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My First Time By Sara Maldonado QuailBellMagazine.com I remember the first moment I truly felt like a woman. It wasn’t in the embrace of my first lover nor was it having my first legal drink or even the first time that I shaved…um…down there. But rather, it was a random Sunday afternoon. It was raining outside, I was kind of bored and watching TV with Boyfriend Volume 3, Edition 2.
We began discussing post-graduate employment and plans. His eyes lit up as he spoke about previous internships and his summer employment experience. He talked about his sparkling GPA and the courses that he’d taken, the professors he knew, the people he had talked to. He laid out his plans. Both the Five and Ten Year ones. He knew his path would lead to the ever fabled land of Success. That was when my womanhood cherry popped. It wasn’t the fact that I knew that he was being much too enthusiastic considering the alarming rate at which the Millennial set was being underemployed or even yet, unemployed. It wasn’t that I knew that there was a flaw in his Five or Ten Year ones because I really wasn’t sure. It was just the simple fact that I knew that I didn’t know. “I am wiser than this man, for neither of us appears to know anything great and good; but he fancies he knows something, although he knows nothing; whereas I, as I do not know anything, so I do not fancy I do. In this trifling particular, then, I appear to be wiser than he, because I do not fancy I know what I do not know.” According to Plato’s “Apology,” Socrates believed that the wisest man was the man that knew that he did not know anything. Oddly enough, this is the most important teaching that I have taken with me from my short stint of Catholic education. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
3 Fashion Trends Seriously Hazardous to Health From Spanx, to stilettos to plastic surgery, women of the modern age are clearly more-than-willing to endure some pain to keep up with current trends and pursue our societal dream of perpetual youth.
But there are some fashion crazes of the past that can legitimately toss their hat in the ring of bodily-injury—and sometimes death. We all know about corsets and foot-binding, but here we’ve got three lesser-known beauty blasts from the past sure to make you grateful to live in the here and now. Decorative Tooth Rot Sugar may be the opiate of the masses today, but in the Elizabethan era this white magic was both rare and pricey. That means only the rich could access its sweet charms . . . and its resulting tooth decay. Oral hygiene, like regular hygiene, left much to be desired in those days—resulting in decidedly greying smiles among the elite. But because it’s a universal trait of human nature to laud the trends of the rich and famous, aristocratic rotting teeth became en vogue, temporarily spawning a fad among commoners to fake bacteria-filled smiles by masking their teeth with black powder. Mmm. So much for pearly whites. Happily, as sugar became more ubiquitous and toothaches grew old, the trend ceased to be chic—though gingivitis still hung around. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
We are miraculous, twigs and non-twigs alike. I'm a size 3. Poor me right? I can fit into cute outfits, look “acceptable” in a bikini, and I don't know...do "skinny girl things" that only we skinny girls know about, things that keep us skinny and, no, you're not invited! I learned to value my skinny figure growing up, especially when people would say, “I hate you Courtney, you're so skinny.” Clearly I had something other less skinny girls wanted to have. But why did they want it? Probably because, like me, their favorite Disney movies growing up all had beautiful thin princesses who always won their princes. Maybe because our Barbies all came with tiny little matching outfits for their tiny little waists. Maybe because our favorite singers and actresses were all tall and thin creatures like the ones in every ad ever made. Our perception of what is beautiful clearly comes from our society relentlessly conditioning this into us from an early age. There is no disputing that.
Now let me just say this skinny thing is not by choice on my part. I don't starve myself. I come from a long line of twigs. One of my Aunts was actually nicknamed “Twiggy." It's genetics, and just like everyone, baby, I was born this way. Thankfully for those women out there with curves, the more voluptuous body types are more and more celebrated nowadays. My most favorite women in my life are of all shapes and sizes and they own their figures proudly. As they should. So now, “I hate you Courtney, you're so skinny” has at times turned into, “Real women have curves, thank you very much!” Fine. I mean, technically if I have a female reproductive system I'm pretty sure I'm a woman for realz, but I digress... Only within the last few years have I been able to detach myself from my obsession with my thin appearance and get to know and appreciate the whole package. For all of my life my biggest attribute (being slim and fit), was also my biggest flaw because I let it define me, because I thought it had to. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
New Age Thought And a New Me "But a lot of folks carry too many other people’s opinions and thoughts in THEIR own heads."
