On Caitlyn Jenner

Many things in the news recently have brought me feelings of frustration, anger, disgust, etc, etc, etc. At the same time, many have brought me great joy, hope, and a sense of relief. While there are many things happening that I'd like to comment on, there is one thing in particular that has been bothering me for the last few days.

In recent weeks, I have seen a number of social media posts questioning the validity of Caitlyn Jenner's identity as a woman. These posts have argued that, because Caitlyn has never experienced the pain of menstruation, the loss of a miscarriage, the joy of pregnancy, or the struggle of menopause, she couldn't possibly be a real woman. That because Caitlyn has never known the fear of sexual assault when broken down on the side of the road, she couldn't possibly be a real woman. That because Caitlyn's life has looked different from their own, she couldn't possibly be a real woman. That Caitlyn Jenner's identity as a woman must be tied up in being a wife, a mother, a victim of biology and sexism.

I call bullshit. Bullshit. Bullshit. Bullshit.

Some women don't menstruate because they have medical conditions that prevent their body from carrying out the process. Some women don't menstruate simply because their birth control stops the cycle. Some women have complete hysterectomies, causing them to cease menstruation. Some women cannot carry and birth their own children, so they choose to adopt. I have never been - and plan to never be - pregnant. In turn, I will never experience a miscarriage. I do not - and will not - know the joy of carrying and birthing a child or the grief of losing one. Am I less of a woman because I will not carry or birth or lose a child? Is my friend less of a woman because her body cannot menstruate? Is my aunt less of a woman because my cousin is adopted? Are we not real women because we haven't experienced these quintessential facets of womanhood? Hell no.

First, I will say this. How dare we take possession of Caitlyn's identity or her life experiences. How dare we make assumptions about who she is based on the small window into her world that fame has provided us. As the biological parent to six children, can we definitively say that she has never experienced the joy of parenthood or the loss of a miscarriage, simply because it doesn't neatly fit into the box of emotion we have prescribed for it? Do we discount the intensity of the emotions felt by fathers simply because they do not physically birth - or miscarry - their child? By this logic, adoptive mothers aren't real women either, right? Or, at least, they aren't real mothers. I cannot wrap my mind around such profound ignorance. I don't even want to try.

Next, I will say this. Perhaps Caitlyn doesn't truly know what it's like to get stranded on the side of the road and hope that a man stopping to help has ill intentions. To that I say - good. No one should know what that's like. I imagine that being the world's best athlete has some benefits in that realm. But you know what Caitlyn has survived? The struggle of growing up in a body that doesn't feel like her own. A body that has never felt like it belonged to her. Did you know that over 40% of transgender youths attempt suicide? Over 40% of transgender youths believe it would be easier to end their lives than to continue to live in a world that discounts and questions the validity of their existence. Let that sink in. Over 40%. That is astounding. It is horrifying. It is a damned shame. Not only did Caitlyn not become a statistic in this regard, she experienced this struggle as the public image of masculinity. She had an inner conflict, the likes of which many of us will never understand, while being praised and defined by the very body that held her captive for six decades.

In my 25 years, I have never found my identity as a woman in the functionality of my uterus. I have never found my worth in my ability to menstruate or carry a child. Being a woman isn't defined by what you push out of your body. Being a woman isn't defined by your body's ability to shed the lining of your uterus (I'm troubled that I even have to write this sentence). Being a woman isn't defined by being a victim, by being afraid, by being vulnerable. Being a woman isn't defined by breasts. It isn't defined by hair. It isn't defined by curves. It isn't defined by the number of surgeries and injections you have elected to undergo.

If society's idea of womanhood is intertwined with midcentury ideals of marriage, motherhood, and menstruation, please count me out. I want absolutely no part of that club. If Caitlyn's idea of womanhood is rooted in courage, strength, and the ability to gracefully withstand intense and unwarranted scrutiny, pick me for that team any day. I don't admire Caitlyn because of how her body looks in a dress (although, she looks damn good). I admire Caitlyn because she has the courage to be unashamedly her. She has the courage to be exactly who she is... how many of us can say the same?

