deadreckoner

[deadreckoner]

Reconciling My Upbringing in a Trump State

I was born and raised in a rural environment, in a historically conservative state. Everyone around me knew how to shoot a gun. There was virtually no diversity. People generally like the outdoors and love to booze themselves into oblivion. My hometown houses a cult-like love for the college football team, and directly and indirectly, there are many unreported cases of sexual assault. Suicide rates may be more common that normal. My town also consistently wins one of America's Drunkest Cities. To have a problem with alcohol is the norm. When my brother was on a one-way path to drinking himself to death, people told me “he is too young to be an alcoholic”.

I grew up in the mountains with a river in my backyard. As a child, my family and I went to see the hills ablaze with wildflowers in the summer. The winters are long and cold, but this provides some lovely outdoor activities. The water is some of the cleanest and most abundant in the country. I didn't know what light pollution was until I went away to college. “Big Sky Country” is no joke. I developed a lifelong connection to nature, and my relentless desire to protect it. For as much as I have traveled, Montana has some of the most breathtaking beauty of any place in the world.

Missoula is a liberal bubble in a persistently red state. It has an active music and art scene. There is culture, but it isn’t “cultured”. It is a place where you go to get away from it all. Montana is known as “The Last best Place”. When the apocalypse hits, Montanans will be able to survive better than anyone. That I am sure of. People know how to hunt for their own food. Building a fire is common knowledge.

Growing up, I was different (in many respects). It took me until Trump got elected to fully reckon with the trauma of being a Jewish person in a rural environment. I was in middle school when I first was called a “Kik”. I didn’t know what that meant. My brother and I were the token jews, so jokes at our expense weren’t “a big deal”. My brother's friends called him Moses, a name that has stuck until this day. It was all done in a joking manner. It was never “we hate you because you are different”, but I bet there were many who did. Racial slurs around a campfire at people of color's expense went unchecked. Despite this, there are some non-whites, gay and trans folks, and Muslims and Jews who live there. Some of them had to endure unimaginative slurs like “n****r”, “sand n****r”, “prairie n****r” and the old standby, “fa***t”. 

It was also a rough place to be a woman. When I was 15, I got drunk at a party for the first time which ended up being the  worst night of my life. Catty girls cut my hair off while I was sleeping, which unfortunately wasn't the most horrible thing to happen to me that night. After the incident, the girls who did it called me a slut at school and the guys who took advantage of me got the benefit of the doubt. I smoked pot every chance I got. When I came back from lunch break stoned, the hicks who inhabited a specific section of the highschool like ogres talked shit and called me a “fucking hippie”. I was harassed for using a plant that helped me transcend the bullshit of being a young “liberal” jewish woman who was rebelling against the dominant paradigm of a right-wing environment.

These memories came back to me with a new light as I have been monitoring the hate speech following Trump's election. And the fear. Because I could be the target of hate crimes in this country. People like me already have. People who are “different” already are. Electing fascist Trump has enabled this behavior to continue. And now white nationalists are "Hailing Trump” at their bigot rallies. I shudder to think that Trump's approach to having Muslims register is far too close to making Jews wear a star in WW2.  My 91-year-old grandmother said Tump is like Hitler. Her Ashkenazi family is from Poland. She would be able to understand the comparison. 

That being said, my “otherness” can mostly be hidden (except for undeniable fact that I am a woman). I am most concerned for my friends of color, those who practice a religion outside of Christianity, or those who have fluid sexuality or gender. Not just in Montana, but in the entire United States. I have a tinge of guilt because even before the election I was in the process of relocating to Spain. Millions of people in this country do not have the means to leave if things get really bad for them. They will have to endure more bullshit now, because bigotry and intolerance in this country has been enabled. 

After the election, I was curious to see the “other” side of social media, as my newsfeed and all my friends were in an uproar about president elect Trump. I scanned through some folks who still lived in Montana, Missoula, etc. I saw memes poking fun at liberals who were angry about Trump's win, a few posts of disgust about immigrants, and jokes about blue states being Dumbfuckistan. I was sufficiently horrified. But I also recognized that I was facing my own disgust of where I was born. Rejecting where you came from is a form of self-hate.

Montana has always been an economically depressed place. There is consistently a lack of jobs. Employment opportunities give limited options, mostly involving mining, farming, and tourism. People need and deserve an alternative to the current system that leaves their way of life difficult. Montanans have pride for their survival, as they well should. The current economic system does not support them. It has forced them to be resourceful. They don't feel represented or heard. And some of this is possibly why they valued the words of a “change president”, even though his platform was founded on bigotry, racism, sexism, and religious intolerance. And many have claimed that Trump isn’t a racist, which is part of the problem. 

Montana is mostly all white. A lack of ethnic or racial diversity leads to fear of those who are different. People aren’t “used to” being around people who aren’t white. A friend I met in Tanzania told me about his experiences in my home state, which included being hit by a bat for absolutely no reason. Other than he was black. Again, while I lived in a  liberal bubble, it was not uncommon to sometimes experience “casual” hate speech if you were gay, of color, or practice a religion other than Christianity. Some of it was subtle, which is what I realized only now. Almost all of it is brushed off, which is what I will not stand for. Never, ever again.

Recently I told my dad that I was surprised that I turned out how I did while being born and raised in Montana. He told me “Some of that was your parents... and some of that was just you”. I am thankful that my parents raised me with a certain degree of perspective that some may have not received. I am proud to be a Jew, because the trauma of my ancestors has taught me a lot. I am proud that my mom raised me to be a bold feminist, because being a woman in a male dominant society has taught me to recognize sexism when I see it and develop the tools to address it.

I will have patience with myself as I recognize how my environment has influenced my programming. I will try as hard as I can to deconstruct the racist, sexist, and un-evolved environment that I absorbed from my surroundings. Locally and from the world. From each day that I interact on this planet. I want to educate myself and learn how to be the best ally I can. And I will tease out more of my pain and fear. Because I don't want to carry it anymore.

No matter where in this expansive country you come from, nowhere is immune from intolerance and bigotry. Just because you live in the liberal enclave of San Francisco, hooked up to your virtual reality machine, doesn’t mean that the issues of middle America don’t affect you. This is our collective beast of burden. And it isn’t the job of oppressed groups to have to educate others about their racism, prejudice, or bigotry. Even if you didn’t vote for fascist ogre man, we cannot simply wash our hands of this mess we are in. It’s time now more than ever to fight for our rights, because you never know how far it can go if we stand back and let this history unfold. History ALWAYS repeats itself. We must keep a watchful eye on these events. They are not to be taken lightly. 

