowboarding, tai chi, personal training, kickboxing, rowing, four kinds of yoga, and a number of workouts I found on Youtube. I found things I loved, and things I hated, but most of all, I found a whole new passion for my body and the strength it possessed.
I think often about this word—strength. I think about the strong, powerful parts of my body I used to hate that were now helping me achieve things I didn’t think I could do. Those broad shoulders, thunder thighs, soft belly: all were beautiful pieces of me working together to keep me moving, fighting, breathing, and thriving in the process. Sometimes I pause and feel the need to apologize to my body, for our troubled relationship over the years. It should be everyone’s goal to be kinder to themselves, but it’s a learning exercise. And often an ongoing battle.
Next time, when measuring yourself in terms of health, fitness, and/or overall wellness, leave weight out of the equation. In terms of happiness and accomplishment, there are many productive ways to challenge ourselves that don’t revolve around a scale. How many books can you read this year? How many new places can you see or new friendships can you make? Can you write a song, run a 5K, learn to paint, find a way to volunteer? Life is so much bigger and more exciting than the sum and size of our parts. Mine is made up of the food I love, the supportive people who surround me, and the pursuits that make me feel invincible. With all that wonder, there’s no room for shame and self-deprecation.
What can we achieve when we’re allowed to love ourselves?
AD’S PARENTAL LEAVE POLICIES DESERVE SOME SERIOUS SIDE EYE
It’s 2019, and 80% of mothers and 67% of fathers consider leaving advertising because they don’t feel supported enough by their agencies. Surprising? Not really. We know that parental leave not only benefits the financial welfare of women, but of our entire economy: so why have these policies been so slow to adapt?
This piece originally appeared in the Where Are The Boss Ladies newsletter, May 13, 2019.
It’s 2019, and 80% of mothers and 67% of fathers consider leaving advertising because they don’t feel supported enough by their agencies. Surprising? Not really. We know that parental leave not only benefits the financial welfare of women, but of our entire economy: so why have these policies been so slow to adapt? Campaign US set out to stir the pot with its comprehensive report of over 20 agencies’ current parental leave policies.
Some highlights: 72andSunny offers primary caregivers 6 months of paid leave, as well as a new Bugaboo stroller (I’m not a mom, but that sounds expensive). AKQA offers up to $1k in take-out food purchased during leave (Yas!). And Wieden+Kennedy, never one to miss a shortlist, covers up to $30k for infertility treatments or egg-freezing storage. However, the majority of agencies listed ranged from 6-12 weeks, often advising employees to utilize short-term disability leave as well as their own paid time off. Eyeroll...
What are folks on Fishbowl saying? It’s important for us to know these policies at hiring, as they can influence the whole trajectory of our careers. Not only are parental leave policies inconsistent across agencies, but also can be misleading.
While we can seek out agencies who prioritize parental leave, how can we enact change in our current places of work? Try aligning with coworkers to draft a proposal for new policy based on similar agencies, like these women at the New York Times. Pursue your company’s HR and leadership team; Fairygodboss has some great tips and information. And don’t give up—the closer we can get to more supportive workplaces for parents, the sooner we can close that gender wage gap for good.
Not on Fishbowl yet? You should be. And make sure to sign up for the Where Are The Boss Ladies newsletter for more boss bitch-focused content.
SMALL AGENCY, BIG STUFF
“Hey Heather, can I look at your feet?”
I blink, wondering if I just heard that sentence right. One of our creative directors Phil stares at me, expectantly.
“It’s for the shoot, the morgue scene.”
I nod, and remove my socks. 45 minutes later, I’m on top of a stainless steel work table with a sheet over my face and my bare feet being powdered blue to look lifeless. This is just another day of work at a small agency.
“Hey Heather, can I look at your feet?”
I blink, wondering if I just heard that sentence right. One of our creative directors Phil stares at me, expectantly.
“It’s for the shoot, the morgue scene.”
I nod, and remove my socks. 45 minutes later, I’m on top of a stainless steel work table with a sheet over my face and my bare feet being powdered blue to look lifeless. This is just another day of work at a small agency.
That morning, I was the resident wardrobe stylist for our commercial, responsible for styling, buying, and prepping each outfit for the production. Later that afternoon, I’d be wielding a Canon 5D capturing behind-the-scenes footage.
Fresh out of college almost two years prior, I don’t know if I could’ve predicted my life turning out this way—certainly not laying (very much alive) on a freezing morgue table. I wanted a career that challenged me, that remained exciting and satisfying. And I thought that would remain in my copywriter comfort zone, but that changed as soon as I signed on to work at GumCo.
I’ll say my “normal” job usually includes creating content and managing social media accounts, proofreading, and writing copy for websites, print, commercial and radio scripts. But in my time here, I’ve designed graphics and gifs, edited photos and videos. I’ve scouted music, compiled analytics reports, played around with our WordPress-based site. I’ve been a sound technician and production assistant on commercial shoots—and one time this entailed frying up over 60 eggs on five rotating cast irons with my coworker (an account manager.)
There are no surprises in this kind of work. On our busiest days, there are seven of us in the office, so we each pull our weight and then some. But it also means I’m learning something new every single week. In a place like this, you don’t wait to be told to do something; you find somewhere you can help, something you can create. There’s no “That’s not my job.” You’re always busy, but always growing and discovering new things. I was fortunate to study at a school that specialized in creating multi-skilled professionals. This was a real-world application.
A group of young ad students came in the other day and sat with a couple of us to answer their questions. A big one was what about working at a small agency we liked and what advice would we give. My coworker and I looked at each other and agreed: Working here, you’ll never get bored. But it’s sink or swim. Be open and ready for anything, and you’ll have the most productive years of your life.
Often clients will seek a small agency because they’re looking for something a little different, sometimes a little weird—albeit, also at an affordable price, but our structure allows us a certain level of mobility and creativity that many bigger agencies lack. Walking in here, seeing my desk just 10 feet away from the president of the company, it’s hard to discern any kind of corporate ladder, because it’s not a ladder at all. It’s more of a circle if anything, running on a continuous circle of creativity from many walks of life. We all work together on projects. No matter how much experience you have, we’re all involved in the brainstorming process, all looking for fresh ideas which can come from anyone in the office.
120 THOUGHTS ON SASQUATCH 2016
Man, am I getting too old for this?
The answer is no, but damn, this festival grew since last time I was in its clutches, three years ago.
Man, am I getting too old for this?
The answer is no, but damn, this festival grew since last time I was in its clutches, three years ago. The stages are bigger, the vendors more colorful, and its audience more diverse (which isn't saying a whole lot). This year I returned with two fresh faces by my side, and each of us were keen on seeing as many artists this year as possible. Success? Yes. Due to poor signal, battery life, and in general unwanting to be burdened/distracted, I left my phone at camp. But if it was by my side, here are some of the things I would've tweeted as they ran through my head during the five days I spent at the Gorge Amphitheater.
-Day 1-
1. Has it always been this windy at the Gorge? Did I forget this part? Nope, there goes our canopy. *Looks off into the distance* And theirs, and theirs...
2. Have they inflated the cost of margaritas? How much alcohol can I fit in this flask without it looking like my behind is somehow deformed?
3. Huh, much less cultural appropriation this year! We just gotta work on those sombreros and tribal paint and uh... maybe we should just prevent 40% of the bros from entering.
4. I'm convinced Oh Wonder is the same band as Of Monsters and Men, just with less people.
5. Still curious as to the naming process of Unknown Mortal Orchestra. Also Paul Klein from LANY literally looks like this surfer dude that tried to smell my hair at a bar in Laguna Beach one time.
6. Well, they are from LA, maybe it was him... should I have let him?
7. Ah, nothing like a good bagel slathered in cream cheese for a well-balanced dinner.
8. Alina Baraz is the most sensual thing I have ever seen on stage in my life. And I've been to two strip clubs before.
9. Welp, 45 minutes late and A$AP still sucks. Please just play "LSD" so I can leave.
10. Is it pronounced Todd Tergsh or Ter-je or Tur-guh..? Ooh, this is good.
11. *Looking around during Disclosure* I guarantee at least 4 backpacks are going to hit us in the face during this.