The Last Three Years

The last three years of my life cannot be easily reduced to a blog post but I'm going to try anyway. I don't believe much of anything can be easily reduced to a blog post, really, but in this age of social media we all try to do just that, don't we? We trim and edit, looking for the best language, the most quotable phrase - we get off on being concise. You know what can't be trimmed or edited? Relationships. Marriage. Love. Life. The last three years have been a messy, intimate, raw, indescribable journey with a man I am ever-grateful to call my partner.

The last three years have taken us down paths we never could've predicted and far from where we'd planned. I went back to school. I have learned and grown in directions I couldn't have imagined two years ago. Ethan has expanded his artistic ventures, creating scores for real commercials, being asked to play music with other gifted musicians. I am constantly amazed by his talent. It is awe-inspiring. We have experienced so much in these last three years. A family member moved into and out of our home. We've said goodbye to friends as they've continued their journeys elsewhere. We've lost loved ones, both suddenly and expectedly, learning what it means to mourn together. We have celebrated at weddings and grieved through divorces of the people we love. We have spent late nights writing papers and creating music. We have laughed. We have cried. We have fought. We have forgiven. We have loved. And loved. And loved.

I am not arrogant enough to think that three years of marriage makes me an authority on the matter. I don't know that any amount of time will ever make me an authority on it -- isn't it so different for everyone? And doesn't it continue to evolve through the years? I was recently asked about marriage by someone who is skeptical of the entire institution; what were my thoughts on the concept, she wondered. My response was that, while the physical aspect of a relationship cannot be ignored or belittled, I know Ethan is right for me because he truly knows me and he chooses to love me. I can be myself with him. My true, authentic self. My flaws, my insecurities, my opinions, my voice -- these things are laid bare for him and he is not afraid, he does not run away. He stays and he chooses to love me. He wakes up every single morning and he chooses to love me. And I, him.

Before falling asleep each night, Ethan says to me, "Goodnight. I love you. Wake me up if you need me." These words are simple. They are obvious. It seems evident that sharing a space with a human means that, in some way, they are there (even if it's only a physical 'there') if you need them. Yet these words comfort me. They allow me to sleep more easily. What's even better is that he means it. Even when it's three o'clock in the morning and I wake him up, in tears, because I am experiencing unbearable pain from a sinus infection taking root in my jaw. He is there. Googling remedies and comforting me. Even when he is tired, he is there. Even when he has to get up in three hours, he is there. He is there. I hope to never take that for granted.

I have a note hanging over my desk that Ethan wrote to me when we were still dating. It is a list of short sentences beginning with "You are," and ending with various descriptors of who I am in his eyes. Three of them are my favorite: "You are smart," "You are strong," and "You are passionate." While I enjoy being told I am beautiful, I much prefer to be told that my mind, my thoughts are valued. Don't be mistaken. Ethan tells me daily that I am beautiful, that I look good in the clothes I put on my body. More often, though, he tells me that I am intelligent, that my thoughts matter, that what I have to say is important. In a world that values the vapid virtues of size 2 jeans and perfectly ombre-d beachy waves, my partner finds sexy the content held within my mind and the passions held within my heart. He assures me that I am more than my physical presence. That I am enough.

So today, and everyday, while I am thankful for our home, for our jobs, for the modest life we are weaving together, I am infinitely more thankful for the love we share. Ethan, you are kind. You are generous. You are talented. You are intelligent. You are really, really, ridiculously good looking. Thank you for loving me. Thank you for cooking all the best foods. Thank you for supporting me. Thank you for listening to me. Thank you for loving the people I love, for treating my family like your own. I love you, and I always will. The last three years have been a beautiful journey and I can't wait to see what the next three hold. And the next three. And the next three...

