Last spring, this band rolled through Lawrence and, on the recommendation of some pretty fantastic people, I went to see them. Their music has been in pretty steady rotation ever since.
Tomorrow night they're playing at the Bottleneck, and you can bet your sweet bippy I'll be there. Here's the biography the band provided for the Bottleneck event page.
FRONTIER RUCKUS
We’ve memorized so thoroughly the worlds from which we come. With a lifelong obsession, we’ve catalogued and internalized the apparently permanent fixtures of a cherished locality until our bodies have in fact become either physical extensions or microcosmic containers of these landscapes: arms kinking in unbroken strip-mall chains, gaping mouths mimicking the enormous vacancy of an evacuated sports dome. The chief business of Frontier Ruckus is the collection and organization of these solid, unmoving markers. We spool the vast confusion and depth of existence around fast-food restaurants in anchoring tethers; we use the vacuous space of the abandoned 90s mall, now dead and tomb-like, as leaky reservoirs of overflowing memory. We turn to these devices to render memory and its innumerable landmarks somehow less crippling in their abundance—to seek some agency, some proprietorship over a world as heavy and unwieldy with contents of the past as a backyard filling with nightfall.
In the 1990s my mother worked at Summit Place Mall, on the borderline between Pontiac and Waterford, Michigan. So much met at that nexus. Day met dusk and a drive home. Now it is where memory meets the present tense and struggles to recognize it. My grandfather taught me how to stand a quarter on its side in the food court there. I studied the quarter intently. I noticed the thin black line, the feeble definition separating one thing from all other objects in the world. From that perception on, I broke free from those borders and blended my body into the entire landscape of my experience. A large part of me has lived in a world of its own rearrangements and lovely eternities ever since. What I’ve found in this expansive nighttime of blurred place, age, and pure memory is hopefully some of what Deadmalls and Nightfalls reflects.
29 October 2010
27 October 2010
It Gets Better
In the wake of a rash of teen suicides brought on by bullying, columnist Dan Savage began the It Gets Better campaign. The project's pledge is to: Everyone deserves to be respected for who they are. I pledge to spread this message to my friends, family and neighbors. I'll speak up against hate and intolerance whenever I see it, at school and at work. I'll provide hope for lesbian, gay, bi, trans and other bullied teens by letting them know that "It Gets Better."
Many celebrities have contributed videos and written accounts in support for and struggles with bullying to show solidarity and lead by example. Some celebrities have addressed the issue from another angle, challenging the kids who egg the bullies--in the hope of not being bullied themselves--to stand up for the kids being bullied.
I've been discussing this issue a great deal lately, with high school students, colleagues, and friends. Inevitably, the question comes up: "Were you ever bullied?" Most say no, they weren't. Some were too quiet to be noticed, some say they were the bullies, trying to hide their own insecurity by picking on people around them. But me, well, yes. I was bullied a lot, and not in a 'maybe she's just a little too sensitive sort of a way.' Nope. Honest to goodness, mean spirited, kids bent on making me feel bad kind of bullied.
I remember being chased on the playground and called fat by the boys in my second grade class, and the group of boys that jumped as though I'd made the earth move during a particularly bouncy cheerleading routine (a stint that was short-lived for so many reasons), or the time I ran for student council president. When I walked to the podium to introduce myself, I was booed by an auditorium packed with every one of the two hundred and fifty students in my seventh grade class. They all booed. The couple of girls I called friends did nothing, no clapping, no booing, just...nothing.
I've asked myself for years what made me a target. I wasn't the heaviest, I wasn't the meanest, the quietest, the most anything...except for confident. My parents instilled in me the belief that I was no better than anyone else, and that no one was better than me. I never, for one second, felt inferior. Never doubted my right to speak, to listen, to learn, to be heard. Even when those things happened to me, they were painful in the moment, but I kept getting up in the morning, kept going to school, kept reading, kept breathing, kept wanting to learn. I asked questions, I raised my hand, I talked to adults, I believed they were listening to me, I believed I was worth listening to. My greatest crime was really liking myself. And, well, I was mouthy, a trait that worked out well for me as an acerbic adult but made me no friends in the average American junior high school. When kids were mean to me, I snapped back at them with a larger vocabulary larger and quicker wit than many of them ever cultivated in adulthood let alone at age nine.
