Understanding Your Body in America

Starting as early as high school, I explored body image in American culture and feminism, through creating art work. Eight years later, as I enter my final semester of college, my work still deals with similar themes. This project explores women and their relationships with their bodies in our culture. Initially, I started this project solely for my Women in the Media Final. However, I plan to develop this work further, and explore ideas of body image with girls ages 9-18. I am CLEARLY no video editor, but that isn't the point. Check out these highly embarrassing/work in progress videos to learn more about the project.

Reflecting:

I stand in my home – mi casa, casa mia, – my home. Denim shorts on. Cute little denim shorts. Flowers on the pocket. Button fly. Finger length. Ones we bought - there at that store we went to. I wanted to go to the beach. We bought them, so I could go to school.

Gap Kids. Sears. Gap. Kmart. Gap. Bloomingdales. Handy-Me-Downs.

 The Children’s place.

Me and my mom and my grandma and my cousin and her brother’s girlfriend - you know, her sister. That girl’s sister - the one. The one with the big hair and thin legs. Fat ass, big ass. Beautiful, ugly, fat and beautiful.

We stood by the water, on our stoop. By the fire hydrant. I promise you could fry and egg on the sidewalk. That scared me. Sears. My shorts on. Gap. They were in the magazine. I saw them on the table, in the kitchen, near the bathroom, on the subway, at the CVS on the corner near the firehouse and the post office and the train station.

It was so hot. Caliente, caldo. Hot in summer.

My hands got prune-y from the water. From washing them, from swimming, from the sun, from washing them again. From painting a picture of my mother. The girls in my hometown. Beautiful, thin, hot. Quite. The boy who liked me. Smart. So smart. An image of them all on paper. Dirty, sandy and dirty. Couldn't wash it. It wouldn’t go away. My hands were like raisins. Rough. Shrived. They pull up my shorts. Target. They pulled down the top to my paisley tankini. Macy’s catalogue phone order. I kept them in my pockets, safe. I didn’t want anyone to see them. My hands -  pulling down my top. My hands in my shorts. 

I was in 5th grade. 3rd grade. I raised my hand. High. High. Hi. I raised it from my nose up, nothing below. Thirteen. Every year – I wanted to be a women. Like my mom. Hot. But, I’m a girl. Hot – that summer. With my shorts. I watched from the shore. My stoop. Birds. Pigeons flew. Sometimes I wonder what that they thought about, what the saw. They could fly and catch fish and perch themselves on the highest building. The school flag pole. They could sitting above the classroom. Perched on the mast of a ship. But, I had on shorts with buttons and flowers. I had prune-y hands and it was hot. It was so hot.

Fourteen Years Past Seven

On September 11th 2001, I was seven years old. I was bright and curious, yet too young to understand the impact of what had just happened. All the families that would be forever broken due to the hate of a few, or the years of war laid out in front of us, or that I would now grow up in a world saturated in Islamophobia, were far from mind, let alone my understanding. Yet, that day, I remember hitting my fist hard against the coffee table in our living room, while watching footage of the falling towers over and over again and knowing that this act of terror was neither right nor fair. I recall feeling an unexplainable sadness free from any concept of the actual event or those that followed. It was just instinctually there.

Since then, I have spent years delving into that day in efforts to reconcile its impact on my life then and now. I had long wished I was old enough to understand the veracity of the events and lives it affected as they unfolded, instead of having glue the pieces back together year by year. I have taken classes on Middle Eastern society, its revolutions, the Ottomans and Islam as a peaceful religion. I have learned about indigenous tribes and The Quran and hadith and the prophet Mohammad and all the borders we set post WWII. I have engaged with the news and watched documentaries and read books, not because I had to, but out of curiosity. No, I would not consider myself an expert by any sorts of the imagination, but definitely educated enough to decipher my world and where I stand.

I have now had over fourteen years of growth and education since the September 11th attacks, but this morning as I laid in bed and read the articles on the Paris bombings and heard the death tolls and saw the images of blood soaked sidewalks, tears ran down my face with a helplessness and confusion not much different than that felt by my seven year old self. All that I had learned, or thought I had learned, left me – it could not be applied or understood or rationalized in order to make sense of last nights events because they were equally as heinous and unfair. I was once again the seven-year-old girl banging her fist against the coffee table because I could not understand my world. I guess I thought my education could save me – save me from feeling mad, or helpless or confused, but it couldn’t.