There are plenty of good hearted, open minded, and compassionate people who inhabit my home state and the US of A. I am trying to build acceptance and appreciation of the place where I was born into this planet. It has shaped who I am. I hope that no matter where you were born, you are given a fair chance at your ability to thrive in this world. But that is not the reality of the world we live in. 

Here's to social justice seekers becoming more resilient. Because we are going to need it.

“First they came for the Socialists, and I did not speak out— Because I was not a Socialist.

Then they came for the Trade Unionists, and I did not speak out— Because I was not a Trade Unionist.

Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out— Because I was not a Jew.

Then they came for me—

And there was no one left to speak for me.” 

~Martin Niemöller

[deadreckoner]

Consider this your telegram

Romance is a mixed tape

That thin material

so easily unwound

Specified sound

for your ears to rest upon

Like true romance

To find an apparatus

That can play

these vintage devices

Is more difficult

to come by

Nothing lasts forever

I long for when

Time was considered

an offering

We’ve lost interest

in something that takes

More effort than

a thumb cramp

and the right emoji

I’m a hopeless romantic luddite

That stamp

can be so sexy

When a postcard arrives

all that has been accumulated

on its journey

Pulses up through the fabric

of woven trees and ink

that creates its form

Books have a scent

The story of the hands

that came into those pages

is a tale of its own

We move too fast

None of this will last

I’ll always love dinosaurs

(For Chloé)

[deadreckoner]

Last night I set fire on my past I wasn't trying to get rid of it I just cleared away the debris So it can burn all clean

[deadreckoner]

"How could I know you for so many years, and not really know you at all?" my childhood best friend asked me.

"What do you mean?" I replied.

"I don't understand how your life works, like you just pick up and go off traveling by yourself. I don't know how you are able to do that."

"Well... it is interesting you say that. I am going to put the reason I wanted to talk to you aside and really think about this..."

The first reason that came to mind was magic. Acknowledging that magic exists. Seeing the universe in the spiral of a shell. Picking it up and noticing that. Remembering that magic is everywhere. Tapping into it.

Next would be motivation... It is what fuels me and propels me forward. I paused briefly, wandering around the room, mud still caked all over my body.

The last thing I mentioned was "stepping outside of your comfort zone".

And just upon awaking, as my more logical mind was able to set in, the first word that popped into my head was....

"Trust"

[deadreckoner]

Lunatique

The full moon keeps me up

I was born under her

And I forget

I restlessly try to meditate

Clear my mind

Sleep is a concept

I won’t reacquaint with

For some time

All she requires

Is attention

And to honor her

Wordless power

 And when I notice 

Walk for her

Witness her existence

Pray under her light 

Her tribute

Enables

My dream state

[deadreckoner]

The subconscious is a cruel mistress You're beating a dead horse! I will show you repeatedly You will have zero reprieve Safe word? Uncle, Uncle, Uncle

[deadreckoner]

Self Titled

A person of many looks With a plethora of hats Worn on many hooks For a world full of masks What you see Is what you get

[deadreckoner]

The Myth of the Lone Wolf

Returning after a long journey inevitably opens oneself to feelings of “What the fuck just happened?” and “Where am I?” My body currently inhabits the land surrounded by invisible lines that people fight and kill for, known as the United States. The specific place where my feet touch the earth, at this very second, is in Healdsburg, California. I used to “live” in California. Then I decided to go on a yearlong traveling excursion, which changed all I know about the world, and myself. And now it is impossible for me to return to where I was before, both because now I am a different person and also because I want different things.

I don’t feel like I can “come back”. Coming back implies having left once, which I did. So on a basic level, I have left and returned. But the trajectory I am on will perpetuate my ongoing movement. My shifting will continue. There is absolutely no way for me to come back to where I was before. It doesn’t exist. When you leave your idea of home for an extended period of time, giving up and completely changing your idea of place, living out of a backpack with entirely all you need… the idea of truly “coming back” somewhere seems far fetched.

Once I realized when I couldn’t actually come back to where I was before, then the question “Are you back?” left me unable to answer. In fact, I really don’t like that question. It’s loaded, and people don’t realize it.

I think the real question is, “Are you going to leave again?”

And the answer is YES.

And then people don’t seem to know what to do with you.

The Bay Area is where I decided to return to for a spell to figure out my next steps. Some of my friends knew, even before I did, that once I set off from the Bay I wasn’t coming back. It took me a little longer to realize this for myself, but not by much. I realized that in Japan, my first major stop, that I needed to live my dream of living in Europe. I have fantasized about living in Spain since I was a teenager. The longer I was away and the more I traveled and saw, the more people came into my orbit that lead me further towards “the point of no return”. And the more I settled into this idea: I am a vagabond traveler. For life. Even if I base myself somewhere, the Call to Adventure will undoubtedly knock on my door, and I’m going to answer it. Eventually. As you Joseph Campbell fans know, the next phase is The Refusal of the Call. And I did refuse it. But then I kicked my own ass out into the world and that was that.

I am now very clear on what my dreams are, and how I aim to pursue them. And sometimes this journey will lead me away from those I love and care about. I mean this more in the physical, geographical sense, but it may also apply to the figurative sense. I have a tendency to create distance, both physical and emotional, between others and myself. It is in my pursuit of what I aim to achieve, and not out of an inability or lack of desire to be close to others. Some may see it differently, but I know myself better now than I ever have before.

I’m a perpetual lone wolf. I always have been and always will be. My strength and purpose is woven into this very concept. A lone wolf does not fall into the hierarchy of groups. It moves along, sometimes alone, and other times in packs. The myth of the lone wolf is that it leaves its initial pack because it is rejected, and is always alone as a result. The truth is that a lone wolf leaves its pack, because it is not considered an Alfa nor a Beta member. And el lobo leaves in order to find itself among differing packs from time to time. You could call it an Omni Wolf.

As an Omni Wolf, I pack-hop. I move around and find my kinds of people along the way, in different locations. I run with other wolves that I am drawn to, until I decide its time to find others. Sometimes I will wander a long time in between seeing anyone else. I may go for extended periods of time without speaking, communicating, or finding myself in the company of others. These moments can be lonely. But they also are necessary to have the type of existence that feels right for me. And I am certain that part of this is also in order to weave the networks of people that I choose to keep in my life. And one of my favorite things it to bridge people I care about together, over time and space. I may call it one of my gifts. 

My people don’t come in one pack or in one place. I forge relationships with individuals, not with groups. I find that my connections are more genuine and beneficial when I join with those who I am drawn to. I prefer this rather than a catchall, getting to know type of experience that a group environments provide me. It doesn’t allow me to connect in the ways I want to. Don’t get me wrong, I will find myself at community events or meetings. But even if I have a bunch of individual friends all in the same place, it can feel overwhelming because I will undoubtedly not be able to connect with them in the way I want to. When I sense a hierarchical group structure present (that communities of people often lend themselves to), I head in the other direction. Hierarchy repels me.