I got lucky. When I entered ninth grade, it was in a new town at a new high school. All those terrible experiences from my past ceased to exist as soon as I left my sleepy hometown. I'd love to say I never had another bad moment, but life doesn't work that way and there were a few rough spots, but I learned how to adapt, how to stand up for myself, and how to make it clear that I wasn't someone to be pushed around.
So, why write all of this now, here? Well, I've been thinking a lot about why those things happened to me, and the best reason I can come up with is so that I can be this person, now, telling kids that in fact, it does get better. The people who tear you down for being strong are the ones most likely to never know real strength. Every cowardly insult about your clothes, your weight, your voice, your sexual orientation, your haircut, whatever thing they pick on, it's all in an attempt to mask their fear of you. Of your strength, of your power, of your brilliance and beauty.
You are valuable. You are important. You are beautiful, and you are the ones that make the world better, smarter, more compassionate, and worth living in.
I promise.
Many celebrities have contributed videos and written accounts in support for and struggles with bullying to show solidarity and lead by example. Some celebrities have addressed the issue from another angle, challenging the kids who egg the bullies--in the hope of not being bullied themselves--to stand up for the kids being bullied.
I've been discussing this issue a great deal lately, with high school students, colleagues, and friends. Inevitably, the question comes up: "Were you ever bullied?" Most say no, they weren't. Some were too quiet to be noticed, some say they were the bullies, trying to hide their own insecurity by picking on people around them. But me, well, yes. I was bullied a lot, and not in a 'maybe she's just a little too sensitive sort of a way.' Nope. Honest to goodness, mean spirited, kids bent on making me feel bad kind of bullied.
I remember being chased on the playground and called fat by the boys in my second grade class, and the group of boys that jumped as though I'd made the earth move during a particularly bouncy cheerleading routine (a stint that was short-lived for so many reasons), or the time I ran for student council president. When I walked to the podium to introduce myself, I was booed by an auditorium packed with every one of the two hundred and fifty students in my seventh grade class. They all booed. The couple of girls I called friends did nothing, no clapping, no booing, just...nothing.
I've asked myself for years what made me a target. I wasn't the heaviest, I wasn't the meanest, the quietest, the most anything...except for confident. My parents instilled in me the belief that I was no better than anyone else, and that no one was better than me. I never, for one second, felt inferior. Never doubted my right to speak, to listen, to learn, to be heard. Even when those things happened to me, they were painful in the moment, but I kept getting up in the morning, kept going to school, kept reading, kept breathing, kept wanting to learn. I asked questions, I raised my hand, I talked to adults, I believed they were listening to me, I believed I was worth listening to. My greatest crime was really liking myself. And, well, I was mouthy, a trait that worked out well for me as an acerbic adult but made me no friends in the average American junior high school. When kids were mean to me, I snapped back at them with a larger vocabulary larger and quicker wit than many of them ever cultivated in adulthood let alone at age nine.
I got lucky. When I entered ninth grade, it was in a new town at a new high school. All those terrible experiences from my past ceased to exist as soon as I left my sleepy hometown. I'd love to say I never had another bad moment, but life doesn't work that way and there were a few rough spots, but I learned how to adapt, how to stand up for myself, and how to make it clear that I wasn't someone to be pushed around.
So, why write all of this now, here? Well, I've been thinking a lot about why those things happened to me, and the best reason I can come up with is so that I can be this person, now, telling kids that in fact, it does get better. The people who tear you down for being strong are the ones most likely to never know real strength. Every cowardly insult about your clothes, your weight, your voice, your sexual orientation, your haircut, whatever thing they pick on, it's all in an attempt to mask their fear of you. Of your strength, of your power, of your brilliance and beauty.
