Stepping Stone or Dead End? My Final Paper For My MA Program.

Note: What you are about to read was originally an eight page academic narrative I was asked to write for my capstone project for my MA in English. I was asked what my MA meant to me. Was it a stepping stone or was I completely satisfied with this accomplishment?

“You don’t have what it takes.” The academic advisor spewed at me as I meekly sat across from her. “I suggest you stick with retail; it will be best for everyone.” All she saw were the things that were supposed to exclude me from the world of higher education. She saw my failing grades, academic probation, and teenage motherhood. She saw only what was written on paper and placed me in a stereotype society claimed I should stay in. This advisor didn’t see the sleepless nights studying to get back into community college. She didn’t see the endless hours trying to make ends meet and the burning desire to further my education. She certainly did not see my past as an honors student who was rocked by a horrible situation. “Maybe it is you who doesn’t have what it takes to do your job and advise.” My mouth flicked her insults right back at her unable to contain itself. At that moment I knew, my academic journey wouldn’t end with an associate’s or even a bachelor’s. No, it was at that moment that I decided to get my Ph.D.

Eager for success, I switched from a Psychology degree to English. It wasn’t that I was no longer fascinated with psychology, but I knew I needed to pursue a degree that I was wildly passionate about, an area of study that felt more like talking with an old friend. Two and a half years after that fateful conversation, I had earned my bachelor’s summa cum laude, quit retail, began teaching at the middle school level, and immediately entered the English Master’s program. This was supposed to be a stepping-stone towards my Ph.D. Hopeful and determined, it became my life’s mission to overcome the hurdles secondary degrees offered.

Despite various university’s efforts for inclusion, the world of higher education is still not widely available to the working class- especially parents with financial responsibilities. We cannot sacrifice a paycheck and therefore cannot attend in-person classes. The English program was the only viable option for me because it was the only master’s program offered online that could benefit my career. It was the only option to widen my perspective in a field I was passionate about. Even though my preferred route of study was creative writing, it would have closed doors in my future. So, I set forward unwilling to allow restrictive course selection and degree options to deter me from pursuing the level of education I desperately wanted.

With doe eyes and an insatiable hunger for learning, my roster was filled with classes I had hoped would bring insight into my newfound profession. After all, they were the classes ASU insisted I take to earn such a coveted degree, there had to be some merit to them, right?

 My first two classes were filled with assignments aimed at teaching Young Adult literature. It was clear we were being groomed to become professors because the content was never meant for my middle school readers and was barely appropriate for high schoolers. While being prepared to become a professor aligned with my future goals, these courses could not entertain practices appropriate for the middle school classes I was currently teaching. The topics on society and self-reflection were too intricate. The expectations were too high and there was no way for me to adequately scaffold them for my classroom. The novels we read were beautiful, fascinating, and incredible conversation starters, but my use of said novels ended on discussion boards. Bringing any of those topics into my classroom would send my student’s parents into a tizzy.

 I performed well in both courses but could not help but feel that my work and experiences throughout those months were left looking for a place to be used in my world. After both courses were finished, I had a feeling welling up inside of me- this level of education was not meant for professionals like me. Still, I pressed forward toward my master’s still believing I would be bringing these skills to a college course one day. I was simply crossing the bridge towards my Ph.D. and the courses were the planks holding up my house of education.

With the stringent course requirements, I found myself exploring the ideas and perspectives ASU wanted me to study. There was less room for freedom than in my undergraduate program and I found myself longing for more choices and creativity. For a moment, I entertained the idea of switching to a Creative Writing program. Creative Writing professor jobs are few and to achieve my goal of becoming a professor, I needed to be open to the possibilities of teaching all types of writing or literature courses. Yet, my eyes stayed focused on the prize of a well-rounded and prestigious education.

Still, I felt myself slipping away from my core values and even further from the people I longed to engage with. My studies were supposed to find inclusive processes and thought-provoking findings. Instead, I felt that my studies were a riptide pulling me away from the public, my friends, and most importantly my family. Between navigating sleepless nights, early mornings, and juggling not only my homework but that of my children I trudged on with hopes of being an example to look up to. What I ended up teaching them was to run yourself ragged through improper work-life balance. While the thought crossed my mind to quit my job, it wasn’t an option because bills needed to be paid. For an even briefer moment, I thought about dropping out of my studies altogether. This also was not an option because deep down, I knew I had what it took to accomplish my goals.

I took four courses over the summer in a blind attempt to earn my stepping-stone and jump into my next program quickly. Two Linguistics courses, Spanish, and Shakespeare filled the nooks and crannies of my brain as I hurriedly tried to cram inspiration into each response I wrote. Tears were shed almost daily trying to prove to these professors that I was worthy of a positive response.

Ravenously, I examined the topics provided for me hoping to mold me into an academic intellect. For a moment, I believed that these courses would do that. I believed that these courses would make me a better person- a well-rounded and socially aware human. So, my eyes consumed every assignment given to me. I lapped up the directions each professor doled out. Like a good student, the one I had always wanted to be, I regurgitated the information exactly the way I was asked to no matter what the toll was on my mental health and family. I didn’t mind the sticky bile of information settling in my mouth. This newfound knowledge lingered on my tongue waiting to show itself in conversation at any given moment. It was something I could pride myself on. My memorization, test-taking skills, and analytical endeavors were becoming stronger. But for some reason, I didn’t feel like I was any smarter. The intellectual conversations happening over the discussion boards left me feeling inadequate. The professors stopped giving me accolades and I couldn’t help but feel as if despite my good grades, they too felt I didn’t have what it takes to be a serious scholar. Only a select few were understanding of my circus act as a mother, an educator, and a student.

Nevertheless, my journey continued. Hours upon hours, I anguished over analytical essays about what Shakespeare meant with his thick and wordy dialogue. What were his political standings? What was the hidden meaning behind his witty banter? How did the historical events that happened during his lifetime shape his works? How did his works shape literature today? While this was wildly fascinating to me, it became clear that nobody knew. Despite how much historians try to pinpoint each of his intentions, we are left with mere breadcrumbs of his life. My observations of Shakespeare’s contributions to literature led me back to my first choice in academics- psychology. His works portrayed many fascinating characters with deep undertones of psychological disorders and illnesses.

During a class focusing on fairytales in my undergraduate program, I stumbled upon the information that our fathers of psychology based many of their terms and observations on fairy tales. Many of the terms and classifications in literature come from Carl Jung’s attempt to utilize his findings in fairytales in his practice. Soon enough, I was focusing on connecting the dots of psychology to the literary pieces (Shakespeare and others) that were assigned to me.

Reigniting my passion for psychology and realizing how I could wed it with my lust for literature, I finally knew what I wanted to research and felt I had a solid grasp on what my thesis would be when I could take the glorious leap into my Ph.D. program. There is so much to be learned about psychology if we simply look deeper into literature.

