Politics

I don't like politics. I run very far and very fast from politics.

It has nothing to do with disagreeing with my friends. My best friend and I will probably always vote against each other, but that's because different things are important to us for different reasons. I don't get mad at her when we discuss our differing opinions, because I know that certain things have shaped her life just as different--but no less important--things have shaped my life.

I will not argue with you about your voting policy. I will not argue with you about you opinion on who is better. I may, occasionally, engage in healthy debate about the way I think things should go, but I will not argue.

And this is why I don't like politics.

I had a debate in my English class on Wednesday. We read Oedipus the King over last weekend, and split into sides based on whether we thought that Oedipus was a victim of the prediction made about him before his birth, or if it was his character and choices that led him to his fate.

(For those who don't know, Oedipus the King is the Greek story about the guy who was sent away at his birth (him mom wanted him killed), and was raised by another king and queen because of shepherds. He grew up to kill his birth father and marry his birth mother. Greek legends are nasty as hell, really...)

Personally, I was in the "Human beings are illogical dumbfucks, I'm going to Vulcan" camp, but since I had to pick one side or the other, I went with "This is not Oedipus' fault". And I could expound on how it isn't. Maybe I will, because it's interesting, but it will be in another post. I'm trying to make a point (shocker!) here.

The thing is, in this debate, there were a bunch of eighteen-to-twenty-three-year-olds. The "immature" ones. The "entitled" ones. The ones who were raised to be spoiled and think that they are the second coming of Christ. Or something. However the hell you want to describe my generation. That was who was participating in this debate. You know what, though? We were respectful. We actually listened to each other. We brought up well-thought-out points and counterpoints. We actually debated.

To tie this back into the beginning and title of this post, there are some things that I have never heard the "mature", "unspoiled", "intelligent" participants of political debates say that I heard in that room. For example:

"I never thought about it that way."

"I concede your point."

"I understand why you see it that way, even though I don't see it like that myself."

Admittedly, the media would have a field day with any politician who said that. The opposing side would be all "OH MY GOD THEY DON'T STICK TO THEIR OWN BELIEFS HOLY CRAP THIS IS HORRIFYING THAT SOMEONE IS CHANGING AND GROWING ENLIGHTENED BECAUSE THAT IS WRONG YOU AREN'T SUPPOSED TO DO THAT YOU SHOULD TOTALLY VOTE FOR OUR CANDIDATE BECAUSE HE IS IMMOVABLE."

I mean, they wouldn't phrase it like that, because the way I said it makes it clear that change is a good thing (or, at least, I think it does), and the media sources would want to make it seem absolutely terrible. I don't know why. I probably never will. See, if I heard a candidate say that, I don't think I would give a flying monkey fuck what his policies were. The fact that he would agree that he might be wrong or that his opinion isn't the only valid option would make me respect him immensely, and my respecting someone means one hell of a lot more (generally) than my agreeing with them. Any politician who says something similar to that has my vote.

It bothers me that Obama supports abortion. It bothers me that Romney thinks gays don't have families. It bothers me that Obama isn't really working with the Catholic Church on the contraception issue. It bothers me that Romney doesn't seem to care about  hardworking poor people. Both these people have their faults. I don't even know how I'm voting at this point. But I would be swayed immediately by someone who listens, someone who understands, someone who respects their rival. That is all I want in a president. I want someone who isn't afraid to be swayed by good, strong arguments. I want someone who cares about what the other side thinks, even if he doesn't agree with him. I want someone who takes everyone's opinions into consideration, and then makes the best decision for the majority.

Who the hell knows if I'll ever get it, though.

This

This is why I left my parents' house:



So I can come and go whenever and wherever I want.

So I can cuddle with my friends on the couch and fangirl to our hearts' content.

So my fails are met with giggles and gentle corrections, not disappointed looks and sighs.

So I can make jokes about my neighbors having loud sex.

So I can swear.

So I can work at at job I love, and not one my parents force on me to get me out of the house.

So I can do what's best for my health, and not end up hurting myself to keep up with my parents' wishes.

So I can sit in a comfy chair and read for hours on end without interruption.

So it's okay for me to be mostly gay, and I don't have to hide it from the people who are paying my rent.