You are valuable. You are important. You are beautiful, and you are the ones that make the world better, smarter, more compassionate, and worth living in.
I promise.
22 October 2010
10 October 2010
10/10/10
This morning, after years of not belonging to one, I officially joined a church.
I spent a very long time wondering what God wanted of me, how S/He could exist when there was so very much pain in the world, how I, an educated woman who has read more in my 34 years than some people ever do in a lifetime, how could I believe in something I couldn't see, something I couldn't touch, something I couldn't photograph.
And then, I just knew. Faith held the door open for me one Sunday morning in April, and I have been saying thank you for that gesture ever since.
I do not pretend to know what anyone else needs in this life, but today, I took steps towards ensuring I get what I need: a spiritual home, a loving community, and a truly accepting group of people who share my world view, a world view so eloquently stated in the church covenant:
In the love of truth and in the spirit of Jesus, we unite for the worship of God and the service of all. We seek to know the will of God and to walk in God’s ways, made known or to be made known to us; to love one another, to proclaim the Gospel to all the world; to work and pray for the progress of knowledge, the promotion of justice, the reign of peace, and the realization of our shared humanity. And we look with faith for the triumph of righteousness and the gift of life eternal.
I'm not going to knock on doors or ask you to talk to me about your salvation--if we're friends, I probably already know your views and love you enough to know we'll talk if we need to, or we won't. Today wasn't about you or what you need to do, world. It was about me, and I think that's just fine. You see, all day I have felt something miraculous should happen given the significance of today's calendar date: 10/10/10. It occurs to me now, as the night comes on in and the cool evening air of fall perfumes my house, that joining my church this morning was my miracle, and I couldn't be more grateful.
I spent a very long time wondering what God wanted of me, how S/He could exist when there was so very much pain in the world, how I, an educated woman who has read more in my 34 years than some people ever do in a lifetime, how could I believe in something I couldn't see, something I couldn't touch, something I couldn't photograph.
And then, I just knew. Faith held the door open for me one Sunday morning in April, and I have been saying thank you for that gesture ever since.
I do not pretend to know what anyone else needs in this life, but today, I took steps towards ensuring I get what I need: a spiritual home, a loving community, and a truly accepting group of people who share my world view, a world view so eloquently stated in the church covenant:
In the love of truth and in the spirit of Jesus, we unite for the worship of God and the service of all. We seek to know the will of God and to walk in God’s ways, made known or to be made known to us; to love one another, to proclaim the Gospel to all the world; to work and pray for the progress of knowledge, the promotion of justice, the reign of peace, and the realization of our shared humanity. And we look with faith for the triumph of righteousness and the gift of life eternal.
I'm not going to knock on doors or ask you to talk to me about your salvation--if we're friends, I probably already know your views and love you enough to know we'll talk if we need to, or we won't. Today wasn't about you or what you need to do, world. It was about me, and I think that's just fine. You see, all day I have felt something miraculous should happen given the significance of today's calendar date: 10/10/10. It occurs to me now, as the night comes on in and the cool evening air of fall perfumes my house, that joining my church this morning was my miracle, and I couldn't be more grateful.
02 October 2010
Happiness...
...is a choice.
No matter what anyone tries to tell you to the contrary, they're wrong. You can dwell on the things that are painful and difficult in your life, or you can choose to see the good that is coming, to believe that your dreams will come true, and to know--without a single hesitation--that you will someday be happy because you deserve to be, just like everyone else.
Just like everyone else.
We all deserve to be happy, and we all have the power to choose to be.
I'm choosing to be; I hope you are, too.
No matter what anyone tries to tell you to the contrary, they're wrong. You can dwell on the things that are painful and difficult in your life, or you can choose to see the good that is coming, to believe that your dreams will come true, and to know--without a single hesitation--that you will someday be happy because you deserve to be, just like everyone else.
Just like everyone else.
We all deserve to be happy, and we all have the power to choose to be.
I'm choosing to be; I hope you are, too.
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