For the first time, I felt as if I belonged in the elite world of academia because I finally had a focused thesis. I wanted to research. I wanted to understand. I especially wanted to bring attention to the mass discrepancy between psychology’s understanding of women’s mental health and the research that has been and is being done. We are still decades behind an equal understanding of men’s and women’s mental health because illnesses (both physical and mental) show up differently between genders. After this “aha” moment, all my papers began focusing on mental health and a woman’s experience. As someone who already was analyzing texts from a feminist perspective, it wasn’t difficult to supplement my analysis with sprinkles of psychology. My professors began expressing their delight when presented with my work. They said I was taking on a perspective and outlook they hadn’t seen before and urged me to pursue my Ph.D.

Unfortunately, I counted my chickens before the eggs hatched. Due to the nature of my studies and the subtle availability of online programs, I had mistakenly thought the same opportunities would be available to me at the Ph.D. level as well.  Encouraged by my professors’ excitement, I began looking into the requirements of a Ph.D. program and intened on applying.

What I found was disheartening at best. Emails and phone calls to department heads were returned with the same response as the advisor I originally met with at Pima Community College at the beginning of my academic journey. If I was truly serious about my studies, I would commit to school full-time and quit my job. And that is when it hit me, the world of academia still is not inclusive. I truly don’t have what it takes because I don’t have the luxury of focusing on my academic endeavors full-time. It was becoming clear that this path was to lead me to an elite world. No matter how badly I wanted to wade into those waters, it simply is out of reach due to financial obligations and the responsibility of raising children.  

It didn’t matter the long hours I had already put into my studies. Surely my juggling act of motherhood, a career, and school was a clear indication that I could juggle the responsibility and dedication needed to complete a Ph.D. Yet, academia won’t have it. If I can’t bend to the heavy and life-altering expectations, it simply didn’t matter how determined I am.

And it made me wonder, how many people out there would have their doctorate and create mind-blowing and awe-inspiring research if they had the financial means to complete such research? How inclusive can we say academia is if people leading day-to-day lives cannot pursue their dreams of higher education?

With this realization, I don’t know what my next step is. I do know that because my family cannot survive off one income, I now no longer have the opportunity to achieve my dream of becoming the highest educated person in my family. Due to financial obligations, I feel that I have let my family down. Most importantly, academia has let me down.

For a moment, I had hoped to use my Capstone course to begin my research on mental health and what we can learn about it in literature. Instead of diving into peer-reviewed journals about postpartum psychosis, depression, and ADHD and connecting them to the symptoms women express in their stories, I am writing yet another essay explaining the “perspective” I should have achieved.  This journey has been difficult at best. I have lost sleep and forgotten important events in my children’s lives to achieve my goal of earning that coveted Ph.D. and maybe even teaching at the college level. Bedtimes sometimes meant kisses over a laptop as my children read themselves to sleep instead of warm snuggles and genuine “I love you’ s”. And for what? To be told I don’t have what it takes simply because I cannot sacrifice a livable wage?

I sat with this anger for an entire semester. There was some lollygagging when it came to assignments. There were fits of complaints in the middle of the night as I hurriedly tried to finish my reflections and analytical papers. And then I realized that this wasn’t the end for me. Whether or not I earn my Ph.D. doesn’t matter. It doesn’t define who I am. What degree I earn does not measure my intellect. It doesn’t matter what my life achievements are, I know my strengths, my weaknesses, and my true accomplishments. Will ending my academic career at the master’s level make it more difficult to achieve these goals of finding breakthroughs in literature? Yes. Will it make it more difficult for me to become a professor? Absolutely.

But if I have learned anything, I have learned that I can still hold onto curiosity. Being tied to an institution does not define my worth. Being part of a program or not, I can still research my questions and find answers. Doing it on my own will avoid any slant or bias my advisors would offer and it will give me the mobility to dive into the avenues that solely interest me.

For the first time in my life, I realized that I could jump through all the hoops this world has laid out for me and it still wouldn’t be enough. My self-worth and my intellect should never be associated with someone else’s expectations of who I should or should not be. And maybe, just like all the other dead ends I have found myself in, it just means another door is waiting for me. Because at the end of this program, I realized as of right now, there is no real place for me in the universe of higher academics simply because of my obligations to my family and community. I do not belong in the world I had always found comfort in, always sought to be accepted in and that just means that my work is not done. I will accomplish my goals one way or the other because I have what it takes.  

P.S. I was marked down for my negative viewpoint on academia. I’ll let you decided what to feel with that information.

COVID is Still With Us

As the pandemic continued to roll out, we kept hearing about how we wouldn’t understand the full repercussions until long after we feel it has passed. News reports spoke about possible long term health issues. Doctors explained that even they couldn’t determine exactly what to expect going forward. How would this virus change us? Fear swelled throughout the world because for all we knew, it was going to change us permanently.

And now we are seeing some of what these experts were saying. Maybe there are long term physical health effects but what we are starting to notice more of are the psychological changes that have permanently marred us.

I have been hearing grumblings from all professionals who work with children that the behaviors post COVID19 are far worse and more extreme than pre-pandemic behaviors. While I have nothing truly to compare it to since I decided to teach during the end of the world, I can say I have noticed a huge shift in my own kids. I have noticed a huge shift in what my students are interested in compared to myself, and, I have noticed a change in what makes them feel safe and seen.

I want to remind you all that I am in no way a doctor. I just really like observing people and happen to have a thing for psychology. My first degree of choice after all was psychology but College Algebra offered a different plan.

But, from what little I know about our mental habits and development, I can only conclude to one answer. For at least one year (some of us parents chose 2-3), we told our kids the only place they were safe was at home. We told them that they could get deathly ill or carry a virus that would make someone deathly ill if they left the house.

We all remember how school went to Zoom. We all remember cancelling playdates, gatherings, church, and simple grocery runs. We shut down our children’s lives during primitive years. Was this the right thing to do? Yes. Are we seeing some of the residual consequences of this due to not being able to properly articulate nor comprehend the situation ourselves? Also, yes.

When their little worlds were developing, they were shut down without notice. It was nearly impossible for us adults to explain exactly what was going on because we didn’t know. And for people like me, we were still going out into the world with our children fearful of us coming into contact with this strange and scary virus. They knew even less than us. Our precious babies didn’t have the same tools to regulate their emotions, and some of us didn’t do a great job at regulating ours.

We hooked them to screens and told them this was how they were safe. They learned through screens. They communicated through screens. They entertained themselves through screens because even going to a park was impossible and they needed to do something because mom and dad were either trying to work remotely, find a new job, or were working outside of the home because they were deemed “essential” to society. For the kids, leaving the house was only for necessity (like a doctors appointment where they shoved something up your nose) or maybe a drive for new scenery. There was nothing normal or beneficial for a developing child during these years.

Once again, we thought what we were doing was right. It was. We needed to slow down the spread of the virus. That doesn’t mean this behavior was sans consequences.

Now, I can say with full confidence, most children are addicted to screens. They cannot self regulate. They cannot peel their ears away from the overly stimulating, overly exciting, and constant entertainment.

