This is awkward me, a fish out of water in Northwest Ohio, in 1990:
I was a fish out of water because I read The New Yorker, my favorite author was Dorothy Parker, and I was a farm girl, although I tried to fit in by wearing acid-washed jeans and filling in as the school mascot at basketball games and wrestling matches occasionally. (Go Panthers!)
This is me, an awkward fish out of water in Southwest Missouri, around 1998/1999:
I was awkward in Missouri because I was an independent who mostly voted Democratic, because I was a Unitarian, because I loved literature so much that I was throwing away thousands in student loans to study it, and because between semesters I still worked in agriculture (cattle ranch), although I tried to fit in by bleaching my hair platinum and riding a scooter and not telling people what Unitarians believe.
This is me, an awkward fish out of water, in the Alamo Square neighborhood of San Francisco, 2005:
I was awkward because folks with less computer savvy than I had were calling me Amish because I was from the Midwest, because I didn’t know how to order a burrito, because I was white, because I still loved literature so much that it hurt (can’t seem to shake that one), because I believed in God’s love (Unitarian again), because I was an independent and therefore not Democratic enough, and because I was still a virgin at the age of 32. I tried to fit in by dying my hair red and eating all kinds of exotic food and sleeping with men who didn’t value me.
In other words, I’m awkward everywhere. I’m least awkward in San Francisco, but I’m still awkward. I’ll not defend any of it; to Midwesterners I’m elite coastal, to coastal I’m a backward Midwesterner.
No wonder empathy is at a premium.
I make the joke on my Tumblr description that I don’t travel; I just up and move. A constant pounding on my self-esteem has made that less of an action statement moving forward, but I read an article in The New York Times over the last week that restored some of my identity. In the article, the reporter asked then President Obama about how books helped him survived the presidency. He explained that books have always helped him in some form or another, because some settings he has found himself in have been “isolating.” He described books as being friends when it was difficult to find the traditional definition. He described an hour of reading nearly every night while he was in office as a way for him to slow down and gain perspective in a job that seemed determined to hit him rapid-fire. He even spent a couple of years in college with only books as his social life, on purpose, and teaching himself how to write from reading great writers.
You don’t say, Mr. Obama.
Polarization is a given now, but I’m grateful for the chance to be awkward, to keep finding reading as an acceptable aspect of my personality, and to have that be something I don’t apologize for but encourage in others. I’m a farm girl who loved the city, a city girl who misses singing Aerosmith tunes to the cows during round-up (beef cattle tend to prefer “Rag Doll” or “Dream On” from my experience; not big Armageddon soundtrack fans).
I’m awkward in-between…aren’t we all? Or am I the only one?
Yesterday was the Women’s March series of protests around the world; and I have to admit I think we all needed that. After all of the finger-pointing and polarization (see above) of the election, I honestly thought that maybe empathy wasn’t a part of the American fabric anymore. But yesterday all kinds of folks showed up everywhere, on the coasts and in the rust belts, of all ages, ethnicities, orientations, genders, and all levels of awkwardness. People who voted for Trump went, stating they wanted him to know he was on a short leash; people fighting all kinds of stereotypes went, voicing their distinction.
So, in a sense, Trump did bring us all together; just not to back him.
Some media outlooks and cynics critiqued the events: “What’s the point? He’s still the president after you protest.” All I could think of was the words of a Garth Brooks song from my Midwest years, right after the Oklahoma City bombing:
Others ask us to “give the new President a chance.” Fair enough, then my ask in return is this: Where’s your line? At what point will you be disgusted, too? He’s bragged about sexual assault, he’s made fun of a prominent POW and a disabled journalist, he’s accused the last surviving leader of the Selma freedom march of “no action”…are you going to stop short of him assaulting puppies and children, or…you? Where’s your line of “that was too far”? He’s crossed mine; where is the one you’re letting him walk to so that I know when we’ll have your support?
Just asking…for a friend.
Ok, if you made it this far, you’re ready for what I’m reading lately. I’m still plugging away at the Finnegan memoir on surfing called Barbarian Days, and dragging out the last hundred pages because I am loving the narrative of this book. You will still never catch me on a surfboard, but then I don’t need to surf to love this writing.
The New Yorker is still on the list, and yesterday the trains weren’t running so I visited the Carlsbad Library and checked out the latest Winterson book, even if it is Christmas-themed (I love her stuff just that much), and The Nix by Nathan Hill. I shouldn’t have done The Nix; that one has holds and I only have it three weeks and the hardback is the size of a breadbox for Chrissakes, but…literature, shrug. I’ll never shake it. Me and the guy I voted for, finding friends in the pages.
In film I found some solace in the fight against a Holocaust-denier theme of Denial, a better understanding of Edward in Snowden, and I’m soaking up the last of Sherlock (ok, that’s not film, but close enough). All the royal treatment on Netflix and Masterpiece/PBS lately has me hooked (that’s the history minor in college kicking in) as well.
And in the tunage department…still listening to Sharon Jones (because she’s alive as long as I keep her music playing, right?), Beyoncé, and Natalie Hemby. If you don’t know Natalie go find her and listen to “Worn” from her Puxico album. And there’s my Missouri coming up to the surface.
For now…doing my best to smooth in the face of my severity of awkwardness…take care.✨