So I can be the nocturnal creature I am.

So I can use my free time as I see fit.

So I don't have glares coming at me from all directions when I show up with another five comic books.

So I can read whatever the bloody hell I want, and not worry about getting in trouble.

So I can actually clean the everliving fuck out of a paint-sink.

So I can finally be who I really am.



I left my parents' house so I can find a home.

<_<

>_>

*whispers* Okay, all clear.



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Open Letters

So this happened last spring, and I decided that it’s time I write an open letter.  Or two.



To my sophomore-year gym class teacher:

Dear Mr. Walsh,

I doubt you’d remember me.  I run errands for the library, and I’ve often given you DVDs and fixed your laptop.

Remember me?  No?  Okay, let’s try this:

I’m the blue-haired loony who spent every free day pacing the edge of the gym.  I never spoke.  You laughed at me a lot, especially on days when we didn’t have to dress and I showed up in Doctor Who and Star Trek shirts and spent the entire period reading.  I was pretty spacey; you never could hold my attention, and you often had to call my name repeatedly.

Remember now?  Oh, good.

Your laughter and constant shouting of my name brought a lot of unwanted attention to me.  I get the feeling that if you had never put the spotlight on me, my life wouldn’t have been the hell it was that year.  It still would have been hell, but perhaps not as high a circle as it ended up being.  I’m not saying all of it’s your fault; you may have called attention to me, but my classmates didn’t have to pick on me.  Still, teasing the geek?  For being smart as opposed to athletic?  And for reading?  Really?  Aren’t adults supposed to be above that?

Still, maybe next time you walk into the library while I’m working there, you’ll recognize me and see how things are.  I’ve single-handedly fixed half the computers in there.  I know exactly where everything is.  I helped sort out the bloody design of the place.  All the librarians love me, because I’m bright, I can help with the books, and I can teach them how to do tech things.

Did you notice?  Did you see that everything they love me for is what you teased me about?  Did you know that I endeared myself to my boss over the summer on the first day by teaching myself how to do something she wanted, and then teaching her?

I used to say that listening to you talk dropped my IQ by a point or two every time.  I realize that you’re probably not smart enough to understand the technology that I work with and fix every day, and that probably puts you a little in awe of my technological magic (because that’s what it is), and that maybe you’re a little afraid of what you don’t understand.  You’re not going about this the right way, though.  You want to befriend the smart kids who can fix your webcam and microphone.  You want to be nice to them.  Because we can tell.  We know who teased the nerds, and we’ll fix your webcam, but we can install viruses, too.  We know how to make your computer flash you the bird at random times.  We can externally access your computer and steal your files.  But on the other hand, we can tell who was nice to the nerds, and we’ll fix your webcam, but then we’ll do a scan to make sure that you have no viruses, and make sure that all your connections are up and running.

I’m not making threats.  I’m just saying, be nice to the smart kids, and we’ll be nice back.  Be mean to the smart kids, and we’ll be the ones in power pretty soon, and then we’ll make your life hell.  We’re kind of vindictive that way.

—Sarah Kate



To my eighth grade graduating class:

To Whom It May Concern:

So, does anyone remember me?  You probably all do, actually.  I mean, there were only sixty-four of us; we all knew each other by name.  But, in case you don’t, I’m the kid who challenged your views of how people should be.  I’m the one who was completely beyond your comprehension.  I’m the smart one with all the answers who didn’t know shit.  I’m the one who never swore.  I’m the one who never thought about dying her hair, painting her nails, or putting on make-up.  I’m the only one who didn’t have a problem with the socks.  I’m the non-conformist of non-conformists.  I’m the one you simply did not understand.

And I remember, very clearly, that you reacted with hostility.

I got left out of almost everything, picked last in gym class, left to work alone on group projects.  My books were stolen.  I was treated like I wasn’t there.  I was hit more than once.  When I made the slightest mistake, everyone laughed.  I was expected to be perfect, yet viewed as always wrong until someone confirmed what I said.

There were light points, though.  You were grudgingly impressed whenever I was forced to share my writing with the class.  I remember one incident from sixth grade, when the silence after I’d read a story was punctuated by admiring whistles and a surprised look from our teacher that a twelve-year-old could be so deep.  More than once, I heard, “Don’t forget us when you’re famous.”