Between my students and kids, someone always has an earbud in because they have to constantly have a voice running through their head. They need to be constantly scrolling or connect through a screen. I don’t fault them. They are trying to self-regulate and self-soothe. They are going to the places we told them were safe when the world wasn’t. These kids can’t separate time as well as we can because they have lived less of it.

We as adults are still trying to recover from the shit show the years 2020-2022 were, we can’t expect kids to just bounce back either.

Parents are teachers now have kids who will be dealing with screen withdrawals for the foreseeable future. They will be cranky. They will be annoying. Their emotions will be rolling around like a fucking rollercoaster and we have to be strong enough to bear with them. It’s going to be rough but if we don’t give them the tools now and regulate them now, then what? All these kids were in key developmental stages when their entire worlds were shut down. We can’t just expect them to jump back running.

Plus, this world is pretty broken and we are far from loving our neighbor. Strangers show each other hostility every day. We curse. We snub our noses. We judge behind people’s backs. And our kids are watching. They don’t want to be part of that world. So, they meander back to the places we told them were safe. They crawl towards the only consistency they had during the scariest part of their lives.

We cannot be faulting them for their addiction. We can fault COVID19 though.

And now, it is our job as adults to help our children get back on track. But complaining about it will only get us so far, we need to regulate ourselves and hold our kids hands through the process. It’s our job now to show them proper balance. It’s our job to teach them how to use technology as a tool for exploration instead of a crutch for survival. If we don’t, they will lose all sense of curiosity, they will lose empathy, they will lose everything.

Resolutions

The world “resolution” simply says a promise that isn’t intended to be kept. On New Years day we feel energized and ready to go. We feel ready to take on the world in a way we believed we couldn’t two days prior. Otherwise, the resolution would start when we felt we were ready, and why not use the fresh slate of a new year as a catapult. To me, I struggle to understand why this day holds so much meaning, yet, I see it all around me.

Maybe it is time to dig deep and find the things in me I would like to hone in on, embrace, and begin to make promises that are attainable and meaningful for myself. They will be more than a resolution, there needs to be more accountability.

This past year was another big year. I began my Master’s program and can confidently say I will earn this degree in May. If you need a novel or text analyzed… I am your girl! My role as an educator is billowing into a sturdy and fulfilling career. My daughter entered into the world of Girl Scouts and has the most supportive community I have ever witnessed surrounding her. My son began playing golf seriously and has been blossoming into an incredible young human. My husband has taken a role as a GM by the horns and has been thriving since. Lastly, I published my first novel. It won’t be my last.

This is where my promise or awareness (for fear of using the word resolution) comes in.

First of all, I want to look at my accomplishments and see them for what they are. This year, my focus will be less on what I could be doing and more on what I have accomplished. I want to move forward with intentions of acceptance and inner peace. The ability to look at yourself in the mirror and say “yeah, I have been doing enough” is something that I personally do not possess.

With my writing, I want to allow myself to have “writing slumps”. I do not need to write everyday and produce work worthy of publishing constantly to be proud of my accomplishments. Writing with intention will be the goal this year. Sometimes I will share, sometimes I will keep it for myself. Sometimes, it will simply be tucked away for one of the many projects I have going on in the background.

With my education, I want to accept my accomplishments and see what a huge deal it is to earn my Master’s. This will be earned in less than two years. The initial goal was to enter into a PhD program but due to the constraints of academia (more on this in a another blog), I will not be able to pursue a degree of that level (yet).

With my family, I want to see how well we are doing. We have what we need. We have a solid foundation that I am realizing most do not. I want to see that I am doing more than enough for my kids and only traumatizing them mildly. I promise that this year I will be more present with my kids, my husband, my extended family, and my chosen family. To be able to write such a long sentence there tells me how blessed I am.

On top of the promise of intentionality, I promise that this year I will rest. As some may have noticed, I didn’t write much the past two months. Well, two is a stretch. My program has insisted on massive amounts of reading and writing but none of it have been anything I am passionate about. Its formulaic and stiff- not creative and filled with emotion. I took the month off to rest. I rested my mind, my soul, and picked yoga back up. It’s hard for me to sit still and often I feel that I am wasting my time by sitting. So this year, I want to say no to events. I want to say no to the hustle and pressure I put myself under.

Maybe this is a resolution. Maybe it is a promise I know I can keep. Either way, I hope that whatever goals you have for this year are something you can accomplish and feel good about. Happy New Years, may you find peace and fulfillment this year.

What Even is Family?

The holidays are tough. Don’t lie to yourself, you know they are for you. If it isn’t finances, it’s family affairs. If it isn’t a foreboding feeling of loneliness that looms over you, it’s probably a rush of over commitments and overstimulating family events that take over during the month of December. For some of you, it is all of the previously listed things combined into one.

Tensions begin to run high.

The images in your mind of the perfect holiday begin to blur and lose shape as one thing after another disrupts the perfect holiday.

And suddenly, you find yourself exploding with or without warrant. If the situation warrants the eruption, it is probably cathartic. But if the situation does not, it feels like you finally found yourself stuck in quick sand.

We’re told that the holidays should be sacred for families. But what is so sacred about worrying what Aunt Martha thinks about the condition of your home? What is so special about knowing the high probabilities of being disrespected during the annual gathering? Knowing the festivities will probably end in tears is gut wrenching. And then you tell yourself to go through with the same gambit for the magic of it all. But what magic exists in the midst of all the chaos? There is nothing special about any of this.

If these holidays were truly sacred, it wouldn’t matter what is under the tree, passed around the menorah, or whatever symbol your family uses to commemorate this season. It wouldn’t matter who is doing financially better than who. Accomplishments of all sizes would be celebrated. The air would be filled with joy, love, laughter, and maybe a few friendly jabs at one another. There would be no competition and the only hurt feelings would be over the last cookie being eaten.

We’re told that family creates this sense of love and joy. We all know that isn’t always the case.

For many years I felt a sense of loneliness around the holidays. I would be surrounded by family and yet felt as if I was living in the shadows. Someone would always be more accomplished than me. Someone would always need a bit more sympathy. There would be remarks about my incredibly “on brand” personality or that of my children’s. There would always be something I was doing wrong, doing too much, or not enough.

After some major soul searching, I realized family is what we make it. You can build a family out of the people you have come to know throughout your journey.

Way back when we needed to huddle together around a fire and couldn’t mass communicate, I understand why we had to rely on blood relatives. But now we simply don’t. We don’t owe anyone a relationship. Families and communities can be created as long as there is a basic foundation of respect and love. At first, it is hard to turn the cheek to relationships you were once told to embrace and blindly accept because “blood is blood”. But, if someone continually hurts you or your children, emotionally or physically, you don’t owe them anything. It’s okay to walk away.

When this realization came to me, I began to walk away from relatives who continued to dampen the relationship between them and myself or my children.

I peeled away from the hurt. It wasn’t to protect myself, it was to protect my kids. It was vital to me that they were protected from the traumas and underhanded behavior bestowed by what was considered family. Yet, it was everyone who benefited from this.