While the lone wolf existence may seem isolated, I find it to be empowering. It hasn’t always felt this way. When I was a kid, I knew I didn’t fit in anywhere. As I attempted to mold myself to be like others, and found I liked it less than being me and floating from group to group. I appreciate and accept myself for who I am. I know now as an adult that the way I am is also the best way to find like minded people. There are plenty of other misfits, freaks, deviants, and fellow rejecters of society that also do not find themselves in groups or hierarchical structures. I must find my weirdos out in the great vastness of the world! 

It is strange and sometimes off-putting to see someone who isn’t attached to a specific community show up at a given function. When a solitary wolf rolls up to a new pack- roughed up and probably smelling a little strangely- the others are of course going to sniff them out. To newcomers, the group does not have the connotation of knowing who the person is and what their motives are. But I find that while I travel, this seems less significant. When you are on the road, most everyone is a traveler, or knows that you are. They will try to catch you while they have you if they choose to connect with you, or not. I feel that those I have met more recently are better able to meet me where I am at with this type of thing. It is my more well rooted, longer lasting relationships that have been harder to try to maneuver this rediscovered aspect of myself. 

For those that tend to stick in one place, I must emphasize that my “leaving” people doesn’t come from any lack of love for them. I adore those who are close to me, and I undoubtedly will miss them in their absence (or mine, whichever happens first). I feel that this is a common misconception: I left, therefore it seems that I don’t care about the people in my life. The truth is I left (and will leave again) because it was precisely and exactly what I needed to do in order to follow my path. It is a simple act. I am rather pleased I was able to listen to the hunch of mine to go. But I didn’t realize how much it would shift everything in my life.

I am a solitary, lone wolf-type of person. But that doesn’t mean that I don’t want to be around people or that I am incapable of staying in one place long enough to form meaningful connections. I find the opposite to be true. I go to different places in order to find how and where I connect with others. That can change and morph, along with my location. I find that some connections I make, even for just a moment, can be incredibly profound.

Returning to my country of birth always rattles me. I see the place with a different perspective, and much of it is larger than life. Those who have been here all along are obviously used to it, but I am not.

The major feeling for me since returning to California has been disconnection. It feels strange since this is also the place I have the most ties and many deep connections. I don’t feel received, or invited. 

The negative side of my solitary ways is that I have a tendency to pull away from others when I feel misunderstood or unsupported. It is a self-alienation mode I can fall into. I want to feel like those I care about want to spend time with me. And if they don’t, then that needs to be ok. I must meet people where they are.  It is kind of a double-edged sword, since the more I move, the more I unwittingly but inevitably push those away who don’t like distance. And then the more I recede into my isolated and sometimes lonely mind states, as a result. But this comes along with the pursuit of my path and personal growth.

What I wish for is to connect and learn from those around me in whatever way they are available. I guess some of my friends may have gotten used to not having me around. It may be easier to default to that again, since the idea of me leaving again is difficult. Or perhaps I or others have changed to the point they don’t have room for me in their lives. Or they are just typically “too busy” which is fairly common in the Bay Area. Maybe I am getting too much inside my head. That happens far too often.

My current discomfort gravitates me to my default at this time, which is to pick up and go again. But there is work for me to do in this mindset, in these feelings, in this geographic location. The discomfort must be important. I am seeking balance and how to reconnect with my baseline again. I guess this is what I asked for, but it doesn’t make it easy.

I asked for all of this. I signed the scroll to offer my soul to my highest self. It doesn’t come without its rocky points. I know this is where I need to be. I appreciate and care about my loved ones deeply. I hope that while I can be physically around, and even while I’m not, that we can find a way to connect that works for us.

I may be far out, but you are too. Otherwise, we wouldn’t be here.

(Photo by Mark MacDonald, taken in Rurrenabaque, Bolivia circa 2010)

[deadreckoner]

Herbs to Reverse a Curse

I know a plant person when I see one. She stood in front of the Cathedral de Sevilla, where it is said that Christopher Columbus is buried. The sprig of rosemary in her hand caught my gaze and drew me in. She asked me if I understood Spanish. I nodded and walked up beside her. She pressed the rosemary into my hand and told me it was a symbol of the Cathedral that stood before us, and that its use dated back to ancient times. She told me to keep the rosemary with me for the next two days and to burn it on the day before I left Sevilla. I nodded, feeling like I was reacquainting myself with my herbal ritual practice I had neglected since I had been traveling. She grabbed my other hand and told me she could read my palm.

She began tracing her finger along the lines of my inner hand in a captivating manner. She gave the usual, catch all type of findings from the folds of my palm. I was going to meet a nice, Moreno boy, who would treat me right. There was some mention of good health and a few kids in my future.

I had willingly and somewhat ignorantly put myself into clutches of the Rosemary Lady. I was her prey. This was her shtick and also her source of income. She asked for a small donation for her services and that any amount I could manage would suffice. When I realized the type of situation I had gotten myself in, I was annoyed that I had been foolish enough to fall for it. I shrugged off my self-deprivation, and told her I had a few euros I could give her.

Moving her trick along swiftly, the Rosemary Lady told me she didn’t accept coins. She would take only bills and could give me change. I looked at her sternly as I grabbed into my pocket to find a bill. I pulled out a 20€ note. She knew how to finagle the situation and casually mentioned that many people give her more than that. My eyelids narrowed, and my stance became defensive. Spanish fired from my mouth in a manner of bold fluency that surprised me (¡Hablo espanol por seguro!) I told her that she hadn’t mentioned that part of the deal before, and it wasn’t fair to change things up at this point. I would give her a few euros (even though I wanted her to get lost) and she wasn’t going to get more than that.

She became overbearing instead of sweet, domineering rather than mystical. She looked at me piercingly and asked me if I believed in God. She inferred coyly that I wouldn’t want to have bad luck (mala suerte), would I?

The Rosemary Lady wanted to play that she could induce the wrath of God? As a witchy, Mother Nature worshipping Agnostic, I wasn’t going to take on that bullshit. I fired back at her:

"Me preguntaste si creo en dios? Ves la hierba en tu mano, romero? Esa planta viene de la madre tierra. Creo en la madre tierra. Ella me cuida, y me ocupo de ella. No voy a tener mala suerte"

(“You asked me if I believe in God? Do you see that herb in your hand, rosemary? That plant comes from Mother Nature. I believe in Mother Nature. She takes care of me, and I look out for her. I won’t have bad luck.”)

She sweetened her demeanor once again and looked at me as if I was overreacting, “No te preocupes, guapa”. She said she didn’t want me to be upset. I could give her whatever I wanted, and she would be content with it. I told her she could have the original 2€ and nothing more. She claimed she was happy to receive it, and then asked me to smile.