What happened in Paris yesterday was an inhuman atrocity. It depicts the utmost evil in our world. It is not something that is okay, nor should we treat it as such. People from across the globe lost lives, and families, and limbs, but most of all, they lost their sense of freedom – something that, admittedly as an Americans, hits a lot closer to home than the physicality of the events. We can handle death, and blood shed, unfortunately we’ve grown accustom to it, but we cannot fathom the lost of our intangible freedom. As Americans, we innately understand the city Paris and the French; we are one of the same, with roots so intertwined with their culture that they have been materialized in our own. Laissez-faire – a theory grounded in ultimate freedom, shapes our entire consuming and competitive culture. We are built on them. The French are close to home and thus, this event breaks our hearts in a way ever so similar to September 11th did nearly a decade and a half ago.

However, our brotherly bond over our natural born freedoms is not an excuse to turn a blind eye to those whose freedoms are not inherent. We no longer live in a world where our geographic location and political interest dictates our access to information. Each day, I recieve live updates from all around the globe from the AP, The BCC, and Reuters straight to my phone. Access is now instant, we don't have to search for it. We know what is happening, when it is happening and thus have created global community of endless information. But, despite our interconnectivity, there is still a clear grouping of the other. Our lack of knowledge and understanding from media outlets and politicians, and as American citizens in wake of the recent tragedies in Beirut, in francophone Lebanon, and Baghdad, in Iraq, attests to our view of all of the Middle East and its citizens as different. We do not embrace those who are less free, instead we group them as a whole - or worse - the problem. Unfortunately, as a culture, do not see these people as our brothers or sisters with the same obligations and daily struggles we have. Instead we peer in on their struggles with just enough distance so that they are not our problems, but our sympathies. We do not recognize their individualities and complexities or their drive and ambitions - all of which are so similar to our own.

Now, who knows, maybe France will be our window to this world – where we stop taking for granted our freedoms and quit drawing lines to mark differences. If we open our homes and our hearts to those in need after the Paris bombings, how can we not at least contemplate doing the same for the thousands upon thousands of Syrian refugees looking for asylum from the same hateful group of people - ones who have made the entire world suffer?

I’m fourteen years past seven – fourteen years past an unrecognized milestone, fourteen years deep in education and access, yet still as confused and unconfident in my feelings as every before. I question why I think I have the liberty to preach any of this – a young, ambitious, socially all inclusive, semi-privileged white girl from Long Island with some conservative roots that run deep and an honorable and hard working father who spent countless hours as a fireman digging through wreckage at Ground Zero. I woke up this morning with no obligations to write this - no deadlines, or pressure or payment on the table. Just the resources, support, and freedom, as an American, to do so. I’ve been blessed with an education and passion for learning, but I've also been blessed to be surrounded by people, and technologies, who've empowered me to be me regardless. No, I don't have a formula to save the world - I mean, I'd be cool if I did - but, I do believe that using our resources and technologies to understand and connect with others, regardless of culture, is one of the many baby steps toward a more inclusive and peaceful world. So pray for Paris, but more importantly pray for our world.

Being a Social Media Picasso

I do not have a television. I do not have a Netflix or Hulu account. I don't binge watch shows nor spend a lot of time at the movies. Thus, my iPhone is a window into the world of media - and it comes fully loaded with Instagram, Facebook, Tinder, SnapChat, Bumble, BCC, The AP, Map My Run, Spotify, Period Tracker and many more, all of which I use with the tap of my thumb to assemble my world. These apps provide me with - not so much knowledge – but, access to limitless information: politics, friends, family, people I don't know, men I might date, what bills are due, what I did four years ago, if venus is in retrograde, and what this super-tiny sports model ate for breakfast. And in response to this conglomerate of information? I do what is logical – I create my own weird cyber identity for others to access and consume.

Create and Consume - that is what we do with this unbound information. We take in glimpses of it, and we make more of it. I believe media, and lets limit this discussion to solely social media, in many ways is a form of creative expression. As an artist paints with a brush, or a writer uses words and letters to sculpt sentences, many of us use social media as a means to express, and develop a unique creative narrative. Now – I am not saying that us Social Media savvy millennials, are necessarily the next Rembrandts, however, there is something artistically genius and ground breaking about those who can craft social media to represent pieces of themselves, as well as reflect culture.