Suddenly, my world became bigger. Preconceived expectations about how shitty the world was began to melt away. My self confidence began to amplify. My children began to flourish and thrive because I wasn’t surrounding them or myself with negative or abusive behaviors. In fact, they began to open up more and settle into and love who they are. My community, tribe, chosen family became my family. We became one. If someone needs a lift, we lift. If someone needs a laugh, we laugh. When we need one another, we speak without judgement and take care of one another.

I no longer believe we owe respect to someone who is continuously disrespectful. If there is an event being held where I feel my children or I will not be treated with respect, I will gladly sit it out. I know my worth. My children are learning their worth. Everyone deserves to.

The holidays are hard for many of us because of many tricky feelings. But I know that because of my family, the ones who love me, the ones who guide me, the ones who see my children as their own and would never harm them it will turn into a beautiful holiday.

I want this for you too. We all deserve a place to rest our heads. And as difficult as it sounds, when you look at the world with an open heart, you too can find love and respect.

The other stuff? It will work itself out.

When the Credit Stops

Reports are coming in. According to several news outlets, spending was down for Halloween this year. Big surprise.

It’s more than just frivolous spending for a holiday. Spending in general is slowly slowing down. I myself just canceled the two memberships I had. One with Adore Me (no more monthly bags of lingerie) and Elevate (we are going to utilize the bikes we have). Neither of these subscriptions were essential. It was easy to let them go. I feel incredibly lucky this was the hardest choice I have had to make in regards to my financials lately.

To curb our monthly spending, I have also been wracking my brain how to curtail the weekly shock at the grocery store. What more could I cut out of my weekly food desires? How can we purchase goods of the same quality but easier on the wallet? In all honesty though, my family will be fine. We have cut corners before and have faced piles of unpaid bills in the past. We have snaked our way through hardships. So far, I don’t think we will face that anytime soon. For that, I am grateful.

But, this isn’t all about me. This whole post isn’t even about my family.

This slow down is affecting more than our hunger for the newest items. It is affecting more than our ability to flaunt the latest trends and social media fanfares. We might still be thirsty for the flare but there are millions of people facing the unthinkable. Families are hungry. Small businesses are floundering.

Over the past week I saw posts from at least five different small businesses discussing how they are treading water. They were asking for people to simply share their posts- to support them. Bravely, they shared their financial struggles and explained that if they do not receive an increase in sales soon…. they will be forced to close their doors. As someone who boasts about supporting local I have to admit- it’s been hard to support someone when I myself cannot frivolously spend right now. We as a community are making choices- who are we willing to support? Are we really going to continue to shove money into the 1% because the items can be shipped to us within a day or two?

I have been observing families who are putting more and more on credit blindly accepting the gigantic interest rates. Sometimes it is to put on the brave face for our kids. Sometimes, it is because it admittedly is difficult to forgo the niceties we have become accustomed to. And for some, it is already a necessity to afford basic essentials. But what happens when the credit line is used up and we can’t open another account? What happens when we find ourselves drowning in our own greed and consumerism? What happens when we max our cards and cannot afford to eat?

It is already happening to our impoverished. According to the Association of Fundraising Professionals, donations to places like the food bank and other charitable organizations are reporting a ten percent decrease since last year. That is ten percent less help families struggling with poverty are receiving. For some, this could be a life or death situation. These families cannot pull themselves up by bootstraps they don’t have. How could we expect them to climb up a hill we ourselves are struggling to navigate?

We can’t charge a donation. We can’t give when we have nothing left to give. I don’t blame families for holding onto their cash a little bit tighter this year. But we cannot ignore the families pleading for help either.

So, I have come up with a lofty (probably overly optimistic) idea. Support local. We will probably spend the same amount of money because our local friends do not receive the same deals on products. Maybe we can’t shop at the farmer’s markets for all our grocery needs. Maybe we can’t rely on the store down the street to have every item needed for our Pinterest Perfect gathering. Maybe we can’t sew our own clothes or find our size at the local clothing shop. Our precious little cherubs will no doubt look at the Target and Amazon ads we just received instead of the local toy store window. But we can at least try. Maybe instead of purchasing two pairs of earrings we only buy one. Small steps and small gestures are what count right now.

We can learn to let go of things we think we need. We can forgo the latest fashions and trends. We can support our communities in small ways and in return… we can watch our communities rise above the insanity we are watching.

The Wrong Essay

Yes, I have been grappling with “doing it all” for too long. It has become quite apparent that I cannot in fact do everything. As long as I can remember, I have been wrestling with the need to prove myself. Be better. Be stronger. Be wiser. Be everything all at once and prove the stereotype wrong. It’s a lot. I’m exhausted.

I am working on letting myself not be perfect. On top of this, it was vital to stop overloading myself which meant nothing to me. Instead of letting go of commitments I piled them on. And now I am left with a six page (double spaced) essay I cannot get a grade on because I wrote about the wrong play.

So dear reader, here is the essay which will never be graded. I will be in a corner now trying to re-do this one and creating another 10-12 (double spaced paper) about another play. Have I told you how much I hate analytical writing? I enjoy wine, pastries, and coffee for anyone who is wondering. Oh, and I hate the thesis but it was literally what my professor was wanting (hold the comments).

What is Marriage For?

              Romeo and Juliet have gone down in history as clandestine lovers who are often romanticized into relationship goals. Yet, most scholars know this play is often misquoted and misinterpreted (thank you, Taylor Swift). When looking further into the script, it is clear Shakespeare wrote this play for a reason- he wanted to warn society about early marriage and societal pressure to go against your heart and marry for business rather than love. In this essay, I will be diving into the bones of the story, and the historical aspects Shakespeare touches on because this play was not about love- it was to warn families about pressuring their children to marry young and the dangers of arranged marriages.

              To better understand why Shakespeare would have chosen to write such a tragedy, it is important to first understand his life and the societal conditions he was living in. For starters, Shakespeare didn’t follow a traditional marriage path. His marriage to Anne Hathaway was controversial at best. Hathaway was eight years Shakespeare’s senior when they were married. Because Shakespeare was considered a minor (at 17 years old) and Hathaway an adult, societal norms forced Shakespeare to gain the permission of her father to legally wed. Attempting to avoid scandal around Hathaway’s pregnancy, it was beneficial for her father to grant the marriage despite Shakespeare’s young age. If word got out about the out-of-wedlock pregnancy, Hathaway would have been labeled as a whore and would have become ineligible for marriage during her prime candidacy. Furthermore, according to Ingram “negotiation was more in evidence than rigid rules” (pg. 118) for children seeking spouses during this time. With these parameters in mind, the socially odd union became acceptable. Just like Romeo, Shakespeare relied on the approval of his maiden’s father to approve the marriage. His tale of Romeo and Juliet was simply a rabbit hole of “what ifs” if Hathaway’s father had rejected the marriage proposal.