12. Holy shit, they can actually sing. I don't even care if I get hit in the face at this point, it's thoroughly melted off already.
13. Must. Have. Energy.
14. Dear Chet Faker, please have my children.
15. Shuttle service = clutch.
-Day 2-
16. Why does Tangerine have to play so damn early? Ooh. Hold up. Worth it.
17. Raury is pumping some seriously good vibes right now. Dat voice though.
18. Yes, Matt Corby, sing me to sleep on this gorgeous hill. I will never get sick of this view.
29. Natasha Leggero is married now? Is she still funny?
30. Oh god, now her and Moshe are doing counseling advice. This poor couple. That young woman looks so, so high right now.
31. Back 2 the hill for Lord Huron! I think all of this moving around will help balance the alcohol and junk food I've been consuming, no?
32. Okay M. Ward and Blind Pilot, make me feel things.
33. M. Ward kind of looks like Mark Ruffalo.
34. Who is this Kevin Garrett baby? Holy shit, is this Beyonce? Is this kid a wizard? I wanna be in your Instagram!
35. (At M83) Am I the only one who knows more than "Midnight City" here?
36. WAIT HOW DID I NOT KNOW THEY WERE FRENCH. THIS MAKES SO MUCH SENSE.
37. As I stare longingly at the female keyboardist/vocalist on stage, I can't help but think of the words of Ilana Glazer from Broad City: "I can't tell if I want to be you or be in you."
38. Post M83: I feel more enlightened than any time I've been to church.
39. Damn, Marian Hill has one hell of a voice.
40. But I might actually die at this Major Lazer show. Ladies, brace yourselves.
41. Is that... Dr. Steve Brule? Omg, it is. I don't know what is happening right now but I like it.
42. Diplo takes off his shirt, only to put it back on two songs later. P.S. Is he a dad?
43. Anddddd we're jumping! And jumping, jumping, jumping... How is everyone still jumping? Why did I wear heeled boots??
44. Oh no, god, please don't make us all run to the right, I'm not ready for the stampede.
45. The best kind of rain is definitely confetti rain.
46. I pity who ever has to clean this hot, hot mess.
47. Wow, coming from Major Lazer to Tycho is like going to a Buddhist temple after a brothel. Still lit though.
48. Now for being herded out like cattle, yay!
49. SWEET, SWEET SLUMBER HOW I HAVE MISSED YOU.
-Day 3-
50. Today is Sunday, the Lord's day, and to celebrate as such we will christen the morning with mimosas. Bless up.
51. Mm. Warm orange juice. This has gotta be European or something.
52. Shorts under my sun dress = major key. Why aren't skorts a thing anymore? Can we bring that back?
53. Saint Motel canceled because of wind? Seriously? You better get this stage going by Leon Bridges...
54. Okay just because you put up the Prince symbol on the screens doesn't make it okay.
55. Time to warm up at Conner Youngblood. He's nice to look at.
56. Oh my goodness THERE IS A DOG ON STAGE. Can the dog sing? Can we pet him??
57. Yo La Tengo has to be the most fun name to say out of this entire lineup.
58. Wait, no no no you can't cancel Leon Bridges...Why GOD why, ON YOUR DAY?
59. Go to the hill at 8:15? What's on the hill? I feel like I'm being told to go see two middle schoolers fight or something.
60. This is no fight; it's LEON! Everyone sit down and shut up or I will hurt someone.
61. I am far too close to everyone right now considering our hygiene, but I've never been so overjoyed. God bless.
62. Bro to my right, most likely tripping, a tear streaming down his cheek: "This is the most beautiful shit that's ever happened to me."
63. Crowd attempts to whisper sing-a-long to "River." Leon invites everyone to join in. Crowd promptly forgets half the words.
64. Mac DeMarco is actually pretty good looking in like a stringy drop-out kind of way. That teeth gap is totally endearing. I wonder if he can smoke a cigarette out of it?
65. Damn, totally bummed I missed "Salad Days." Does this make me basic?
66. Main stage is back and Alabama Shaaaaaakes are on! Take that, wind! Nature: 1, Sasquatch: 1.
67. Three words: Brittany. Freakin. Howard.
68. Ah Purity Ring, so many sparkly crystals! At least I think that's what they are, I left my glasses back at camp...
69. *Trying to convince my friends that The Cure is not 80 years old* *The Cure walks out* Well, I mean, some aged better than others...
70. But they sound the same! Another miracle! Now if only I knew more than like, 5 songs.
71. This is a 2 hour set? I'm beginning to doubt how I ever endure regular concert durations.
72. Okay, time to warm up/wake up at Bauuer before running far, far away.
73. There are a lot of youths around me. I never thought I'd say that.
74. My dear friend Chloe is literally asleep right now. Standing up. At Bauuer.
75. 15 minutes before Big Grams, to wait or to head to the cozy confides of our tent...
76. Tent wins. Tomorrow is a new day. I'll see Big Grams this summer, thank god.
-Day 4-
77. Last day. Let's make the most of it. Starting by eating and drinking everything.
78. Okay wind, I know we told you to leave, but now it's actually way too hot so...
79. Update: Son Little should be called "SUN BIG" because it's actually an oven out here. God that was a bad pun. I should just leave now.
80. It's worth the sunburn, it's worth the sunburn... Why did I bring sunscreen that expired 6 years ago? Wait, dude with that water misting hose, come back here!
81. Julia Holter has the most incredible hair. I'm actually convinced she's a mermaid.
82. More youths again, the kids are so hip and happening these days.
83. Are you 14? Why are you grinding? Stop that, please stop.
84. There is literally no better way to half-nap than listening to Borns while lying on a grassy hill at the world's the most beautiful venue.
85. Brb, admiring Garrett Borns's beautiful androgyny. Can I borrow that shirt?
86. I love that they're covering David Bowie's "Heroes," but now I'm just emotionally drained. What a rough year for music losses :(
87. Currently at SOAK. Is every Irish person gifted with an incredible singing voice?
88. Bridie Monds-Watson: "My first fear coming to America was getting kidnapped by an eagle, but now that I've heard about the snakes, I think it's the snakes." Girl, same.
89. X Ambassadors just covered Prince's "Purple Rain" and everything is right in the world again.
90. Oddisee is already a million times better live than A$AP. Mad props to the instrumental ensemble too.
91. Grimes or Wet, Grimes or Wet? Alright, it's gotta be Grimes. Missed her in 2013, won't miss her again. First show here going solo, woo!
92. Why didn't they have Wet and SOAK play at the Hydration Station, aka the water bottling area, aka our life saver? That would've been perfect.
93. Alright, I didn't expect this many parents to be at Grimes...
94. Is she just really nervous or on more Adderall than a fraternity during finals week?
95. "This song was written with my friend Aristophanes who's a Taiwanese rapper and you guys should really check her out, she's awesome and usually she raps in it but since she's not here I'm going to rap it in Russian! It's called SCREAM!"
96. Wow, that was a lot of screaming. The parents are still here though. Mad respect.
97. And now she's sitting on the ground banging an electric guitar with a drumstick.
98. They do look like they're having so much fun up there though. Gurl power. Honestly, I'm jealous. I can't hang.
99. Is this... a synthesized version of Ave Maria?
100. Currently getting a history on the Yoruba language from French-Cuban duo Ibeyi. Incredibly badass.
101. How did I only just realize they're twins?
102. Dearest Sufjan Stevens, please please just play sad folk shit from 2003-2005 and not this new turn up noise.
103. Wait, first angel wings, then tribal print, then aluminum foil, and now balloons? This identity crisis is literally transcending materials faster than I can keep up with...
104. Is that a small Asian child on stage? Can someone help her?
105. I can't tell if this is just really high concept and I'm not getting it, or if it's actually as bad as I think it is.