— Ebony SkyTalker (@sfreynolds) June 6, 2014 One of the joys of therapy is having tiny revelations. After experiencing a tacit rejection from a crush, and realizing a not-so-cute somebody had a crush on me, I started to unravel a bit. My mind began racing, bouncing between the various spiritual ideas that I’d absorbed over the years. Immediately I began to wonder if I was attracting losers because I was a loser. My whole life, only less than desirable individuals had ever expressed interested in me. And although these experiences areyears apart, the theme remains the same: Why do these non-awesome people keep liking me? And why do the people I like—and think are awesome—keep rejecting me? Naturally my therapist asked me why I thought this way, so I explained my understanding of the Law of Attraction, a cornerstone of New Age thought: This idea that the people in our lives are there for a reason, that they’re an embodiment of something we need to deal with or a reflection of the energy we’re putting out into the Universe, or that the interactions we have with people are teachable moments for us [from God] and that we can learn something from every encounter. New Age thought is also impressively individualistic. This idea that we have complete control over our environment (and the people in it) and that we can enact great change by doing something as simple as changing our minds. One of my criticisms of New Age spirituality is its preoccupation with how much the Collective can benefit the Self by turning everyone into a secret message from God (that you now have to both decipher and integrate into your Being). It’s not selfishness per se, but it’s a very myopic way of looking at your life while also burdening yourself with all the responsibility of everything that [ever] happens to you. Suddenly, things don’t happen because the world is chaotic and humans are exercising their free will. Things are happening because you called them into Being and now you have to take responsibility “for what you’ve created." The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Why Are There Two Carolinas and Two Dakotas? Ever wonder why we have two Carolinas and two Dakotas? Did the state name-creators simply run out of ideas? Nope. Turns out in both cases the territories split due to riotous behavior, incompetent governance and a touch of bureaucratic jockeying. A Tale of Two CarolinasEarly French settlers to the Carolina territory were immediately driven out by Native American tribes. The English swooped in, but faired not better: the area was subject to open rebellion, corrupt officials, malaria and smallpox epidemics, and the despicable pirate Blackbeard, who prowled up and down the coast tormenting the landlubbers. (Incidentally, his ship was recently discovered off the coast of North Carolina.) After some failed attempts by British aristocratic family to get the colony under control, King Charles II passed the land off to a different, and equally ineffectual, club of British aristocracy—the Lords Proprietors—who ruled from 1663 to 1729. The Lords Club fought constantly and were unable to make coherent decisions ranging from the role of church, to dealing with the two Indian tribes not keen on British encroachment. The governors they appointed were either deposed by locals, or banished from the territory for alleged crimes. It was a gritty time in the heart of the South. Finally, to make the unruly territory more manageable, the Proprietors focused on governing the northern section—dubbed North Carolina. The two regions were officially recognized as separate colonies in 1729, from which point there was smoother sailing. A Tale of Two DakotasThe bitter winter cold and gruesome violence between White settlers and Sioux Indians made the Dakota territory an unappealing area before the 1874 discovery of gold. At this point, prospectors started pouring in—creating squalid camps, decimating the Black Hills for mining, and escalating hostilities with the Sioux. Railroad construction quickly followed, encouraging a surge of new settlers in the northern part of the territory. Problem: the capital of the time—Yankton—was in the south. Sh*t was getting real in the north, the remote capital was unable to govern effectively, and so northerners declared their own capital—Bismark. Congress capitulated, but still wanted to recognize the authority of the south. So they cut a line dividing the territory into two. But there’s a twist! Newly-minted president and republican, Benjamin Harrison, helped sway Congress to allow the split. Why? To create not one . . . but two Republican majority states. So many historians feel the real reason Congress accepted a division of the Dakotas was for redistricting (still an issue constantly at play today). Because what’s a good story of intrigue without an element of political numerical maneuvering? Image: ThinkStock #Real #Ravishly #HighOnHistory #States #Carolina #Dakota Visit our shop and subscribe. Sponsor us. Submit and become a contributor. Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Visnu's Dream Machine I hereby solemnly swear this is not another essay about body image and self-esteem. It’s more of an existential crisis and I definitely talk about death. Lately, my eyes somewhat glaze over when I see memes about “real” bodies, Photoshop, and beauty. Not because it’s not a thing, so much, as I think it just misses my real question about bodies, which is: What the *#!@ is this whole body thing all about, anyway? What is going on with bodies? Why do I have one? What is it? Whaaat? The writer's self-portrait. Am I seriously the only adult that thinks it’s bizarre that we have bodies? I know babies know what I am talking about. Watching them constantly re-discovering things like fingers and faces is hilarious. Babies clearly don’t expect to encounter them, bodies: still getting used to them. Bodies baffle babies, and me along with them.
Somewhere after that stage of life, though, people seem to stop questioning the body thing. Well, I haven’t stopped. Kids for example definitely seem more accepting of bodies than babies. Sure, everybody poops, they say, I have a book about it. What’s the big deal? That’s just the way it works. And I am the weirdo grown-up left alone going, yeah, but whaaat? How weird is that, that everybody poops? Everybody?! Everybody POOPS! That’s so weird! We ALL do the SAME poop thing together, ONE BIG HUMAN POOP FAMILY! It’s bizarre to me that human beings, for all our questions and art forms and inventions and winter Olympics and religions and dreams, boil down to creatures of bodies. As a friend recently put it, we just eat, poop, copulate, and die. For some (I’m looking at you, religion and popular culture and longing), this is a problem. The body thing isn’t enough the way it is, or it’s simply bad. Bodies become the obstacle between us and purity/eternity/beauty/glory/whatever-we-think-is-better, an obstacle between us and the way we think it ought to be. And yet we have to have a body because, well, we just do. So our relationship with our body becomes complicated. We have to fix it. Discipline it. Starve its appetites, sometimes, or fence them in safely. But, dear god, we must control and dominate it lest it dominate us. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Pro-Beatles, Anti-Boys, and Utterly Insane I have been homeschooled all my life, so I know nothing of the horror and trauma of public middle school. I honestly do not have any moments where I was really embarrassed (though I did go through a phase where I got embarrassed whenever my dad talked about his imaginary “corn cob jacket” in public). I do, however, have my own tales of middle-school-age strangeness.