              This leads us to our first major realization about the tragic lovers depicted in Romeo and Juliet. Romeo and Juliet are the victims of a parent’s disapproval and misunderstanding of what is best for their children.  Shakespeare begins to display his disdain for the niceties of moral courtship at the beginning of his play when in the first line the narrator states that the two households Romeo and Juliet come from are “both alike in dignity” (1:1). This lays the groundwork for proving how ridiculous it is to need a parent’s approval for marriage- the tragic lovers were wanting to marry someone of equal dignity and status, yet the guardians still snubbed their noses at the courtship. It was important to marry only when the two families felt their children could maintain their land and the families could offer ample financial and physical support. Given the high social status of both families, this easily could have been accommodated for the tragic duo.

Because of their parental feuds, Romeo and Juliet’s clandestine marriage only lasts a short time and the pressures brought onto the couple. To quell their daughter’s pursuit, the Capulets betroth their child bride to Paris. Fulfilling Shakespeare’s attitude toward the dangers of arranged marriages, Juliet begins falling “ill” and begs Friar Lawrence for freedom from such a marriage so that she can marry her true love, Romeo. Their death simply warns parents that the prophecy is true- their children will perish if they continue to pressure them into unwanted marriages. While this is an overly dramatic depiction, Juliet’s actions accentuate the dangers of young lovers not being permitted to marry.

Furthermore, Shakespeare illustrates through tragedy what could possibly happen if eager lovers remain unable to marry, and by the end of his play, the duo illustrates a growing belief in the late 1500s that “an unrequited lover might sicken or die of love” (Ingram). Shakespeare preys on his audience’s fear of the newfound belief that young people unable to marry for love would fall ill and would be at risk of dying from a broken heart. In this case, Juliet is seen at the end of the play realizing her true love has taken poison. Taking his dagger in her hand, she boldly announces “Let me die” (Shakespeare).

Shakespeare doubles down on his observations about marriage- young girls should not be pressured to marry. Juliet was portrayed as a young teen- quite possibly 13 years of age. This is horrifying for modern audiences but during the late 1500’s it was still legal and viable for two underage children to marry. The tides were changing when Romeo and Juliet was first performed but it should not go unnoticed how Shakespeare used his platform to discuss his disgust for young marriages. In the play, audiences could feel Shakespeare’s frustration at the ability of two underage lovers to secretly marry while he himself had to abide by social niceties despite the scandal that was brewing underneath his lovers belly.  Juliet’s tender age is hinted at in line 251 where Romeo states “from Love’s weak childish bow she lives” (1:2). In this line, Romeo acknowledges how young Juliet is and is absolutely captured by her beauty and grace.

On top of this, when Juliet is presented with the idea of marriage, she responds by suggesting “it is an hour that I dream not of” (Line 68 1:3). Shakespeare thus illustrates how young girls do not think of marriage- it is not something they desire at such a tender age. Instead, it is brought to the audience’s attention that it is her family who is thinking of the marriage and not of their daughter’s wishes.

And would it not be sufficient to suggest that Juliet was thrust into the thought of marriage? Juliet is confronted with the proposal of Paris’ hand with her newfound status of maiden. She is disgusted and horrified by this announcement and begins to romanticize a marriage with Romeo instead. It is only then does she begin to fill her head with the idea of a marriage based on love rather than business agreements. By characterizing Juliet in this way, Shakespeare is warning eager parents to slow down their expectations and not push too hard on their young daughters. Their minds are still preoccupied with childish indiscretions, and it is only when the conversation of marriage comes up do their minds begin to wander. Ultimately, parents would have more pull and fewer setbacks if they allowed their daughters to mature a bit more before marriage was even spoken of- as their daughters grow they would understand the full parameters of what a marriage means rather than expecting idealistic daydreams of love.

              In the end, both families tragically lose their star-crossed lovers because they could not overcome their differences which forced the adolescent love birds to take drastic actions. Audiences quickly realize they chose a clandestine martial service and in secret, they wed defying their parent’s best wishes. This sort of brash decision would never have happened if they were not sworn away from one another- if they were not forbidden to marry.  Their indiscretion leads to the death of their loved ones and ultimately themselves. Two young teenagers couldn’t possibly make rational decisions and because of this, they end up taking their own lives rather than thinking through more rational and competent reasoning. Through the teen’s reckless behavior, Shakespeare discusses the undeveloped mind and the dangers of young people being left to make their own decisions.

What is interesting, is that Shakespeare’s own son Hamnet passed away shortly before Romeo and Juliet was produced. Which brings on a slew of observations. The cause of Hamnet’s death is unknown- could it be that he died of poor decisions? Or, was there also a forbidden marriage that resulted in Hamnet’s death? We may never truly know. What literature enthusiasts can do is pick apart the breadcrumbs of Shakespeare’s concerns for child brides and his annoyance with arranged marriages.

As discussed previously, Shakespeare’s marriage was made in haste to avoid scandal. This was not entirely uncommon, and it is interesting he didn’t depict the marriage being necessary due to pregnancy. Yet, separation was a common factor in avoiding further pregnancies, which has been the suspected reason behind Shakespeare’s absence from Anne and his children.  Separation was the only pure way to avoid childrearing when a couple was unwilling to produce more children during the late 1500s.

Shakespeare thus uses his platform to address his sadness around his own marriage. Technically, he could be seen as Romeo and his wife could be seen as Juliet. The initial marriage was taboo given the reasoning (Anne’s pregnancy) and Shakespeare being younger than his wife. Afraid to bear more children, and Shakespeare’s fear of burying another, they spent many years apart to avoid future heartbreak. During the time Romeo and Juliet was written, Shakespeare understandably could have felt as if his own marriage was dead. He exemplified this by curating a tragedy where a taboo marriage ended in heartbreak- much like his.

But this isn’t all, at the end of the tragedy, Prince is seen saying “go hence to have more talk of these sad things” (Line 307, 5:3) when the families accept both their children are deceased. Shakespeare must have intentionally written this line to challenge audiences to speak of societal indiscretions and prod his audiences to speak up against arranged marriages and child brides. He wanted the discussion to continue long after the play is done and by adding the line at the very end, his audiences are more likely to remember and discuss his words in depth.

In conclusion, Romeo and Juliet is more than just a tragic love story. It was a desperate plea to end child marriages and to push families into allowing their children to marry for love and avoiding arranged marriages. Pop culture can romanticize the story as much as it wants but at the end of the day, this play was a public warning about the dangerous path society was thrusting their youth into. Shakespeare stood high on his platform and boldly produced a play that would horrify audiences so much so that they could not help but think about the troubled paths they had led their children on. He used his personal heartbreak to not only display the despair he felt but also to warn parents of the vile and heartbreaking path parents are forcing their children onto through arranged child marriages.

Bibliography

Shakespeare, William, et al. The Norton Shakespeare: Essential Plays, the Sonnets. W.W. Norton & Co., 2016.

“Shakespeare’s Wedding and Marriage.” Shakespeare Birthplace Trust, http://www.shakespeare.org.uk/explore-shakespeare/shakespedia/william-shakespeare/shakespeares-wife-and-marriage/#:~:text=William%20Shakespeare%20married%20Anne%20Hathaway,pregnant%20with%20their%20first%20child. Accessed 17 Sept. 2023.

