Third Thoughts

Excuse me for a moment while I get a little meta and blog about my blog. I've inhabited this same small corner of the web since late 2006, and this is its third "reboot" after a prolonged absence. Each time, I've toyed with the idea of starting fresh with a shiny new blog, but each time I decide against it. For one thing, some extremely deep-seated aspect of my character rebels at any sort of redundancy. It's why I don't use Twitter (redundant to Facebook status updates), why I figured out how to transfer balances between Starbucks gift cards so I wouldn't have to carry more than one, and why, if I ever fulfill my dream of getting an iPhone, I will immediately ditch my iPod and camera. In general, I like my life to take up as little space as possible.

There's another reason, though. I like continuity. I'm the sort of person who periodically goes back and reads every journal she's ever written in. Yes, sometimes reading the thoughts of my former self produces a feeling similar to nails on a chalkboard, but that person was me, too. Except in the most egregious cases, I'm not interested in hiding it. So please, feel free to get acquainted with Hallie the college freshman, who wrote a lengthy and impassioned article on how to wear a bra. Even though I've since ditched bras entirely, it's still one of my most-trafficked posts. 

The same year, I wrote a preachy rant about the fashion industry, in which I complained about "fashion statements that ought to be censored" and labeled girls who dress in revealing clothes "tart" (not to mention the judgmental comment that "if you're going to wear a practically nonexistent shirt, at least go back and read my bra rant - there are some things we don't want to see"). I have since learned the word for what I was doing. It's called slut-shaming, and if you -- like I did -- think it's just fine to judge women for how they present their bodies, please go read this amazing speech right now. I cried. No, the judgmental impulse in the back of my mind that goes "wow, that skirt is too short" has not immediately shut up. But I'm working on it.

And that's why I keep this blog around. Just like my third-grade diary with the heart-shaped lock, it keeps track of who I've been and who I'm becoming. Even better than a paper journal, this blog lets me self-annotate -- when I figure out that an old version of me was wrong about something, I can turn right around and tell her so. That means, as this blog continues to age, the "meta" tag will probably get more and more use. Read on, and watch the evolution happen.

Sharp Edges and Fiddly Bits

Last week, I had the honor of giving an address at Upper School Awards Evening. I talked about my experience as a Saint Michael's student: finding a home there, going out into the wide world, and coming back as a teacher. In my effort to convey the uniqueness of the Saint Michael's experience, my metaphors meandered through fishponds and geometric objects, and the phrase "sharp edges and fiddly bits" really did occur. Several times. 

Upper School Awards -- May 26, 2011 

It’s been five years, almost to the day, since the last time I stood at a podium to address the Saint Michael’s Upper School student body. It was commencement, and I was delivering the valedictory address. Five years ago, we didn’t have this chapel. I was looking out over my friends and classmates from the lectern at Saint Andrew’s church, but the view from here is almost identical. It seems aptly symbolic of my return to Saint Michael’s: the scenery is different from where I stand now, as a teacher rather than a student, but everything feels wonderfully familiar. 

Armchair Activism

I've been signing petitions on Change.org for a while now -- at first I wasn't convinced it could possibly make a difference, but their Victories page says otherwise. If nothing else, I find out about things I care about but would rarely hear about.

Well, I read about Old Navy's new line of Pride shirts on afterellen.com a few days ago, and then I came across this article today, and I got a little frustrated. Apparently, gay pride is only marketable in 26 stores out of Old Navy's 1000+ locations in the U.S. Apparently, my identity and equality are commodities that are only a safe economic bet among less than 3% of Old Navy's customers, and they couldn't even extend the line's availability to their online store. Personally, I find this offensive.

So I decided to take my armchair activism up a notch and actually write my own petition. If I've done it right, it will arrive in the email inbox, not only of Old Navy's customer service department, but of the CEO of Gap Inc., which owns Old Navy. I didn't want to be obnoxious and email-blast my friends (clearly I have no such compunctions about the owners of Gap and Old Navy), but if you have a second and would like to sign, it would be much appreciated. You can sign below, or find the petition here.

Change.org|Start an Online Petition »

Cross-posted from my Livejournal.

The Bra Rant 2.0

Back in the day, when this blog was shiny and new, I wrote about how everyone is wearing the wrong bra. I prefaced that post with a "girls only!" caveat, but now I think everyone should read it, whether the breasts in your life belong to you or someone you know. In the past few years, more and more people seem to be jumping on the "80% of women wear an improperly fitting bra" bandwagon, so I've found myself a new cause to adopt. This one goes "everyone is wearing a bra, and that's just wrong."

I don't wear bras. I have donned one perhaps twice in the past six months, for fashion reasons relating to particular outfits, but in general I would not be caught dead in one. Now, I'm not a bra-burning feminist or anything; my old bras are languishing in a dresser drawer, filed with my other purely-optional fashion accessories. There are many reasons to abandon bras altogether, but for me it is a matter of comfort. I have chronic headaches, and nothing guarantees a migraine like the pressure a bra puts on your back, neck and shoulders (yes, even the properly fitting ones). I go bra-free because it makes me happy.

In case you were concerned, I am in no way endangering my health by abandoning the brassiere, any more than modern women's organs are in danger of going unsupported by our lack of corset. According to brafree.org, one of the only anti-bra websites maintained by a bonafide medical doctor, there is no medical benefit to wearing a bra, and if you stop to think about it, has anyone ever really claimed there is? I always assumed bra-wearing was a necessity because that is the implicit message girls receive, but I don't recall anybody ever telling me why. We do it because it's socially acceptable, which brings me to my next point.

Those Who Can, Teach

I'm auditing a class this semester called "Education in the USA" and, despite the fact that it's not one of my "real" classes, I probably spend more time thinking about it than even my thesis. It is a thought-provoking class in every way, but one of the best things it has done for me personally is alleviate the persistent guilt I have carried around for years about wanting to be a teacher. We've all heard the maxim "those who can't do, teach" (and those who can't teach, teach P.E.) -- laughingly, but with the understanding that yes, we actually believe it. It has been both implied and explicitly stated throughout my education that my turning around and becoming a teacher would simply be "a waste," and many of my high-achieving friends have received similar messages -- most often, ironically, from our teachers. A professor in France told me point-blank that I should be aspiring to much more. When I was in the process of applying to Teach for America (to which I was not accepted), I felt I had to defend it by driving home the point that it was only for two years, and that if I ever did make teaching a career, I would do something "real" first. While I still think there are advantages to teachers' gaining experiences other than teaching, I am now in a much better position to refute the assumption that teaching is somehow a substandard career choice.