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Coraline as a Buddhist parable

Last night while I was writing down the Four Noble Truths with a brush pen in my sketchbook (I do stuff like that sometimes), my roommate put on the movie Coraline. This was entirely coincidental but I was struck by how much the themes of the movie relate to everything I've been learning recently about the core teachings of Buddhism.

There is a concept in Buddhism called "right view." It is the first practice in the Eightfold Path. I think of this as referring to a person's understanding and perception of reality. When a person does not see the true nature of reality, they are vulnerable to illusions and delusions, which cause cravings and excessive attachments.

The Other Mother in Coraline has buttons for eyes, and she sews buttons into the eyes of other people who she lures into her illusory reality. She literally lacks "right view," and she tries to force other people to share her distorted view. She craves, and clings, and she wants other people to cling to her, so she offers them the things they crave. She controls others because she is so attached to them.

The moment when all of this hit me was at the end of the movie, when the Other Mother screams, "Don't leave me! Don't leave me! I'll die without you!"

The reason it hit me is because I suddenly saw myself in her. I think a lot of people live like this without realizing it. I am one of those people, or at least I have been. This "I'll die without you!" sentiment can be applied to any kind of addiction. The "You" could be food, it could be alcohol, it could be sex, it could be attention from others, etc. The sentiment behind the Other Mother's words can be related to any pattern of compulsive thought or behavior. But in this movie, and in my own life, that theme most often plays out in relationships with other people. Codependence is a key word to describe the pattern, at least the way I understand it.

I'm trying to develop the inner strength and acceptance of reality, to move beyond that way of existing. It is really painful to live like that. And I found myself feeling sad for the Other Mother, who is trapped in a world (resulting at least in part from her lack of "right view") where she never has enough, is never satisfied, and is never happy. Things change, and everything is impermanent, so clinging and controlling is only ever going to end in heartbreak.

There is a concept in Buddhism of the hungry ghost. They are ghosts who are stuck in a state of constant craving and dissatisfaction, and they can be extremely destructive as a result. I think that the Other Mother is a perfect, almost textbook example of a hungry ghost. I mean, she would literally consume children because she was craving their love so much.

The word "love" here is interesting to me. The cat in Coraline says that the Other Mother loves Coraline and wants to be loved in return. But the word love in this context indicates an unhealthy, all-consuming obsession, rather than mutual respect and care. A really helpful and succinct explanation is actually right in the book (which the movie is based on). Neil Gaiman writes: "It was true. The other mother loved her. But she loved Coraline as a miser loves money, or a dragon loves its gold."

Now, turning my attention to Coraline herself: I see this movie as a story about how Coraline developed "right view" after undergoing a process of reckoning with her previous approach to life. She was unable to accept reality as it was. She was unhappy, and craved a different life with different parents and different friends and different material possessions. She wanted more. And in this way, she was very like the Other Mother.

As a storytelling device, the Other Mother is useful. Characters are useful for illustrating dynamics of growth and change over the course of a narrative. But I think that ultimately, the Other Mother was inside of Coraline, and a part of her. Just as she had been a part of all the other people living in that house who were dissatisfied with their lives. She is a symbol of the attachments and cravings that all people have, taken to their extreme but logical conclusion.

In the first part of the movie, Coraline resists change. She has just moved to a new place, and she has not accepted her new reality. She has trouble connecting with the people around her, who are either overworked and exhausted (her parents), or who she barely knows at all. Because her material and social conditions are not acceptable to her, and she does not yet have "right view," she develops cravings. She lives out those cravings in the fantasy world inhabited by the Other Mother.

Sometime in the early to middle part of the movie, Coraline goes to a shop with her Mom and asks for some colorful knitted gloves. She wants them because nobody else will have them and she thinks they look pretty and interesting. Her Mom says no. This makes Coraline angry, and causes her to go even deeper into the world inhabited by the Other Mother, because that is a world in which she believes her desires can be fulfilled.

Over time, she begins to understand that the Other Mother (this dissatisfied aspect of herself) is not a good person to hang around, and that her perspective on life is warped. She begins to see the dangers of living in delusion, and clinging to sense pleasures. She becomes a firsthand witness to the instability and violence this way of living can create.

So she lets go. She lets go of her expectations, she lets go of her cravings, and instead she decides to honor her love for her parents, which is based in mutual care, rather than obsession and excessive catering to desires. It is only once she lets go of any attachment to an outcome, that she begins to receive the things she originally wanted. Love, care, attention, and even some nice physical items. Her Mom gives her the gloves she wanted as a surprise gift. But now, she is wise enough to appreciate these things for what they are. She can be happy and present in the moment, appreciating the little things while they last.

honesty and promise me, part 10 [co-written with @darkmagyk] [read on ao3]

“If you don’t talk to me, I’m not going to leave you my keys.”

Annabeth looks at Piper from behind the loom, glaring through the threads. “Then you won’t come back to ten bolts of fabric.”

In fairness, it was sort of an empty threat. Piper has all the good stuff: the surger, the embroidery machine, the industrial sewing machines, plus a million sources for fabric that aren’t Annabeth’s stress weaving. Annabeth only has her own shitty sewing machine at home that she’d gotten for Christmas when she was fourteen.

Also, Piper wouldn’t actually lock her out. She needs those fabrics.

“Why don’t you just not go?” Annabeth says. “If you stay, I promise to tell you all the gritty details.” She’s joking, but the second she says it, she’s hit with a strange wave of desperation.

She wants to tell Piper all the gritty details. How she had giggled and smoozed and looked so pretty on Luke’s arm, tattoos and undercut and everything else so carefully concealed. She never wanted to tell Thalia the gritty details. The dirty ones, sure, particularly when the dirty things didn’t involve Thalia’s beloved younger cousin. But she had spent two years, two hard painful years, hiding vast swaths of herself from Thalia.

She thought of the night of the gala, of Thalia telling her family she knew Luke from college. NYU. They’d been actors together.

Annabeth hadn’t been the only one hiding things.

It had stung, in all sorts of ways.

Piper stares, narrowing her eyes. “How dare you tempt me into giving up my creative retreat for gossip.”

Annabeth shrugs. “It’s one or the other.”

The glare at each other, stubborn as all hell.

Piper throws up her hands. “Fine. Just make my fabric and call Leo if you’re having another crisis.”

The truth is, she will tell Piper. Eventually. She knows she will. It will probably be in eight months, when she gets back, when hopefully the shame of her false life and the devastation of losing Percy has lessened, but she will tell her. But eight months is a long time. “I do have other friends, you know.”

“Then call Luke. Or Thalia.”

It takes absolutely everything Annabeth has not to wince at the names.

She would never have told Thalia. Not really. Even things like this, even if it hadn’t involved her. Thalia wasn’t… good at relationship stuff. Not like Piper. And she never knew all of Annabeth’s romantic history--not like Piper did, anyway.

And it wasn’t just romantic relationships.

Annabeth might have been able to share her pain, and share her pain with Thalia, but it had, in many ways, only been a surface level thing. Thalia saw her pain after Annabeth’s mom had rescinded her approval of her life, but she'd taken Annabeth’s silence as the end of the matter, and responded to it by acting out, and arguably drinking too much.

But they never talked about her mother. They never talked about Thalia’s, either, and if there was something Annabeth learned from Hazel’s gala beyond how unfairly handsome Percy was going to look in thirty years, it was that there was a lot going on there.

It is a little hurtful on reflection. Making her feel less close to Thalia, but also less guilty about what she never said. And less willing to accept her reactions.

Her emotions have been all over the place the last few weeks.

Piper notices, because of course Piper notices, but she is an angel, and has known her for a long time, so she doesn’t badger her too much. She also doesn’t mention that Annabeth’s measurements all seem to be off. Not even to say something about beauty at every size or her well publicized efforts for diverse bodies in fashion.

But it was still nice to spend time with her. It felt like the old days, staying up too late making the next thing in fashion, and then passing out together, surrounded by bobbins and bagels, Gossip Girl playing on TV.

It did make Piper’s impending departure that much harder, though.

Two weeks into November, she meets Piper and Leo for dinner, and then sees Piper off to JFK for her eight-month creativity retreat in Oklahoma. “You know, like how you decided you couldn’t have a doorman for creative reasons,” she’d said with a raised eyebrow when Annabeth had questioned the move. Piper likes to treat the last two years of Annabeth’s life like some sort of creative exercise. Her dad had done that too, once, when she bothered to answer his call.

Not that she’s not doing anything other than helping Piper pick stitches, and sewing hemlines Piper is too important to deal with herself. She wishes that earlier estimation had been true.

Since the gala she’s been living on Uber Eats at Piper’s, unless she gets bullied home, in which case it's the same but less varied selection with more meat, so the night out with Piper and Leo the night before Piper’s flight feels like a radical departure from the norm. Even though they just go to dinner.

Which does not stop her from feeling hungover the next morning.

“You had half a glass of wine last night,” Leo points out from the door of her bathroom.

“I remember,” she agrees when it lets up for a moment.

“If you get me sick,” he says, “I’m sending you the doctor's bill.”

“Fair,” she chokes out.

Leo doesn’t hug her goodbye, but he does tell her he hopes she gets better before heading back to Boston.

Annabeth, hugging porcelain, wishes she could go with him.

She was very seriously considering it a few days later. Magnus would take pity on her and Alex was always fun to hang out with. Plus, they’d probably think she was too pathetic to be called on her shit. She only did not make plans to go up to Boston because on Wednesday Luke texted her: Already a shit week, brunch this weekend? And she knew if she ran off to Boston, she wouldn’t leave Magnus and Alex’s guest room until they forced the issue.

But it would be nice to talk to someone in New York City who doesn’t hate her guts, she thought.

So, on Sunday morning, she throws up the wonton soup she’d ordered in for dinner the night before, gurgles some mouthwash, uses the expensive concealer to hide the dark circles, and over does the mascara in hopes that she mostly looks awake.

“You look terrible,” are the first words Luke says to her.

“You have no idea how to talk to women,” she says, slumping down across from him.

“I do,” Luke says, “I just know not to bother with you.” But he frowns at her, taking her in. She’s broken out a Chanel jacket, but she isn’t sure when she last washed these jeans. A real winning combo, her.

“But really,” Luke says, “you look miserable. Is it about what happened on Halloween?”

She shrugs. It isn’t not that. Percy’s words still circle through her head, his sad, defeated face as he bemoaned the, how did he put it? All the rich girls who fucked him to make a point. Made all the worse because she believes them. Probably not the same points as those princesses, but… probably not as different as she would like.

She wonders if Europe is full of very wealthy aristocratic women who are all secretly and shamefully still in love with Percy Jackson. And Frank Zhang.

It makes her feel hollow and nauseous all at once.

But she’s been feeling nauseous for weeks now, so at least it's not a new feeling. If it keeps up, she’s going to have to go to the doctor soon.

She hates going to the doctor. It feels like cheating when she just goes and pays and knows other people can’t. She had once lied to Thalia about getting money for a side gig, and then given her two hundred bucks for a trip to the clinic. Now that Annabeth has spent many hours in his cousin’s apartment, and has heard Nico talk about his yearly income on top of the money his dad gives him, she’s not sure how it came down to her.

“Not really,” Annabeth says, “I mean, I still feel just as terrible, but that’s mostly the problem. I feel sick.”

“It's been three weeks.” Luke looks genuinely concerned. “What’s going on?”

“I’m exhausted and nauseous all the time,” she says, groaning at the thought. She was okay right at this moment, but she knew it could come back at the drop of a hat.

Luke frowned at her. “That’s all?”

“Isn’t that enough?”

“I mean…” He looked at her, his eyes gazing lower, to her body. Luke had never really come on to her in any kind of real way. But she’s not sure he’s ever looked at her with less lust than he does right at that moment.

It is calculating. She’s gained some weight, she knows. But if Luke points it out, she’s going to kick him in the nuts with her steel toed boots. Or maybe make him explain himself and his relationship with Thalia.

“Annabeth,” Luke says, his voice lower, a frown on his face, “please don’t freak out.”

She can feel her heart pick up, just a bit. “That’s a terrible place to start.”

“Have you been feeling… emotionally volatile lately? Having a lot of mood swings?”

She frowns. She’d maybe been crying a little more than normal at sentimental hulu ads, but she always has a soft touch for that kind of thing, and she’s going through some stuff. “I don’t think you should ask a woman that.”

“You are really not going to like my next question, then.” He leans close and says, “Are your… breasts tender?”