Wells, Stanley. Shakespeare: An Oxford Guide. Oxford Univ. Press, 2009.

Is This It?

Just like most Millennials, I have been hustling for as long as I can remember. It is imperative to be better, stronger, resilient, and patient all at the same time. My generation has sat in the lime light and has quickly become the scapegoat for the generations who have come before us.

Add in parenthood, pandemics, and one financial crisis after another before we hit our thirties, it is hard to see where my generation is at fault. Scoff away my friends who disagree.

Regardless of your stance on my generation, nobody can ignore that we have grown up. We are gaining traction to lead our communities. We are hungry to take over the reigns and acknowledge our accomplishments. Many people in my generation are tired of holding the burden of unwelcomed labels on our backs- making sure to push aside the strain so we can serve your coffee with a smile.

For as long as I can remember, I have been pressured to succeed. This pressure didn’t come from my parents. They always just wanted me to be happy. In my mind, this melded into the idea that happiness meant success and success meant happiness. The two should be one in the same. My peers seemed to agree with me and as time went on, our teachers began to pressure us into being our best selves. The only way that would seem viable is through moving through post secondary academia.

What a disappointment I became when I dropped out of college the first time. The systems that be are not equipped to handle mothers. They especially are not equipped to hoist single young moms onto higher grounds. Slipping through the cracks, it was clear that my place in society would look differently than what I had ever imagined or hoped for. With defeat, I began to nestle myself into the label the societal systems were comfortable seeing me wear.

And as most of you know, I woke up angry. I decided I had had enough. With confidence, I marched into the community college. It was important I got onto the right track and I needed guidance. My assigned advisor took a look at my profile, my history, and my previous academic probation and explained to me point blank I did not have what it takes to graduate with even an Associate’s Degree. it was her who convinced me that I needed to work harder than ever before.

Within 2.5 years, I earned my Bachelor’s. I earned my Bachelor’s with a 4.0, working full time, changing careers, and caring for two children. The first person I thought of the day of my graduation was that ratty old woman. I wanted to send her a photo of my children, husband, mom, and grandparents supporting me the day I got to walk across the stadium stage. I decided right then and there I would teach my kids that you could do anything no matter what label some antiquated societal standard has slapped onto you. I enrolled into my Masters program. And I am earning my Masters in just under 1.5 years. As of right now, it will be with another 4.0.

I didn’t want to stop there. Eventually, I would love to earn my PhD. One of my many dreams is to teach at the university level. But here’s the hitch. For the first time in my life I feel secure.

I love my job. Yes, I would like to teach at a deeper level. But, I love my students. I love my coworkers. I feel supported and humanized in a role that usually feels otherwise. If given the chance would I leave for another teaching role? Honestly, I don’t know.

To add to this, I released my first novel and while I always feel like I could do better, it is doing phenomenally well. Unskilled has broken through so many barriers I never thought it could break through. The high of selling my novel has only fueled the fire to write more. I have three projects in the works and sometimes I feel overwhelmed and saddened that I can’t focus on them more with school, work, and being a present mother and wife.

My initial thought was to give one of these things up so I could pursue the others. I have never not hustled at work. I never stopped pursuing more. I did this because I was insecure, unhappy, and had a terrible itch to be more than my previous roles.

So what happens now? I am gaining traction as an author. Positive praise has been coming from all over the country. My novel is taking off and I am so humbled and excited to see where this takes me. My role as an educator has been filled with positivity, filled with security, and filled with soul fulfilling rewards. All of this positivity and success is something I am not used to. I have had to always make sure there is a safety net underneath me before proceeding. But what happens when the net is stable? What happens when I know my harness won’t break? Do I consider myself successful or push myself to earn my PhD? Or, do I lean into the life I have busted my ass to build and be proud of my accomplishments?

When will I be satisfied with my accomplishments and allow the positive praise to wash over me- and actually believe it? When will I let my guard down and allow myself to be proud?

Am I a Writer? What’s the History?

I was recently asked what my writing history was. I was then asked by my professor if I considered myself to be a writer. This is was my response:

Once upon a time, there was a little girl who lived in a big house on the Southern California coast. She would sit in her room and read and would write for days on end and was constantly praised by her friends and loved ones for her inspiring work. This little girl went by the name “Allison” and was oftentimes sought after for her brilliant and poetic word choice. She was, after all, a master of the art.

Except, most of this is untrue. I did grow up in some small rentals in So Cal until I was 11 and I did enjoy reading once I got the hang of it. But, writing was still a difficult task for me. It was not something that came easy and it took many years for me to establish myself and to open up the treasure chest of the written word.

After learning about who I am, many people assume that I was a child that was born to read and write. With my success and my confidence in my writing, most people assume that writing came naturally to me. While I was always fascinated with the art of writing, I was actually far behind my peers in school. I couldn’t read until the second grade and could barely write up until then as well.

Although I forgot my teacher’s name, I will never forget her face when she flipped from one text to the next for my midyear evaluation. Her amazement that I could read even at a second-grade level left her speechless. My reading level in the fall was lower than a kindergartener’s and there was little hope for me. In that moment of testing, she finally stumped me on a 7th-grade level text. She told me I was reading at a sixth-grade level and should be very proud of myself.

Yet, despite my newly superior reading skills, my writing hindered me tremendously. My thoughts would fly through my head faster than my hands could write them down. This made my handwriting illegible and difficult to follow. Instead of gaining the full story, my audience was left with fragments of my storyline and were forced to piece together whatever I was writing like Frankenstein’s Monster. The only coherent story I wrote throughout my elementary school years was a story I wrote for my grandpa about a secret castle. It took me all afternoon to write but once it was written, my grandfather told me that he knew in his bones that I was born to be a writer. We just needed to get over a few humps first.

My mother did tell me I could be anything I wanted to be. She also fought relentlessly for me to achieve this dream of becoming a writer. This idea was put into my head by my grandpa and I wasn’t about to let him down. When we moved to Arizona, my teachers were horrified about how low my writing scores were. They were convinced that I was not going to succeed, and that I would quickly get left behind. But my ELA teacher noticed that I was struggling to get my thoughts out. They were there inside my head, but I just couldn’t get them out. Together, she and my mom pressured the school to let me type my essays and short answers. This was the key that unlocked the treasure chest of writing and birthed my obsession.

Suddenly, I couldn’t stop writing. The ideas that would relentlessly pop into my mind had the opportunity to come to life. I began writing poems, short stories, and essays just for fun. It was a whole new world where I could share my opinion in an organized way and tell my story the way I experienced it. During middle school, writing became my best friend- especially when I struggled to make friends in the new land of Arizona. I didn’t fit in with the other girls and the boys didn’t seem interested in allowing a girl to join their circles either. So, I turned to writing.