106. Okay, time to recharge and rethink life after being forced into an existential crisis by Sufjan. Goodbye, sweet sad boy folk prince, hello confused neon electric bro :(
107. Thank god for Florence to bring us all back to enlightenment. My body is ready.
108. I swear she must be some fairy queen goddess. I feel like she'd be the coolest aunt.
109. WHY AM I NOT IN THE FRONT ROW BEING KISSED BY FLORENCE RIGHT NOW? #regrets
110. I'm not crying, you're crying!
111. I am going to have zero vocal chords tomorrow and it's all worth it.
112. Honestly if she started floating into the air right now and disappeared into an angelic cloud of red butterflies, I wouldn't even be surprised.
113. How do I even go on with life now? I feel so fresh and strong and pure and like every heartbreak I've ever had was worth the pain because now it's mended. Is this what baptism feels like?
114. Feeling gone. I think a bug just flew into my nose.
115. Ah Jamie XX, you dashing young thing. Just when I thought I was tired of dancing.
116. But now I just want Romy and Oliver Sim to come out too... They've really gotta put out another album soon.
117. You can't just sample "Loud Places" for 30 seconds, what? Don't play with my heart like that, Jamie. Maybe this is just a DJ set?
118. COOL so now that I'm in line to leave, you play it. God damn it.
119. Tomorrow is going to be so rough. I just got acclimated to living in the wilderness. Do we have to go home?
120. Where are my car keys?
With my disposable camera used up, my ears ringing, and a mix of dirt and glitter under my fingernails, we hit the road Tuesday morning at 8:30 am, and made it to the airport by 3. The journey home was a little quieter, a little sadder, and definitely more tiring. Sasquatch has a knack of completely wearing you out in the best way possible. We saw a total of almost 50 bands and artists during that 96 hour duration, more than I'd seen in the entire year! And better yet, so many newer artists that I'm definitely going to keep up with. My first year at Sasquatch, Macklemore was barely known and played the smallest stage at the venue. I wouldn't be surprised if next time I attend, one of these smaller artists will have worked their way up to the main stage. And there will be a next time; Sasquatch, I'm not done with you yet. Thanks for the memories.
Update: After Wikipedia-ing, Diplo is in fact a dad. His kids' names are Lockett and Lazer. How fitting.
THIS AMERICAN, GROWN-UP LIFE
I had two realizations: 1) if I could make a life for myself here, I could technically do the same anywhere, and 2) being here a while longer to build my resume and adult life wouldn’t be so bad after all...
Photo by NY Times
The past few months have been a whirlwind. Well, if we’re being more literal to Utah’s climate, it’s been more like a snowstorm: thick with icy patches for me to fall on my ass and this foul phenomenon called inversion, where the cold fronts and Wasatch environment allow smog to hang throughout the city. Lovely.
Needless to say, I can breathe, I haven’t fallen too much, and I’ve made a pretty good snow angel for myself out here so far. I was offered a position full-time at GumCo just this past October, and it didn’t occur to me at first what this meant.
The best way to explain it is with my sleeping situation. Over summer, I slept fairly comfortably on a twin air mattress, upgrading to a queen air mattress in the fall. Partially this was me being cheap, but mainly it was me not committing to a permanent state. If I bought an actual bed, I would be admitting to myself that I was here to stay, at least for longer than I anticipated. My whole existence over summer was to live lightly—to be able to pack my whole life into my car at a moment’s notice, if need be. I was okay with not having a ton of friends, because I didn’t know where I was going to be in a few months anyway, and I had more than enough anchors to tie me back to the west coast.
But then I had an amazing job offer with a company I loved. Then I had more than a handful of friends out here. And then I started having favorite restaurants, memorizing streets, making plans to do things in the spring, summer, next winter. I had two realizations: 1) if I could make a life for myself here, I could technically do the same anywhere, and 2) being here a while longer to build my resume and adult life wouldn’t be so bad after all.
The transition into full-time was abrupt, but I was continuing projects from earlier. Only now, I felt even more responsible to contribute something fresh, to work harder than I ever had before. When you really care about your work, you're no longer pushing yourself for a better paycheck, but for the overall success of the project as a whole. My creative work was an extension of myself, and I could no longer use the "I'm just fresh out of college" excuse to pardon any work that was less than awesome. I wanted to sit in on client meetings. I wanted my name in the credits, my script in the commercial, my tagline for the brand. I wanted these things, but I was still terrified. Other than working hard, I still wasn't sure if I deserved to hang.
My creative director Garrett sat me down in January and told me something no one had made me realize before. He said he wanted me to stand up for my ideas more. It's one thing to be comfortable with compromise and criticism, but if I felt truly passionate about an idea and could see the legs to carry it, I should fight for it. He told me that no one gets anywhere in this industry by taking the back-seat role, by becoming a contributor but never a leader. So, even at my novice level, he pushed me to find a voice for myself here.
And all around, I'm louder than before. I say "yes" to more things than I used to. I make an effort to surround myself with positive people, and listen warmly to their passions and ideas. I try to take each day as a chance to grow, and despite the craziness of adult life, I feel freer. It's funny because I don't feel more grown-up at all, but I do feel less afraid. For once in my life, I'm comfortable with being not quite sure what the future holds. I watched Shakespeare In Love the other day and there's this reoccurring quote that reads:
"It all turns out well."
"How?"
"I don't know. It's a mystery."
So, it could be a while before I head back to the best coast. But I will always always miss the ocean.
Photo by Travel Portland
IN MEMORIUM: SO LONG PEGGY, THANKS FOR THE RIDE
She'd taken me across the country twice. We'd seen five national parks. She'd carried two of my best friends, all of my worldly possessions, a few memories of steamy make outs, and one speeding ticket, for going 91 mph on an 80 mph highway in the middle of Idaho...
A few weeks ago, I put one of my closest friends to rest. After a routine break pad inspection, the friendly mechanic decided to look a little deeper at my troubled Dodge Stratus and found that what I thought was a simple engine oil leak had in fact been diverting oil into the coolant, condemning the head gasket, and declaring that my 17 year-old car needs a new engine.
In real people speak, that means I'm f*cked.
I bought this car (in cash) not a year earlier, in the warmth of May. My own money, my own graduation gift to myself--my first car. I named her after my homegirl Peggy Olsen of Mad Men. And despite our short time together, we'd been through a lot. She'd taken me across the country twice. We'd seen five national parks. She'd carried two of my best friends, all of my worldly possessions, a few memories of steamy make outs, and one speeding ticket, for going 91 mph on an 80 mph highway in the middle of Idaho. She was hardworking-- never broke down, not once. She was flawless-- a few blemishes here and there, but no accidents.
Cars are so romanticized in our culture. And until I owned one, I thought it was silly and didn't understand. But during the first big Utah snowstorm, I found myself driving and pleading with Peggy just to make it to our garage, with the promise of a juicy oil change. I conversed with her in my daily driving observations, complained to her with my rabid road rage, scolded her for slamming the door on my hand. In her final hours of driving, the last two songs to play were John Denver's "Country Roads" and Aaron Carter's "Aaron's Party (Come Get It)".
Looking back, it probably wasn't smart to drop $3K on a car with 170,000+ miles from a less-than-reputable auto dealership. Looking back, maybe I would've taken her to get serviced more often, but would it have made a difference? I don't know what I could've done to continue our friendship. But I have no regrets from our journey together.
If you're interested in buying Peggy, you can check out the classified ad here.
NO VOTE, NO PROBLEM, UNTIL IT IS
By being exempt from voting, I was removing myself from the current crisis of our country, washing my hands of it...
In the warmth of August at the spry age of six, I boarded the first flight of my life. And I was excited. We were going to America, where I would see the Statue of Liberty out of my window and cross paths daily with celebrities. Wow, America, my friends said. So cool!
Them chompers though.