“You’re right, I don’t like that question,” Annabeth says, crossing her arms over her chest. Even though they are. “I don’t know why you thought that, and how you knew.”

Luke looks at her with such pity, she feels like she’s suddenly eighteen years old again, and crying on his couch at the end of freshman year about the greatest heartbreak of her life. (It had moved to second place. Lucky it. The boy in that bar had only been theoretical, mostly.)

Luke reaches out, grasping one of her hands, and for a second, Annabeth is sure he is going to tell her that she’s dying.

“Have you considered you might be pregnant?”

She yanks her hand away. “I can’t be pregnant,” she says. “I haven’t had sex in weeks.”

“Have you had your period since then?” Luke asks.

“Not that it's any of your business,” she says, “but I haven’t had one in years.” They do talk about sex sometimes, but periods had long been off the Luke table.

Luke grimaces. “Well, you’ve been sexually active recently…”

“It’s been more than a month!”

“When did you start getting morning sickness?” Luke asks “You were throwing up at Halloween.”

“That wasn’t in the morning,” she snaps, “and I feel fine now.”

“You know morning sickness doesn’t just happen in the morning,” Luke says. “And with the rest of your symptoms, well--”

She shakes her head, glaring at Luke. His judgement would have been better than his patient mansplaining. “You think I don’t use birth control?”

Luke shrugs a little. “I mean… you’re… not great at things like daily medication. That’s what happened last time. And if a condom broke or you didn’t use one…”

Last time. Oh, last time. Last time had been the worst four hours of her life, in between realizing that she hadn’t been remembering her birth control pills every day, that her period was a few days late, and that she’d definitely been having unprotected sex with that boy in Luke’s cohort who was probably too old for her. Last time had been her having a panic attack on Luke’s Cambridge apartment couch while a very reluctant Leo was sent to buy a pregnancy test or twelve, and Piper reassuring her via speaker phone that it would be ok, while Luke rubbed her back and reminded her to breathe.

“I do remember what happened last time,” she says. “That’s why I got an IUD. Which, if you don’t know, from all your girlfriends' pregnancy scares, has the same failure rate as permanent sterilization, less than one percent. So…” So it would be okay. She couldn’t be pregnant. That’s why it had been okay for Percy and Annabeth to start fucking without a condom.

“When was the last time you got a new one?”

“August.” She says, thinking back. She was almost sure. “I remember because it was before the Eta thing--Leo called me to tell me about the ceremony while I was at the gyno.”

“So you were distracted and being a bad patient when they were trying to put it in?”

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck.

But she won’t give Luke, of all people, the satisfaction. “They are professionals. They should know what they’re doing, even if I was on the phone.”

Luke gives her his most disappointed dad face. It is worse than Annabeth’s own father. “You’re the one who always tells me I need to not make people’s jobs harder by being a bad client,” he quietly reminds her.

She fucking hates him.

But despite herself, she pulls out her phone, and begins googling misplaced IUDs and pregnancy.  

They haven’t even ordered yet, but Luke is already standing up, probably based on the look on her face as she manages to fight through the dyslexia and figure out what it says. “Come on,” he says, helping her out of her chair, even though she’s not an invalid. She just might be pregnant.

She pushes that thought away as she follows Luke into a cab and then up to his apartment. He makes her some tea and hands her a banana while he goes to get her a pregnancy test, because Luke’s not quite shameless enough to have one at home. She waits for him in a living room straight out of American Psycho and reads up on IUD pregnancy complications online. Which she probably should not have done.

By the time Luke gets back, she is crying again. He’s gotten her 3 tests, which is very considerate of him, as she’s going to need them.

Walking into the bathroom, she’s shaking hard enough that she needs to brace herself on the wall. He lets her use the nice one off his bedroom, though it's not like she needs the jacuzzi tub.

When she’s done peeing, she sets a timer on her phone and sits on Luke’s bed. He tries to speak to her several times. She doesn’t respond.

It isn’t the longest ten minutes of her life, because the truth is, she knows.

She already knows.

When the alarm goes off, she shrugs off Luke’s arm and silently walks back into the bathroom.

Luke got a digital readout, because what else was he going to do. And so she looks at the little screen and just barely processes the word pregnant.

She doesn’t need to take the other tests. She doesn’t need confirmation or to be convinced.

She reaches down and pressed on her lower abdomen, lifting her shirt. She had noticed a slight change. But she’d also changed a lot of her daily routine lately, had eaten a lot more ice cream. Right now, she can’t see any kind of bump, not really, but she can see a shift. Something flat gone fuller.

Annabeth is pregnant.

Annabeth is pregnant with Percy’s baby.

Percy’s baby.

She bursts into tears all over again.

An eternity later, there is a knock on the door.

“Annabeth,” Luke calls, “can I come in?”

She manages to choke out a yes.

Luke finds her sitting on the edge of the tub. He looked at the test still sitting on the counter.

“Let me make a call,” he says, sitting next to her, resting a hand on her arm. “I know a doctor. He can get you a pill or maybe even see you if you need it. Probably today or tomorrow. We can get this all taken care of and then I’ll buy you ice cream and we can watch Legally Blonde, and you can complain about how it doesn’t accurately reflect the admissions process.”

Normally Annabeth would pre-complain, and point out that given Elle’s GPA, LSAT, and extracurricular activities, she would have been a shoe in for her program, and the movie was dismissive of her prior academic achievement. But she’s too busy parsing what Luke is saying.

He squeezes her hand in support. “It's going to be okay,” he says, sweetly.

“No.” She says. But not because it won’t be okay. “No, I’m not going to have an abortion.”

“It's okay,” Luke promises. “I would never judge you. And no one else would ever have to know. This isn’t something you have to do.”

“I know that,” Annabeth says. “I don’t have to do anything.” She detangles her hand from Luke’s and rests it on her stomach, where her uterus waits under her skin. “I want to do this.”

Luke looks at her hand. “Poseidon Olympianides’ son?” he asks. “That’s the father?”

She nods.

Blowing out a breath through his teeth, he sighs. “Well, you’ll be able to get some good child support out of him at least. That family is loaded.”

“Don’t say that,” she nearly screams, and Luke actually jerks back a little. “He doesn’t have any money. He’s his dad’s bastard kid,” she says, feeling a little bad about revealing his family history, but knowing that the word would spark something in Luke. “I don’t know if I’m even going to tell him.”

It feels like something cheap and shallow, trapping a man with a lie, then a baby.

She’s still crying and tentatively, Luke reaches out and wraps his arms around her, pulls her to him.

“Come on,” he says, pulling her up. “You still need ice cream and a movie.”

Annabeth cries. And she doesn’t fight him, but it feels so strange. Half way through her Caramel Sutra and the Legally Blonde proshot, she realizes what’s different.

For the first time since Percy walked out of her apartment without a good-bye kiss, Annabeth Chase is happy.

She’s pregnant with Percy Jackson’s baby.

She’s going to have Percy Jackson’s baby.

She’s not sure if she’s ever heard anything as wonderful in her entire life.

And if she’s going to be worthy of it, worthy of her baby, then she’s going to have to get her shit together.

SpongeGuy Reviews Every Disney Cartoon Ever!: Sofia The First (1.1): “Once Upon A Princess”

yeah, it’s been a while, life is hectic and i have two shows backlogged because my bros want to see it but we never get to. Anyway, gonna try to get a lot of reviews done this weekend.

Sofia The First is a little children’s show that actually tries to be good, created by GOD HIMSELF Craig Gerber, a man who has portrayed blended families, latino rep, disabled people, diversity, death, grief, depression, guilt, familial ruin and more with utsmost perfection.

So yeah, even in a simple pilot like this which still isn’t as complex as his later work, still deals with the troubles of fitting in with a new family, especially when it’s blended, and yeah, I nearly adore it!

SUMMERY: The pilot movie introduces Sofia, the daughter of a shoe-shop owner named Miranda. Both of them have been living happily together in the kingdom of Enchancia for as long as Sofia can remember. On a fateful day, her and her mother are called to the castle to help King Roland II for a shoe fitting, who soon marries her mother, crowning her Enchancia's new Queen and Sofia as its new princess. With the help of Flora, Fauna, and Merryweather from Walt Disney's Sleeping Beauty, now headmistresses at a school for royalty known as Royal Preparatory Academy, Sofia tries to adjust to royal life. She is also gifted a beautiful purple amulet as a welcoming gift, soon realizing that it is in fact the power of the Amulet of Avalor that grants her magical powers, such as the ability to talk to and understand animals. However, this amulet is coveted by the kingdom's royal sorcerer Cedric, who wants to use its power to take over Enchancia. Combined with the stresses of royal life and fitting in to a new school, Sofia has to deal with her jealous stepsister Amber, who feels that her father loves Sofia over her.King Roland soon announces a welcoming ball for Sofia, where she has to dance in front of everyone. Sofia has no clue about Cedric's evil plans and consider him a good friend, borrowing a spell from him to make her look like a good dancer after missing out a dance class thanks to Amber. The truth is that the "dancing spell" is actually one enforced to make everyone in the ballroom fall asleep, and that is when Cedric will trade the antidote for the amulet with Sofia. Before the ball, Amber accidentally rips her dress, and stays in her room due to her embarrassment and her brother James berating her for her schemes. During the ball, all the guests at the ball and the royal family present (excluding Sofia and Amber) fall asleep, including Cedric. The Amulet of Avalor summons Cinderella to give Sofia the courage to step forward and resolve matters with Amber, who teaches her how to dance. The two girls infiltrate Cedric's tower and find the counter-spell after Sofia sews up Amber's dress for her. Waking up everyone, Sofia dances proudly at her ball, as her new father anoints her the title of Princess Sofia the First.Songs: "I'm Not Ready to be a Princess", "Royal Prep", "A Little Bit of Food", "True Sisters", and "Rise and Shine (end titles)"Disney Princess guest: Cinderella from Disney's Cinderella trilogy

COMEDY: 2 Out of 5

I hate starting off negative, this was so wholesome and pure and lovely and deep! But, sadly, the comedy, even for a little children’s show, is a bit lacking.

Not completely, mind you! There are some decent gags, some fun dialogue between Sofia and Cedric the Sorcerer, the whole woodland animals wanting food as payment for helping princesses song is witty.

But, well, there aren’t many jokes attempted, as the focus is more on the story and the characters and Sofia’s problems fitting in, which is totally ok! We respect that here, which is why it’s getting a still sort of decent score here, and why the pilot movie will receive a really good score once we move on to the next sections!

CHARACTERS: 4 Out of 5

While we are only at pilot mode, and many characters (Roland, Cedric, Baileywhick, the other students, Miranda, heck, even the animals) are yet to show their true depth, we do have a great emotional plot between the three new siblings!

We have Sofia, our optimistic and wonderfully kind but lonely protagonist; James, the slightly too fun loving but very caring older brother; and Amber, the flawed and mean older sister who has a heart deep down despite her first impression.

Sofia is an absolute gem, a moe girl who doesn’t care for all the “perks”, and is only wants to help and love, but also to be loved in return. One can tell that she is afraid of letting everyone down, that her new family won’t love her if she’s not a perfect princess, so she works her hardest to be one. It’s honestly heartbreaking everytime she’s sad, and her kind deeds are so genuine you’ll just d’aww at her every time! She earns your sympathy immediately, and that’s BEFORE all her TRULY kind deeds!

James is an interesting bridge between Amber and Sofia: While he can be naughty like his sister, he’s a lot kinder and nicer to Sofia, willing to welcome her immediately. I love that he doesn’t really understand that pranking her is mean, and when he does he works super hard to make it up to her, even giving Amber a “Reason You Suck” speech to make her understand she was wrong to prank Sofia. He plays to his role perfectly, and I am a lot more interested in him than I was when I watched the show!

And at last we have Amber, the pseudo antagonist (more a foil) of the special. Amber acts like a total jerk for nearly the entire runtime, I wouldn’t blame anyone for disliking her, I did too! However, her motivations (while vain) are understandable. We all hate feeling left out, replaced, forgotten. Amber knows that everyone loves Sofia more, and she is determined to be loved too, but it just doesn’t work out. That is, until Amber realizes she did a wrong thing, more than makes amends, and accepts Sofia as her sister. I honestly LOVE characters like this, so I have a good feeling about her!

And while they don’t get to play deep roles, everyone else fills up the cast remarkably, from the fun antics of Clover, Mia and Robin, to the parental love of Roland and Miranda, to the incredibly joyful “evil” that is Cedric (can’t WAIT to talk about his arc!).