When I enrolled in high school I was placed in honors English. The reason was mainly based on my writing skills. I snuggled myself into the formulas and wrote many critical analysis essays that made me sound extremely scholarly. I liked it, and my TV hero Rory Gilmore was becoming a journalist so I assumed I should follow in her exact footsteps. Yet, something felt missing and I wanted to explore the creative side of writing more. I didn’t want to be told to write about someone else’s writing, I wanted to write out the ideas and feelings I had trapped inside of me. Thankfully, a Creative Writing class became available and I took it my junior and senior year of high school.

This is when I truly decided that I wanted to become a published author. My dad made it very clear I needed a “plan B” and that he wouldn’t have his daughter become a starving artist, so my original plan was to write on the side and go to school to become a forensic psychologist. My senior year changed my life, I found out I was pregnant and ended up not going to college right away and not writing. I was afraid to write down my thoughts and feelings after my creative writing class. I hashed everything out that I was going through and ended up handing over my book of poems about being pregnant and being so terribly scared as my final project in the class. This was how I told my teachers that I was pregnant.

            It took over a decade for me to write after that. When the pandemic hit, I decided enough was enough. By then, I had two kids and a husband and had been sucked into a retail job I hated. I reenrolled in college and happened upon a friend who was in my Creative Writing class together. We began meeting weekly to go over our poetry and began workshopping together. I fell back in love with writing and she finally found someone to work with her whom she trusted. Slowly, I began meeting more people around Tucson that write. Some have been published both traditionally and self-published. Some just prefer to write for fun and perform during open mic nights. While they are still trying to convince me to perform, I am happier sticking to my blog and staying in the shadows.

            Within two and a half years, I graduated Summa Cum Laude with my Bachelors in English. This happened this past December. My time was spent mainly writing and pushing the limits for several of my professors. I now know how to cite a Tweet properly after writing an essay about Sylvia Plath and her struggle with mental illness. But the classes I enjoyed the most were those that were the creative type. One professor suggested I expanded on my stories. She suggested that I write more often and asked if I ever thought about writing a book. Before then, the only person who ever suggested this was my grandfather and my mom.

            I took her advice and began tinkering with short posts online about my life and my viewpoints. This gained the attention of several people and before I knew it, I was writing reading comprehension prompts for Pearson, ghostwriting short children’s stories, and writing articles about what makes Tucson special for local hotels. I was actually getting paid for work! My college essays became much more personal and so did my blogs. But that voice inside my head began nagging me. It told me that I was a fraud- no publisher has accepted my poetry and I haven’t been published with a true book so it couldn’t be real. I didn’t think about myself as an author.

            And then in July, I had an opportunity to teach even before I graduated college. I was hired to be a middle school ELA teacher. This role came unexpectedly and I jumped in head first. To better help my students, I began reading one book after another about how to master the art of writing. Not only did this give me the advice to give to my students, it also lit the fire under me to truly begin writing from my heart. It reminded me it isn’t too late to write my story and become a full-fledged published author. This directly correlated with the conversation I had with a local author (Adiba Nelson) when I met her. She told me I had a story to be told and we hit it off immediately. Between chats with her and my friends, I felt like I was finally in a writing community. The books I was reading at the time helped me tremendously with my imposter syndrome because they too reminded me that despite not making enough to support myself as a writer, I still was indeed a writer. My newfound confidence has helped me instill it into my students for the cycle to start again.

            Now, as I type this out I am working diligently on a book about my time in retail. My goal is to have it completed by the summer and I plan on self-publishing. After that, I plan on redoing my poetry project about being a pregnant teen and my experience with that scenario. And then after that, the opportunities are endless, and I am curious as to where they will take me. I have an aunt who is touring her book right now and several published friends that are helping me along the way. I know that between them and my family, I will not fail. They all see me as a writer…so why not accept the title and relish in it?

Just Spread Kindness

I am a daughter who is estranged from her father. I am a daughter who chose to walk away from her father. I am a daughter that desperately wanted to be loved for who I was and felt that no matter what, I came up short.

And I never want anyone to feel that way. Ever.

Last Sunday was a mixed bag of emotions for me. The hangover from the ups and downs lasted all week and today I find myself exhausted. I am emotionally and physically depleted because last week commenced another year where my father chose to not be there for me. Now, that last sentence directly contradicts the beginning of this blog. But the truth is, I had to stick up for myself seven years ago. I had to find the courage to believe that maybe one day I will be worthy of love that isn’t filled with strings and barbed wire.

I just wanted him to be proud of me and I would love nothing more than to be able to share my accomplishments with him. But I know that it would come with a pricey cost. One I am not willing to pay.

It wasn’t really seven years ago that I cut things off. It was slightly under that but I have forbidden myself to dwell on cutting ties with my father on Father’s Day. And yes, it was as harsh and cruel and upsetting as it sounds. The gist of the situation was that I had just given birth and my pregnancy and birth were slightly complicated and extremely dangerous. I was recovering from a turbulent time and the last thing I wanted to do was bring my new baby and terribly sore body out to dinner. I had texted my dad at 4 am to tell him I loved him and asked for him to call me when he woke up so I could wish him a Happy Father’s Day- maybe he would be wanting to come by to see me. The conversation didn’t go anything like it was planned and it turned into raised voices and accusations that I was putting up a front- that I didn’t love him or else I would go to dinner with him and post a sappy FB post for the world to see. The conversation ended in tears as I said good bye for the last time.

But Father’s Day is such a generic day. And I didn’t want to be sad on a day to celebrate the men in my life who have stepped up. I didn’t want to focus on my son’s biological father skipping out on us, nor did I want to focus on the metaphorical death of my father. So I chose his birthday as the day of mourning.

Every year I anticipate it quietly. I anticipate the feeling of sadness, the feeling of emptiness, the feeling of something that is not quite right. And while I know it wasn’t (fully) my fault, I can’t help but to think that maybe I could have been a better daughter. It is sometimes embarrassing or difficult to talk about. It is as if I owe an explanation for my actions because I must be a terribly selfish human to disown a parent and then cry about it once a year. When those thoughts arise, it is then I think that maybe my dad was right, that I was not grateful enough. But in the end, I know better. I know I held on for dear life for that relationship and one day, my grip slipped and it was over. He never reached out to save me.

So, last Sunday, it was the Festival of Books. The perfect distraction. A bunch of authors I admire were not only hosting booths, they were speaking too! To add to this, an author I have admired since I was in middle school was signing books. This onslaught of magnificent writers coming to my city was a welcomed relief to say the least. I met them all and then some. I had to pick and choose and delegate my time wisely to make sure I had the opportunity to hear each of these lovely souls speak and be graced with a meet and greet and walk away with a signed book. What I was really trying to do was fill up the gaping hole in my heart. I was trying to cover up my sadness and slather it with starstruck encounters.

I had planned everything. I wanted to do a family outing that would go exactly as planned. And yep, just like any family outing it didn’t. I was devastated and couldn’t quite get the words out to express what I was feeling. None of these choices were conscious choices and it was hard to decipher the feelings and thoughts as they happened. Needless to say, I was not at my best. Words failed me and it turned into ample amounts of tears. And then the damn Ryanhood song that always comes to mind when I am missing my dad came to mind. I was trying to fill his place. But the truth was, I couldn’t.