I didn’t feel like smiling. I walked away from her with a heavy feeling in my stomach. She and her other cohorts tried to entice other people into their grasps. Now I had a vague idea as to why gitanas (gypsies or Romas) in Spain have a bad reputation. But I also knew that the problem was infinitely more complicated than what I had experienced. The Rosemary Ladies were hustling as a means of survival.  While they try to trick you out of some of your money, they also need a job. I imagine that their work doesn’t allow for a very sustainable lifestyle. And this historically stigmatized group of people isn’t able to get jobs as easily as other Spaniards, especially in an economically hard hit country.

I shook off the cloak of negative energy she had tried to put upon me. Rosemary, for its many medicinal uses, is also used on an energetic plane to protect from absorbing bad juju. Remembering this, I clutched the rosemary in my hand. I grounded my feet into the earth and wrapped a protective orb around myself. I felt better after that, but couldn’t shake the thought of possibly having bad luck.

However, bad luck was mine to believe- or not. If the Rosemary Lady acted like she could create bad luck for me in the name of God, then I could negate it all with my own sorceress powers. I walked up the cobblestone streets away from the Cathedral to get some lunch. I found a restaurant with paella on the menu, the first I would have on my trip. The dish had seafood in it and as I began to eat it, I had a strange feeling. Something was off. But I didn’t want to waste food, so I ate the whole thing and wandered back to the hostel where I was staying.

That night I felt tired and weak. I decided to lay down in my hostel bed, a top bunk in a 10-person dorm. I pried myself up and out of bed in the middle of the night. Barely able to see, I stumbled to the bathroom and vomited more than I have in quite some time. I sat huddled over the toilet bowl, shaking. I thought of the Rosemary lady and laughed to myself. I scoffed at her curse, only because I had believed that she had any power over me. She absolutely did not. I staggered back to my bed in the dark. A young British guy asked me if I was ok. He probably thought I had a wild night out drinking like everyone else.

Before I left Sevilla, I burned the rosemary stalk and let any energetic residue rise up into the flames. It wasn’t just me, the Rosemary Ladies threaten to curse everyone. A guy I met told me the gitanas had cursed him numerous times. I saw even more Rosemary Ladies in other parts of the country. I locked eyes with them, shaking my head as they attempted to call me over. I know, Rosemary Lady, I know.

I have my own protective forces around me. We all believe what we wish, and we can give it as much power it as we want to. I can protect myself, and I have revoked all the Rosemary Lady tried to lay on me.

Well, maybe not that Moreno boy…

(Sevilla, España)

[deadreckoner]

Hatched Schemes

I’ll let you in on a little secret: I’m scheming. I have a head full of stories and my fingers have yet to be retrained to attain the goal of typing as fast as my thoughts can come.

I have my muses to fuel me: the soundtrack for my day starts with Lou Reed and may not end differently. I acquired my favorite cannabis strain in the history of my stoner smoking days, Jamaican Lion. Rosemary essential oil will keep me perky and focused. Tea, all the tea, sits beside me as fizzy water from the nifty contraption from the house I inhabit bubbles excitedly next to me. I need to maintain my agua con gas habit I developed in Spain, after all. I will drink all I can until I find myself back there again. I’m chomping at the bit so much, I haven’t even brushed my teeth yet (alright- doing that now).

I am a spider of the earth, crawling along and connecting dots of tales and people, and I entangle them all into my web of experience. I am a messenger. I seek to find what lays in the nooks and crevices that don’t always get attention- or what are sometimes never seen. I have tales to tell for some who may not have a voice, and for my own thoughts that have been suppressed. I follow the trails of the Fabric of the Universe, going where I am pulled. I’ve put myself through pain, like any good masochist would do, because through pain comes growth. I went into my far reaches of my own mind and spirit, sometimes finding what I had overlooked or not allowed myself to identify.

I went where I did for a reason, and sometimes the reasons were unknown to me. I may not know them now. I still am following this path, trying to not predict much more than the present moment. I move in many senses. I need to move to gain perspective. That’s also why I am drawn to dance. My insatiable itch for adventure and wandering roots fuel me forward.

Sometimes my voice will be meek, I may not have the strength to muster any more than a whisper. Other times it will be full of fire, so much it may burn. My words aren’t for everyone and sometimes people may not be ready to hear them. They may not care, or simply won’t see.

That’s all going to have to be alright.

My words must taken from their hiding places. I saw a vision of an earth guardian, a wandering minstrel with a harp- this could be me. But rather than a noble audience, it is those people who I am meant to share experiences with. We have found ourselves on a similar path, at the exact same time. Let my tunes be the accompaniment to your stories.

One must be able to listen if one would truly like to speak. And my ears are open. I’ll hear your tales, whenever it is the right time. I can’t stop seeking them, either. 

I couldn’t always get my words out as I wanted to since I have been traveling. In my speaking reality, I deal with a lot of blockage in my throat region (or throat chakra, for the hippies). Sometimes I can’t speak when I want to. In my scribed word reality, being on the road wasn’t always conducive to writing. While in travel mode, I did the best I could. Sometimes I scrolled my thoughts in journals (my first work of fiction in many years).  Or even on my cell phone, as I sat sweating in Siam Reap, my room’s fan doing nothing to cool my boiling blood. The Underwood typewriter was Jack Keroac’s comfort zone. Mine is my MacBook Pro. I yearned for the sweet movement and flying capabilities of my fingers on my own computer keys. 

I’m making up for lost time. I will attempt to delve as deeply as I can, while still maintaining inspiration, and not letting my gifts become my burdens. I mean this in the overall, life sense.

I am not sure entirely of what will come of this. I just know it is essential to my current process and future endeavors that I get these stories out into the world. I must keep moving, to keep seeing, seeking… to keep chasing whatever it is I am looking for.

This is a declaration to myself, a reminder that my words matter. And they must be important to others, too. Otherwise, Fair Reader, you wouldn’t be eyeing this through your screen. Your eyes must want to see a little of what I have in store. Kindred spirits abound! Even when I go long stretches of time without seeing or talking to others, those kindreds inevitably come into my orbit. We find ourselves staring back at one another with that familiarity of feeling that you have known that person before. Welcome to me, and I am pleased to find you.

If you wear seatbelts, buckle ‘em.  