What felt like half a day later, falling asleep on luggage carts and hoping my ears would pop, we touched down in Portland, Oregon, which is not at all where one would see the Statue of Liberty or run into celebrities. Still, I was in love. Our back garden was massive. Our house had THREE bathrooms- count it, three. I ran around the place rabidly. It was like a castle compared to our old home in Horsell, England, and here I had my very own room. Sans furniture, of course; we had to wait for that to arrive. But, a room complete with a bear-shaped sleeping bag and a Beanie Baby, which is all you really need at that age.
Sixteen years later, on an uneventful Thursday night, I sat on my living room floor and plugged in my headphones to stream the GOP debate. I don’t know why I cared. I’d lived in this country for almost ¾ of my life, and yet applying for citizenship was a task to be completed. The whole process takes months and money, and so I’d been putting it off until later. My permanent residency, secured by my father’s work, didn’t expire until I was 25, and I always thought I’d be married or figured it out by then anyways. Now I’m leaning more towards the figuring it out and less towards the marriage. And citizenship is gradually becoming a priority in my life each day as I begin to form more and more of a political opinion.
Photo by Let Your Voice Be Heard
Before it was almost laziness on my part. I didn’t have to take a stance in anything or clash with anyone because I legally couldn’t do anything about it. And if you don’t vote, what gives you the right to complain? I felt an overwhelming sense of relief to be apathetic and unparticipatory. Sure, there are some obstacles I faced: certain scholarships, opportunities, jobs I couldn’t apply for, things like that. On campus I would get voting enthusiasts thrusting ballots into my face and have to kindly explain to their confused faces that I couldn’t vote because I wasn’t a citizen. “You’re on your way to becoming one though, right?” one man said to me. I wasn’t sure if I was. By being exempt from voting, I was removing myself from the current crisis of our country, washing my hands of it. Wish I could help, but I can’t vote, you see. It wasn’t really my country. I never did get into the patriotism. Still don’t know the words to any of those iconic songs. But I’d be lying if I said I understood British politics any better. I try to keep up, I really do, but my most recent visit to the motherland revealed I was far removed from the culture where I felt so at home once upon a time. When I came to the United States, I entered a classroom of people who spoke differently than me, who thought I was strange but mostly fascinating. And then, like all children do, I adapted, and quickly dissolved into the crowd. And now, when I go back to the United Kingdom, people hear my accent and it’s not quite right. My expressions, mannerisms, and pronunciations are all wrong, and I don’t belong. What is home now?
As I contemplated this weird existentialism, I realized that far more issues in the place I grew up mattered to me, and I was denying myself the right to a voice. Things I felt deeply passionate about like women's and LBGTQ rights were being challenged in forums right before my eyes, and I didn’t want to feel distant and useless anymore. Another revelation struck me; here I was, not taking advantage of my privilege to potentially apply for citizenship, quite easily. So many people struggle everyday to have the opportunity I have and I was squandering that. The more I read, the more I regretted not becoming involved. I’m not even sure if I can legally sign a petition. But I want to step up and have a purpose.
So. Even though presidential elections are kinda bogus, it’s my goal to become a citizen before November of 2016. Wish me luck ‘Merica.
Epic photo by the Roosevelts
WHY WE SHOULD CARE ABOUT WOMEN IN ADVERTISING
Women are rising, prominent consumers, and creating advertising that alienates and demeans women is detrimental to a brand's livelihood...
This is not an angry rant (75% true) but a brief slide deck. Last November I drafted a presentation for an interactive media class that touches on an issue very near and dear to my heart. I stumbled across it tonight while clearing out old documents and thought I should share, as I continue to dive deeper into this world of advertising. I provided some links to relevant video in the captions, as I couldn't upload them here, but pardon if any are faulty! Thanks to everyone who helped out with this, answering surveys and whatnot. Hope you enjoy and learn something.
(And here's looking at you, Carl's Jr....)
TLDR: Women are rising, prominent consumers, and creating advertising that alienates and demeans women is detrimental to a brand's livelihood.
- 94% of women find advertising that portrays women as sex symbols to be harmful to the gender (SheKnowsMedia.)
- Women control 85% of household purchasing decisions (Nielsen.)
- Women will control 2/3 of U.S. consumer wealth within the next decade (Fleishman-Hillard Inc.)
- Women are more likely to retain advertising and interact online.
- SO: We can create a better advertising by having more women behind-the-scenes, utilizing positive and realistic portrayal of women in ads, and forming a relationship and dialogue between the brand and consumer.
19 DAYS LATER: WHAT I'VE LEARNED SO FAR ABOUT SLC, COPYWRITING, AND MYSELF
So much so far has been been me pretending like I know what I'm doing...
It was a trek to get here and I can't say I'm completely settled, but here's the lowdown so far.
THE CITY: Salt Lake City is mad cool.
Cool in a few ways I'm familiar: the great outdoors can be found just ten minutes away, lots of natural food markets and the like, and a great music scene and hip nightlife. Although, everyone is ten times more athletic/outdoorsy than I will ever be. Cool in ways completely new to me: neat architecture (temples), public bikes everywhere, and incredible thunderstorms.
The other day I was driving home at night from the airport after an unfortunate debacle parking overnight in short term parking (my poor bank account). Between two mountain slopes that contribute to the incredible backdrop of Salt Lake City, I saw a giant amount of what I thought was smoke. Every few seconds I'd see a flash of light, and was concerned that I was witnessing an explosion. It wasn't for a couple minutes that I realized it was a thunderstorm isolated in between those mountains, and I was seeing it from far away under the otherwise clear, starry night. I felt small.
I'm going to state the obvious: There are a lot of Mormons. 60% of Utah is Mormon. And while there are those who are obvious, either in suits or long skirts and/or handing out pamphlets in the park, there are many who I wouldn't suspect until maybe I see them not drink coffee. What a concept, people who don't fit a stereotype! And everyone I've met so far here so far, regardless of affiliation, is incredibly friendly. Willing to give directions, help you with things up the stairs, and they always hold the door and elevator.
And guess what- you can still drink here! Yes, that's right! I wasn't sure what to expect. Yes, there are some interesting rules where you have to buy wine at the liquor store (conveniently a block from my place), and at many places they can only serve you a beverage up to 3.2% here. But a couple weekends ago, I had the opportunity to visit Beer Bar (co-owned by Ty Burrell) and the highest alcohol percentage there was a generous 9%+, something like that. I know to us Oregonians that's nothing, but I was pleasantly surprised. Particularly because I was able to buy Omission there (a gluten-free lager), albeit for a lofty $6, but totally worth it. Since my lack of friends/money/opportunities has restricted my alcohol consumption, I think my tolerance is going down.
Photo by High West Vacations
Other observations: everything is closed on Sundays. Homeless people like to sleep in the grass around here. Dry heat gave me nosebleeds for the first four days, and now I only have to vigorously apply chapstick. There's a lot of Ultimate Frisbee and dogs (also my roommate, Temmy, is scared of said dogs).
THE WORK: I think I'm keeping my head afloat?
At Gumco, they didn't hesitate to make me feel like one of the team. Seriously though- I literally jumped straight into working on three different accounts my first week. I really wish though that I'd taken some ping pong lessons. On that Friday, we had a grueling office move in 100 degree weather where we migrated from Cottonwood Heights-ish area into the heart of downtown. Conveniently, only 8 minutes walking from my apartment! I dropped a table on my foot and am still feeling that bruise. We're still in the process of building Ikea furniture and unpacking little things but our new space is beyond rad. High ceilings, open floor plan, giant windows, a rustic wall reminiscent of a century earlier. The A/C is like a frozen tundra though. I've been bringing a sweatshirt to work for reinforcement.
So much so far has been been me pretending like I know what I'm doing. We'd touched on the concepting process in college: get the brief, brainstorm, team up with designer/art director, make cool shit. But this place is far from any student-level work. For each project, we're presenting 5-7 different concepts and that gets refined from a pool of at least 30, each with its own unique visual direction, headlines, and body copy.