To shorten this sob story, I didn’t get to hear the panel discussion of Lois Lowry. I bolted from the car the second we got to our parking spot. My family was left in my dust as I scrambled towards the building she would be speaking. When I found out I was too late, that my children and husband and I would not be able to hear someone I admire speak, I bawled. It wasn’t just about her. It was more about what I was feeling inside. I once again was not adequate enough. Yes, this isn’t true but it was what I had felt in that raw moment. The poor volunteers weren’t quite sure how to handle my blubbering ass and told me that I could still meet her when she started signing books.

So, I parked myself in an already growing line of fans. My son waited with me as my husband kept our daughter busy. We made some single serving friends and it was nice. But, the entire time, I just couldn’t escape what I was feeling. And then Lowry came out. She began signing books. Soon, it was my turn. I was so overcome with emotion that I began word vomiting again. I wanted to say the exact right things so that I would be enough. She was someone who had written words that have changed my life for the better and it was so important to me that I spoke eloquently. What I said I couldn’t tell you. Something about her book gave me courage to stand up for myself, something about how I feel honored to teach The Giver now to young students.

Instead of pushing me away, she gave me her time. She allowed me to speak and whether or not she knew I was on the verge of a complete mental breakdown is beyond me. But she sat with me for about 3 minutes while onlookers impatiently wanted to know why the crazed girl was getting more time than anyone else. Lowry was patient and kind.

She chose to do so.

And I think that is what I am getting at today. I just need people to choose more kindness. We all fight silent battles of inadequacy. We all have self-doubt. We all say things we shouldn’t say in ways we didn’t mean.

It is why I try to smile the biggest. It is why I am always asking how you are doing. It is why I want to hear your stories. I want you to know that you are seen, heard, and loved. My biggest fear is that my kids feel the way I did growing up. As if they were not worthy of my love.

My biggest fear is that my loved ones and friends feel they are not worthy, that their thoughts and feelings and passions are meaningless. I never want anyone to feel the way I have. I never want anyone to be washed over with sadness and emptiness the way I do on March 5th every single year no matter what I do to fill in that space.

So, to whomever chooses to read this, I want to challenge you to spread kindness. Hold a door open, ask a stranger if you can help them, text your bestie that you love them, check in on those around you. We are constantly trying to fill holes in our hearts- kindness needs to explanation.

Is That Your Kid?

I was asked again if my son was in fact my kid the other day. I don’t know about you but I personally do not call teenagers “Honey” on a casual level. Even though I have been asked the same ignorant question for 14 years, I never know exactly how to respond. Now, it is very common for people to ask if a child is yours. That isn’t the ignorant part. It’s the WAY people ask. They say “Is that YOUR kid?” for my son but when it’s my daughter (who they still tell me I look too young to have) they will say “she looks just like you, what a cute mother daughter duo” or “aw, that’s your daughter isn’t she?”. Do you see the difference?

To be honest, it is incredibly hurtful and immediately negates my very special bond with my son. It negates the fact that I take my role as a mother seriously enough that I have persevered through every single stereotype there is out there about me. Every time I respond, no matter what the response is, I am confronted with the person asking such telling me it was a compliment- I should lighten up a little and enjoy the youthfulness of my disposition. Someone had the gall to tell me this even when I thanked them for the compliment. That’s when it became clear to me that no matter the response, the person approaching me was already offended by my motherhood and will try to push their ignorance and indignation onto me.

When my son was little, people would argue with me over who his mother was. They would suggest it physically was not possible for me to birth this kid. Between my age and his darker skin (he is part Thai), they just couldn’t accept this white teenager could in fact be his mother. Yes, I was 18 when I had him. No, he is not Hispanic, he is Thai. (That particular argument happened in an H.E.B in San Antonio Texas.) I became a mom at a very tender and turbulent age yet, I am no less a mother than the woman who waited until she was 32 to have her first child. Onlookers would literally gasp at the sight of me. Store employees would consistently accuse me of shoplifting. Once, when I had had enough and asked why they assumed I was shop lifting, the reply was something along the lines of teen moms steal. During routine doctor check ups my doctors would tell me that “it’s okay to tell us if you drink or do drugs. We can’t turn you over to the police unless you are endangering your baby”. They never believed me that I was clean and lived straight because that is not how young girls who find themselves pregnant act.

I was cast into a box that I didn’t really know existed. All because of me being a young mom. My genetics don’t help this stereotype because I naturally look much younger than I am.

So, when a semi-colleague (I am a teacher and this was a regular substitute) said that he was shocked to find out my son was mine I asked him why. That’s been my new response. They don’t appreciate flattery and they don’t appreciate it when I blow them off so, the only other response is to put the ball in their court.

It was clear he didn’t see that response coming. His flinch stalled him only for a second. Then I heard the phrase I knew was coming. It’s a compliment, I should have thanked him instead. Knowing him for a few months I felt that it was okay if I was a little bit honest. I told him that it is only a compliment if it starts with “wow, you are such a great mom, and you look so young!”. It was above his paygrade I guess to respond to that. He still wasn’t understanding how telling me I looked too young to be a mom was a back handed insult. Some of you reading probably are thinking the same thing.

But it’s those comments that make us moms feel horrible about ourselves. I was lamenting to two different moms (they don’t know one another but would absolutely love each other) about how I feel like every time I waltz out the door I am instantly criticized. I look too young. Some may think I am too fat. Others will think I am too thin. Some may think I am disheveled because I am not wearing LuLu Lemon leggings and sipping a Starbucks- take some time for you they will tell me. Some people may think that I look too angry, others will think I am too easy on my kids. I carried on about how I hated how judged I constantly felt as a mother. This is the most prestigious role I could ever have and I do not take it lightly. That being said, I have my own twist on how to do things and that’s okay.

Both moms lit up hearing this. They described that they felt the same way. One mom said she remembered having these same feelings when she had her first and now, she is labeled as the “old” mom for her last. She has been told that she is too much and not “proper” enough. The other mom told me she gets the same dirty looks I do when she drops off her daughter at the charter school she attends- I guess people have never seen a woman with gorgeous tattoos and a retro glow. Both women are fantastic humans and unbelievably wonderful moms.

When we all realized that it is true, we live in a world of judgery. We will never be enough for some and we will always be too much for others. We realized that those rude comments, snickers, and glares were because that was all those people knew. The guy I work with still doesn’t understand that questioning my motherhood status is rude. He may never fully understand it because frankly, I don’t have the patience to explain it to him.

But, I know that I face a lifetime of this. I know that I will be always told I am too young. Maybe one day I will get used to it. Maybe I never will. All I can do is stop the cycle. I can form a circle of moms that are tired of the Judgey Janets and spread acceptance and kindness to those we come across. And maybe, if we begin to be more vulnerable and allow ourselves to say these things hurt, maybe other moms won’t feel so alone.