Healdsburg, California, USA

(photo taken in Sevilla, España)

[deadreckoner]

You would know the secret of death. But how shall you find it unless you seek it in the heart of life? The owl whose night-bound eyes are blind unto the day cannot unveil the mystery of light. If you would indeed behold the spirit of death, open your heart wide unto the body of life. For life and death are one, even as the river and the sea are one. In the depth of your hopes and desires lies your silent knowledge of the beyond; And like seeds dreaming beneath the snow your heart dreams of spring. Trust the dreams, for in them is hidden the gate to eternity. Your fear of death is but the trembling of the shepherd when he stands before the king whose hand is to be laid upon him in honour. Is the shepherd not joyful beneath his trembling, that he shall wear the mark of the king? Yet is he not more mindful of his trembling? For what is it to die but to stand naked in the wind and to melt into the sun? And what is it to cease breathing, but to free the breath from its restless tides, that it may rise and expand and seek God unencumbered? Only when you drink from the river of silence shall you indeed sing. And when you have reached the mountain top, then you shall begin to climb. And when the earth shall claim your limbs, then shall you truly dance.

"On Death" by Kahlil Gibran

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Reconnecting With My Roots While Saying Goodbye to My 20's

While I was in Asia, I decided to keep the ball rolling and reconnect with my roots. I was craving to connect with the cultures in which I came from. I liked the ancient history of the Asian countries I was in. I wanted a place my old soul could rest. One chunk of my ancestry (my father’s father side) is Sephardic: the Jewish people who came from ancient Spain and Portugal. I’ve always thought that side of my lineage was pretty neat. I can hear my Nana, who just had her 90th birthday, yelling at me now. “Hey! What about my family?! The Ashkenazis (The Jews of eastern Europe)?! Don’t you care about us too?“ 

And the answer is, of course. Don’t worry my Nana, or you Fair Reader. I will find myself in the homeland of another part of my ancestry, Poland. I will see the streets where our family walked in Warsaw and go to the concentration camps where many of my relatives were killed. That just has to come after some paella and superb glasses of Rioja. Duty calls.

I’ve been a long time lover and romanticizer of España. Spanish was the language I gravitated towards when I could choose an option in high school. Going to Spain with my family when I was 16 was my first stop to a Spanish speaking country. And I kept it moving from there, leading myself to Central and South America on various trips for the next 14 years.

I am writing this on the eve of my 30th birthday. I’m at the train station in Toledo heading to Córdoba. And I have to say being in the homeland of my ancestors feels so right. I came Toledo briefly because it was strong cultural point of the Jewish people in ancient times, along with the Moors who were Islamic as well as the Catholics. They all lived together which as you know is a pretty rare thing. That didn’t last long though, and in 1492 when Colombus sailed the ocean blue, King Fernand and Queen Isabella (Catholics) kicked the Jews out of Spain.

Colombus is one of the key players on my historical shit list. The money that was used to finance his voyage was taken from the Sephardic people, whose homes and resources were taken if they did not convert to Catholicism, and who left en masse. Others who decided to stay had to practice Judaism in secret, the conversos. Thanks to Ferd and Izzy, Colombus had a chunk of money to come to America and colonize, rape murder and steal the land of the native people there. I wouldn’t be an American today if it wasn’t for that, I suppose. 

History can really act in strange ways sometimes. Because of the expulsion of my ancestors from Spain, I’m looking at resetting the clock by taking advantage of the recent laws passed by the Spanish government in order for descendants of Sephardic ancestry to come back to Spain and get citizenship. Before the talk of this law my dad had conveniently spent countless hours researching our family roots, tracing our lineage back to Spain before the Inquisition. My ancestors got screwed and the Spanish government has recently decided to try and make amends with the current generations. That means me and my living relatives on that side of the family.

I think the attempt to settle a 500 year show of incredibly poor form that will allow me to get Spanish citizenship is a wonderful opportunity. But I also wonder how the Native Americans (both the American contents) could be compensated for the injustices they have suffered. The snagging of their land and destruction of their people has left an ongoing impact, and whether or not they could be compensated for such damages remains to be seen, if it is even possible. 

That’s a whole larger question that would require more Rioja to settle me down. Anyway…

I went to two of the last standing synagogues that were left in Toledo before the rest were destroyed in the 1600s. I walked along the cobble stone streets of what used to be the Jewish quarter. And I have to say I could truly feel my a bit of past. I imaged life for people during that time, the sounds, smells, experiences. I touched the same walls my family may have touched. That’s pretty cool. (It’s actually hard to say exactly where my Sephardic ancestors lived, since they moved around so much and much of their history was destroyed during the Spanish Inquisition and Jewish explosion). So I may just have been touching the synagogue wall like a weirdo. But it meant something to me.

The streets of Toledo in the old section of the city are like labyrinths of cobblestone and brick and it’s easy to get lost. You can use maps or your phone to get around but I still found it to be confusing. There are no grids.

I consider walking the streets of Toledo to be a metaphor for life. You think you have a guide. You may think you know where you are going. But in your attempt to find your way, you are also maybe missing the scenery and some of the little details of your situation. And the map really doesn’t prevent you from getting lost. You become afraid because you don’t know where you are! But once you allow yourself to settle in and just go were you are pulled, you find that the journey, if ever so roundabout, lead you exactly were you needed to be. And you got there at the right time.

Some key ways I was able to connect to my past:

I felt like I was a part of something, an ancient community of people. As a lone wolf, I have historically felt outside and struggle to find the right pack for me. I’m not a religiously Jewish person. But I do connect deeply with the history of my people being Jewish and how that shaped their lives and in turn mine. 

I relate to the desire to practice your beliefs without infringing on others ability to do the same. While I may not be “religiously” Jewish, I do have frustration that my ancestors were made to leave their home in order to maintain their beliefs or convert to the colonizer’s belief system if they wanted to stay. There are countless examples of this throughout history with many religions or tribal belief systems. This still continues to this day, to varying degrees of persecution and oppression.

I felt closer to the language of my ancestors, Ladino, which is a mix of Spanish and Hebrew, and a virtually lost language at this point. Most of the people who still speak it live outside of Spain, because they were the ones who had to leave in order to maintain their religion, culture, and language. While I speak Spanish and not Ladino, it made me remember that many of the world’s languages are dying. It is a loss of an important part of a culture, and is a damn shame. I will be truly bilingual one day, and I feel now that it is somewhat of a duty. Although Spanish is not going to be at risk of being lost anytime soon. 

As I walked back to the hostel where I was staying to get on the train to Córdoba, I felt for the first time in awhile that I was sure I was right where I needed to be. I’ll thank my intuition and my ancestors for laying down those ancient bricks for me. I wouldn’t be here without them. 

My 29th year has been one of the most transformational and profound epochs of my life. What will happen next remains to be seen of course, but 30 feels like it’s going to be good.

[deadreckoner]

The White Ideal

People in North America and Europe seek tan, bronzed skin. They work for this goal by baking themselves in the sun or spending countless dollars on fake tanning products. Asians go for the opposite. They want to be lighter, and the beauty industry for whitening products and advertising is likely in the billions of dollars. Numerous creations are geared towards looking paler. There is even whitening deodorant. Apparently, some people’s armpits just aren’t white enough.  