We're always told in ad classes how advertising is creative problem-solving. I nodded and acted like I understood that, but I think it only really clicked for me the other day, slaving for hours over literally 10 words. With copywriting, it's not just about being creative or witty or eye-catching. Your words serve a function, and when crafting these phrases you have to encompass your key takeaways and tie them together in a smart, compelling way. I can't tell you how much of my time is spent doing two kinds of research, even after the brief is done: word/language research and brand research. I'm trying to get in the voice of a brand, so I need to know what they're about, what's their background, how do people perceive them, how do they want to be perceived, where do they live and operate, etc. This includes scouring everything from the company website (obviously) to Wikipedia, Google images, blogs/forums/comments, their social media channels, press releases, anything about them. What are they? What could they be? I find some general ideas of what I want to hit, say it's a city bicycle brand for 25-35 year-old young professionals, so maybe I'm looking at things to do with motion, getting places, commuting, ease, the list goes on. I'm looking at synonyms, idioms, famous quotes, alliterations, and definitely not rhymes or puns (as much as this breaks my heart). Could the bike's wheels be a metaphor for something?
This doesn't mean I'm any good at any of this. Everyday I anticipate self doubt. I've been very good at the smile and nod as I see hours of my work constructively deconstructed or straight up beheaded in front of me. On Tuesday morning as we were wrapping up an ad, I realized that the last three hours of work I had done side-by-side with my creative directors the night before had failed to save, and my laptop had lost the restored versions (thank you, Apple). My voice cracked and shook as I explained the situation. We tried a few things but, nothing prevailed. So we rewrote it. They weird thing with rewriting is it's not like a multiple choice exam where it's statistically proven that your first choice of answer is most likely to be correct. Rewriting and refining and reworking is a tedious process that is proven to make better work. How can you say something simpler? Is there a stronger word that could replace this verb? How do we make this shorter? When you look back on it after it's all done, you're like wow! Such skill! Much talent! But when you're in the middle of it, you feel just a bit worthless and stupid and eternally facing writer's block. Everything you churn out for a while sounds like a five year-old. But good stuff does happen. Which sounds a lot like "good things happen to good people!!" But for real though.
I sat down with my creative director Garrett today as he checked in to see how I was hanging. And he told me about his journey into copywriting. He'd just come away with a independent documentary that won a film festival award and felt pretty good about himself. But when he started his first copywriting job, it was a series of frustrations just like mine. How is my art director writing better lines than mine? Why are mine all garbage? I just wrote 40 and only two made it through to the second round? I already felt better about how I was doing. He told me that three of the ads I'd written with him had been picked by the client, so I was guaranteed to have one of them run in a national campaign in Ski Magazine. It made it worth it.
He gave some other cool pieces of advice, including this tidbit: you don't have to take your work home with you. Live outside of work. The best ideas come when you're not trying to think of them.
MYSELF: I'm trying to be comfortable feeling very, very alone.
Let's get personal: I used to savor coming home from class and work and having a couple of hours to myself, or an empty apartment for the weekend. Just ME time. I even aligned myself with many qualities of an introvert. However, I didn't realize how much I appreciated being around friends until I realized I didn't have any to be around. I love my roommate, she's amazing, but we met only three weeks ago. I've met many of her work friends already, but haven't made any friends of my own, and I'm trying not to mooch on hers. My office is made up of 10 wonderful people, each too who have their own lives. I've tried using the site meetup, recommended by a friend in New York, but here it's mainly run by thirty-somethings. In fact, the reason I'm writing this right now is because I'm trying to stay distracted from my loneliness on this Friday night where I can hear all my neighbors getting ready to go out. I'll be honest: I'm lonely and more than a little homesick. I miss my friends and family and my cat. I've felt this deeply suppressed cry coming on since I've moved here. Yet it's crazy for me to complain about these things to Temmy, who hasn't been to her home of Nigeria in 4 years. So I keep busy.
And I've been reading a lot.
I'm finally almost done with the third David Sedaris book I've now read, and on the side I'm reading the renowned Hey Whipple, Squeeze This!, on loan from my creative director, which has been recommended to me by every ad teacher since I can remember. The title sounds funny to us millennials who are far-removed from the series of original Charmin ads it references, not to mention the awkwardness of the word "squeeze" next to a word that rhymes with "nipple." (I said it, I know we all were thinking it). I'm only about 70 pages in, and already I'm hooked. It's incredibly insightful and personable, a true first-hand account of how to craft the best advertising, not the majority of crap we see on the television. One passage really stuck with me on the brainstorming process, a series of trial and error. He talks about how you can spend hours stuck on an idea, doing more research, finding something, feeling like you're brilliant, writing something down, looking back at it, realizing it's shit: rinse and repeat. It's a practice I've become far too familiar with, and I was so grateful to read and realize I wasn't alone.
I've been rediscovering old passions and finding new ones.
- A few of my friends and family know I used to be really into playing ukulele, and I even have about a dozen songs I've written. But when I got busy junior/senior year, I just didn't have time. I've also always had crippling stage fright with playing in public and my stomach just drops thinking about it. But I still did it a few times, and I love hearing about my incredibly musically-talented friends making their big break, or at least continuing to play- mad respect. So I've been trying to revisit the uke. I like playing on my balcony especially (we're on the fourth floor), and this weekend I'm going to try and write a new song.
- I started doing this 30 Days of Yoga thing, and although it's something kinda strange to me, it's been keeping me sane. The movements are fairly gentle but still a good work out to supplement the gym and Adriene (the instructor) is fantastic; she's also an actress, and has been in a few indie films such as Joe, as Nick Cage's love interest (WHAT).
- My friend Lisa has an amazing talent for braiding hair and I've been tempted to browse Youtube and try out a few DIY techniques. Still struggling, but may improve.
Sooo. What you need to know is that I'm alive and okay. I may feel alone and a little bit stressed and overwhelmed. But I'm learning so much, and that's the best thing I could be doing right now. Many people asked me why I jumped straight into an internship out of college, just a week after I'd graduated. I think that I didn't want to spend another day doing a job I didn't love. And sometimes I feel so lucky having that.
THOUGHTS CONCERNING SHARING A PAIR OF HEADPHONES AT 39,000 FEET
It's 6:30 pm, I'm 90 minutes from my destination and I smell like sun screen and stale French fries...
It's 6:30 pm, I'm 90 minutes from my destination and I smell like sun screen and stale French fries.
The plane is a frozen air-conditioned tundra, complete with at least two screaming children and a big-boned man in flip flops who keeps leaning his chair back into my very limited personal space. Someone nearby me is making squelching sounds as they indiscretely clean their teeth. For a moment I think I might actually be in some form of purgatory. Why did I get Fresca instead of, I don't know, Fresca with vodka?
The two people next to me are an older couple with tanned skin dressed in khaki bermuda shorts and white linen shirts. They look like seasoned citizens of Utah. The woman pulls out a small case from under her seat to reveal a DVD player, circa 2004 at the latest. She plugs in a pair of headphones into the jack, and her husband grabs the right ear bud as she grabs the left. They resume their film, quietly tucking into a packet of red vines and wrapping the complimentary Delta blankets around their shoulders.
It's a simple gesture, sharing a set of headphones and this piece of outdated technology to replicate a now-nostalgic almost date night-like experience. And it's oddly touching.
It reminds me of riding in the back seat with my best friend on family road trips, sharing the headphones of a (now ancient) iPod. There would be those jams with split audio, so when Queen came on, one of us would get far more electronic guitar and the other would get more drums. We took advantage of it by perfecting our air band skills. These were good times. Simpler times.
I think about plugging in my own set of headphones. But then I remember the only music that survived my last hard drive crash was three different versions of R. Kelly's "Ignition (Remix)." I'm not sure if listening to these on loop will help my current sanity.
Maybe I'll just join in on watching HGTV via the overhead screens. Maybe I'll try reading or -don't jinx it- get some work done (???!). Or maybe I'll just sit here and reminisce and think about the many metaphors tied to sharing a pair of headphones with someone close to your heart.