When I was eleven and twelve, I was a judgmental and slightly insane girl. I had a close-knit group of friends, and I was strongly opposed to building new friendships. I was anti-boy and anti-“girly." This meant, to me, wearing T-shirts and jeans all the time, being extremely opposed to the color pink, and making fun of all the boys I knew. I always appeared to be very, very set in my opinions. To be honest, though, my opinions could be changed by one word from someone I admired. I did what I thought was cool, or what I thought would make me fit into my group of friends more. I didn’t realize that I already fit in without even trying—I thought that I had to work to maintain an aura of coolness. I would imitate what any person I looked up to did. I would wear the same clothes as she did, I would listen to the same music, get excited for the same movies, and be interested in the same subjects. I think that all of my friends did that, too, and since we all imitated each other, it meant we were all very alike. We were, in a way, vaguely annoying pre-teen clones. There were four of us, with a fluctuating fifth, and we all had the same style: Beatles shirts, jeans, Converse, headbands, and ratty friendship bracelets. We each had a pair of jeans that we had all of our acquaintances sign in black Sharpie. Mine were bedazzled, thanks to my mother and father. We had imaginary cats. They lived in imaginary houses on top of our heads, and they had copious numbers of kittens which we shipped off to Australia directly from the Interstate. We loved Alice Paul and Lucy Burns, and were obsessed with the Percy Jackson and Fablehaven books. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Joy of Home By Kate Hickey QuailBellMagazine.com Photo by Kate Hickey London doesn’t have much of a skyline, but I could just see the Shard from my window.
I’ve always been a bit of an amateur adventurer, a toned down adrenaline junkie. I like thrill rides and taking some risks. I was lucky as a kid; my parents took me all sorts of places. I went to Europe first when I was twelve. I think that might have been where I really got the bug for moving around. I’d been to a few places around the States before that: Florida to visit grandparents, Virginia Beach and the Outer Banks in North Carolina. I’d been to the West Coast, to San Francisco and Phoenix, Arizona. I actually don’t remember the first time I rode a plane. But when we went to Europe, I really began to understand what traveling is all about. Funnily enough, everyone speaks German in Germany. We visited my sister in Berlin, stopped off in London to see a West End show, and were home in under two weeks. I vividly remember ambling along a street in London, looking at storefronts. Looking back, I now know that it was Regent Street near Oxford Street, down a bit towards Piccadilly Circus. In high school, I did travelled fairly often. My sister (same one) moved to New York City, so I visited her there a good amount. My other sister moved to Colorado, so I got to spend some time there as well. I traveled with my high school’s marching band, as well. And barely two weeks after I graduated high school, I was on another international flight, this time to Austria and, again, Germany with my German teacher. I saw old, beautiful architecture and old, beautiful objects. Everywhere you look in Europe, the buildings and the culture and even the streets you walk on have a story to tell. It’s ancient in a way we don’t understand in the United States. I ate real schnitzel in Vienna. I walked up an unbelievably steep hill and looked out over Salzburg. I experienced the Germany/England World Cup soccer game in Munich. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Return Somewhere up the ridge, the homestead's 46 acres melt into forest overseen by the Bureau of Land Management. Dirt roads veer at a lung-burning angle toward the crest, carving ochre scars through the madrone and chinkapin. I climb upward alone, through the June heat, hearing nothing but the occasional insect whirring in the grass and the gusting afternoon wind.
The homestead is called Gypsy Cafe, home to Barb and Susie, a couple in their forties. I am here through World Wide Opportunities on Organic Farms, an organization that connects farms all over the world with volunteers, who work and learn in exchange for room and board. I came to WWOOFing (as it is called) through word-of-mouth. Burnt-out on city life, aching for connection to land, I dropped $30 on a year-long membership and browsed the online directory, searching not for traditional commercial farms but for intentional communities: queer, feminist, cooperative. I had my ideals; I wanted to see how they played out in real life. Barb, with her previous partner Tina, bought the land in 2008, joining the network of lesbian-owned land in the valleys of southern Oregon. This was a new world I stepped into, a world of which I knew nothing beyond a vague mention of lesbian separatism in my college women-in-politics classes. The women I met in southern Oregon outstripped me in both age and knowledge—of themselves, of their history, of the land. I came out as bisexual when I was fifteen; I'd known I was different since the age of eight, looking at a Star Wars picture book after school in Boys and Girls Club. Leia. The gold bikini. Possibly the most cliché way my previously unknown sexuality could have announced itself. I had a mad crush on a classmate, made moony eyes at him during crossing guard duty outside our elementary school, but suddenly I knew my interest in boys was not the end of it. But even after coming out in high school, after countless mad crushes directed at both boys and girls, I dated only men, with varying degrees of interest and success. I struggled with my sense of identity, with feeling like a fraud, or a traitor—to whom, I wasn't sure. My queerness was a history I could not excavate, an archaeological mystery without a carbon date. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Unrequited Vintage Love Dear ModCloth, I have a confession to make: I don't like you or even like like you. I love you. I know, I'm sick. But isn't it your fault? "Unique and cute"—that's how you brand yourself. I prefer "addictive" and "diabolical." The devil's perfectly flounced darling. You cast a spell on me or maybe you forced some pill down my throat while diverting me with a colorful scarf that reminded me of picnics in Paris, I'm not sure, but suddenly I have no impulse control and my cart is full because you have "frocks in every color for every occasion." You even have a frock for hugging your cat while it dies a poetic death on the porch one July afternoon. I know it because you told me so, because your names are divinely descriptive. The average department store tag describes a dress as "dark blue," but you'll call the same one something like "Midnight Star Party" or "Dusk in Florence." Who can resist a star party or a Florence evening? That's what makes you so perfect: Your clever/sexy, sexy/clever word play. Dare I say...your marketing. But that's really not all. There has to be more. I can't admit that it was your marketing alone that grabbed me. After all, I'm an independent thinker, a free spirit. That's why I shop at ModCloth and not the same big box retailers as everyone else. I go to warehouse parties in Brooklyn and do everything with so much ironic flourish it's batty. There's a ukulele in my