STORY AND HEART: 4 Out of 5

A lot of critics like to bash wholesome whimsey as childish, as useless. True art is angsty, after all, and nothing good can come out of optimism, childlike wonder, or love.

Those people are wrong.

A show doesn’t need to be a heavy drama or a deep exploration of the darkness of men to be good. Sometimes you just need a fairytale with a good message.

Sofia The First may seem like a cutesy girl show, but it isn’t. It’s a show about treating others the way you would want to be treated, of being kind and caring to everyone, of learning to overcome your flaws and mistakes, and becoming a good person.

I felt really happy watching this. And in these hard times, where good people are being oppressed for the most trivial of reasons, it’s nice to remember that there ARE kind people out there.

So I will be like Sofia: I will stand with those who need help, and may the whole world hate me, i don’t care. We are a family, and those who want to destroy it will back down.

For I stand with George Floyd.

Yeah, I know this is an odd place to put that, but IDC. BLM!

FINAL SCORE: 10 Out of 15

A damn good pilot! Can’t wait for the rest!

Next time we have Nightmare Ned, a slightly incomplete show (tho i might be able to find the rest), and it should be interesting!

https://docs.google.com/document/d/194d3gsPrhlOsFPYsXU-lJirY4sWncrBl/edit

A couple years ago, Michelle Obama’s book was recommended to me with glowing praise by a college friend (who reads a lot of the memoir/autobiography genre, and who felt this book stood out). I’ve meant to read it since then, and I was really glad to sit down with it as the March choice for our family’s Anti-Racism Book Club. Michelle Obama has a real nice writing style: direct, specific, and authentic. It maybe sounds unfair to say that I was “pleasantly surprised” by how strong the writing was; this was not because of Michelle herself, but because of the “memoirs by non-writer celebrities” genre where I have generally had low expectations when it comes to literary style and book structure. I really enjoyed the way Michelle writes, though. Her descriptions are specific and vivid. I felt, during the first half of the book, like I was reading a novel. I kept forgetting this energetic and self-aware girl was Michelle Obama. She seemed like a relatable, realistic protagonist in a YA book, growing up in her sharply-observed Chicago neighborhood. Her family stories and her friendships felt so concrete and were so easy to picture through the descriptions and imagery. The narrative always felt natural, well-paced, and engaging.

As Michelle’s narration arrived at the point in time when she appeared more frequently in the public eye, I was able to reconcile her vividly drawn youth with the things I knew about Michelle and the Obamas separate from this book. The blending of both selves/personas was really effective, as Michelle filled in public image outlines with color and heart by sharing the details of life in the White House. Michelle humanizes the places she lives, and her observations of the White House, its traditions and conventions both upheld and pushed against in meaningful ways by the Obama family, made their lives possible for me to imagine. From Michelle’s appreciation of being able to get her own mug from a cabinet without being offered help in her post-Presidency life to her insistence that her daughters make their own beds in the White House, the concreteness of their lives is always present in these pages. I loved getting such personal insights into a part of American public life that we are all aware of (there’s a First Family, there’s a White House), but that normally transcends the practical and specific in our minds.  

I felt, through Michelle’s well-chosen descriptions, the challenging burden of the security that surrounded their family at all times during these years. This was poignantly captured in the scene where Michelle and Barack plan a trip to NYC for dinner and play, only to understand how many people they’ve inconvenience through this small trip, as Manhattan streets are barricaded by their security and Secret Service agents scan and check everyone entering the restaurant after them. Sometimes the smallest details capture the feeling of life in the White House most vividly. I was struck by Michelle’s explanation that she couldn’t step out on the Truman Balcony—the only semi-private outdoor space at the White House—without first alerting the security who would clear the area below the South Lawn of the White House where tourists stopped for photos. Therefore, she knew she’d never use it. Just like going out to dinner and a show in NYC, simple things created such a huge operation and hassle for those around them, that it felt natural and necessary to stop doing them. I thought it was interesting to see that, despite these challenges, the area where the Obamas weren’t willing to limit and to hold back was in the experiences of their children. Michelle was frustrated with the security process when a changed young people’s plan—heading to get ice cream spontaneously—was thwarted for Malia while she waited for an hour for her head of security to arrive from the suburbs. Michelle told the security planners and organizers, “if you’re going to protect a kid, you’ve got to be able to move like a kid,” and the appropriate adjustments were made. Michelle prioritized her children’s rich experiences throughout their years in the White House, taking them to Washington D.C. museums, and skiing at Liberty Mountain, and along on international trips.

This emphasis on the vividness and diversity of her children’s experiences seemed to echo Michelle’s own upbringing, although she didn’t explicitly draw this connection. While, at times, Michelle was frustrated by aspects of her upbringing—embarrassed that her mother hand-sewed her clothes while other teenagers sported trendy outfits, or angry at her equally stubborn great-aunt Robbie over her piano lessons, when Michelle wanted to quickly skip to more advanced pieces rather than grinding over the basics—she overwhelmingly feels the love and care that surrounds her every day. She explains her father’s fortitude and strength; living with multiple sclerosis for decades, he continued to maintain his quality work and support his family, never wanting to focus on his pain or his physical deterioration. Michelle tells a heartbreaking story about a day when her father was too overwhelmed by pain to make it from their house to his car to drive to work and sank down on the doorstep, while Michelle watched him surreptitiously. She decided to give him a few minutes and then offer help, but when she looked back outside he had made it to his truck and gone to work for the whole day.

Michelle also gives huge credit for her positive upbringing and her educational successes to her mother’s care, tracing the impact this had on her education and career trajectory. She explains how when her mother understood that Michelle’s second grade classroom was not a productive environment, with a teacher who did not challenge the students nor show them care, she went to the school to advocate for an advanced placement program that allowed Michelle and other high-performing students to benefit from a more self-directed learning environment, a high-quality teacher, and new schoolwork and projects. Michelle knows that having someone watching over her education, and advocating for her before she could do this for herself, made all the difference. She also speaks about her mother’s creativity and the ways she made Michelle and her older brother Craig’s childhoods rich with experiences. Michelle recalls that she made a chimney and fireplace from painted cardboard one year for Christmas and describes her mother upholding New Year’s Eve traditions filled with board games and specially-prepared food.

The richness of Michelle’s upbringing with her family and community’s warmth, care, and love, in a space that would be stereotypically discounted as poor and getting poorer, reminded me a lot of my own childhood. I grew up in a poor neighborhood in increasingly socio-economically stratified Seattle in the 90’s, but never once felt like I was missing anything with two parents who spent quality time with me every single day. Michelle’s extended family forms a vibrant and lively community in her South Side of Chicago neighborhood, forming a support structure that seems to never leave Michelle wanting for anything, perceiving herself to be loved and valued and encouraged, building her the most solid of life foundations. Even when her parents had so little, they saved and borrowed to send Michelle on a trip with her classmates to Paris because they wanted her to experience the world. Even though Michelle raises her children in a very different socio-economic context, it’s clear that the exact same values guide her and Barack’s parenting. I think Michelle and Barack’s efforts to prioritize their family and their daughters’ upbringing is something that was visible about them during their time in the White House. This focus shone through and their love for each other always seemed so genuine. It was lovely to see that contextualized in Becoming.

More than just Michelle’s upbringing was relatable to me. I found her experiences when she attended Princeton, vaulting suddenly into a different environment than what she’d known, an environment steeped in the specific traditions of an old New England college, to be likewise relatable (yes, what is squash? I’d thought this was just a nickname for the sport, and laughed loudly the first several times I heard it as an incoming freshman). The socio-economic context shift from childhood to college that Michelle experienced was quite similar to my own. Her experiences in her 20s, too, of trying to figure out who she wants to be in a career/work space and how to let go of the “trappings of success” instilled in her by her high-powered education also rang very true for me. Even her love of eating out at the same haunt, her engagement with pop culture, her routine listening to music, her interest in leveraging fashion for social justice impact—these small things were similar to my experiences and preferences, and they made Michelle someone I really wanted to connect with and befriend. I felt these connections within the knowledge that every single experiences of Michelle’s has occurred within the context of race. Even though I felt I related to many of her experiences and thoughts, I can never understand how all of these were shaped by the systematic racism that permeates all facets of life in America. Yet, I think Michelle wants her story to be accessible, relatable not necessarily in similarity but in shared humanity. In connecting with her and identifying with her, many people can find inspiration and encouragement through her journey, as she herself acknowledges. And while I know that the people in America who most need to see this and believe in it—a Black woman from the South Side of Chicago having the experiences and achievements that Michelle has had—I think her empowerment has a broad resonance that inspires striving from within every kind of under-representation, a vote of confidence for every kind of diversity.

Right at the end of the book, Michelle beautifully articulates her faith in change, hope, and this kind of common humanity. As she describes Lin-Manuel Miranda’s musical Hamilton, she writes “it told a story about America that allowed the diversity in.” This description made me cry because it is full of hope. America has a long way to go in terms of achieving racial equality. I thought it was interesting to see how heavily Michelle was criticized during the first campaign when her statement “for the first time in my adult life, I am really proud of my country” (followed by “because it feels like hope is making a comeback”) was taken out of context. I think that, today, in the political climate of 2020 that continues into 2021, a lot more direct criticism of America is accepted. Today, there seems to be a much stronger understanding that BIPOC speaking up about race and staying they have never been safe, have never been equal, have never been happy in America is our reality. This language isn’t something that is dismissed or attacked in the same way it was in 2008/2009. Sure, the standards of “accepted language” are probably always different for someone running for political office (although has our recent former President all but obliterated such standards?), but I think there’s a much wider percentage of the American population today who feels that strong criticism of America on the grounds of race is appropriate, and necessary. Setting aside the context of Michelle’s rise to public visibility, I think she independently has incredible hope (not manufactured, not over-done, but realistic, enduring) in America. She ties this hope to the connections she felt when she campaigned in Iowa and didn’t see the working white class voters there as vastly different from herself and her upbringing. She ties this hope to the young people who devoted their lives and time and energy to Obama’s campaign. On her Becoming book tour (I watched the documentary on Netflix this week), she ties this hope to the young women of color who she connects with who are fighting for their education and their opportunities. She ties this hope to her own daughters, growing up strong and independently-minded.

In the final pages of this book, as the next President casts an appalling shadow over the things Michelle and Barack fought for, Michelle chooses to look to the musical Hamilton, as one concrete example of the hope she feels, in spite of setbacks, in spite of the slowness of change. Michelle leaves the White House mentally reviewing for herself the impacts that they had during their time there, the positive changes that they made, from the tiny things to the giant things, and her ability to look at the world this way—while showing how much this is not an easy thing to do, nor a perspective to take for granted—is one of the powerful impacts and truths of this book.

25 Best Andi and Bex Mother-Daughter Moments

Welcome to my Andi Mack fan blog! For my first post, I wanted to do a sort of countdown of the cutest, sweetest, most touching moments between Bex and Andi (and occasionally Cece), because the heart of the show is truly their relationship as mother and daughter:

1. Bex’s Homecoming (13)

The first time we see Bex on the Andi Mack pilot, it’s Andi’s 13th birthday, and she’s pulling into the Mack driveway on her motorcycle. When she and Andi see each other, Andi runs into her arms and Bex scoops her up in a bear hug. Andi doesn’t know that she’s actually hugging her mother- she still thinks Bex is her older sister, but it’s a sweet moment all the same. I especially like when they go inside to tell Celia and Ham that Bex is home, and Bex holds onto Andi for support.

2. “I’m not your sister. I’m your mother.” (13)

Bex arranges a Frisbee lesson with Jonah Beck, Andi’s crush, as her birthday gift to her. But her plan backfires when a humiliated Andi learns Jonah has a girlfriend. She lashes out at Bex, who tells her that if she did make a fool of herself, it’s a good thing, because those are the moments she’ll remember, and she needs stories like that. Upset, Andi says that Bex doesn’t even really know her. She’s not one of the people in her memory box; she’s just a girl Bex sends scarves to. Andi’s comment hits Bex hard. That night, she packs her things, planning to leave, and Andi catches her. Andi tells her she doesn’t want her to go, and Bex tells her she has to; she’s made too many mistakes, not just today, but every day of Andi’s life. Andi asks her what she means, and Bex tells her that although she thinks she’s not in her memory box, she is. She takes out a worn photo of herself holding a newborn, and reveals to Andi that the infant is her. She’s not Andi’s sister, she’s her mother.