Issues arise when others take this information to represent the person who created it. As a writer, I have learned quickly that I will, no matter how talented I become, never be able to write my entire self, because that self is constantly three sentences ahead of the last word I typed.  Yes, when developing character I can take aspects of myself to create a complex, truthful, and real human, but there is whole lot of ME that makes up ME - and the character will never actually capture all of it. This is one of the greatest struggles faced by artists – discovering an ultimate truth – discovering the wholeness of themselves, with all the lumps, and bumps, and issues, and emotions, within their works.

Social media works similarly – however we do not treat it that way. We we view it as transparent - an ultimate truth. We draw conclusions and pass judgments on a person’s identity and worth, almost always more harshly than we would ever judge an artist's character for her creation. On social media, we are creating characters and attempting to engage with something real and truthful about whom we are and where we stand within a culture, which BY THE WAY, is fueled by everyone telling us how we should be. We share little tidbits about our daily lives because it feels good to share pieces of our identity and yes – be validated for it.

Over the summer, I ran into a mother of a girl I used to teach. She joyfully rambled-off the semi-standard laundry list of questions to ask a female in her early 20s. I began to tell her about some of the projects I was working on – however, before I could finish, she interrupted -  "I know. I follow your Instagram. It’s so great. You have such a cool life." Straight up – I love Instagram and did I take a little flattery in that? Hell yeah. And at the end of the day, yes I am very satisfied with many aspects of with my life. However, there are clear judgement being made about me based on images I decide to post, which - YES - is obvious and accepted as the norm, but equally as unfair.

Instagram allows me to curate photos - articulating  interests, projects, and events relevant to me, all with a brief captions that reflect my mood or a thought. I’m not posting about political issues or injustice or advocating for a cause, nor am I posting about the nightmares of carrying four bags of groceries solo in zero degree weather, or rush-hour delays, or anxiety over work and relationships and the future – all of which are equally as integral to who I am. Instead, I am posting images about the parts of my weeks I enjoy and appreciate the most - like shooting the shit with friends, or having a few extra minutes in the morning to sit and have a cup coffee, or being blessed enough to relax into a long run along the East River around sunset. What I have crafted through images is solely one version of me. It is a character in a novel being read on the train, or the painting on the wall hanging above my bed. It is undeniably complex and true, however there is a perspective and it is not at all complete. It is a singular truth bound to the intimate relationships we have with our world today.

Van Morrison Painted Jacket

For me, painting is one of those magical activities that makes time completely irrelevant – I can spend hours sitting, listening to music, literally elbows deep in paint and not give the clock a second look. It is something that I can do without thinking, but still requires this really odd sublime focus. Unfortunately, it also is something I have done a lot less of recently. While I love painting, writing has taken priority during my creative periods. Painting also just takes a decent amount of physical space – which, when sharing a one bedroom in New York is pretty limited.

However, while I was on Long Island a few weeks back I caught the inspiration bug for a new project that I could not seem to shake. I found myself eyeing my mom’s totally rad hand-painted denim jacket. I have long been trying to steal this little piece of Kathy Jaget history. Featuring Jim Morrison, it was painted by an old boyfriend and now serves as a memento from her raccoon toting, ’64 Ford Falcon driving, overall wearing, high school years. She no longer wears the jacket – it actually just hides under various other jackets in the laundry room of our basement. Regardless, it was made clear that there is zero chance of me ever taking that piece of nostalgia to call my own. Thus, I thought  – why not just make my own?

I headed to Blick – bought some supplies and began to work. Nervous about ruining my favorite jacket, I decided to treat the fabric as I would a canvas. I painted the back panel with a layer of gesso to prep. I then prepped acrylics, but mixed them 1:1 with a fabric medium to ensure hold. From there, it was time to get down and dirty with creativity.

Wanting to remain true to the original, I chose Van Morrison as the subject. Maybe it is because it is what I've grown up listening to – or maybe it’s because it's just really good freakin' music – but I have actually always had a real connection to music by Singer-Songwriters from the 60’s and 70’s. It's the lyrics – and how deeply connected they are with tradition and culture. Van Morrison and his Irish ways are no exception. Whether dancing, painting, cleaning my apartment, writing a paper, or even working-out, his soulful vibes and knack for lyric have always been my easy go-to. With my favorite albums being Astral Weeks and TB Sheets – I drew inspirations from each as I painted free-hand.

The project did not take too long to completely – I actually finished in about 3-days, with a total of 8-hours of work under my belt. I mean, it is definitely no Kjags original Doors jacket, but it's pretty darn close – and overall, I am pretty happy with the result. It definitely has me thinking about its future – like, if could I start a small business making them. I do love it, and I work quickly, so maybe? But, for now I am just excited to have a new piece in my wardrobe and to have had the chance to focus on something I love.