closet, I swear. I almost took it out and wrote you a love song, but I thought I'd write you a letter instead. Oh, wow. This love letter has become a stream of consciousness, hasn't it? I'm some fancy fool at my desk, scribbling away about my ModCloth passion while wearing a Peter Pan collar. I'm even doing it with a plume. A real plume. Like the one printed on my dress. The dress I bought on ModCloth. I have to keep punctuating these realizations because they are just that life-changing. This letter has allowed me to understand so many things about myself, just the way my plume-printed dress has made me realize who I am. It's shown me my soul. That's what a real dress does. ModCloth, I know you understand. You more than understand. You taught me the way to dress, the way to think, the way to be. You are my fashion guru, ModCloth, and my greatest love. But I know I am just one of many admirers. You cannot possibly see in me what I see in you. I am but a flawed indie butterfly girl and you...you are ModCloth, a vision, a muse, a goddess. May you reign forever. I shall watch you with bated breath from afar, afar, afar. Adieu, adieu, adieu. Overflowing with love but not money, Your Faithful Shopper Disclaimer: The writer has actually never bought anything from ModCloth.com but fights the urge to do so on a regular basis. #Real #ModCloth #VintageShopping #VintageFashion #VintageClothing #VintageStyle #OnlineShopping #BadHabits Visit our shop and subscribe. Sponsor us. Submit and become a contributor. Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Talking to an Octopus I never felt invincible. I knew life was too unpredictable to think otherwise. Even in my youth, I could only see my body as a magnet for disaster, particularly when gravity was concerned. At three years of age, I jumped into the deep end of a pool by accident. Instead of floating, I sank. Fortunately, another body noticed me and pulled me up from the water. At the age of four, I lost my footing in a shower and split the top of my head open. A man in a Delaware clinic had to stich the skin back up. Two years later, I ran across a quilt spread out on a hardwood floor and fell. When I got up, I had cut the other end of my head. It is amazing how much blood the chin holds. By the time I needed to take my first Holy Communion, my body intruded again and spiritual concerns had to compromise with it. A few weeks prior I had broken my arm playing kickball.
Along with many other nicks, sprains, scrapes, and cuts, these countless ills might have pushed me to seek something within myself which was invincible, or at least was whole and could not be broken. I remember sitting on the bed in the guestroom and staring at the mirror across from me. I might have been in the room for punishment, or I might have been bored. My childhood was filled with boredom. The mirror was a large, antique monstrosity, like a rhinoceros made of wood and glass. Looking at my brown eyes, I reflected on my reflection and thought about what I was looking at. At that moment, I had a “meta” experience. I was feeling beyond my senses, observing myself not in my body but somehow apart from it, like a puppeteer under the skin and bone. The one pulling the strings was the real me. Everything else was just an appearance given to fluctuation, chaos, and decay. Before I could become completely lost in the soul, puberty pulled me back into the body. I had to acknowledge its presence because so much was changing inside and outside of me. The constant assemblage of organs and sinew I had grown accustomed to was gone. Without my consent, the body went ahead and turned me into an adult. My voice grew deeper, hair started sprouting in new places, and I added a few inches to my height. Certain involuntary petrifications and emissions also took place and were noted. Of all these developments, Hair was the most striking. Where there was once smooth skin, now there were dark curls and stubble. If it was on my face, it had to be cut. While I was used to haircuts, these only took place on a seasonal basis. Shaving required constant vigilance and took place in increasing intervals, moving from a bi-weekly, to a weekly, and finally daily ritual. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
America's Most Womanizing PresidentIf asked to conjure the image of a lustful U.S. president, most of us would probably picture one William Jefferson Clinton. But soon-to-be-released letters remind us that Slick Willie is practically a monk compared to our 29th president, Warren G. Harding. He died in office in 1923, after serving just over two years in the office. But Harding seems to have made the most of his short time—at least in terms of presidential hanky panky. A Sordid Presidency Harding was no stranger to scandal. Having won the 1920 presidential race with the largest popular vote margin in presidential history—based on a Republican platform of moderation and independence from European affairs (which didn’t pan out for too long)—Harding wasted no time getting embroiled in controversy. His repertoire includes a number of high-profile cases of corruption and bribery. When not involved in sketchy political scenarios, Harding was apparently busy accruing a long list of mistresses. About a thousand pages of love letters from Harding to one of his lovers will be released next month by the Library of Congress (got to give it to him, that’s some serious extra-marital dedication). The library received the letters from the president’s nephew, who insisted on a 50-year period of secrecy that has finally expired. A String of Women Harding’s affair with the letter’s recipient (and friend of Harding’s wife), Claire Phillips, began in 1905 and endured through the next 15 years of his time in politics. Though the relationship reportedly ended just before Harding’s ascension to the presidency, he was back to his old tricks once in the Oval Office. A former campaign director for Harding alleged they got it on in a variety of patriotic places, including a White House coat closet. And Harding is thought to have had at least two other long-term mistresses, as well as “assorted other flings” including a newspaper employee, chorus girls, and “a string of ‘New York Women.’” How did he find enough hours in the day? As for the object of those (hopefully) juicy letters? Phillips made out alright in the aftermath of the affair, successfully blackmailing the Republican Party and winning a monthly stipend and jobs for relatives. Which makes her decidedly savvier—if also more depraved—than poor Monica Lewinsky. ***This piece first appeared in Ravishly and was republished here with permission. *** #Real #Ravishly #HighOnHistory #History #Feminism #President #Harding #Clinton Visit our shop and subscribe. Sponsor us. Submit and become a contributor. Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
It's not the merkin that's evil; it's how you use it. Ah, the days of Queen Victoria…the pre-Romantic era romanticized through the lens of modernity, shrouded in its own mystique of a signature culture so different from our own. The most radical contrasts between then and now lies within the realm of beauty ideals and sexuality, namely female sexuality. Rumors about the Victorians' paradoxical prudishness still abound: Society at large condemned masturbation as unhealthy and sinful unless performed by a trained professional, someone who knew how to properly operate a vibrator.