3. “I will always love you, and I always have.” (13)

Andi is understandably hurt and angry when she finds out that Bex is really her mother, who has been virtually absent for the past 13 years. She finds refuge in Andi Shack, and Bex follows her, to try and comfort her. Andi doesn’t want to talk, though, so Bex decides to give her some space. As she’s leaving, she tearfully tells Andi, “I will always love you, and I always have. And you have that with you whether you want it or not.” At this point, there’s still a lot we don’t about Bex’s past, but she makes it clear that Andi was never unloved or unwanted, even when they were apart.

4. The Hospital Bracelets (13)

At the end of the pilot, Bex asks Andi if her offer to make her a special craft project is still open. She shows Andi the bracelet she wore in the hospital when her daughter was born, and says she wants to be able to wear it again. Andi can’t believe Bex kept it all these years. And then, Bex shows Andi the tiny bracelet she wore. She’s kept them in a secret compartment in her memory box, along with the photo of herself holding newborn Andi. Seeing those mementos shows Andi how important she is to her mother.

5. The House Party (Dancing in the Dark)

This episode showcases impulsive-big-sister-Bex at her finest, when Ham and Celia go on a trip, and she decides to throw Andi a house party. While she’s setting up for the party, Andi comes down the stairs wearing a yellow party dress. The look on Bex’s face when she sees how beautiful and grown up her little girl looks is priceless.

6. “Thank you for helping my friend” (It’s Not About You)

Things are tense Between Andi and Bex in this episode. They’re still trying to figure out how things work in their new situation as mother and daughter, and they’re dealing with the fallout of the house party. They have a small fight when Andi discovers Bex has been spending time with her friend Buffy in secret. But Andi learns that Bex was only helping Buffy fix her hair after she accidentally burned it, because Buffy’s mother is overseas, and she didn’t have anyone else to confide in for those kinds of things. Their fight is quickly wrapped up in an adorable scene where they make up by eating animal crackers in the bathtub, and Andi tells her mother, “Thank you for helping my friend.” Bex goes on to act as a mother figure to the Good Hair Crew more than once throughout the series.

7. “You named your sewing machine Cristiano?” (Dad Influence)

.Andi finally meets her father, Bowie, and after spending the day with him, Andi and Bex work on a craft project and talk. Andi asks how Bex and Bowie met. She tells Bex that she feels bad because the whole reason Bowie came was to see her, and she didn’t get to spend time with him at all. Bex tells her it’s okay. The lines in this scene are so natural and playful, from Andi giving Bex advice on how to make her craft project look better, to Bex teasing her because she named her sewing machine Cristiano (he’s Italian!).

8. Bowie’s Slideshow (Terms of Embarrassment)

Andi overreacts when she catches Bowie using her laptop. She wants to know what he was doing looking through her photos. Bex takes the laptop and looks at it. She finds a sweet slideshow Bowie was making about himself and Andi as a surprise for her, and Andi realizes her mistake. Touched, the two of them cry together. Andi runs after Bowie to apologize, but he’s already gone.

9. Andi’s Makeover (She’s Turning Into You)

Andi and Jonah come into the fringe, and Bex is thrilled to see them together. But then she learns they’re there because Jonah wants Andi to help him find a birthday gift for Amber. Thinking quickly, Bex suggests makeup. Jonah loves the idea, but he doesn’t know what to get, so Bex demonstrates by giving Andi a makeover. It’s such a mother-daughter thing to do, and something Andi’s never experienced before, because Celia doesn’t allow her to wear makeup.

10. “Why did you have to leave?” (She’s Turning Into You)

After the makeover, Andi and Bex go to The Spoon for dinner and girl talk. Bex says she knows about boys, and she knows Jonah likes Andi, even if he doesn’t know it himself. Andi asks Bex why she had to leave. They could have been having this much fun together all along. Bex panics, but says she’ll tell her if she really wants to know. Andi says she doesn’t want to know right now. She just wants to hear more about how Jonah secretly likes her. Bex says they’ll need milkshakes for that, and they call for a waiter in unison.

11. “But you’ll be all alone.” (Home Away From Home)

Home Away From Home is arguably the best and most important episode of Andi Mack so far. It contains a painful, touching scene in which we get to see the exact moment Bex grows up. The Mack girls have just moved into their own apartment, and it isn’t easy. The stress of being a new parent hits Bex hard, and she realizes that as much as she loves her daughter, she isn’t ready to be a full-time mother yet; she still has a lot to learn. You can see the heartbreak in her eyes when she tells Andi to go pack her things, because she’s taking her home. As a mother, she needs to do what’s best for Andi, and this decision is what’s best. Her pain is reflected in Andi’s eyes, when Andi tells her she’ll go, but only if Bex goes with her. Bex sadly tells her she can’t. She has to learn to stand on her own two feet and make a home for them. Andi feels bad because her mother will be all alone if she leaves, but Bex reassures her that she can handle it. Beautiful, emotional moments like these are what make this show.

12. “You Called Me Mom!” (Home Away From Home)

After Andi goes back to Ham and Celia’s house and her old life, she quickly realizes she’s homesick for Bex and her new life. Celia takes her back to the apartment that night. Bex asks her what happened, and she says that being at her grandparents’ house felt like old times, but it’s new times now; that this is her home, and Bex is her mom. Stunned and excited, Bex gasps, “You called me mom!” and she begs Andi to say it again and again, as she picks her up and spins her around in a tight hug. She finally heard the words she’s been waiting to hear for thirteen years. If this sweet moment didn’t bring tears to your eyes, your heart is made of stone. It’s the perfect happy ending to the perfect episode.

13. “It’s like my permanent record had a baby!” (Were we Ever?)

Andi and Bex land in the principal’s office when they start a protest to challenge the school’s dress code. The is one of those scenes early on in the series where Bex was still more like the kid and Andi was more like the parent. It’s a cute scene from start- when Andi gives Bex a disapproving look for putting her feet up on the principal’s desk- to when the principal pulls out Bex’s bulging permanent record and and Andi’s previously empty one, and Bex gushes “It’s like my permanent record had a baby!”

14. The Indoor Picnic (Best Surprise Ever)

Bowie returns and he, Andi, and Bex have an indoor picnic while house-sitting for Ham and Celia. It’s another fun, new experience Andi has never had before. After the picnic, they stretch out on the couch together. I love how Bex and Andi are holding hands. Playing matchmaker, Andi asks Bowie to play her the song he wrote for Bex, and he does. Afterward, they have a dance party in the living room, and Andi orchestrates a special slow dance for her parents. Andi and Bex are a perfect little family as is, but bringing Bowie into the mix makes them even better.

15.The Closure Ceremony (Friends Like These)

Andi finally learns the identity of the mystery man in the taped together photo that was hidden in a toaster pastry box. His name is Gabriel, and he was an ex-boyfriend who treated Bex badly. Bex asks Andi to help her find closure, so she can move on from the bad memories of her past relationship, and they have a little ceremony, in which Bex says goodbye to Gabriel and puts him in her memory box, because he doesn’t deserve a box of his own. Bex leans on Andi, and Andi is there to offer support. After the ceremony, Andi asks her mom if she put the picture of Bowie back in her box. Bex reveals that she keeps the photo inside the false lid of the box- presumably where she keeps her most precious memories, because that’s where she also kept the photo of her and Andi in the hospital, and their hospital bracelets. The photo is of a young Bex and Bowie embracing. Andi asks if she’ll ever have that. Bex tells her the photo belongs to both of them, and she places it on a table, right below a picture of Andi as a little girl. Then, she draws Andi to her and kisses her head. It’s a quick moment, but it’s one of the sweetest motherly gestures on the show to date.

16. Bex’s Sacrifice (Mama)

On the anniversary of the day Bex left home, Andi finally learns the truth about what really happened thirteen years ago, and it’s heartbreaking. Bex and Cece tell the story through a series of flashbacks, and it’s revealed that Bex left after Andi spoke her first word, “Mama,” to Celia. Andi worries that it’s her fault her mother left, and her family rallies around her to reassure her that that isn’t true. It wasn’t that one word, it was all the other words that had come before it- the bitter, angry words between Cece and Bex, that had finally built up. After the story is out, Bex tells Andi that the last thing she wanted was to leave, but the first thing she wanted was for Andi to be happy. And she didn’t think Andi would be happy growing up with all the tension and fighting. So, she entrusted her to her parents because she knew how much they loved her. Cece tells Bex that what she did was an amazing sacrifice, and that she didn’t think she could have done it, herself. It was a great mother-daughter moment, not just for Andi and Bex, but for Bex and Cece.The character growth on this show is amazing!

17. Lean On Me (There’s a Mack in the Shack)

This episode was more about Cece and Andi’s relationship, but there’s a great moment at the end in which the older Mack women come together for Andi. Andi and Bex accompany Cece to her hip-hop cardio class, and afterward, they go for lunch at The Spoon. They’re sitting and talking when Jonah walks in with another girl. Andi is crushed. So, Bex and Cece gather her up and form a human shield around her, quickly whisking her out of the back door of the restaurant, so she doesn’t have to see Jonah, and Jonah won’t see her. Seeing the three generations understand and support each other, and to see Cece and Bex working together in anything is wonderful.

18. Yoga Sesh (A Good Hair Day)

This episode opens with a scene from a yoga video, and Andi and Bex groaning in pain in the background. You’d think they’re doing the video... but when the scene cuts to them, they’re actually in bed, drinking cocoa, and mocking the video. It’s a lighthearted scene reminiscent of The Gilmore Girls before them.

19. Andi’s Memory Box (We Were Never)

Andi is sad when she thinks Jonah broke up with her, and Bex is there to be her shoulder to cry on. Sharing a bowl of raw cookie dough, she helps her daughter through her first broken heart, barely holding back tears herself. You have to wonder if she’s thinking about when she and Bowie broke up, while she listens. Andi falls asleep on the couch, and Bex tucks her in. Then she takes Jonah’s bracelet, which Andi had thrown away, and puts it in a memory box just like hers, which she has been keeping for Andi, unbeknownst to her daughter. She knows from experience that even though Andi’s hurting now, her first boyfriend- and first breakup- will someday become moments she’ll want to remember.

20. “Anyone need a Mack-si Taxi?” (Perfect Day 2.0)

Bex did nothing but worry when the Good Hair Crew set off on an adventure to relive their best day ever, and Andi teased her for being such a “mom.” But when the kids lost their bikes and phones, and were stranded in the middle of nowhere, they were surprised to see Bex come to their rescue, even though no one had told her they needed help. A mother’s instincts are real.

21. Pillow Fort (Truth or Truth)

Andi is beside herself when school is cancelled due to a power outage, and Bex is pretty excited herself. She builds a pillow fort for Andi that looks absolutely magical, and they spend the day in it eating snacks, playing games, and talking. Andi suggests they take a Best Friends quiz in a magazine. One of the questions is “How is your relationship with your mom?” and Andi answers, “That’s easy. Perfect.” It’s adorable. Too bad this moment leads too...

22. “Our First Big Fight” (Truth or Truth)

Andi and Bex have a big fight after Bex confides that she wishes she’s accepted Bowie’s proposal in the pillow fort. Andi storms off to her room, and Bex tries to make up by pointing out that this is actually a milestone- their first big fight as mother and daughter. But Andi isn’t having it. Bex tells her that she only told her her secret because she felt like she could tell her anything in the fort. She says it’s hard being Andi’s mother when she also wants to be her best friend. All mothers and daughters and best friends fight sometimes.

23. Bex Misses Andi (A Walker To Remember)

Andi isn’t even in this moment, but it’s one of the best! After their first big fight, Andi runs off to stay the night at Bowie’s, and Bex is home alone. The next morning, she wanders aimlessly around Andi’s room, looking at her things, laying on her bed, and cuddling Baba, Andi’s stuffed owl. She misses her daughter so much. Finally, she calls Bowie to see if Andi is ready to come home. She tells him she’s a mess; she spent thirteen years away from home, and now she can’t stand even one night without Andi. It just shows how close these two have gotten. Thankfully, Andi walks in the door seconds later. Their big fight is over, and Andi and Bex are best friends again.

24. Bex’s Gift (Crime Scene: AndiShack)

Remember the hospital bracelets from the first episode? And Andi’s promise to make a special craft out of them for Bex? Well, Andi’s finally making good on her promise in this episode (yay for continuity!).

When Andi is forced to spend the day with Miranda’s daughter, Morgan, Morgan handles a fragile bracelet and breaks it. Andi tells her not to touch it because it’s a family heirloom. It’s made with the hospital wristbands her mom saved from when she was born. Andi is making the wristbands into a special gift for Bex, and she’s going to give it to her in a Tibetan prayer box. It’s a heartfelt gift that Bex is sure to treasure for the rest of her life, but unfortunately, little Morgan gets a case of sticky fingers and takes it.