I’d smile and blush and promise not to, only to cry at home that I’d never be able to.  Whether I end up the rich, famous author, or the technician working on your computers, I will never be able to forget you or what you did, though I’m sure you’ll only remember enough to say, “I knew her in grade school!”  If you see my name on a book, you’ll think, “I always said she was good!” and if you hire me to fix your computer, you’ll think, “I always thought she’d never amount to anything.”

Really though? I don't care any more. I'm finished being upset that you thought that "different" meant "weird." I can take on huge projects by myself now, because I had to do before. I can take being wrong, because I know I'm not perfect. I have the ability to disappear into crowds and sneak away, because I know how to make people ignore me. Most of all, though, I can fight back and stand up for other people, because I know how much it sucks to be on receiving end of it.

In short, "I'm burning bright thanks to your rejection fuel."

Whatever I end up doing, I'll love it and shine like a star in my field, and that's one hell of a lot more than I can say for most of you.

—Sarah Kate

Always

I wrote this post on 20 July in my notebook, but I never got around to posting it because of reasons. Still, it's a good post, and I'm going to share it unchanged from then.

I read a lot. Everyone who knows me should know this. I generally don’t go anywhere without a book (except work, of course). Ironically enough, I couldn’t read until the end of second grade, just after I turned eight. That summer, though, I quickly graduated from Dr. Seuss and the Berenstain Bears to Harry Potter and Redwall.

I’ve waxed poetic on Redwall before. I wrote an obituary of sorts last February on the one-year anniversary of Mr. Jacques’s death. I’ve mentioned that this series is the reason I write, that I’ve learned so much about writing just from reading these books. I could extol the virtues of these stories until I’m blue in the face and your ears fall off (no, really, I can).

The thing is, I can tell you all this, but never get my true feelings across. So instead of telling you why these books are brilliant, I will show you my reaction to them.

A couple weeks ago, I went to the bookstore. This was probably a bad idea, because no one could come with me, and I had to restrain myself from buying ALL THE BOOKS. (It didn’t work too well; I walked out with three in my hands and two more on order.)

Wandering the Science Fiction & Fantasy section, as I am prone to do, I found the Redwall books. This was the second section of them I had come across, because they are generally put in the “Young Readers” section (I mean, they are for ten-to-twelve-year-olds). At the end of the group of Brian Jacques’s books, there was a paperback copy of The Sable Quean, the last Redwall book published before the author’s death.

Now, it isn’t the very last one; The Rogue Crew was published post-mortem. Still, when I picked it up, I almost started crying. It felt like holding the end of my childhood in my hands. I fought back tears, told myself that I’d cry when I got The Rogue Crew, decided which other books to buy, purchased them, and left.

Fast forward to today. I was essentially on-call at work, just chilling in the building, waiting for people to need me. I had brought along The Bellmaker to continue my read-through of my whole shelf—for those of you who don’t know/couldn’t guess, The Bellmaker is part of the Redwall series. It was as I was finishing the book, reading through the epilogue, that I was it, and remembered.

At the end of practically every single Redwall book is some take on this message: Redwall’s gates will always be open to those who mean no harm, however young or old they are.

I used to smile at that line, knowing that it meant that however much I grew up, I’d always have the safety of Redwall Abbey and Mossflower Wood to return to when life got hard. Today, I broke down and cried, because of the word “always”.

The message doesn’t say “until you grow out of childish fantasies.” It doesn’t say “until you don’t need it anymore.” It doesn’t say “until the author dies.” It says “always.”

True, once I buy The Rogue Crew, I will never again feel the glee that a brand new Redwall book brings me. Once I finish reading it, I will know all the tales that will be told of this land. Once I turn its final page, I will have absorbed every single word the man wrote. But I will still have the books. I can still reread them whenever I want.

So now, whatever else changes, whoever leaves me, however old I grow, no matter what happens, I will always have the safety of these places, the companionship of these characters, the knowledge that something in this world is okay to keep me going.

Always.

Romance

So I broke up with my boyfriend last week.