Still, despite publicly stigmatizing female sexuality, the Victorians also secretly reveled in it and regularly produced porn extreme even by today's standards. While I believe in the healing power of orgasms, the Victorians probably would’ve been better off doing the job themselves instead of forcing their genitals into contraptions that would qualify as torture devices today. Embracing DIY masturbation might have rescued them from the perils of turning to one of the most flourishing industries of that day: prostitution, the kind of sex work that flourished outside of a medical office with a dildo-wielding doctor and regularly returned people to it. Although the media glamorizes Victorian women as though they were animated versions of the sophisticated portraits of their time, the reality was quite different. Most women didn’t resemble the elegant subjects of oil paintings. Women didn’t tend to wear much makeup. Shaving wasn’t much of a part of their beauty norms. If you were a woman, your pubic garden was free to blossom. That is, if you weren’t a sex worker. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Teenage Love, Universal Fears, and Wonderwall Here’s a show that’s been flying under the radar: My Mad Fat Diary. Starring Sharon Rooney and featuring Ian Hart, this show chronicles the small-town misadventures of a gang of English teenagers in the 1990s. It has everything you’d expect from a show driven by teen hormones: first love, social standing, schoolwork, fear, sex, drinking, and laughing until your sides hurt. But the dark underbelly of this show, the real thing that hooks you and keeps you watching, is the knowledge that the main character has just spent four months in a psychiatric hospital.
Frankly, I can’t quite understand why this show hasn’t become wildly popular in a similar fashion to Orange is the New Black, as these two shows unashamedly take on difficult topics and dig their teeth in the complexities of the people who live within those narratives. Both of them remain relatively upbeat and undeniably charming; both are equally difficult to categorize as a drama or a comedy based on how similar they are to real life, which (as I’m sure you’ve noticed) is never always a drama or always a comedy. And they’re both based on the real lives of real women who wrote real books: Orange is the New Black by Piper Kerman and My Mad, Fat Teenage Diary by Rae Earl. This show opens a dialogue about body image and body confidence alongside discussions about mental illness and eating disorders while still maintaining a youthful, fun, reckless feel. Rae experiences problems with boys, her best friend Chloe, and her mother at the same time she deals with binge eating, her friend’s anorexia, and the excruciating pain of facing all of her fears about herself in therapy. The integration of the two extremes of light-hearted and serious topics remind us of the feeling that all of those things seem equally important and can stop the earth turning. Along with the hard-hitting issues of mental and physical wellness that this show discusses, My Mad Fat Diary goes into the complexities of sexuality and all that entails: questioning, coming out, homophobia, both personal and inter-personal acceptance, and pride. It touches on the topics of abortion, a parent remarrying, sexual independence, unhealthy relationships, and self-esteem. And it delves into the intricate issue of how young girls relate to each other, how gender and gender performance affect how adolescent girls interact with each other. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Rock Your Socks By Deniz Zeynep QuailBellMagazine.com Aside from writing, wearing textiles is my manner of interpreting the world around me. Cut. Fabric. Fit. I am at my most comfortable when I am sitting on my bed, Rumi snoring next to me (my pup partner in crime), while words flow out of me like a Georgette skirt that billows over my ankles every time I step (courtesy of my fashion-muse mother). I seem to have inherited Mom's penchant for light fabrics and neutral tones. Classic. Timeless. Being able to find new ways to describe the world around me seeps from the page and into the breezy silk trousers I have acquired for the summer. There are countless blogs, television shows, magazines, and overall commentary on how to be. They range from shamelessly commercial to vehicles for artistic expression. In regards to the commercial interpretation of how—what's in, what's not—it's easy to forget that they are just opinions. Following a trend, whether it be a train of thought or those low-crotch, baggy pants (still don't get it), is mindless. Droning. Bzzz. What's most important is acknowledging these new ideas. Do they fit? Maybe not and somehow the terms "unique" and "weird" and "quirky" seem to be used. Boring. If they fit? Well, homeslice, you just found a great piece to add to your bumpin' style-collage. Style pervades everything—how you speak, stroll, scribble, sneeze—how you BE(E), basically. Bzzz. Too often we are afraid to be who we are. We're only humans. Fallible earthlings with enough intelligence, ego, and passion to both save or destroy ourselves. It starts from youth—you're integrated into a micro-cosmic bubble of bureaucracies with your peers and the person with the strongest opinion (right or wrong, it doesn't matter) sets the tone for how things should be. What to say. When to say it. We end up squeezing ourselves into a mold the way Cinderella's step-sisters are squeezing their feet into a slipper that only hugs their toe. Before you know it, you're cutting off toes and heels just to fit. Good luck walking. This isn't so much a rant as it is a drop of encouragement for all you Fledglings to rock the style you were born with and that you create as you go. There is no right way to live. No right way to dress. No right way to think, create, or feel. As long as you feel like the 100% version of you, who is to say it's wrong? (Well, aside from crossing over to the realm of evil). And think about it, the more comfortable you feel with yourself, the further you'll go. The easier you will find your calling ::cue Dr. Seuss' Oh, the Places You'll Go!:: I saw a quote somewhere that said "You are your home." So dress up your drapes, water your plants, paint your shutters—be the most bitchin' house on the block. Boom, boom. #Real #Authenticity #RealSelf #WearWhatYouWant #AntiFashionSlaves #RealFashionAdvice #YouDoYou #Life Visit our shop and subscribe. Sponsor us. Submit and become a contributor. Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Becoming a Ghost By Jon Bolduc QuailBellMagazine.com It is a summer morning. We are cooking breakfast. I get lost in my own kitchen on a regular basis. In my own domestic kingdom,I have trouble finding the right spatula, or the vinegar, or the baking soda. Helping you cook inevitably becomes “watching you cook.” “Hey Jon, can you get me the butter?” Yes, I believe that I can. But I am overconfident in my ability to navigate the interior of your fridge. I am lost. Milk in the front high shelf, soda on the sides, leftovers in the middle—but where is the butter? I ask you.