Bex is touched by the gift when she finds out about it, and she is heartbroken to find out the wristbands are gone.

25. Mama Bear Bex (Crime Scene: AndiShack)

To everyone’s relief, Andi and Bex do get their hospital bracelets back, but not until after a dramatic scene ensues in the Mack backyard. Bowie brings Miranda and Morgan over, and Morgan apologizes, but still claims not to have taken the box, even though Andi knows she did. Miranda basically accuses Andi of lying and tries to force her to apologize to Morgan, and protective mama Bex jumps to her daughter’s defense, ready to throw down if need be. She loves Andi fiercely, and is always willing to fight for her. Luckily, Bowie diffuses the situation before things get too heated.

Thanks for reading! What’s your favorite moment from Andi Mack? All photos are property of Disney Channel.

Sharp Objects

Episodes: Vanish, Dirt, Fix, Ripe

Content below may be triggering for some, please read with discretion.

Examining tiny hairs became my daily hobby. I would always attempt to remove the tiny white bulb from each eyebrow or eyelash I pulled.

I had two groups of friends in middle school, one set who did nothing but make fun of me and really appealed to my critic voice, and the other group who were kind and loving and adored me. I am sure you can guess which group I hung out with more often. Christ, you’d think I would have learned by now. These girls would write notes to me in class threatening to kill my cat, they would go into gruesome detail about how they would do it and where they would bury him. My boy was only about a year old and he was my world, this ‘friend’ befriended me because I was the new kid at this school and had a photo of my cat in the front pocket of my binder. She used the very thing I loved so much to hurt me. This would grow to be a frequent occurrence with all the toxic individuals who have entered my life. The picking began that year, while taking our end of grade tests, the note passing session fell around the same time as well. I hate seeming like I was an easy target and like a pitiful little baby, I had no problem sticking up for myself and becoming defensive, but it is as if they and everyone else knew I would take their insults and words to heart and lash out at myself in the process, it is as if no one took me seriously. My vulnerability has always been used against me though it is my favorite attribute that I embody. So, following the threatening cat letter, I told my Mom and she in turn told my teacher, though I told her not to. The girls were obviously scolded and were told to apologize to me and they did and I forgave them and all was dandy! Me teacher took a liking to me after that happened, she stopped me in the hallway and said to me one afternoon “You know that saying, sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me? Well, words are worse.” I have never forgotten that, and thinking back on that now, I would much rather someone shatter my skull than harm my heart with words; the most powerful weapon of all.

My palm is still pulsating from my grip on my favorite pair of scissors. I used to use them to cut out photos of the cast of LOST and carefully pin them on my wall, they are children’s scissors, a rather hideous blue color, I once was detained at the Colorado airport for having them in my backpack. These scissors have traveled with me for well over a decade now, always handy, for whatever need may arise.

Is there anything more vulnerable and heartbreaking than hearing an adult refer to their Mom as ‘Mama’? It is the southern staple, it is what I call my own Mama, a spark of my inner child latching on to this tiny, yet, oh so powerful word.

Everything is a sharp object, a person who self harms spends time scanning rooms. When you vow to not keep the ‘normal’ tools in your home, you sometimes have to get creative when you are desperate. Using the end of a tube of lotion, safety pins, knives, caps from various household items (toothpaste, prescription bottles, etc), the blades of your blender screaming your name, end of a lightbulb, end of an iPhone charger, etc. Anything can work as long as you press hard enough. The thoughts and perceptions are the ammunition; the cutting itself is the therapy.

I chipped my front tooth on a glass bottle a few months ago, it is sharp and jagged, but barely noticeable. As an anxious habit, I tend to rub my thumb nail against the sharp part of the tooth and drag my thumb up and down repeatedly throughout the day, my cuticles are worn and bruised, my nail has white lines, jagged and uneven all over. I wish I picked up skills as quickly as I pick up gross habits. I always must be doing something, whether it is biting my nails, digging my car key into my stomach while socializing, cutting words like ‘fat’ and ‘never’ on the inside of my thighs, purging until my throat is stinging and raw, picking and picking, punishing me for being me.

I am always particularly drawn to destructive characters, not their behaviors or habits, but their strength. It takes a brave person to keep living when everything inside of them is frothing with hate. The damage is outside of ourselves, though we take it out on ourselves, no matter the issue, no matter the severity, we take it out on ourselves. Amy Adams perfectly conveys what it is like to have destructive thoughts and painful memories rumbling inside of your skull at all times, instead of taking it out on other people, which tends to be the more common practice, she takes it out on herself. Why is it that I can care for such characters so deeply but cannot care about myself? I think it is because my issues are weak comparatively, that is what the message on the jumbotron flashing across my insides reads.

I recently turned in my apartment key to my former leasing agent, my first thought when I left the building was about that key; a sense of mourning trailing behind me. It is dull and smells of nickel, but I have always preferred it due to its specific ridges. I trace my finger across the grooves, it is ritualistic in nature, that’s always how it begins, I feel the object, allow guilt over past issues/what people think of me take hold of me, and carve. It is an instant euphoria, it’s hard to describe it, it feels like my guilt or my self-loathing is silenced for the night. My thoughts quiet, bleeding through, I always promise this will be the last time, only issue is my guilt and self-loathing are like rabbits; rapidly procreating.

Camille hides her indulgences like a child, her stunted adolescence is showcased through the candy bars and tiny alcohol bottles she continues to sneak into her Mother’s home. Addicts and individuals who partake in harmful activities tend to minimize everything and/or make excuses for themselves. Camille buys small bottles of vodka instead of a full handle. Camille softens experiences, her rape, cutting, alcoholism, she is never the victim, ever, she thinks she deserves all of this. Placing the sewing needles against the pad of a finger, no blood, no incision, just a press. It isn’t real if the dose of the destruction is untraceable.

Camille is so real, so dark, familiar. Unlovable. The only way to stop ones destructive habit(s) is to graduate to a new one. For Camille, that is alcohol. There is almost a self destructive meter that each person has. For me, alcoholism and sex addiction are the 10s, I made a promise to myself years ago that I will never get there, ever. I tend to teeter on the line at a 5/6. 1-Pulling (trichotillomania) 2- weak cuts, no depth 3-anorexia 4-heavier cutting 5-bulimia 6-bulimia and cutting. I know this makes no sense and seems appalling, but these are examples of my own personal excuses. “Well, ill never make it to a ten, well I never use razors, well ill never be a sex addict because no one will have sex with me, etc.” I am trying my hardest to level down, the only issue is there is so much darkness I have yet to punish myself for, so many memories living at the forefront, things I will never forget. Our ability to remember everything is our everlasting curse, no prince will ever break it, in a way, our worst memories are what keep our destruction alive. A buffet for the critic living inside of us.

Adora’s words slither. Whispers coated with poison, suffocating all those around her, yet her love and approval feel like antidotes. Camille will never fully heal.

Amma wraps her lollipop around Camille’s waves in her hair, the ultimate childish act. Teens are just so freaking scary, that scene is just deeply troubling and it is tough to see a grown woman sucked into a gaslighting reality. Its all about power dynamics in that toxic town. Camille seems fearful, her tone shifts to defensive, but it never works, not even on her sister who is more than a decade younger than her, people can just sense that she is an adult child. The empath. The watcher. The ultimate reactor.

Camille is timid, but she asserts such dominance when her secret is threatened to be exposed.

There is an acid stain on my porcelain tub, it sits two inches from the drain and features a light orange tint, I remember that specific night that stain was born. Its the spot I always aim for when purging; a home, a landing strip for my innards, you’re not alone here; no one is alone here. I shave sitting down in the shower because I am a weak individual who just prefers to sit or lay at all times, I notice the stain, I stick only one finger in my throat to gag, but stop myself from taking it further than that, it isn’t good, but I have to do something. Usually I will stare in the general direction of the stain and blindly shave while staring at it, my eyes shift to the drain and memories shoot out and I wish to turn the small top off of the drain and cut myself again, I ignore that and continue to shave, if only I had shorter legs.

I bet you’re sensitive, writers are sensitive. You can make people understand.

Camille is a person of senses, she is so easily triggered by her environment. She feeds off of energies; clocking everyone.

There is a moment in Vanish where Camille is driving in Wind Gap, she sees one of the town’s many murals and says quietly, but with a shake of comfort, “Hi Betty.” She later greets the mural outside of the tire store and says with a sarcastic (she finds the funny and its one of so many things I so deeply love about her, her wit is incredibly strong) tone, “What do ya know, Joe?” I have this ritual to ease my anxiety that I have been doing since I was a teenager, whenever I am feeling overwhelmed or like I wish to purge or cut, I say hello to every object in the room I am in. Hello sink, hello rug, hello shampoo, hello conditioner. I have never really given much thought to this little coping mechanism of mine, but Camille saying hello to these little pieces of her town, it made me feel less like a freak.

The yellow innards of the lemons printed on my sheets stared back at me. A perfect set of sheets for the summer, lemons have always made me happy, I tend to give fruits and other inanimate objects personalities, and lemons are just so very kind and nurturing. Mother fruit. As a child, I would constantly take the lemons from my parent’s waters at restaurants and suck on them until my tongue was numb. The blood is traceable, not much, a familiar yet distant sight to behold. The warmth of the blood slowly dripping down my inner thigh landing on one of the many lemons printed on my sheets; silencing its kindness.

There is always a sting of pain hidden beneath the shadow of empathy in the eyes of the damaged. Weighted looks, like magnets, that draw you in.

In the words of the masterful Gillian Flynn,

Camille is a ballerina with a steel spine.