#blessed

If I hear one more person thank God for their frappuccino or see one more person hash tag the word "blessed," I might throw up. American Christians have used their idea of blessings/being blessed to justify materialism. A new car or a too-big house are not "blessings." A means to get to work in bad weather (gasp, that includes public transit) and a shelter to shield you from the elements - those are blessings. An overpriced specialty drink every morning is not a blessing (even if someone surprised you with it -- their action or attitude is a blessing to you, not the item itself). Sharing conversation with a friend over a cup of coffee - that's a blessing. My entire life I've been led to believe that getting a new purse or the pair of jeans I've been wanting makes me blessed. I've actually thought that being privileged made me blessed. Because I am privileged. No, I may not have a brand new car, a big house, or a fat savings account, but I have never been without anything I've needed (or most things I've wanted, for that matter).

If my husband didn't have a much better head on his shoulders than I do on mine, I would spend every extra penny we have on the most frivolous, useless items I could find on Amazon/Etsy/etc that I think we "need." I would fall victim to the trap of materialism much more than I already do. I buy new clothes to workout in and expensive shoes to walk my dogs, when there are people in my own town yearning to have any nice clothes at all. I complain that I don't like what we're having for dinner because I think I deserve to eat what I want for every meal, when there are people all around me hoping to simply feel full. I think that new clothes and delicious meals make me blessed. I think that what I have that others don't, instead of what I do for others, makes me blessed. I grew up thinking that all Americans are privileged, so there's no guilt in wealth - that if one day I was "rich" it would mean I was very blessed. I grew up thinking that other people were helping those less fortunate, that I could go about my business loving all of my things. I grew up thinking that everything in my life that I saw as "good" was a testament to how blessed I was.

Has anyone ever stopped to consider that calling yourself "blessed" because you bought a new car is offensive to people struggling to feed their children? Better yet, that it's offensive to call yourself "poor" when you want for nothing. Nothing. Every time I think about how incredibly fortunate I am to have a job, a home, copious amounts of stuff, the opportunity to get an education, and a loving husband with whom to share it all, I feel so guilty my stomach hurts. The guilt of being privileged is overwhelming. The guilt of knowing that I can't possibly help every person who needs it is overwhelming. The guilt of complaining about things I have that other's don't is overwhelming. Feeling guilty about being privileged is so damn overwhelming.

All I ask is this -- next time you want to get on Facebook or Instagram or Twitter to tell the world just how blessed you are, go do something for someone who isn't so "blessed."

One Year

A year ago today, I committed to spending the rest of my life with another human being. A commitment I'd said 'yes' to many months before. A human being I had known since I was 15. For the first time in my life, I was living with someone that was not a blood relative. Someone who didn't know all of my day-to-day quirks, and I didn't know his. Someone who, like me, didn't really have an example of what to do in marriage, mostly just what not to do.

It's probably the biggest commitment, besides parenthood, that people can make. Committing to spend your entire life with someone else. Not until it gets hard, not until you get tired of that person, not until it doesn't look how you expected it to, not until keeping your vows feels cumbersome. Forever. Even when that person leaves their underwear on the bathroom floor, or wants to repaint the same room for the 1000th time (who could that be?). Even when you're tired and the thought of being gracious and kind to another person makes you want to scream.

The past year has been quite a journey. I found someone who has seemingly endless amounts of patience for me. Someone who rolls his eyes when I say, "So...I thought of another good idea for a project on the house," and then proceeds to ask me what it is and get excited, too. Someone who listens to my long, impassioned rants about any and everything. Someone who supports me in pursuing what I want in life. Someone who thinks I'm far better than I am.

So Ethan, thank you for everything you do. For loving me, for helping me, for supporting me, and for living this journey with me. Here's to 100 (being optimistic) more. I love you. Let's go eat some freezer cake.

Back to School, Back to School

My new school bag, courtesy of Ethan

In a few short weeks, I'll be entering an academic setting for the first time in 5 years. I'm going back to school to teach high school social studies.