“Next to the milk.” I’m still not seeing it. You come over, reach around me, and grab it without even looking. For you, it's muscle memory. “Oh,” I say. “That’s where the eggs were.” I close the door of the fridge. I glance at the cold white front. The front of a fridge tells a story, in patchwork. A frayed picture of your sister on the tee-ball team. Your brother smiling for his seventh grade school picture. A bill for an oil change. A chemo appointment reminder. An invoice, bold, red, blaring. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Sundays Sundays are for sleeping in until you've avoided the sun long enough. Sundays are for snuggling with whomever shares your bed, even if (or especially if) that is a dog or teddy bear. Sundays are for putting on the soft, the faded, and the comfortable. Sundays are for taking a shower if you feel like it, but probably taking a bath instead and in the evening, too. Sundays are for bursting into the kitchen with an appetite and cooking exactly what you want to eat. Sundays are for staring out the window and watching the birds peck at worms or seeds. Sundays are for taking a walk with no destination and certainly no pedometer. Sundays are for reading on the porch while you drink your favorite drink. Sundays are for watching the movies and TV shows you don't care if anyone else is watching. Sundays are for calling faraway friends and telling stories and listening to theirs. Sundays are for writing letters and postcards and thank you cards. Sundays are for thinking and dreaming and not having to be anywhere. #Real #Sundays #PassingTheTime #DoWhatYouWant #LazyDays #PerfectDays #WeekendFun #WeekendPower #Weekends Visit our shop and subscribe. Sponsor us. Submit and become a contributor. Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Fixing a Safe Plate By Gillan Ludlow QuailBellMagazine.com Over the last two years, I have encountered a variety of reactions from strangers, co-workers and friends involving my constantly-evolving diet.
At the age of 21, I was diagnosed with food allergies. Now let's shutdown a common misconception. You CAN develop food allergies at any age—you don't have to be a kid. You are more likely to grow out of your food allergies if you are born with them, however, it's not like food allergies are restricted to a certain age. I am not a leper. I am not in any way, shape or form considered contagious. You will not die if you touch me. So please spare me your looks of pity and sympathy and certainly don't offer me condolenscences for my restricted list of foods. Intrigued yet? Almost three years ago, I tested positive for corn, egg, cantaloupe, and banana. I dismissed banana and cantaloupe because I didn't really like those foods to begin with. I was neutral about eggs because I could make subsitutions for those especially when baking. But corn? I was heart-broken because I loved corn. Fresh air-popped popcorn, homemade creamed corn, corn on the cob, grits. You name it. Most people think that when I say I am allergic to corn, that it's really JUST corn. But let's set the record straight. I am allergic to high fructose corn syrup, corn syrup, maize, malodextrin. Basically any food, spice, baking necessity, additive, preserative, and anything else you can think of that derives from corn, I am allergic to. Eating large consumptions of corn products lead to asthma attacks, which are usually non-responsive to asthma medication. So I either have to go to the emergency room or ride out the asthma attack and hope for the best. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Tale of The Ugliest Vase and Why It MattersBy Ghia Vitale QuailBellMagazine.com Once upon a time, one of my aunt’s pupils presented her with a gift. Since the carefully-wrapped package contained some token of appreciation, she was all the more ready to curl her lips into a smile and coo some expression of gratitude. After all, it was the very last day of school and this student cared enough to buy a gift for her, the elementary school teacher who had mentored him for a whole school year. The timing itself indicated that there was no undertone of obligation, nor was the child brown-nosing his way into a better grade.
Despite her readiness to rejoice at the sight of the gift, my aunt was stunned by what she saw. It took every morsel of will to keep her face from contorting in disgust and feign admiration for an item that would become iconic in our family: The Ugliest Vase. It wasn’t just any ordinary vase, either. It was, in my aunt’s own words, “The ugliest vase to ever have the nerve to exist." My aunt, with all her infinite grace, was most likely able to swallow the vomit crawling up her throat, but that didn’t change the fact that she now possessed the most grotesque ceramic vessel in the entirety of existence. That unseemly day revolutionized Christmas gift-giving in a way that my other aunts and grandparents had never anticipated. Alongside some fake moldy peaches, The Ugliest Vase would remain clandestine among an assortment of other wrapped boxes and stuffed bags until its predestined recipient finally uncovered it. For the record, my aunt is highly allergic to peaches. It remained in the same box in which she had received it, the same one in which it was purchased. The black box read “VASE” across the front of the box, as though the pictures of it on the front were not obvious enough to convey its “species” to prospective customers. On the side of the box, the words “HIGH QUALITY” and “HAND PAINTED” were printed in a fashion so conspicuous, it was as though the manufacturer was aware of its aesthetic deficiency and trying to will potential buyers into thinking otherwise. Somehow, The Ugliest Vase was lost for a short time, but my cousins and I knew what it was when the heirloom reappeared and elicited a cacophony of ecstatic yowls from our elders. By looking at the next photo, you relieve me of all rights and responsibility for your health in the aftermath of your speculation. Beware and behold the abomination that has haunted the outskirts of my family's Christmas trees for decades: The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Disney Finally Steps Up in The Game Of Love If any name carries alongside it the definition of True Love, I doubt anybody would argue the name Disney. They’ve been selling True Love Conquers All since 1937 with Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs and people around the world have eaten it up just like the Wicked Queen’s poisoned apple. And unfortunately, that’s sort of what the concept has become: poisoned.