honey days - excerpt

Chapter One

I want to live in a castle. A hundred and five rooms, each a different color, because sometimes I like emerald green, sometimes I like powdery pink, and sometimes, my favorite color in the whole world is jetty, midnight, inkwell black. I will craft my own stained glass and let the foyer bathe me in rainbows at sunrise. Hopefully, that front room will look east, and then I can choose which hue to run with for the rest of the day. If it faces west, however, I can deal, something of reflection. I know that I want a greenhouse for the winter and a garden for the summer. In the springtime, my hundred year old trees will flower, and in the autumn, of which there must be ample autumn wherever my castle is built or remodeled, those same trees and all of the others in the little forest that is my surrounding land, must go red and gold. I hope to have apple trees, but if someone from the town down the hill, where I get along with every single person, wants to place a crate of them on my old, or made to look, steps each October, that is fine. My lack of height doesn’t lend well to taking fruit from trees. Actually, I would love to climb my trees. Is it too late to have an orchard in the backyard, too? I don’t need too much in the way of a kitchen— I haven’t been very hungry lately— but I feel strongly about hallways. They should be bright. Rugs are important, for my castle will have wooden floors. I’m drawn to red rugs, though I don’t know really why. In any case, each room should have a rug, because I want to run all through the estate, and I feel like the echo of my shoes will wear on me. The shiny black shoes with the winged tips and the spiked-bottom shoes with brown plaid aren’t meant for running on hardwood, anyway. I have grand visions of a different outfit that belongs to each room, but I think that I only want five pairs of shoes. Unkind-weather boots, dark, some kind of imitation leather because cows are for hugs and milk, but only when they agree, since I can’t eat meat anymore. I’ll have my shiny wing-tipped black shoes, the spiky-bottomed plaid shoes, some flat canvas lace-ups for sportier looks, and- “What are you thinking about, Hudson?” Margarite always asks me what I am thinking about just before she leaves me to try and fall asleep. Apparently, I think of the funniest things around this time. When she asks, she combs her fingers through my cinnamon colored half curls to get the knots out and judge how much has fallen out since last night. I think that it’s her fingernails that get me thinking. Then again, just about any woman could comb her fingernails through my hair and I would be spaced out for hours. “Shoes.” She gives a questioning sound. “Shoes?” I just nod, my eyes to the window. The moon should be full one of these nights, and with how much trouble I have had getting to sleep at a reasonable hour recently, it’s an incentive. I could stare at the sky forever. Once the town goes to sleep, once the lights have all went out, the stars take their place. In other times that I have laid in this bed, I have gotten up and stood at the window, but I don’t think I will do that tonight. Maybe I’ll be able to see which sign is in the sky from here. I’m not sure, though. Five stars shine in the sky beyond Roseville Towneship Medical Centre, room three two zero four. I only ever count five, and there is no way in which I could tell you why. “What about shoes, Hudson?” I shake my head. “I’ve moved on.” Maybe I won’t have trouble sleeping anymore by the time I move to my castle. I don’t really have the money for it right now. I’m just a little tailor, but I’m good enough at it to save up. It’s not easy for me to go back to work now. Usually, I still work while I’m here since anyone can bring me my sewing box and projects, but this time is different. I don’t want to think about it. I want to think of my castle, because even though I am stuck here for now, in this yellowish-white room with squares on the pleated and round-hemmed curtains, sun-powered lights in the ceiling that are so unkind, and the scratchiest blankets in the world, someday, I will live in a castle. I just hope that someday is relatively soon. Now, to spend so much time in rooms with no art on the walls, single beds, higher than they should be, with overbleached white sheets, and these little lamps with sun-bulbs that affix to the tall headboard, switches on the walls and little sketching monitors or tall poles adorned with clear bags, there is no soul to be found. I have been so drained of anything. It’s harder to breathe. It’s harder to speak. It is so much harder to sleep. Even if, on the little table beside the window, there is a radio, there isn’t any life here. Maybe that’s the point. I was doing so well until recently. For months, I never even thought of anything being out of place. I worked in my parents’ laundromat, setting my sewing machine up at the counter. When anyone came in for their drycleaning, they spoke to me before my mother. It was always something along the lines of looking better. I’d like to think that I always look decent, being very much my mother’s son and all, but I am biased towards the bruisier, rheumy aesthetics. They’re all I’ve ever really known, I guess. I’ve never woken up feeling rested. Not a day goes by without an ache or standing too quickly. Too many times in life, I have jumped to my feet, only to fall over like a logged tree. There must be some pretty short trees out there for this simile to work. Anyway, daily inconveniences aside, I had been doing so well. I saw my friends often and put my paychecks towards new albums or scented candles or throw pillows. I made my bed every morning after waking up on time after falling asleep quickly. Three meals a day, colorful ones without ingredients that made things worse, coordinated outfits that fit right, and I even got a good haircut at a point. None of my friends pointed out that I should find different sweater sizes. They didn’t call my haircut, “uh… interesting…” and not one person asked if I’d slept alright the night before. I was smiley, talkative, and present. I was fuzzy and warm and just about to turn twenty-four. I was betting castle savings that I’d never have Margarite’s good fingernails through my hair again, or that it would be falling out again. But I guess I bet a bit too much. I was out with a girl named Melody, laughing over conspiracy theories and craft brews at the after-hour library. I liked Melody a lot. We met at the record shop. My favorite lead from my favorite band left last March. I knew that a solo album had been released, as well as a business as usual album from the two members left, but I hadn’t the heart to invest in either of them until then. I have a favorite member, but it was still heartbreaking to have to choose a side. The record shop had both albums on a table. The single from the solo record had gone to number one, the other number two, and the feud was so dramatic that I couldn’t escape it. It tore me apart. Truly. I’d gotten so bad, and to not have my favorite band behind me, to have my favorite band falling apart so dramatically right in front of me, threw me into episodes of nothing mattering more often than I’d like to admit. The nurses gave me news when they found out from the gossip columns in the paper, but only good news. I couldn’t handle any more bad news. Anyway, Melody saw me weighing my options at the table. “They’re both good,” she said from the counter. I turned quickly, wondering when the owner, an older and worse for wear gentleman who has a warrant out for anything on the baroque spectrum and does not condone my checkerboard mustard yellow and navy blue slacks— which look amazing, mind you— had been replaced with a goddess of heavy eye makeup, loose-bobbed curls the color of coffee, and, fatefully, a navy blue overall shift dress atop a mustard yellow turtleneck. I was in love. I pushed back my tears as quickly as I could. I stammered the only thing that mattered to me. “Which is more baroque?” She smiled through caramel lipstick. “Solo album.” So I bought the solo album, we exchanged names and free evenings, and then on Saturday, chose a table in the new non-fiction section. I talk politics like a madman, and luckily, Melody and I agree on universal healthcare and social progress, so we got wheat-buzzed and laughed at the right wing. Roseville is a small, cobblestone town situated barely inside cotton and tobacco country, and maybe it was the will of the conservatives at the bar, or maybe I got too optimistic in my newfound alcohol tolerance, but either way, I made it halfway back to my parents’ house at the end of White Street before waking up on the sidewalk at the hands of burly paramedics, my date replaced with a canvas-covered trauma-trolley, and my lifelong cycle of, “actually, it can get worse this time” repeating itself. I didn’t ask what happened. I know how it goes by now. I didn’t wonder what madness my body would assault me with this time. I’ve learned better than to try and predict it. I didn’t bother asking how long I’d be spending in room three two zero four of Roseville Towneship Medical Complex. They always underestimate. I took my new side effect of excruciating pain down my legs, six hands’ worth of needle drips per carpal set, and bad news after bad news after bad news, and decided to think of other things. Like living in a castle, for example. “We’ll get you reunited with your shoes soon,” Margarite presently tries. I respond with a roll of violently hazel eyes and a breath not too strong to beckon the breather again. “Once you’re a little more vibrant.” “That’s offensive, Margarite.” “Last time, you called it clever.” “Last time, I couldn’t remember my name.” “Which reminds me,” she takes my board of paperwork from the foot of the bed. “What’s your name again?” I’ve done this six times today— name, age, month and day of birth, sun sign, height, and, get ready for this one, street address. Exciting stuff. I love feeling like I’m locked out of my life. “Hudson James Walker, twenty-four, August twenty-second, Leo, if my birth time is to be believed, five-seven in shoes, and,” I catch my breath. “Three-thirteen White Street.” She returns the board. “At least you don’t have to worry about any of that,” as she reaches the door, the lights are cut off. “Goodnight, Hudson.” “Don’t count on it, Margarite.” The begged question at this point is along the lines of, “What is wrong with me?” Short answer: Everything. No, honestly, it is my tendency to collapse at complete random and violently convulse until something is knocked off-kilter, out of place, or into dormancy. It comes in clusters. I’ll go a few months completely fine, usually immediately after Roseville Medical glues me back together, and then it will strike with the most random thing at the most random time. My most recent hiatus was the shortest at three months, but it was the best. I got summer, and I do appreciate that, because I got my birthday, too. The lake outside town was so nice on the solstice. I couldn’t go in past my waist because I still had patches taped to my chest from having lightning pressed against the lifespots, but I did take my shirt off despite the bolt scars up my shoulders. I think that people were more obligated to stare by the month’s worth of hair in the time I couldn’t shave, but I understand that. I’m small… for the most part… and have a very gentle face— long eyelashes, low hairline, the whole nine— so, really, there is no excuse for me to have as much hair on my chest, arms, and legs as I do. Some lake-goers, I think, were waiting for me to speak, and when my s’s and high-ish tenor delivered in spades— ‘sspadess’— the mystery got that much deeper. I enunciate a lot, and very little of it, if any, comes across as masculine, so I get it. It’s all confused. Overall, summer was great, though. I enjoyed it alongside my health, toothy smile, and best friend. Autumn is my favorite season by far, though. October the only month I live for, so losing this year is a bit of a— sigh— bummer, but I’ll live. Wait. The time before last was the most dramatic. I think that they shocked me six times. The hair doesn’t grow there anymore. I kept the patches on for six months. I’m not sure the scars will ever go away. So, yes, I’ve died before, here, and, yes, it keeps me awake at night. I still get sore around my ribs sometimes. It was my memory last time, and they said that they fixed it, and I’m inclined to believe them what with the fact that I remember it, but I don’t recall exactly how. I don’t want to know. If I know, then I know what to worry about. This time, it flipped a switch that turned my legs to radio static. It hurts at the best of times. I have learned to cope with the base hurt, the stationary static, but they won’t send me home because, unless I stay completely still above the waist, it is absolutely unbearable. It is safe to say that I am mildly dramatic, but I have an incredible pain tolerance. If I say something hurts at a ten, I don’t. If something hurts at a ten, I am collapsed to the floor, unconscious. I can’t be touched below the hip flexors without coughing up whatever I’ve eaten in the past five days, and I think that’s why they aren’t offering food anymore. A shower, during which I never stood, was so intense that it stopped them pushing liquids, too, and I’ve never been so thirsty, but drinking then involves getting up twenty minutes later, so I’ve taken to dealing with it. No one is allowed to give me anything, and I don’t really want to sneak over to the sink. I am just going to be thirsty forever, feeling no relief from painkillers, breaking down into tears when I remember how much I love toast. It’s bad this time. It was bad last time. It was bad the two times before that. Before those times, however, it was little more than finding a safe place to lie down once every few months and, at worst, waking up with bruises. I got warnings before anything happened, a little shake in my hands. The episodes were short, no more than five minutes. No switches were ever flipped, the day just went on as normal. It wasn’t fun, but it wasn’t bad. I worked regularly. I saw my friends often. I lived with my girlfriend. She found me the first bad time. We rented a one-bedroom apartment on North Main Street, tucked away between the historical district and the park. It was an industrial thing, an old mill, I think. The ceilings were high, the windows were tall, and all of the furniture was either dark wood or upholstered mustard yellow. I did not decorate the apartment. Maximalism and I don’t do well together. I asked only for my turntable and a third of a bed. Her name was Emily Monday, and I’m pretty sure that it still is. She had blonde hair, and I’m pretty sure that she still does. We dated for three years. I don’t really want to talk more about any aspects that aren’t medical, but I loved her. I loved her so terribly. I got along with her about as well as I get along with maximalism, but I really did love her. It was around three in the morning when she found me on the vinyl tiled kitchen floor, affront the laminate ‘wood’ cabinets, or so the people involved have told me. She knew as much as I did about it. Less than five minutes, don’t try to stop it, I’ll deal with the aftermath when I wake up, “don’t worry about it, babe. You wouldn’t even know it happened if I hadn’t told you.” Except, I got no warning. I don’t even remember going into the kitchen. I remember falling asleep combing my fingers through the longest, straightest, softest blonde hair, and then I woke up in July. The incident happened in the second week of June. I don’t really know what tipped her to call paramedics, and I haven’t gotten around to asking her about it, so we’ll never know. I take a bit of joy imagining two burly men dragging me down the three flights of stairs, no lift, that I was cursed to climb a few times a day. I’m not heavy, but they must have been on their toes, never knowing when I would flail and hit them. It’s what the ideally built man deserves, to be scared of me for once. Then again, everyone who knows is absolutely terrified of me. I shiver or cough or stare into one spot trying to add two double digit numbers together for too long and everyone has a panic attack. I don’t work register anymore. I couldn’t find words for a while after that first bad time, but Emily could, and that was that. We ran into each other at the lake over the summer. Her new boyfriend is taller than I am. He has broader shoulders and a deeper voice, doesn’t overdo ‘s’s or anything. We went to school together, all three of us. He’s a nice guy, I guess. I never really knew him. He dragged her up to me, saying that we should talk, catch up. I politely lied that I had to go, but there we three were, half-naked on a man-made beach. I don’t remember what we said, but I remember my best friend, Lionel Lee, ending it by making the sound of thunder by cupping his hands over his mouth and dragging me away to collect my clothes. Lionel is a great friend. I wonder why he hasn’t called in the week since I’ve been here. I wonder what color I’ll paint my bedroom in the castle.

There comes a point. I’ll start with that. There comes a point, and to elaborate, there comes a point in situations such as mine at which all avenues have been exhausted, and a decision must be made. I’ve known medications before, three of them. Two of the three didn’t work, but the one that did was so terribly unkind that it pushed me over a terribly unkind edge, and it was never an avenue again until yesterday afternoon. Yesterday? Yesterday— it’s tomorrow now, quarter past three. I was confronted by a doctor alone, in stark contrast to the usual confrontation involving my mother. I know this doctor well, but I can’t ever remember his name. I guess that is to be expected in a situation such as mine. He said that we all know what works in controlling these spells, and that I should strongly consider considering it again. This is not my worst outcome, but if a usual pattern is to be followed, it will get worse over the next few days, and then disappear for a while, only to come back that much scarier. I can always rely on being brought back with how irrationally eager my soul is to stay in this body, but it has been implied that I should avoid it in the first place. I agree, but I cannot subject myself to what I was subjected to on that chemical compound the last time. I told him that. In response, and in complete honesty, he told me that I have about a hundred days left to live, should I choose to live alone. Alone, referring to free of chemical intervention, I can move in with as many women as I’d like. Of course, a hundred days is a rough estimate. It could be fewer or it could be more, but he said that one hundred days was a good estimate for me. He then said that I should rethink my decision. I refused to rethink my decision.