BLOOD, WHEELS, & TEARS: MY WEIRD PILGRIMAGE TO SALT LAKE CITY
Yesterday, I packed the next three months of my life into the back of a 1999 Dodge Stratus...
Yesterday, I packed the next three months of my life into the back of a 1999 Dodge Stratus. Freshly graduated and ready for a new environment, I set off on my 12 hour drive to Salt Lake City, Utah. I'd never been to the city before. I wasn't (and still am not) Mormon. And I hadn't quite figured out where I'd be living. But, the promise of an internship doing what I truly loved started that Monday and I couldn't waste another day.
The drive east through I-84 is stunning. You cruise past the lapping turquoise of Hood River and the magnificent Multnomah Falls. Giant rugged walls of rock run alongside the highway as I drove 75 mph, listening to the audiobook Walden on Wheels, a very real tale of the post-grad battle with student debt: a war I would soon be too familiar with.
My first stop was Pendleton, home of the Pendleton Roundup, and like the white girl I am, I found the nearest Starbucks to recaffeinate. I restocked my car with fuel, cherishing my last fill up by a gas attendant, and pushed on. I stopped in Ontario, Oregon, a funny little town on the border between Idaho and Oregon to visit my friend Lindsay. My old workout buddy was now living in a three bedroom house with her fiancée and a full time job as a math teacher at the local middle school. Damn. I pushed on to make it to Boise by nightfall and as soon as I crossed the border to Idaho, the speed limit jumped an extra 10 mph. It was around 9 pm that I arrived at the Motel 6, right outside the airport. The street transitioned into an intrepid gravel road as I pulled up. Checking in, I was told my room was in the smoking section of the establishment, and there were no other vacancies. I sucked it up. I was exhausted, and felt unnerved as I locked my car for the night, packed to the brim with half my life's belongings. It looked like a hoarder's car, or definitely like I was living in it, with pillows and comforters strewn across the back seat. I moved the valuables to the trunk and locked my car three times to be able to walk away peacefully.
The hotel room was clean-ish. It smelled like pine and lemon and stale cigarettes. The front desk recommended I turn on the A/C and open the window to ventilate the cigarette smell, making the room a chilly 54 degrees and echoing with the sounds of noisy truckers and frequent unnecessary spitting outside. Cigarette burns made holes in the bed's duvet, and on the sheet were a few foreign hairs. I lived.
The next morning I was eager to 1) shower, and 2) get to my car to make sure no one had broken in. I fulfilled both by about 9 am and set off. I stopped over in a little town called Burley to successfully pump my own gas for the first time and then promptly spill coffee over my leggings. So awesome.
I was pulling into Salt Lake City around 2 pm, with ample time to touch base with my Craigslist prospects and verify they weren't scam artists and/or serial killers. Before moving in, my parents helped me book an extended stay at the Econolodge sort of by the airport. Basic amenities but hey, ideally I wasn't staying long.
I don't know why it wasn't a red flag that there was a shirtless man in the lobby demanding that the staff had stolen his clothes as I tried to check in. An oversight, let's call it. I picked up my room key and drove over to the other side of the building, positioned conveniently behind a low grade Chinese restaurant. I stepped outside my car and began collecting things by my trunk. As I placed toiletries into my purse, a middle-aged tattooed man stared at me, beer in hand not 15 feet in front of me, taking long drags of his cigarette as I increased the pace of my packing. I hurriedly locked my car and rushed up the outdoor stairs to my room location as he grinned at me, watching. This is okay, I'm okay I told myself, frantically unlocking my door and trying not to make eye contact with him. I closed the door behind me and locked the dead bolt. I noticed the swinging lock had been ripped off the wall- huh. This room also smelled of stale cigarettes and something I couldn't quite place. I saw an air refreshener at a gas station the day before scented "Black Ice." I imagine this was what it smelled like. There were holes in the lampshades and big black stains on the carpet, complete with scratches on the wood-paneled dresser, straight from some Halloween-themed Ikea model room. This is fine. I moved to the bathroom and was almost okay with setting up camp until I saw the smeary blood fingerprints on the door. Nope nope nope.
I chucked all my stuff back into my car as the same man continued to look on. I booked it to a coffee shop far from that side of the highway and parked, taking a few deep breaths. I made a phone call to my parents explaining how I was alive and wanted to continue living, forcing the Econolodge out of the equation. I got an iced coffee and shot a few desperate emails out to my potential future roommates, crossing my fingers. One of them- a girl named Temmy- responded back within a few minutes, and eagerly I started to head to her location.
I parked in a non-reserved spot in the Palladio Apartments parking lot, trying to breathe in this unfamiliar dry heat. "I'm wearing a striped dress," says Temmy on the phone. "I'm wearing a...shirt..." I reply, tired and stupid. I paced awkwardly outside the doors of the building before they opened. Seeing Temmy was the breath of fresh air I'd been longing for in this new place. She was smiling, well-dressed, and I was 80% sure she was not a serial killer. As soon as I saw the apartment, I knew it was a winner. It smelled like carpet cleaner and was completely void of furniture as a bright sun streamed through the sliding glass doors to the balcony. There was a washer and dryer, all kitchen appliances, my own closet and bathroom, and elsewhere in the complex, a fitness center and pool that I promised right there I would use at least once this summer. Even my room had an air mattress for me, ready to go. We shook on it, and within an hour, I'd paid her for a first week of rent and I was moving my things in.
Although my car was packed to the brim, I still felt I was leaving so much behind. And yet, as I started to unload my things and carry them to our new place (thank god for the elevator), I realized I had already packed way too much. Temmy, only having arrived a day before, was so minimalist in comparison, experienced with years of moving every couple of terms. We eventually moved everything up into the apartment, and laid on our backs on the living room floor to cool off in the frosty air conditioning. We decided we should christen our fridge with some well-earned groceries and headed back to the parking lot. And then, problem: my car was no longer there. I kicked myself for not buying a car with a working alarm system, assuming the worst of my fears had come true. Sensing our anxiety, a young resident informed us that it was probably towed; the city towed automatically everywhere downtown, without a call or anything. I found a sign in the parking lot with the tow company written in fine print and gave it a call; it was confirmed, my car had been towed not 10 minutes before we had come downstairs. I weirdly felt relieved, although this was hardly ideal.
Already prepared, Temmy summoned an Uber for us and within minutes, a giant SUV pulled up right by us. The window rolled down, and a skinny white-bearded man cracked the biggest smile and waved us down. "Name's Bob! Come on in!" Bob was at least 75 and still believed in working every day of his life, his true passion. He used to be a military man and had lived just about everywhere in the United States, although Salt Lake City was his favorite. He told jokes about his raucous family members and whoopee cushions, about what to expect driving around these parts. Our route was detoured twice by an immobile freight train but when we finally pulled up to the abandoned lot, desolate and depressing, I saw my car peering through the chain linked fence. The owner was nowhere to be seen. We waited. Bob took long drags of his cigarette as he refused to leave our side, no longer running the meter. Finally, a squat dark-haired man pulled into the lot in his sinister tow truck, with an equally stocky preteen riding passenger. I tried to explain my situation, I really did, pleading. He was useless. He suggested we bring it up with his manager on Monday, and as if signing in my own blood I paid $275 to redeem my vehicle. It was a bullet in my side, but at least I had wheels once again. We waved goodbye to Bob, I mentally flipped off the tow guy, and we headed back home, not sure if we felt defeated or accomplished.
We did end up getting groceries; we had to at that point, out of principle. I unpacked my things, put blankets on my air bed, cringed at my bank account once I checked online. I wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry. But, with all the drama and uprooting of the past 48 hours, I exhaled and pictured that the next 12 weeks would be far brighter.
SAM'S TREE
Across this canyon among a kingdom of pines is a barren, twisted and white-washed tree that peeps from behind the scenery. In the house, there is a telescope set to that exact tree in the wilderness. Sam told us he'd wanted to visit that tree ever since he could remember...