I've always wanted to be a teacher, except for the short span of time in which I wanted to be an attorney (thanks for that, Harper Lee). At 18, after I'd made living arrangements and accepted an academic scholarship at IU, I decided to go to cosmetology school. I wouldn't go back and do it differently for anything.

The past 3 1/2 years in the salon have been an incredible experience. I've had the opportunity to build relationships with people I wouldn't have otherwise known. I've had the blessing of learning how to listen - whether it was venting through struggles, mourning a loss, or sharing in joy - I've had the privilege of being a confidant. Making people feel good about themselves - even with a simple haircut - is an indescribable feeling. The icing on the cake is working with people who support and celebrate with me, always. I will continue this profession, in some regard, as long as I'm physically able.

In recent months, I've felt strongly that teaching is what I'm supposed to pursue, as terrifying as it may be. I've heard endless negativity surrounding education, ranging from criticisms of the state to the teachers themselves. Many feel teachers aren't paid enough or as respected as they should be. I would agree with both, but neither are the reason I've chosen to teach. I'm not concerned with money, my bills will be paid. I don't need respect, I need to teach. I want to know the children that will be entering the real world soon. If one student finds his or her passion in my classroom, if one student receives support and encouragement they aren't getting elsewhere, if one student sees the world differently, if one student realizes someone cares, that will be enough.

Recently, the resignation letter of a high school social studies teacher was released, in which he states that his profession 'no longer exists'. Contrary to what it probably should've done, it only further concreted my decision. It saddens me that seasoned educators are giving up. Yes, I find the current climate of our education system to be dismal, but it isn't hopeless. As long as there are teachers fighting for students, it will never be hopeless. Much like a marriage, I believe a career about which one is passionate must be for better or for worse. Policies will change, our culture will change, our economy will change, the challenges of our youth will change, but the need for good teachers won't. I firmly believe that at some point, hopefully sooner rather than later, our society's view of education will shift; its value, and the value of those within it, will be recognized.

Perhaps it all sounds a little dreamy, but what kind of world would it be if everyone entered their passion and career only seeing the negative?

Here's to new beginnings, the fear of change, and hope.

Wordless Wednesday

The weekend was finally warm enough for a family walk!

Raw Diet

When Ethan made the comment that my entire blog would be about our dogs, I tried to prove him wrong. Well..I made it 2 posts without mentioning them. What can I say? Besides Ethan, they're my favorite part of walking through the front door each evening. Which is why their health is really important to me. When my step-mom told me how incredible a turn-around my brother's dog, Jack (a large German Shepherd/Husky mix), made when switching to a raw diet, I took notice. At 7-8 years old, he was already having a hard time enjoying the 5 acres where they live. Just days after visiting a holistic vet in Kokomo and switching his diet, they were seeing changes. As I started to do some online research and read this book, I realized that Willow's excess energy and Tanya's skin problems could all be a direct result of consuming commercial food & getting yearly vaccinations (most holistic vets don't believe in continuing vaccinations, besides rabies, past the first year). The biggest testament to this, is the story of the author rescuing a stray, bringing it into her home, finding out it had Parvo, and her two dogs didn't so much as lose their appetite.

Our new Saturday ritual

We've found a couple local butchers that will give us their scraps for free or really cheap. Ethan has been such a champ about grinding the meat - as vegetarians I don't think we ever dreamed we'd have a freezer full of raw meat. We give them meat and brown rice, with the occasional raw egg or yogurt, in the morning. In the evenings they get cooked vegetables with brown rice. Surprisingly, they get as excited in the evenings as they do in the mornings. I'm happy to report that both of them are doing incredibly well on this diet - Willow is beginning to calm down (as much as an 11 month old puppy can, at least) and Tanya's side is slowly clearing up. We're saving a substantial amount of money by feeding this way and they're getting the proper nutrition they need. Win-win.