Don’t get all weepy on me. I’m fine, it was my idea, I wanted it to happen, etc., etc. Honestly, I’m happy it’s over. The boy put way too much pressure on me. I was his only source of happiness~. He could see us together ~forever~. He practically had our headstones all ready. He’d talk about how we could get a house together and we’d garden in it and we couldn’t have cats.

See, here’s the thing. When he talked about that, I’d never see it. I’d look into my future, and I couldn’t see a house and a garden and no cats. All I ever saw was a London flat and my Speckle and my Neenie and ALL THE KITTIES. It seems to be a thing now. When I look, when I think about what might happen, I only ever see that. Just me and Speckle and Neenie in a flat with kittens named after superheroes.

It’s made me realize something. I’m not going to be one for commitment. Not romantic commitment, anyway. I mean, I’m incredibly loyal as a friend, and I will always stand by the people I love, but I’m getting off track…

If I look into my future, and all I can see is my two best friends, there has to be a reason for it. I’ve been saying recently that every single one of my significant others should, and probably will, be jealous of Emma Lee, and it’s true. She is my Speckle, and she is the most important person in my life. I care for and love her just as much as anyone would their One True Love, though not quite in the same way. Because I have that in Emma, I don’t need or want it in anyone else.

Maybe all this means that I wasn’t born to be a monogamous person, much the same as I wasn’t born to be a heterosexual person. I’m fine with that. The only real problem, though, is making other people fine with that. I don’t want every break-up of mine to be nasty, and I’m afraid that a lot of them will be. I just want clean, easy relationships where we don’t ask too much of each other, and both recognize when it’s over.

Maybe I’m asking too much of the world. Maybe I’m being selfish and lazy. I don’t know. I do know, though, that I’d be absolutely crazy to go out and look for another life partner when I already have one, and probably even two, despite the fact that they’re my sisters.

I Love My Parents

Honest to god, I do. If you heard me complaining about them on occasion, you might not be so sure, but let me tell you, I love them with all my heart.

That doesn't stop me from hating them at times, though.

When I was little, I used to say that my parents were the best parents ever. Granted, it wasn't too hard to think that, what with my limited worldview and all. I was sixteen before I even heard my parents disagree. They didn't argue, and they certainly didn't fight. Not in my hearing, anyway. They let me be interested in the things I wanted to be interested in. I mean, maybe it helped some that my parents are both minorly geeky, and I was interested in geeky things, but when I wanted to play with Pokemon cards and videogame systems instead of Barbies and Polly Pocket (for example), they let me.

(As an aside, it was damn hard to do it, really, because my big brothers didn't want a ~girl~ tagging along. I ended up playing by myself throughout most of my childhood. Until I met Kaila, anyway, but that's a different story entirely.)

So anyway, to Little SK, this was enough to make my parents the Best Parents Ever. But then I went out in the world, and realized how sheltered I'd been.

I do not understand the majority of pop culture references made by anyone.

I did not know what the modern connotations of the word "gay" were until eighth grade, nor did I even know of the word "bisexual" (ironically enough).

I could go on and on about all the instances when my parents tried to do the right thing, only to end up making the wrong choice and fucking me and my brothers up completely (fortunately for them, my sisters missed most of the blunders by the grace of being the fourth and fifth children), but that would take too long. Each instance really deserves its own separate post. So instead of doing that, I will grace you with a realization I have come to rather recently.

My parents never encouraged me.

Oh sure, they did the regular, parent-y things like coach my soccer team and lead my Girl Scout troop and try to get me to get good grades and whatever, but they never encouraged me in what I wanted to do.

I have been writing stories since I was ten. In eight years, eight years, my mother and father have collectively asked to see my work twice. My grandfather asks to see it more than they do. In the four years I have been writing poetry and one year I have been drawing, they have never asked to see any of it.

I don't expect them to be like some parents who are all, "Okay, my kid wants to do this, so I'll sign him up for classes and get him all this stuff for it and how-to books and I'll learn with him and it will be so much fun, dammit." I don't want them to be like that. My stuff is my stuff, and I'll learn how to do it on my own, thanks.