The weekend before graduation, I was unbelievably relieved to get out of town. Weighed down by final projects and assignments, I hadn't gotten more than 5 hours of sleep in far too long. We threw our bags into the back of Sam's car and headed east for Sisters, Oregon.
Sisters is a little town on your way to Bend that tries to embody the epitome of the wild west. Although it's more of a stop along the highway, it's got that small town charm where everyone knows each other's names. It thrives on tourism, its saloon-type restaurants and gift shops lining the main street while the majestic Sisters mountain range silhouettes the landscape. This year marked its 75th rodeo.
I was a rodeo virgin. Many times I'd sat in Bronco Billy's Ranch Grill & Saloon, a burger the size of my face in front of me as I admired the rodeo posters and Stetsons that decorated the walls. And while the rodeo was a strong reason to visit that weekend, toured by our Sisters-raised friend Kiana, I was eager to have a a couple days of r&r in Sam's grandmother's house.
Mrs. Quigley, Sam's grandmother, currently resides in assisted living in Lake Oswego, and so her grand house sits peacefully in solitude, far from the others in the outback of Sisters. As we opened the door on its rustic glory, I was enamored by its charm. The house was spacious and an I-Spy game of various artifacts ranging from historic pioneer letters to Native American art. We found an old camera still housing undeveloped film, a menagerie of walking sticks, and beautifully carved wood to decorate the mantles and furniture. The deck wrapped the entire back of the house and revealed a clear breath-taking view of the mountains, overlooking the deep, dramatic canyon which dropped not 15 feet from the property. Across this canyon among a kingdom of pines is a barren, twisted and white-washed tree that peeps from behind the scenery. In the house, there is a telescope set to that exact tree in the wilderness. Sam told us he'd wanted to visit that tree ever since he could remember.
That evening we stopped by Three Creeks Brewing for dinner then ventured to the rodeo. This was the closest I'd ever experienced the south. Leather, denim, and cargo print was everywhere, only championed by genuine leather cowboy boots. Belt buckles were said to be metaphorical for men's manhoods and the stands were an ocean of cowboy hats. Each event was accompanied by cheers of all ages, slapstick commentary, and rowdy country music. My favorite was the barrel racing, where cowgirls had to race and weave their horses at breakneck speeds around three barrels in a triangular formation, the winners coming in at under 17 seconds. My least favorite was the calf roping, where the inner animal lover in me winced when the calf was caught, and smiled when it got away.
After the rodeo we went to a biker bar, where we were served our mixed drinks in plastic cups advertising COORS LIGHT. We danced honky tonk and swing to eclectic country and 80s music, pretending we knew the steps, and fell over each other. The band would not play my request of "Sweet Home Alabama."
That night the stars cloaked the sky to each four corners of the Earth. At home, we laid our backs again the deck and counted shooting stars as we sipped our red wine and talked about how small we felt against it all.
The next day, we set a mission to reach the barren tree, Sam's childhood goal. Unprepared with any hiking boots and slightly hungover, I slathered sun screen on my back and grabbed one of Mrs. Quigley's fantastic walking sticks. We began our descent, keeping an eye out for rattlesnakes amongst our untraveled route.
We climbed down a wall of basalt and slate and made it to the creek at the base of the canyon: Whychus Creek, formerly named Squaw Creek, but abandoned for obvious reasons. The water was cool and a remedying relief to bright sunshine above. We skipped rocks for a few minutes, trying not to submerge more than our legs up to our ankles in the process, and decided to press on.
At this side of the canyon, we'd lost sight of the tree. The forest was dense and seemed to expand forever in front of us, with no trail or markers to guide us. We tried to find the house across the canyon to use as a guide, and once located, we pressed on in the general direction we had theorized. We nervously joked about how we would fight a stalking cougar as we climbed deeper and deeper into the brush. A couple times we passed over delapidated barbed wire, indicating we might possibly be on someone's property. We then nervously joked about how not to get shot.
The outback plateaued into a soft-soiled clearing, still dense with spiky shrubs and young trees, but far more manageable than our previous trek. We found a deer path and followed it for a little while. Wandering around for a while, wondering when would be a good chance to turn back, Sam persisted to press on. He said he'd caught sight of the legendary ghost pine, and with full hearts we followed him. Then, it came into view.
The tree was far taller than we'd imagined. Its branches were twisted and reached to the sky, deformed by lightening into fantastically disturbing arms to beckon us. Fresh moss grew across its desolate body and a great crack as if by a godly hammer split the tree towards the top. It stood out against the other trees in its formidable presence. But this tree wasn't a threat, a bully, or anything to be frightened by. To Sam it was an old friend.
We watched Sam carve his name into its lifeless bark. Afterwards, we paused to admire its sheer height and dominance, and although it provided quite a sight, we were the ones that gave it purpose. We gave it life by finding this significance. We were likely the first people to venture to it, with only this tree in mind, and find that its presence gave meaning.
As we walked back down the creek and up the canyonside again, the hike felt easier than before. We saw no rattlesnakes or cougars, just the birds and the stillness of it all.
WORDS FOR A WINDY NIGHT
It's supposed to storm tonight...
It's supposed to storm tonight, and now that I'm indoors, I can't wait.
I wrote a little haiku for it.
LOUD AND TREMBLING BUT LOUD AND CLEAR: AN EVENING WITH SLAM POET ANIS MOJGANI
Four years prior, as a senior in high school, I'd stumbled across his poetry and it helped pull me through the emotional turmoil of finding oneself and embarking on new adventures post adolescence...
On May 14, UO had the tremendous privilege of hosting Anis Mojgani on campus. I felt like I was going to see Elton John or something.
I've always struggled to grasp poetry. It holds so many complex interpretations that I've always found it challenging, as you can read about here. However, slam poetry has always appealed to me as a kind of "people's poetry." It's fueled by emotion and personal insight and the connotation of the language is emphasized by the volume and manner of its delivery. I stumbled across slam poetry in my final year of high school, I believe regrettably from someone I haven't talked to in years. I watched Anis on a recording at Brown University three years prior, and as he humbled his audience through eloquence and passion, pulling at my heart strings with his poignant anecdotes half-true, half-fantasy, I'd never felt so moved. I've kept that reading bookmarked to this day, and whenever I need to feel inspired, calmed, or subdued, I'd play that video with all the lights off and no distractions.
(That song at the beginning is "Window" by Album Leaf.)
I arrived an hour early to the event by myself and situated my belongings strategically across three seats in the second row, the perfect proximity, for my friends and me. The evening opened up with rivoting pieces from Oregon's own slam poetry team: words on the devastation of a family torn apart, an examination of the walls in Jurassic Park and their true meaning existentially, a deeper look into the culture of sexting and how the sexiest text of them all is actually "I love you." Ah, my heart! As soon as Anis took the stage, I was overwhelmed with feelings as his humility and confidence made him feel like one of us, and yet crafting words like none of us could. He read poems from his most recent work, "Songs From Under The River." Gut-wrenching, visceral pieces on race, heartbreak, finding oneself in the faces of others, amongst some of his reinvented classics, Shake the Dust and Come Closer.
He read for an hour what felt like a series of revelatory moments, where we sat on the edge of our chairs holding our breaths. At the end, he posted up at a table outside the auditorium, signing books. I took my journal, as cliché as that sounds, and waited fiercely through the crowd to share a minute with him. And when I finally reached the front, of course I fumbled over my words, but I got out the gist of what I wanted to say. Four years prior, as a senior in high school, I'd stumbled across his poetry and it helped pull me through the emotional turmoil of finding oneself and embarking on new adventures post adolescence. And that day, full circle as a senior now in college, I was listening to his words yet again to guide me. Hopefully wiser this time, but no less in awe.
He signed my journal and told me to keep writing. I will.
DOWN N DIRTIEZ
This week, we had to make a visual project for Hip Hop 1. Paolo, Noel, Ed and I didn't want anything short of dope...