New Chapters of Being Beer Drunk

Last weekend, in traditional Bayville 4th of July fashion, I drank way too many PBRs, had too many conversations I will never remember, allegedly saw some fireworks, fell-off a diving board, slept on a kitchen table, ate a record breaking amount of linguine and red velvet cake with my bare hands, went to the beach and did not answer a single email.

So I was pretty thrown when a guy I grew up with jokingly told me how he thought that I thought I was too good for this place. In his defense, he did not really mean it, or at least not in its full veracity - it was said jokingly with a smile and easy eyes while drinking. In the moment I made a joke of it, however, it settled with me and a week back here - I am still thinking about it.

Maybe it is because its an idea I’ve been thinking and exploring a lot lately: the idea of having a life with new people and passions – surpassing accepted norms – and to what extent does that take you away from where you came from. My most recent play, SonnyBoy, asks – does finding a new you force you to let go of your roots? I mean you have to let go of some to make room for the new, right? Only keep what’s important? – but at the same time these choices would not exist if it was not for where you started. And even when you make room for the new – you are still a culmination of all the old experiences both good and bad – unless some Clive Wearing shit happens to you, but doubtful.

…LIKE BABIES are so incredibly frightening because they are these little blank slate alien creatures who eventually become at minimum semi-functioning adults with lots of hair and problems, but none of that would happen if it was not for where you came from. If you did not have your roots – if you were not raised by certain people, in a particular environment with relative experiences. For me – I was raised in a family of hardworking, honest people. We had cats, dogs, lizards, a back yard, bikes, scooters, stitches, BBQs, relatives, and most importantly responsibilities. We were taught hard work pays off and that some will have to work harder than others. These roots are intertwined with memories of the most caring friends I have ever known, and vicious fights, and boyfriends, and boys that were not boyfriends, and drinking, and family that lived around to corner. I have experienced having tough skin and quick whit, running from the cops, being fucked over, people fucking up, people being intolerant and people getting stuck.

These are my roots. This is what I have to stand on - they have been dug deep, planted and nurtured and thus, can now flourish. Yes, they still affect my everyday – the way I see others,  jobs I take on, relationships I build,  decisions I make, my predilection for certain types of men, my habits, my work ethic and my passions. I am still a person who prefers beer, loves the beach, hates shoes and underwear, can curse like sailor, thinks men should fix things, works hard and puts community before most things. But right now, I am also a person who has discovered there is more for me than where I began. I want to challenge myself and take risks – surpass what is normal. I want to embrace those who are different than me and learn from them – to make a bunch of small differences in the people I meet and jobs I have. I want to have a career that is not centered around money and weekends off – and to truly do what I love.

So maybe I come off as different, but never too good. There is no such thing. I am living a new chapter – but I am still what I come from just as much as I am what is coming next. 

Coffee Colors and Change

I used to drink coffee different, really different. Cream and sugar - Coffee-mate and Domino Sugar. That was how I liked my coffee, so that was how I drank it. Light and sweet, please. Only light and sweet. It was how I kicked off my days - how I started each and every morning: a freshly brewed cup of milky-caramel colored coffee. It was ritual, it was consistent, what I enjoyed and most of all what I knew.

Now, I drink it black. I don't remember the day I started drinking black coffee. It was not a momentous occasion, nor something to brag about. I didn't throw it up on the Instagram with a set of prayer hand emojis and some absurd hashtag. No, in all honestly - it happened over a course of years with tons of consistent small choices to use a little less.

Change is funny like that. It's usually not singular or simple. It most definitely does not happen while we are sleeping or daydreaming or wishing or hoping or wanting. It is continuous hard work and effort. It comes from choice and acting on decisions only we can make. Change is a living breathing creature who rests in the depths of our stomaches where it battles circumstance and complacency. Forcing us beyond a zone of familiarity, pushing and breaking our boundaries into new normals, where once again we must fight to choose and thus change. We commit to change because something is worth the time... or in other cases not worth the time. Change is evolving.

For me, starting this blog about god knows what is a change - it's a choice and a challenge and pretty damn frightening. Honestly, I am not even sure I want to conquer this monster, but I have this odd feeling I should. I guess it's something I'll have to work at a little each day - just a new challenge to turn into some black coffee.