PROMPT OO7.  C R E S C E N D O 

they say “these are the best years of your life” i say “i wanna break down and cry” when i looked to the future, i dreamed of adventure but i’m still  STUCK i n   t h i s   t o w n . . . 

smiles aren’t hers. she sees other people smile and she sees hair pulling and joking and little teasing kisses between boys and girls. she learns what a crush is through her friends, not through herself. she’s immune to it. but she likes the way abigail tucks her hair behind her ear, she likes betty’s smile ( even though she has braces, she tells her she looks beautiful ), she likes marigold’s laugh. they fill her with light and they fill her with laughs, but she doesn’t know what to say when they ask her if she likes any of the boys in their class. no, she tells them, and she lets it sound like a lie and feel like a lie. they tease her, they insist she’s hiding who it is. she looks out onto the playground and she picks a boy at random. that one. she doesn’t even know his name. 

for some reason, that makes it more romantic. 

darling don’t flatter yourself  into thinking i’m SCARED the only reason i’m not talking to you  is i simply don’t care you think your standoffishness  has made me run and hide away i just have bigger issues to be dealing with today

his name is tom and he likes to pull her hair. she tries to figure out why that’s flirting, she tries to bat his hand away to make him stop. he holds her hand when she tries to do it and the whole class goes “oooooooh,” like that proves something. 

it proves nothing to her. she holds girls’ hands and that means nothing, so why is it different when it’s a boy to everyone else? he thinks she’s odd. he makes fun of her dirty hands and her overalls with the little patch shaped like a frog her mother sewed onto it for her. he says she’s weird because she doesn’t like him. she pushes him so hard he falls over. one of his friends comes and shoves her, and she falls. 

it’s not the kind of falling that he wanted her to do. 

you shouldn’t be so quick to cower every time you meet someone new don’t look for her face, i know you see it everywhere ( e v e r y w h e r e )  just try to replace, i know it won’t compare, it won’t compare

she’s fourteen and her lips are soft. she isn’t expecting them to be soft. she’s dreamed of them, she’s thought of them, how soft they are or how nice they’d feel against hers. they’re in the library and it’s late and she doesn’t know if pince sees. she doesn’t care if she does. the girl’s hair is soft too, and she’s holding tilden close to her with her hands on her hips. she slides her fingers up and beneath her robes, then down along her shirt to the bottom of her skirt. 

pinces footsteps are ringing and the girl grabs her books hastily and she vanishes. she doesn’t know if it was a dream or not. she prays it’s not, she hopes it’s not. she feels those lips on hers the rest of the night, like a ghost. she feels validated, vindicated, imbued with some sort of strength or power that makes her ten feet tall. 

she sees her in the great hall the next morning and she smiles at her. the girl gives her one look before she puts her arm back around her boyfriend’s waist. 

the next girl she kisses is later, it takes time. she’s fifteen and eunice is from her hometown. she’s got big glasses and a small, round nose, and thin lips, but they’re still soft when tilden kisses them. there’s fumbling and there’s laughter, and whispers of “i don’t know what i’m doing” that are met with the soft reply of “me neither.” they laugh, between touches and kisses. she’s gentle. even if it’s a mess, if it’s unpracticed and fumbling and awkward, it’s the first. and she’s comfortable, she’s safe. she’s happy. 

her parents don’t know. they don’t understand their daughter’s heartbreak when the girl moves away. they don’t see the two of them stealing a kiss from each other before she gets in the car and drives away. 

she kisses more girls and laughs more, but she listens and waits for the one that makes her feel the same. she waits for the one that makes her feel safe as much as it makes her feel satisfied. 

i can’t keep on living with a delicate mind if i make a coffee can we act like we’re fine ? when we were tangled in the sheets and waking up in our bed 'cause now you strangle me in my sleep and i wake up with you  i n   m y   h e a d  oh, i thought you loved me i thought i thought  wrong

"i can’t see you anymore.”

there’s more said, but she doesn’t need to hear more. marlene’s face is guilty but still gentle. she can’t look at her the same way. she just stops. marlene keeps talking, and tilden grabs her jacket and leaves without waiting for her to finish. she burns. she’s burning. she wants to cry. 

this isn’t love. this isn’t what love is supposed to feel like. love isn’t an expired can of sardines that can just be returned simple as that. it’s the first time she’s ever felt like a freak, like an idiot, like her feelings are invalid. 

she gets drunk. it’s with some of the other hufflepuffs. she finds a boy, a random one, and they sneak out. his hands are soft, but his lips are rougher. his breath is hot. he’s not rough, he’s not bad. he’s gentle in his own way, kisses her passionately, holds her firm. it doesn’t feel right, she doesn’t feel the fire. there’s no laughter, there’s no fumbling; he knows what he’s doing. and she does too. 

he does all the right things, touches and kisses all the right places. he does everything right. and she still feels nothing except frustration that she can’t be normal, that her skin doesn’t feel like electricity when he touches her, that she’s never going to look at him the way she looks at marlene, how she looks at daisy, how she looked at eunice. 

she doesn’t talk to him again. it’s easy for the two of them to move on. it shouldn’t be easy. it should be a struggle, it should be painful, it should be something that they should fight for. but it’s not. she leaves him in the greenhouse, and they thank each other. and that’s the end of it. 

she stops kissing boys. she doesn’t try it again. and she’s okay with that.

i’m tired of all this waiting  w a i t i n g ; they say that i’m too young to really know what i want then maybe i’m not sure that this is what i thought still live at home, and i’m still alone nothing’s changed, don’t tell me this is how it stays

maybe she’s built to be alone. maybe this is what this means, that she should be alone. she stares out the window and watches the snow. it’s christmas break of her seventh year, and she can’t wait to go back to school, just to get out of here. 

her parents are worried. her mother is worried because she never talks about boys, so maybe she’s heartbroken. her father worries because she doesn’t want him to introduce her to any of his coworkers’ sons. they don’t understand it. they mean well, but they still don’t understand it. 

she comes back after she graduates because she doesn’t know what else to do. she’s not excited. not about all of it, not about her future. she doesn’t want to wait for her life to begin. but she wants to figure out what she’s jumping into before she goes. 

she sits at home and watches the other neighborhood kids playing in the street. 

that had been her once, scraped knees and dirt between her fingernails. wild and bright and young, not at all worried about all the things that weighed down on her mind. she’d never been called mudblood, she’d never had bad words thrown at her except those that were boys trying to make her feel small for not wanting anything to do with them. she could stomach that, she could rise above that. 

maybe this is just one of those things she’s not meant to rise above.

don’t try to erase ‘cause then there’ll be nothing there search for her SOUL in someone else’s body search for her body in  a   n e w   c i t y search for the cities that make you feel wanted search for the places that don’t feel HAUNTED it’s YOUR FAULT that you had to care (  y o u   a l w a y s   h a v e   t o   c a r e  ) next time don’t care.

it’s her first pride parade and she doesn’t give a shit if anyone thinks she’s a freak for it. she’s not there with a girl, she’s not there with a boy, she’s not there because of soft lips convincing her to go. she’s there for her. she’s there because this is who she is and this is who she wants to be and this is her city. she’s there because she doesn’t have to be ashamed. she’s here for her friends, she’s here for the girls that she’s kissed and how they helped her get here. she’s here because it’s okay to be loud and proud, it’s okay to be okay with who she is. 

and because she looks damn fine decked head to toe in everything rainbow she could find. 

it’s the first time she calls herself gay in public, the first time she uses the word lesbian. it’s the first time she really felt the words-- not felt she was them, but felt she was part of them, that the history of the words from the beginning until now was something she was included in on now. was something that she’d gained access to, that she’d gained a membership to a secret little club of beautiful, incredible, fearless people. 

mudblood, she can’t make herself own up to. mudblood is a dirty word, it’s one that no matter how many times she says it, it still manages to make her cringe. make her scared. make her worried. 

but gay? dude, fuck yeah. 

Story of how I almost died and returned in time

After spending few wonderful days cruising in Halong Bay and resting at the beautiful coast of Cat Ba Island, completely different experience was ahead us. Mountains of breathtaking north region famous as "Sapa".

Sapa is actually a city lying among of hills and terraced rice fields. Views there are supposed to be breathtaking, although the city is quite often hidden in the fog. Nevertheless, this part of the Vietnam is truly a special experience.

I was looking forward going north probably too much. Too much excitement is never good and I ended up with travel sickness. My stomach was floating, I spent quite a lot of time at the toilet, plus I was really weak after not eating at all. And 8 hours bus ride to the mountains ahead! Moreover the bus company we took was the disaster itself.

The deadly bus ride

Not only they sold more tickets than seats, so some tourists ended up lying at the floor between the seats, the bus driver decided to stop for each-one passing by. So, once the driver spotted someone standing near the road, he stopped and asked if he/she needs a ride. Can you imagine how annoying it was? Luckily for me, the bus has a toilet so I was rescued.

The sickness wasn't unfortunately getting any better so once we arrived to the Sapa, I was exhausted and my stomach still dangerously floating. And the idea of trekking whole day made it all just worst. Fortunately, our local guide was just sweetheart. Unfortunately I don't remember her name, but she was sister-in-law of Mao, who is probably one of the most famous guides in Sapa. She comes from Sapa minority called Black Hmong. We were to soon find out, that these people are the most sincere, generous and friendly people we have ever met.

Lets call our young guide Susie, I slightly remember, that could be her English name (cause the Vietnamese one was impossible to pronounce for us). First of all, Susie took us for a breakfast. You cannot start the whole day trekking with an empty stomach...Ha, what an experience the breakfast was! If you weren't at the market in Sapa, you didn't see anything in your life!

Trekking in Sapa- dying in the mountains

Let's get it straight. You can choose almost every meal there! And I mean it. The smell there is not any better and you can imagine what it was doing with my stomach. So I just went with the plain rice together with my mother. My resilient father had some strange looking meat and soup, which he told us tasted awesome. I was looking tired at my rice and couldn't imagine how I would make it that day...

Soon after we started our trekking. Me, my mum, dad, our local guide Susie and one American girl. She was nice, maybe too much talkative and all cheer up style, but I put all my energy focusing on my survival. Days before when I was organizing our trip in Sapa with local travel agency from Hanoi, I chose the harder trek for us. The easier one was supposed to be full of tourists. Now, feeling like a complete shit, I was cursing myself for that choice.

The beginning of the trek was the hardest. To reach the mountains and the small villages there, we had to climb up first. And it was really just climbing steeply up. Fortunately Susie soon understood my condition and made a lot of breaks but we had to continue to make it till the dark.

Honestly, I really thought I am going to die, especially at the beginning when climbing up. I didn't take any photos just focused on my steps and try to restore my last energy. Finally, after about 2 and 1/2 hours we made it up, reaching some hill on the top, so we can enjoy beautiful scenery. The temperature wasn't so hot and there was a little breeze so I managed to breath steadily again. I wasn't able to make photos still, but at least I was able to enjoy the scenery and view.

The best Pho Chay of my life

After the short break we continued walking towards our lunch. Vision of lunch made me little bit more optimistic and maybe I started smiling a little. But only till we met some local children. They were barefoot, wearing some dirty old clothes, selling some colourful bracelets. They knew some few sentences in English like "Buy from me”, or “Three for two". Heartbreaking. I must confess, I felt sorry for them although I knew that it is not right. Our guide Susie didn't seem to be anyhow distracted by them, as it was a common part of her reality.

After some time we reached our lunch stop. Building in the middle of the mountains with sheet roof and colourful plastic chairs. Locals together with tourists enjoying their lunch. Honestly, I was little bit suspicious at the beginning, but the hunger was stronger.

I chose a vegetarian Pho and we shared it with my mum. It was a huge bowl with a tons of veggies and rice noodles, so it was more than enough for both of us. And, it was so delicious! Seriously, it was the best Pho Chay I have ever had! Hot, fresh, delicious taste and smell. Wau.

Susie, strongest girl I have ever met

We spent about an hour there, eating and resting a while, our young guide Susie chatting cheerfully with other locals, mainly tour guides as well. As I became later understand, Susie was somewhere about my age, 25 or something, married to the brother of Mao, so far no children, working as a travel guide in Sapa and learned her English only from the foreigners! Wau. I was amazed. Her English wasn't the best neither fluent...but still we were able to communicate, have a decent chat and she understood almost everything! It was unbelievable.