Disney films are incredibly influential when it comes to forming children’s ideas about how the world works. These films are simplistic and formulaic, but they try to instill ideas about morality. They teach the things that we can’t really explain, including concepts like forgiveness, loyalty, determination, and love. But for decades, they have really only told one type of story. Disney has defined true love as something inherently romantic, and children really do pick up on that. All the way up from Snow White and Cinderella until more recent films like The Princess and the Frog and Tangled, the plotlines of these movies have all relied heavily on this long-standing sexist, classist, heteronormative “true love” narrative. Even films like The Princess and the Frog and Mulan are examples in this field despite their excellent messages to young girls. These heroines are smart, resourceful, and brave. They work hard and dominate their narratives by acting rather than being acted against. But despite physical prowess, mental acuity, and personal agency, they fall into the same romantic traps as their less progressive counterparts. However, Disney seems to be taking a turn. In last year’s hit Frozen, the writers turned this trope on its head by redefining true love. After spending the entire film focused on romantic love, Princess Anna saves herself by acting on her feelings of love for her sister, Queen Elsa. Rather than being saved by her initial love interest, the villainous Prince Hans or the underdog romantic boyfriend Kristoff, Anna saves her own life with an act of true love. And, for the first time in anybody’s memory, the true love in this story has nothing to do with romance. Or even men. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Memorializing Grandma in Pixels By Fay Funk QuailBellMagazine.com Over the Fourth of July weekend I came across The Atlantic essay “She’s Still Dying on Facebook” about viewing a dead Facebook friend’s account long after she’s gone. It was heartbreaking, sweet, and very relevant. Death in the digital age creates a whole new set of issues to examine, and it’s unfamiliar territory. I have dealt with it myself. Last year my grandmother died of cancer. Her Facebook account still exists—both actually, she had two. Her death opened up a sea of complications about online presence, questions of perspective, the wishes of the living versus the dead, and generational differences. How do you view your Facebook? Do you use it to communicate with your friends or to share your opinions? Is it a tool for self-promotion? A place to stalk crushes? Do you think it’s stupid or fantastic? And just as importantly, how do other people see your Facebook? What will it represent to them when you die? Is it a collection of all your most significant life events and memories, as worthy of preservation as a diary? Or is it the CliffsNotes version of you, meaningless and surface-level? Should it be memorialized or destroyed? I doubt any of us were thinking that hard when we first made our accounts.
Facebook played an incredibly complicated role in the last year of my grandmother’s life, and a lot of that was due to no one really knowing how important it was or was not. It’s why the question of what to do with her accounts is unresolved to this day, and will probably remain unresolved forever. On the one hand, Facebook was revolutionary. All of my grandmother’s friends and family joined a group to share stories, updates, and photos with her. She could connect with everyone, even when she was too sick for visitors, and they could all connect to each other. My mother and aunt ran the group and managed the posts to share with my grandmother. It gave her a lot of comfort and eased her passing. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
20th-century Fashion Accessories As WeaponsSexual harassment is the pits. And as it unfortunately turns out, the deviant desire to cat call, taunt, grope and generally act like a miserable misogynist reaches across time and place. Women have tried various strategies to fend off such behavior through the ages, but one trend during the turn-of-the-century reveals a creative, and sometimes overzealous, tactic for literally sticking it to lecherous men. The so-called “Hatpin Peril” led ladies to use their own decorative accessories to fend off unwanted advances. In the Victorian era, female decorum and reliance on men were de rigeur. But by the cusp of the 20th century, some women were done with the antiquated expectations. Increasingly, ladies came to the conclusion that the time for a stiff upper lip when encountering “mashers”—period slang for predatory men in public—was over. Newspapers across the country started reporting physical retaliations against the skeezes. As the Smithsonian summarizes: A New York City housewife fended off a man who brushed up against her on a crowded Columbus Avenue streetcar and asked if he might “see her home.” A Chicago showgirl, bothered by a masher’s “insulting questions,” beat him in the face with her umbrella until he staggered away. A St. Louis schoolteacher drove her would-be attacker away by slashing his face with her hatpin. Victorian temperance be damned! In addition to their frequency, news reports covering these encounters were notable for their approving tone. While a woman attacking a man had previously been considered comical (silly, silly women!), these female fighters were now praised as heroes with the righteous ability to defend themselves. Social mores, they were a’changing. Working women and suffragists co-opted the phenomenon into their broader call for women’s rights, including the ability to break out of the confines of parents' or husbands' homes, ditch chaperones, and move alone and unharassed in public. At this point, one might expect serious push-back from harbingers of tradition. But surprisingly, most people seemed to see the writing on the wall for women’s increasing freedoms. Instead, detractors focused on deriding the most high-profile mechanism of lady self-defense (or in some cases, probably misguided assaults): the hatpin. Both unconfirmed and verified stories of hatpin-peril abounded. Innocent men were accidentally stabbed by careless women. A hundred female factory workers wielded hatpins at police officers who had arrested two of their coworkers. A woman and her husband’s mistress even circled each other in a high-stakes hatpin duel until police broke it up. One woman’s tool of self-defense was another woman’s weapon. By 1910, the situation (weirdly) looked not unlike the current gun-control debate. City councils in Chicago, Milwaukee, Pittsburgh, Baltimore, New Orleans and even as far away as Sydney, Australia, started passing ordinances to regulate hatpin length. Many women rebuffed such interference, with some opting to go to jail rather than pay fines for their pins o’ protection. Who knows how the hatpin controversy may have continued to escalate, had World War I not swooped in to distract social preoccupation and inspire new fashion. Yes, the menacing hatpin was laid to rest as bobs and cloche hats became the new trend—probably for the best. Happily, women remained generally able to move independently in public, though sexual harassment has endured. Perhaps it's time to bring back the bad-ass hatpin? ***This piece first appeared in Ravishly and was republished here with permission. *** #Real #Ravishly #HighOnHistory #History #Feminism #SexualHarrassment #Weapons #Fashion
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The Rebirth of My IdentityIt was my first day of elementary school in the U.S. My lunchbox was full of grapes and carrots and my stomach was full of butterflies. As I walked up to the group of kids lining up outside the school, I turned to look at my mother. I wanted to be brave but I didn’t want her to leave. She signaled which line I belonged in, hugged me goodbye, and left. I walked over to the line, stood behind a girl with straight blond hair and waited to see what would happen next.