I just...I wanted encouragement, growing up. I wanted to know that when I was doing what I wanted to be doing, they were proud of me. I don't want the happy hugs and "I'm so proud of you" just when I brought home straight A's and Honor Society induction letters and 34's on my ACT. I want a "Congratulations!" when I tell them I finished another poetry journal. I want a "That's my girl!" when I tell them that I finished writing a book. I want them to brag about me, not because I'm smart, but because I'm creative and I make beautiful things and I'm going to be an author and I wrote a children's book that my bloody teacher wanted to publish!

Dearest readers, I haven't hurt myself in almost a year and a half now, and not once have my parents told me that they're proud of me for coming through it, or that I'm strong because I haven't slipped at all, or just held me because I looked like I needed it. I'd not have made it as far as I have if I only had them to lean on. The only reason I have made it is because I have wonderful friends and I'm fucking stubborn as hell.

I know nothing is perfect. I know that life isn't fair. But once, just once, I want my parents to take something of mine, something that they have asked to look at, go through the whole thing, then hug me and tell me that they are proud of me.

I'm going to keep going the way I am, no matter what they do. Still, it'd be nice to know.

Twilight, Chapter 10

Dammit, I want to be rereading Elegy.

There’s pretty Kate/Maggie things and sexy Batwoman awesomeosity and I was IN TEARS DAMMIT.

Also I want a Loki.

But I have to do this.

Chapter 10: Interrogations

I Used to Dye My Hair...

...but then I took an arrow to the knee.

...

...

I get nothing for that? Man, you have no sense of humor.

Granted, with it being me and all, that was probably the more obvious route I could have taken that.

On a more serious note (Serious? Me? Really?), I've stopped dying my hair. I tell people that it's expensive, and I'm probably just going to be playing with my tips (get your mind out the gutter!) from now on. For a while, at least.

That's not really true. I seem to be pretty good at that. Telling people the not-really-true stuff, I mean. I suppose I do it because it's easier, because it doesn't get me angry, doesn't make me shout, doesn't goad me into saying things that I'll regret later.

The truth? The honest-to-god, I'm-saying-this-because-this-is-my-blog-and-I-don't-really-care-anymore truth? I stopped because it was making me feel stifled.

Crazy, right? Free expression, stifling someone? Doesn't make any sense. But then, a lot of things in this world don't make sense.

The problem with expressing yourself is being the one who dares.

So many people look at you and think, "Damn, I wish I had her confidence! She is walking around with bright pink hair. She must be awesome and just not care what other people think!" And it's true. I dyed my hair blue and pink and purple and red and blonde because I didn't care what other people thought, and I wanted to show it. It was never a confidence thing, because god knows I have absolutely jack shit in the confidence department.

The problem is being one of the few who dare.

So many people see you, and wish that they could dare, too, but they think they can't, for some reason. So they want to live through you. I'd never be able to count to amount of times people have told me, "Oh, you should do this with your hair next," or "Maybe that tattoo would be cool."

They don't get it.

What I'm doing here, with my hair and my tattoos and wearing guys' clothes and staying up until sweet fuck all at night, isn't me trying to be different from most people or fit into another group of people. This is me expressing myself. Sure, having black hair with pink underneath would look cool (Romana Flowers, anyone?), but it isn't me. I am bright colors and positive words and comfort over looks and functioning better at night.

Yes, suggestions are nice. People can give me ideas that I might not have come up with on my own, but resonate with me in a way that makes me want to use them. But they have to stay suggestions. I'm not going to spring for every crazy idea, because that isn't me. Yeah, I do crazy things, but everything I do has a reason that makes sense to me, even if the reason is "Why the hell not?"

So if you think that your friend would look good with electric blue hair, by all means, tell her! But don't follow it up by asking every week, "So when are you going to dye your hair blue?" IT GETS FUCKING ANNOYING. We do what we do because we want to do it, not so that we'll look cool or be more popular, or just have people talk about us. If you're pushy about your ideas, what we do will stop being fun.

Let other people ruin our fun; there are enough assholes out there to do it for gits and shiggles, that we don't need our friends doing it, too.

</rant>

Twilight, Chapter 9

I’m writing this at work.

No, I’m not slacking. I’m sitting through the SAME GODDAMN ORIENTATION PRESENTATION for the THIRD TIME.

I’m nearly bored to tears.

Anger is probably a better option.

Chapter 9: Theory