Susie was dressed in the national costume of the Black Hmongs, consisting of rock, blouse, everything in dark colours with beautiful embroidery. Everything of course made by hand. They dye the fabrics themselves with some local herbs, which is why they have constantly little bit blue fingers. Every time we made a break for a while, Susie took out some fabric and did embroidery.

She was making her a new scarf, never resting a while. I cannot forgot how beautiful she was, the combination of friendly playful eyes full of kindness and warm, welcoming smile. She was supposed to be around my age, but I could feel from her eyes, she's much more mature than me. I felt little bit ashamed- how I am pitting myself while my life is so much easier than hers!

Returning in time...back to my grandma stories

The lunch and great meal gave me little bit energy, so I was able to start chatting with our company and look around me more. We reached the top of some mountains, going more straight than up. We were crossing some rice fields, local villages or rather say some colonies. I had a feeling, that I returned in time. I felt like in stories of my grandma, when she was telling us, how it was in the first half of 20st century right before 2 WW, when she was young child.

“We were 9 children, but only 3 of us made it till adulthood. We didn't have too much, but luckily we had a huge garden, grew many vegetables and fruits and bred poultry and pigs. As children we didn't have any shoes, we went everywhere barefoot, there was no washing machine at that time, so we made laundry in the nearby river or  stream,” her tales resonated in my head. It was like I was living my grandma stories. People in the north Sapa were living the life from her stories...

The simple house of love and joy

We reached the house of Mao, where we were supposed to sleep in the night. I must say, I was so happy, tired and nostalgic at the same time. Looking at my mum, I knew she was having the same thoughts about my grandma stories as me. She has passed away just 2 years before and it was still a heartbreaking and sad memory for both of us. But being there, in the Black Hmongs village, somehow didn't make it sad, but on the contrary. We became quite cheerful, greeting with Mao and her old parents.

Mao and her parents immediately started taking care of us. They brought us warm fresh herbal tea and water and showed us their amazing ad beautiful handmade products. Scarfs, jackets, rocks, blouses, all sewed, dyed and embroidered my themselves! They also showed us handmade jewellery, which was done by the old man. They didn't know too much of English, but we understood each other.

I was amazed in what humble but still beautiful place they live. Their house was completely wooden just the roof was from the asbestos wavy sheets. With the no thermal insulation between the roof and the walls, we were shocked, how they can make it during the winter, when the weather drop down normally to minus 5 degrees Celsius or maybe more. Their house may looked simple, but it was nice, tidy, with traditional style, western toilet and shower with even hot water.

Later that evening we had a wonderful dinner prepared my Mao´s niece. She was just 15, but prepared the whole dinner by herself! And I must confess, even after the stomach sickness, I couldn't resist the delicious food. Mao and her family didn't want to have a meal with us but we encouraged them to join, so we can eat, talk and enjoy the time together.

Unfortunately we had to say goodbye to Susie, cause she had to return home and still had about 10 km walking ahead! And there I was, complaining about my feet to hurt. After the meal, we shared our home-made schnaps we brought from Slovakia and laughed a lot. It had crossed my mind at that time, that no origins, country, language, nationality, culture or religion is important. When it comes to basics, we are all the same. Just humans, earthlings from one planet.

The darkest darkness and sky with too many stars

Tired from the whole day adventure and sickness I went to bed quite early together with my mum. I felt better but weak, so I better got myself a good rest. We slept right under the roof on they comfortable mattresses with mosquito nests. I fell asleep easily and fast, waking up in the middle of the night with strange feeling in my stomach. And it was a total dark there! Normally, your eyes get used to the dark after some time but...here was just more dark! I made some light with my phone and went to find out bathroom with my mum.

It was a funny experience, cause first, my mum almost fell from the ladder which led from our bedroom downstairs and made a huge noise. Than, I wasn't able to find the exit, cause the main entrance was locked. Luckily we made it to the bathroom just in time. And there I saw it! Actually not at the toilet but outside on the sky! The most beautiful night sky in my life. So many stars! I have never saw so many stars in my whole life. It was then I realized in what kind of light smog we live everyday.

Wondering around rice fields in the rain

In the morning another surprised was waiting for us. Delicious pancakes with local honey and delicious sweet bananas. And of course local herbal tea and coffee. The ideal way to start another trekking! Because it was our last day in Sapa and we still felt little bit tired from the last day, we decided to take it slow. Just some wondering around nearby villages, we visited some rice fields, local church and got completely wet from the sudden rain.

We stopped for a lunch in one restaurant on our way back down to the Sapa town. The restaurant had a small terrace but due to the rain, we were sitting indoors. Right in middle of the living room and bedroom of the owners. There was a big wooden bed without mattress, small wooden chairs, wooden table, big TV and of course WiFi. You get use to this very fast in Vietnam. They may have small and simple houses, but you bet they all have big TV.

After refreshing vegetable Pho, we headed down to the town. We were sad our Sapa journeys had to end, but we were more sad, that we had to travel another 7 hours with that horrible bus company again! Fortunately my stomach sickness seemed to be much better and we found a nice cafe in Sapa town to have a rest in.

While waiting for the bus and resting, we were tired and so full of new experience, that I had a feeling that it would take me at least a week to process everything. But you know, we were traveling and many other exciting places were waiting for us. And honestly, I am not sure, if I have processed it already, even 6 months after our journey. But one thing I am sure: I have to return to Sapa again! If you are ever going to Vietnam, you cannot skip this place either! Because, you know, in Sapa time has stopped and magic happens...

Humbled, My grass is the same as your grass, and Making an effort .

As mentioned in some entry that I wrote at some point, on some day, some few weeks ago... 

I'd like to blog more... 

so here goes. I've never been good at keeping blog promises, so who knows how long I'll continue to update on a "regular" basis, but for now this is keeping me sane and looking forward to something that is mine--all mine, so ya...

 Humbled 

if you've been following my writing...., especially pieces done in the last, I don't know, 6 months (yippeeeeee...thank you!!)

Anyway, you might have noticed there is a common elated, but somewhat frustrated bewilderment  of "oh my god, I didn't realize  THIS is how it was going to be..."

Some days, I feel like I've been kicked to my knees. Every once in awhile, I feel like I should be the winner at the made up "mother of the century" pageantry in my mind. (Trust me, I've practiced my winning wave, and rehearsed my acceptance speech on my amazing abilities to do a diaper change WHILE keeping my little one smiling the entire time)

But the one steady constant I've felt during my few highs and many lows is  something kind of new to me...I've been humbled. 

Ive always been a kinda sassy Judgmental-Judy type person. My vantage point always seems to be from above, effortlessly gazing down on the world--and it's not something I'm really proud of (anymore.)

i don't know where I got this chip on my shoulder, but these recent months of constantly being beaten down by minute-to-minute on the job training, has me feeling lower than low.

Nowadays, instead of looking down to see what the rest of the world is doing, I'm squinting my eyes and  straining my neck trying to see what's taking place in the world that is resting on the top floor of a skyscraper towering over me. 

All of the advice I used to give new first time moms and parents of multiple children (while I myself was single without children) now all seems like ludicrous trash. And when I think of my former pretentious art-teacher-self relentlessly berating parents about how they should be doing art with their children, and how "i know you're busy, but it's really not that hard to do..." makes me kind of want to vomit and throw a mini tantrum at how lame I was to everyone. Because seriously, at least right now in my life, looking at a paint brush is equivalent to being knee-deep in the Freddy Kruger Nightmare on Elm street pt.1 (the scariest one in my opinion)

Like, I seriously can't even fathom pushing paint out of a tube right now. And ya, I hear you "well, no one is expecting you to paint portraits while breastfeeding a 3month old" 

duh, I know that... 

but I guess, putting that "mom of the century" sash with the winners crown really isn't so make believe to me ...and wanting to be on the top of the mountain verses feeling like I'm swimming in the gutter is a lot more appealing to me than I thought...

but the reality that is hitting me over and over in the face like an endless game of paddleball is that, it's just not gonna happen right now--and that all of my unrealistic expectations are just that, unrealistic.

I'm no better (and possibly never have been) than the lady with the 5'oclock shadow holding her screaming child's hand trying to balance everything in her purse/shopping cart/life standing next to me in line at Foodland

--sigh--

and maybe once I can fully swallow that pill and let it digest without sticking my finger down my throat to try and up-chuck that fact--I'll finally be alright.

This is me and my new humbled self. 

Love it? Ya, Me too.

haha. 

 Anyway, that leads me to my next section (yay for transitions) 

My Grass is the Same Color as your Grass.. 

There is some type of misconception that since I'm a stay at home mom somehow my life is SO much easier than the working mom's/woman's  life. 

Well, let me break it down like this: 

1) my life is awesome. I got exactly what I asked for since I was like 10yrs old.

ive always said, if I have kids (which I never thought I would) that i  wanted to be a stay at home wife/mom. Maybe other women are willing to burn their bras to be a hardcore working mom, but I'll sew a bra to stay home and take care of the kids.

I am so very thankful that I fell in love and married a man that treats me wonderfully and gives me a very secure life, which allows me to live out my manifestation.

+*Of course eventually, I would like to start working again...but we'll cross that bridge when we get there**

 Anyway, with that said, this is also no walk in the park... i don't have parents or extended family that i can lean on to watch Yume anytime I want to "take a break."

i dont get to drive in a car blasting music without a baby in the car seat behind me,  I don't have other adults to interact with for 6+ hours a day, There is no point in getting dressed nicely or putting make-up on, which in my world-- if you know me at all--is pretty big heartbreaking fucking deal.

I'm the only person who can watch Yume. I don't have other options. My mom is sick, and my mother in law is elderly, my sister is busy working, my sister in law is out of state, and my husband works anywhere from 6-10 hours on any given day...

so it really is JUST me. Although we live a comfortable lifestyle, it could easily get very uncomfortable to try and afford crazy tuition to send Yume to germ infested daycare where she'll probably get sick on a weekly basis.  

So seriously, it's cheaper and far safer to have me to stay at home with Yume. Which *viola* is what we are doing. 

 I could easily say that being a single mom with healthy parents who are willing to watch baby while mommy goes to work, or wants to have a night out to drink, has it waaaaaaaaay easier than I...

But, in my recent growth spurt of maturity, I've also come to realize that my Grass is the same color as your Grass. What's brown in my garden may be green in yours, but the area of your garden which is allllllll unkept and nasty, is nice, and lush in mine.

So there is my tired, somewhat bitter rant for 2017. Hopefully it's my first and last. 

 Now....Finally, to the last section which will kinda contradict most of this blog, :)

 Making an Effort

     I'm making an effort to create again~

as I said in sooooo many words above, it's really hard to find the time, and I'm exhausted, and alone...and, and, and ...fill in the rest with my laundry list of reasons. 

but, nevertheless, I feel like the effort is everything. It's the only way I'll ever feel like a human being again (and the only way to get the sash and "mother of the century" crown i soooo desire, haha) 

 So I'm starting small with the DIY sound shakers, and as nap schedules change, and wakeful playing times open up, I'm going to make the effort to start creating again.

I have soooooo many ideas for DIY learning tools for the baby Yooom'z...

I just need to make the effort to work little at a time to create. I can do it, I just have to reallllllly try. 

I mean, If the end-all-be-all goal is to be a full-time artist then I have to keep going to reach it, no matter what. That's what I want Yume to see in me--a Mommy that is ultra creative and who makes the effort.... 

Dean and I chose the name "Yume" (Dream) because she is our dream, but what we both love about each other is that we have our own dreams that drive us to keep going. 

My dream is to be an artist/life long creator (aka, crafter.) 

i feel like now, more than ever, it is extremely important for me to keep my dream in sight, because can't you tell, it's so easy for life and responsibilities, and the mundane day-to-day to cloud the finish line. 

I have a life-long cheerleader watching my every move, and I want every move to be in the direction of my dream.

So, along with making the effort to keep up this blog...I'm going to make the effort to slowllllllllllly create and do art again. 

ive been using our daily walks to view the world the way I used to when I was in high school: looking at colors of objects and thinking of which paints to mix to recreate the color.

As stated so, so, soooooooooooo many times, I'm in no position to open up paints and buy canvas now, but that doesn't mean ever...

But, by keeping these thoughts active and prepping and pre-chopping my designs, and keeping my inspirations simmering low on the stove, I'm ensuring that when I am ready to start cooking most of the meal will almost be ready. (Can you tell that I watch the food network all day?) 

so that's that.  

take care Care Bears,  thanks for reading! Gotta go get my hiking gear to get back up my mountain to get that chip on my shoulder again, haha juuuuuuuuuuust kidding

❤ 

winnie