“White washing”, or the striving towards being white, is a theme all over Asia. The first example of this was at the beginning of my trip while couchsurfing in Kyoto, Japan. I was taking a shower and I saw a bottle of facewash, covered in Japanese characters. The only thing I was able to understand was the bold English letters, “WHITE”. I wonder if these products even work, or what damage the chemical involved have in the long and short term.

In Asia, being white is seen as the benchmark of beauty. In many countries I visited, tan skin was seen as a sign of lower class and was undesirable. Much of this is due to the concept of those with darker skin historically were people who worked in the fields farming. Many Asians stay as covered as possible at the beach or keep to the shade to not become tanner. In Thailand, the Burmese are stigmatized against for being darker in appearance, among other socioeconomic reasons. In Japan, white as beautiful is as old as the days of the samurais. Samurais used to powder their face in white for battle. And the trend continues today, and is fueled by capitalistic gain.

Advertisements all over Asia on buses, magazines, billboards, often depict white people. When television commercials use Asian actors they are made to look as white as possible, kind of like the effect when the flash of a camera is too bright. This idea has seeped into the culture so prevalently, that many people feel that being white is better than being Asian.

White washing came up over and over again with people I met throughout my time in Asia. An Indo-Chinese guy in Kyoto told me he wished he could be white. I asked him why that was the case, and he said being white was better. He said that white people are more diverse looking with their eyes and hair. I didn’t feel like I could say much of anything.

While in Bangkok, my friend from San Francisco and I went to meet up with her Thai friend. We all had drinks and talked, and took some pictures together. The photos were posted to Facebook. I saw a comment in Thai scripture. I used the translate feature within Facebook which I am sure is far from 100% accurate, but the translator pumped out “never tan”. My heart sank thinking that of the only comment that someone wishes to post is about how this Thai woman shouldn’t get any darker. The cultural acceptance of the white ideal is something that I can’t ever relate to. I still don’t fully understand it, but I know it bothers me. My sadness is aimed at racism in general, I suppose. 

I can’t say I have had a day where I wished I could change the color of my skin. Sure, because I come from the western world, I have before felt that my skin was “too pasty” and that I needed to tan. White people often believe they should “get some more color” Personally, I’d rather not bake all day in the sun and save my skin from the leathered bag lady look. People criticize one another’s appearances often, and it isn’t always pleasant to hear. But any discomfort I have about my skin color (I care less and less the more I learn about how insane the whole idea is) is different than the White Ideal.

My buddy Saeko from Yokohama, Japan has spent many years living in the United States. We spoke about her perspective from both the western and eastern world on “race”. According to Saeko, “We have been conditioned to think that the color white signifies pureness, desirability and light. There’s a highly racist painting of when Europeans first colonized the First Nations, a white lady is flying in the land of native Americans, leading colonizers and demolishing a ‘wicked, savaged’ part of the land which belonged to the Native Americans. Not that the picture directly associates from our observations in Asia but I think it correlates to the notion that systematic 'whiteness’ branding has been running for a long time.’’ Saeko told me that one of her Japanese friends was gossiping about someone, saying, “She’s pretty…. for a Japanese girl.”

To many in Japan, white girls are often considered more beautiful than Japanese. I found this idea puzzling, especially since Japan is full of beautiful women. And there is a whole category of fetish dedicated to Japanese women, not to mention “Asian persuasion”, or “Yellow Fever”. Many of us have heard about this phenomenon. It is when western people, most often men, have a strong preference for Asian women. It may go the other way (Asian male/white female or same sex couples), but I haven’t heard of it as much. It even goes as far as to tilt away from preference, into an area where one will not budge for someone of their same race. A (white) British chap I met in Cambodia told me he was “done with white girls”. Another white friend only dates Latinos. I know white people who won’t date white people, Asians that won’t date Asians, people that fetishize black women. The list goes on for eternity.

I’m not saying it isn’t OK to have a preference, or a specific type that you find attractive. But I find that objectifying people and putting some on a pedestal based on their ethnicity or race to be problematic. I feel that it is because of the discontentment with the way we look, which is dictated by society. The grass is always greener. Often we want to be what we cannot, and we idolize the exotic no matter what we look like.

I never really had to think about my race growing up. I was born and raised in Montana USA, which is a pretty homogenous place. But I always felt that diversity was a good thing. I remember telling my mom, “I don’t understand racism. Every color of crayon is good. You need them all to make a rainbow!” Later in life, after the world had made me more jaded, I remember going to a bar in college and asking an acquaintance how her current classes were. She told me that she was in one about racial issues in the United States. Her professor had asked the class how many times per day they think about their race. The class unanimously agreed that they hardly think about it, if ever. The professor, a Korean woman, highlighted for the class that was because they were virtually all white. The professor sighted a study where African American women, on average, thought about their race 7x per day. That idea hit me hard.

The first time the reality of race and privilege really sunk in was when I was on a long South America trip in 2010. As a white woman, I stood out. When I got a bit more sun and worked on my Spanish accent (or perhaps didn’t talk) I sometimes got mistaken for Argentinian. But most of the time, I was that U.S. girl in Latin America, and that comes with its own set of prejudgements. As far as I have gathered, the stereotype of the white woman in Latin America is: rich and easy. It gets you attention, and lots of it. Stares at the very least.

I was in rural Bolivia. I was taking a long distance bus where I was the only foreigner. As I walked to my seat, the thought, “I am white” kept playing in an ongoing loop. I remember thinking that maybe it was somewhat similar to what it feels like to be a minority living in the United States. But of course, that struggle is not one I will ever be able to understand fully.

If you have have ever said, “I don’t see color”, that is because you don’t have to. Any discomfort or prejudgement one has felt about being white is different. That’s because in most of the world, the face of a white person is the face of the oppressor. It is the face of the benchmark of beauty in the world. And countless people wish they were white. There is no denying that.

Those white bleaching products are popular in Latin America as well. At the same time, people from the US and other western areas flock to Latin America so they can get a sexy Latin lover. To white people, being white is boring. When I come back from somewhere with a sunkissed glow, sometimes people are jealous. “I need to get some color” they say.

I happened to emerge into this world with white skin. In Asia and other parts of the world, it’s considered to be ideal. It is hard for me to see it as such, and the chase to be something we aren’t is something most of us share. All of us are unable to break away from the perceived idea of what is beautiful or desirable in society. But race is a deep rooted point of contention:

In Asia- The whiter the better.

In the Western World- Be tan. But not too dark, otherwise you will be stigmatized for being “not white”.