This week, we had to make a visual project for Hip Hop 1. Paolo, Noel, Ed and I didn't want anything short of dope. ("No Mayonaise- The Remix" coming out soon)
LOVE IN THE TIME OF CANCER
The last time I stayed up all night was when we drove through the night to the Gorge to pitch our tent during sunrise. The time before that was our first date...
The last time I stayed up all night was when we drove through the night to the Gorge to pitch our tent during sunrise. The time before that was our first date. We ate Thai food and watched Walk The Line at your brother's house, talking until we started to lose our voices. After that, it would never be the same.
Fast forward to this past weekend, and we just celebrated our third Valentines together. There are lots of things people tell you about long-term relationships in college, your young, young adulthood. It won't last. Make sure your friends approve, especially your parents. Don't let them hold you back. You aren't going to get married, are you? Don't get a cat. (We got a cat). Some had a lot to say when we moved in together. It's been two years and we still haven't killed each other, so we must be doing something right.
What you never learn about is how to be a partner when the going truly gets tough. There are just some things you can't prepare for. In December, during finals week, your Mom called you saying she found a lump in her breast that was being tested for cancer. We'd have to wait a few days to hear back. We told ourselves it was nothing, just like everyone else. This stuff happens all the time. So-and-so had the same thing and it was fine. It's not cancer.
And then it was.
We canceled our trip to Bend that weekend and came back home. You hadn't been back since summer, and I could tell you were anxious. Yet you stayed positive and smiled, if a little forced.
The first week of this term began with a trip to Kaiser at 5 am to start a long day, your mother's double mastectomy. We kept ourselves busy, socialized with family, grazed the cafeteria, and wandered the halls to keep our spirits light. It was going to be fine.
And then it wasn't.
After all those hours, all that pain, the cancer had spread to her lymph nodes, elevating the stage of her aggressive, douche-bag cancer. It quickly became apparent that the journey would not be over for a long time. But we had hope.
You were going to go to her first round of chemo last week but then you caught the flu, and were not allowed to be around her. It was hard, seeing that brokenness in your face as you tried to carry on and sleep off the devastation. You have always been brave, bubbly, loud and funny. And now our home is quiet, like a long, deep inhale that doesn't stop. It feels wrong. I've been watching how this all creeps over you like a shadow. One day you're busy in your homework, dedicated and enthusiastic. And then before you let yourself be happy, you remember, and again you're back in a dark place.
I've comforted friends through break-ups, parent's divorces, and their own health issues, physically and emotionally. But I didn't know how to be the girlfriend you needed. Trying to put myself in your shoes makes me want to cry, and I can't cry. It's not allowed right now.
The first step for me is becoming the strong one. I have to be the endless force of groundedness, positivity, and stability. And if I said I had that down right now, I'd be lying. But I'm trying. When we don't know what's going to happen next, we have to show that it's only going to get better, even in the smallest of ways. I have to be a spring of positive notions and reassurance, and shoot down all the dark thoughts, even the sarcastic ones. Just as she has to be an unrelentless force to stand up to this disease, we have to be soldiers and keep looking forward. The only way to combat this hardship is through constant love that never backs down. We have to be prepared to drop our work and sit on the floor and hug each other. Let you cry, but hold you tight. It's the little intimate details and acts of simple kindness that make the greatest gestures: the strength to keep going.
We've got a long road to recovery ahead of us and I will do everything in my power to be there through it all.
Because whether it will be okay or not, a good heart is prepared for anything.
And for the record, it will all be okay.
BABIES, BREAKDOWNS, & BRAVERY
But here was this person who I'd completely forgot about who just gave birth to a tiny 7 lb human being within the past hour and was smiling about it...
I felt like ranting (or crying, still not sure) a lot today because it's only Tuesday and the workload I've naively taken on this term (again) is becoming more and more apparent. 18 hours on the job, two senior staff positions, and 10-13 hour days if you count all the classes and meetings in between. Also working out 6 days a week, despite my swollen ankle. Go go go.
Someone texted me that they'd be missing a meeting tonight because they had too much work to do. Deep breaths.
Then I was killing time on Facebook, reading things about Mars missions and browsing pictures of cats when I stumbled across a photo from an old high school acquaintance. It was a picture of a newborn baby girl wrapped in a white blanket with a matching white beanie.
I rant often about how I don't want to get married anytime soon, or have kids for the next decade. But this made me shut up. Here I am, complaining about my current five group projects, part-time jobs and whatnot. And sure, it's a lot of work. But here was this person who I'd completely forgot about who just gave birth to a tiny 7 lb human being within the past hour and was smiling about it. So I should probably suck it up. And be brave.
HERE'S LOOKING AT YOU, KID: TAKING BACK MY NAME ONLINE
Google begins keeping running a digital archive of our name whether we like it or not, and odds are that by some point, we won't be the only ones looking up our names...
Everyone has Googled themselves at least once. Sometimes you dig up old regrettable Myspace photos (oh god, no) or- huzzah!- that piece of work that you did for that one thing has earned a justified place on page 2 of Google's results. Currently the third result for my name is from a posting of a small ukulele concert I did in Portland almost three years ago, so that in itself is quite remarkable.
Google begins keeping running a digital archive of our name whether we like it or not, and odds are that by some point, we won't be the only ones looking up our names.
Someone in Australia who is a professional pole vaulter shares my name. An opinionated soul that Tweets as "SunshineHitler" shares the same name as my friend Ashley. It's a weird, cruel world, but we're in charge of at least some of the references of our namesakes.
I stumbled across a student blog by a name I barely recognized. I had to scour my email to remember her, but sure enough, I had done an interview with this woman about five months ago, talking about my position as co-editor-in-chief of Her Campus Oregon. It was a light piece, obviously for an entry-level journalism class and for discretion I won't disclose the name of the student or university. She wanted to know about my responsibilities, what I thought of the publication and its direction. Standard stuff, and it was evident why I hadn't remembered it. However, I put a lot of time into my responses so she'd have a good piece, and so I wouldn't come off as a complete "ding dong head," as one of my favorite previous bosses would say.
When I came across this article, we're talking deep into the archives; 4+ page shit, and I'm not even sure if it's still up there. Class blog pieces are typically private, only accessible to the student body and faculty at the hosting university, but if I could see this article, then odds are so could everyone else. And it wasn't that anything negative or vastly misconstrued was said.
But as I read this Q&A piece, direct quotes allegedly said by me were completely inaccurate- words I would never use, phrases that sounded far too neat, cookie-cutter and rehearsed to have ever come from me. And I double checked my email for the responses I sent, and none of these direct quotes were from there. That's another point; this interview was done online, so she easily could have copy and pasted the responses. So why didn't she?
Well, maybe for aspiring journalists, everything must be just so. You have a certain angle for your paper, and you don't want to drive away from that. You want your sources to sound legitimate and as professional as possible. I talked about the situation with a few of my journalist friends, and they said in student work they've heard of others fudging quotes once or twice, because no one really reads it other than the teacher. But directly quoting someone incorrectly is a different concept, and a total noob move; it's bad, unethical journalism.
So why am I upset by this? Its audience is pretty limited. It's pretty obvious it's a student piece, and it doesn't say anything negative or vastly untrue about me. But there's something deeper that feels wrong- the fact these are my words, and at the end of the day, it's one of the only thing I can own. I felt like a kid throwing a tantrum when my first thoughts were "that's not fair! It's her grade but my life!" Changing my words means changing my identity without my permission. And I have little to no control over that. I haven't even reached the real world, and yet I'm still having to combat issues with my online image.
I'm not going to kick up a fuss about it because honestly, it's not worth it. I hope she got a good grade and hopefully learned not to make the same mistake again. I can't think of any of my brilliant aspiring journalist friends that would deliberately make the same error, and that gives me hope. It also makes me weary of interviews overall, and maybe I should be more proactive in the future on following up on those. I haven't been in a position before where anyone really cared to hear about my life, but now that I'm taking more roles and presence, more people are looking.