Everyone around me was chatting and laughing. I looked around and wondered how many of these kids previously knew each other and how many were just meeting for the first time. Soon various women and a man came out and began to take us all inside. I followed the crowd into the first grade area and proceeded to go into the same classroom as the blond girl in front of me had gone into. Everyone began looking for their corresponding desk. I joined in, found my desk, and sat down. The enthusiastic man from that morning went to the front of the room and began saying speaking very quickly. That’s when it hit me—my teacher was going to teach the class in English, a language I did not speak. It was September 1997 in Arlington, Virginia, and although I had been born there, I had moved to Guatemala and fully developed my Spanish and forgot any English that I had known beforehand. We had moved back to Arlington a month before school started, leaving me very little time to learn any English at all. I knew the basics like 'hello' and 'thank you' but nowhere near enough to gain anything from my classes at school. It felt like I had been thrown into the deep end for the first time and had to either sink or swim. I went from class to class mimicking my peers and hoping that I didn’t take a misstep. After lunch, I was instructed to go to a room. I wasn’t sure what I had done but followed instructions and walked on over. I sat down at my desk and scanned the room. It was the first time that day that I was in a room of other students that also spoke no English. Excited at the possibility of making friends, I asked around if anyone spoke Spanish. No luck. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The SOBs that have haunted me "The oldest and strongest emotion of mankind is fear, and the oldest and strongest kind of fear is fear of the unknown." -H.P. Lovecraft Like a lot of people from Boston, my grandmother has a story about notorious gangster James "Whitey" Bulger. Bulger, her story goes, was doing some shopping in a Somerville liquor store where her brother-in-law William worked. Bulger and William chatted for a bit, and the topic eventually turned to the pending indictment against Bulger. "They say you killed 27 guys," said William. "That's bullshit," Bulger responded. "I ain't killed any more than 18 guys."
Throughout my life, there have been three different people, one at a time, who I've considered the most evil, frightening, depraved SOB imaginable. From around the ages of five to 12, it was Adolf Hitler; from 12 to 16, it was Osama bin Laden; since then, it's been Whitey Bulger. There have been minor auxiliaries (Slobadan Milosevic, the Beltway Sniper, a couple of really mean girls from high school), but those guys were always the big three. Obviously Hitler's position in the queue didn't derive from any relevance he had to my life. He's just a universal, enduring symbol of out-of-control evil (that's why everyone on the other side of the political spectrum from you is just like him, doncha know) who died nearly fifty years before I was born. Bin Laden and Bulger, on the other hand, are spiritual cousins in this for two reasons: One, they did what they did within my lifetime, and two, more disturbingly, both vanished without a trace. Both of their respective threats have been neutralized now. Bin Laden was of course killed in a military raid in 2011, and later that summer, Bulger was captured in Santa Monica by the FBI after 15 years in the wind. Last year, after a trial such as only Boston could produce, he was sentenced to two life terms in prison plus five years. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Abby Cadabby's Treasure TroveIf you ever want to lose all joy and wonder with theme parks, work for one. Don't get me wrong, I love working at Busch Gardens Williamsburg. I wouldn't work there for five seasons if I didn't enjoy it overall. As fair warning, you need to be really careful where you work in an environment like a theme park. You can try to work rides and get forced into custodial business every now and then (like my sister did). You can pick a job that sounds fun like culinary, but spend most of your time working in extreme heat, watching as you realize just how much food gets wasted at the end of the day.
Then you can be like me and attach yourself to Merchandise and let it consume you. When I first started working at Busch Gardens in my senior year of high school, I was hired to be a Games Attendant. I worked a few weeks there, had some fun, but then didn't return until the summer after my freshman year of college. After working a summer in the heat and throwing my voice out repeating the same jargon, I grew tired of Games and decided to switch. I decided to remain in Merchandise since it was a field I was familiar with, and asked to work Retail the next year. When asked where I wanted to work, I chose Abby Cadabby's Treasure Trove, the gift shop in the Sesame Street Forest of Fun. I really should have thought this out more. A year later, I was back in Williamsburg and ready to spend my summer working in the cute little gift shop filled with all the characters from Sesame Street. To be fair to the store, I did actually enjoy working in it. I did find that switching from Games to Retail was a good move on my part, and I found it easy to integrate into the environment it called for. I also did like the store as an entity. My heart melted at all the adorable merchandise for sale, and I was okay dealing with guests and all their complaints. |
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