The idealization of what is considered alluring is different everywhere you go. We are unable to step outside of this construct and get a breath of fresh air. We are trapped.

My very old and unfortunately racist grandmother once asked my mother when I was dating a Venezuelan guy, “How dark is he?” My mom was furious at the question. I tried to laugh. I was imagining some sort of invisible shade gradient sample like you can get at the paint store. At one point, the paint color would be called “too dark”. While my Nana has lived in “different times”, these themes are still present today.

Race is a construct, but to “win” is impossible. Race doesn’t have a finish line.

I’m not going to try and say, “I really feel bad when people wish they were white. I wish they could be OK with themselves as they are.” I am able to recognize my privilege of being the idealized white girl. I too have wanted to change aspects of my appearance at different times throughout my life, but it is different. Some  people can’t take a break from it.

I have some fans in Indonesia. Numerous groups of young teenagers have approached me shyly but hopefully, asking if I would mind if they could have their picture taken with me. The first time it happened, I agreed but was confused as to why they wanted it. I just knew they got very excited when I said yes so I was happy to oblige them. I was on the beach in Nusa Dua, Bali where large groups of kids wanted pictures with me. Sometimes individual kids would want a solo one with them and I. One girl from Jakarta told me, it was such an honor to have a photo of me, that her “hands were shaking”.

I came back to my Indonesian friends perhaps having got a taste of what it is like to be a B-list actress. I asked my friend Eko why these kids had a fascination with me. Eko told me Indonesian society has made it so that being white is the standard of beauty, something everyone should strive for. Whether they can achieve it or not, these kids were well along the road to the idealization of the western look. Eko told me I could probably get a job doing commercials, since my appearance is very western. Indonesians also happen to love curly hair. My "super white” look sells in this part of the world. Maybe you’ll see me advertising toothpaste in Jakarta sometime in the future.

There is no real way to discern what wins in this insane ideal of the perfect color of skin. That’s because there isn’t one. It doesn’t exist. There obviously isn’t an ultimate shade of skin, because the cultural, ethnic, and racial diversity of perspective on what is beautiful is as great as the human race. Being white isn’t better than being black, “yellow” (I find that to be an awful term), pink, purple, what the fuck ever.  

I am only beginning to pry apart the convoluted idea of what society has depicted race to be, and how much I have been programmed. This is not a piece to try and break though and distill any sort of theory. It is just my perspective. And It’s one of frustration.

So there you have it. My viewpoint, through the information I’ve gathered, via the lens of my white ass.

(Jakarta, Indonesia)

Above painting by John Gast, “American Progress” (1872)

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I just discovered your blog, and I can't stop reading. You're an amazing writer and I wish I get the chance to travel as much as you do.

Thank you so much for your kind words! It means a lot for me to hear that.

[deadreckoner]

What to do when you have a late night 5 hour layover in the Singapore airport? Use the strangely awesome and surprisingly vigorous foot massage machine. Clearly.

[deadreckoner]

Flowered Garland

Death is the taste of sweetness on the lips Like the garland of white aromatic flowers Worn around the neck Her scent brings a smile to your face An intro to the most powerful seductress there is And yet you coyly defer her gravity She entices Her white hand open This time Is not her chance to overcome Some never get to be so close to her This encounter Is a delicate moment Between worlds And you dance The push and pull of temptation Knowing that one day You will fall into her eminent embrace

For Shannon (Chiang Mai, Thailand)

[deadreckoner]

Shaving and the Perfect Pussy: Striving for the Unattainable

It’s challenging for me to shave my legs and not feel like a conformist. Don’t get me wrong- I also enjoy how freshly shaved, smooth, soft legs feel. There is nothing like that special occasion where you hoist your legs up on the shower or bath, each stroke making you closer and closer to groomed gams. Then afterwards, I like to smear coconut oil on them, and put on a cute dress and some stylie shoes, ready for a night out. Or maybe I did it just because.

I like when the smooth legs thing happens. And I’m not going to pretend I wish it could just be like that with little effort. But the thing is, I get lazy about it. Especially when I’m living out of a backpack, using showers that are actually glorified hoses, staying in beachside bungalows with a bucket to wash yourself, etc. I’m also busy having my mind blown in SE Asia, or generally doing more important things than shaving my legs. I forget or don’t notice how my legs are hairier than “normal”. I generally care less. I may slack on my pits and bikini line, too.

Many woman go through whatever processes to have smooth, hairless bodies. Some wax, pluck, laser, etc. I’m of Mediterranean decent, so I’m hairier than some. I’ve come to terms with that. My hair grows fast, so waxing always lasts half as long as most people. So if I do anything to be hairless, it’s shaving. And like I said, it’s not always my top priority.

More than anything, I have issue with how women are viewed that we must look in society. On a hair level, we must have lush flowing locks on our heads, perfectly shaped eyebrows, bashful eyelashes, and hair nowhere else. I can’t help but think that the real reason I shave is so that I am acceptable to others, mainly men.

I remember when I was a preteen and first had shame about my body hair. I had hairier legs than most girls at that age (I matured quickly). I remember being so ashamed of my legs, and going home and asking my mom if I could start shaving.

She didn’t make it easy for me, her being a radical first wave feminist. At first, I came to her and she told me no. In her stern and matter of fact way she told me it was a pain in the ass, I would just have to keep doing it, and that I could cut myself with the razor. What I now realize is that she didn’t feel I was ready to hear the litany: women shaving is how society and popular advertisizing has generated us to feel like we need to look a certain way in order to be sexy and to appeal to men. My 13 year old self wasn’t prepared for that. I wasn’t ready to get that angry at the patriarchy. So she tried to make it less appealing for me.

I didn’t care. I didn’t want to be seen as the hairy girl at school, so I had to keep asking if I could start shaving. Finally, my mother budged.

Let’s be honest. Few women shave for other women. Most of the time, it is so that women can appease men. Being a hairy woman is unfeminine. Women won’t get dates if they are hairy. And if someone forgot to shave and trim their nether regions, and she happened to find herself in an intimate encounter, I can promise it will most likely be on her mind. “I forgot to shave. Shit. I hope he doesn’t notice.”

I feel that it shouldn’t matter so much. A recent occurrence made me me ponder the impact of how women should look in regards to their body hair. I felt it up close and personal, and it really upset me.

Shianokville, Cambodia. The beach. Leg hair status: hairy, to the point of me noticing, but I still had yet to give a fuck.

A Cambodian vendor came by selling hair threading (on the beach- so strange). She looked at my legs, and told me she can remove my hair. I told her I was fine, and thank you. Always the hustling salesperson, the woman told me I should do it, since my legs were hairy, as she could clearly see.

"I like it" I lied, trying to get her to go away.

"You’re the only one who like" she told me, matter of factly.

Well, that felt lousy. But I brushed it off, knowing that most women in SE Asia are generally more hairless, and maintain themselves with the upmost criteria. I’m pretty low maintenance overall and was being lazy about shaving. My self chosen hairy Westerner presence was probably very strange to that Cambodian woman. I can understand that.

Flash forward a few days later. I’m waiting for a boat to Koh Ta Kiev. I see a guy who works at the hostel I was just staying at. I said hello and went to join him on a beach chair beside him.

We were chatting when another woman selling hair threading services came up, “Manicure, pedicure?” she questioned.

I shook my head no, smiling, hoping that would be enough. It never is. Looking at my legs, the Cambodian told me, “your legs are hairy. If you want, I take care for you”.

"No, thank you." I said, "I’m fine."

I looked over at the hostel guy smirking, thinking he would find the whole thing silly as well. “They think my hairy legs are so gross” I said laughing. I thought he would find the meddling in others affairs on how much hair a woman had on her legs to be ridiculous. He didn’t. In fact, he went further.

"It is (gross)" he said "You won’t see me running my hands up and down your thighs". He points to me and tells the Cambodian woman, "No boyfriend." She nods in approval.

I froze in complete shock, my feminist mother’s rage boiling up inside of me. I wanted to yell at hostel guy, or cry.

Not quite knowing what to say, I calmly put on my sunglasses. I briefly tried mentioning how much pressure there is for women to be beautiful, how the ideas of what is beautiful have changed. I mentioned that in the early 70’s, Italian women didn’t shave at all.

Hostel guy said it must be hard to shave when you are traveling, but I should do it because- he repeated the horrible comment about his hands on my thighs. Yuck.

"It’s my square person filter" I told hostel dickhead. A square person filter is a phrase my lovely Bay Area friend taught me when referring to his utility kilt. My buddy wears a utilitarian looking skirt and uses it to weed out all the square people he doesn’t want to encounter anyway. I thought the phrase was brilliant.

"A what?" Hostel guy asked.

"A square person filter" I told him again, noting in my voice how much of a dick I thought he was

"That’s a big one" he said. I nodded in approval, and got up and hopped on my boat for the island.

If a little leg hair keeps douchey, sexually frustrated square hostel bros away from me, SO BE IT. I’m glad. It makes my life easier. What a simple way to get rid of people who are shallow and who I don’t want to be around. And all it took was being a little lazy about shaving.

For the record, I do maintain myself well. I cleanse and practice proper hygiene. At the time of said event, my legs were not at “monkey status”. Believe me, I’ve been hairier in my hippie days. In Cambodia, my legs were just a touch hairier than “normal”. If it even matters. I just don’t think it’s a big deal.

No partner of mine has ever complained about my body hair. And if they did, I would dump their ass. I would like to think that anyone who I’m with would like me for me, and wouldn’t want to call it off because I forgot to shave my pits for a little while.

I struggle to think of an instance where a situation such as the following actually happens:

"You’re great and all, super cute, smart, interesting, etc. It’s just that things aren’t working out. You just don’t shave your legs enough."

But yet, that’s what we as women are made to think. Maintain your appearance, shave your body hair, put on your makeup, or else you will be an old ugly spinster with a wart on your nose. If you don’t have a partner, you need to keep yourself looking perfect to get one. And if you have a boyfriend, keep looking good, or else he will leave you.

Women are made to feel that we have to strive for a constant stream of self improvement with our image. All advertising, whether obvious or not, is aimed at sex appeal- how to make yourself more desirable to someone else. And an ad’s work is never done, “You must be happy/sexy. And our products can help. There is no end point, but we will keep selling you shit to make you think there is.”

Which brings me to the idea of the perfect pussy. (I am using the word pussy as a term of empowerment, à la the book “Cunt” by Inga Muscio. Please read if you need further discussion on derogatory terms for the female genitalia).

There is no such thing as a perfect pussy!

I’ve had a few lady friends of mine tell me, “(this guy or that one) told me that I have a perfect pussy”.

"What does that mean?" I ask them.

"I don’t know. That it looks good, feels nice, doesn’t smell… Or something" They may reply, themselves unsure.

It may sound like a compliment, but if someone tells you you have a perfect pussy, it means they need reprogramming. They have most likely seen their share of pornography, which is how most people are conditioned to think we should look and act during sex. The perfect pussy, to them, must follow along the same trends as female porn stars:

Hairless, with little or no inner labia showing, and to be tight and wet at all times.

None of us can never maintain above standard as a constant, and for most women it would even be impossible (say if you have larger inner labia). The idea that all vaginas need to follow a certain way of looking is complete bullshit. Not only do women have to constantly be chasing after what society has prescribed for us to be beautiful, our nether regions are up against this insane concept as well. Also, any women knows that pussies can have short term or reoccurring issues. Women have enough trouble trying to take care of what their bodies need without having to worry if their pussies need to look different.

This isn’t to say that pussies shouldn’t receive compliments. Of course they should. They are pretty wondrous things. It is the quality of how they are viewed and dealt with that is the issue.

The increasing popularity of labiaplasty is an indicator or where things are going. Some women find that their vagina doesn’t look good, so they have surgery to make it look “better”. If this isn’t sad enough, sometimes the surgery doesn’t go well. Labiaplasty can leave women with permanent damage. Sometimes botched surgeries can make it so that women may have little ability to enjoy sex again.

And all of this so that our pussies can look better. Remember: our appearance is so important. It overrules the importance of your inner being, intelligence, personality, and outlook on the world. Keep vying for that attention, ladies. And then, when you did a good job at building the illusion that you always look tidy and well kept, never smell or have a bad hair day- when your pants come off- your pussy better be perfect or everything is for naught.

I’m done with this projection of how woman should look. I think my body hair and the appearance of my pussy should be for me to decide, and others can accept it or fuck right off.

Anything I do with my appearance, I hope to do for myself. Sometimes I wear makeup, sometimes I don’t. I like to get dolled up and go out, as I see fit. I will not, however, wear makeup just because my grandmother told me I look better when I wear mascara. I'm just me in the end, underneath all the layers.

The reality is that the world we live in caters to the feelings of inadequacy with our physical appearance. We are too fat, skinny, short, tall, dark, light, etc etc. We constantly chase what we can never have: perfection. None of us are exempt from the programming of what society perceives to be beautiful. There is no were to run to. The only hope we have is to embrace the one body we have.

I have come to the conclusion that I need to view my body as yet another example of being a non-conformist. I’m not going to go into detail about my own self criticisms. It’s not that I feel like I have much to complain about. My point is that I am trying to not let the stupid standard narrative of our society make me feel inadequate. I aim to see my body as another example of me going against the status quo, and embracing it.

Hairless, or hairy, legs and all.