Why I'm Basically a Cactus

*she's

Man, last year was great. Remember last year? I started Becoming Me. I was feeling more alive and connected—to myself, my friends, the Earth, the Lord—than ever before. I felt like a garden beginning to become lush and beautiful and ready to bear fruit. I felt joyful. I felt all the fruits of the spirit, really.

Summer has always been my season. I love hot weather. I love lakes and pools and summer clothes. I love dusty, red, Southern dirt. I love those really loud frogs at night. For some reason I love that intense, hot, tingly, tummy-tightening feeling of the sun hitting you and just, like, frying into you. I love thunderstorms.

Summer is intense, and I love intense. It ignites my imagination. It makes me write and grow.

I'm basically a cactus, I guess? Some people find me cute and cool; some people are like "why would you want that in your house"; definitely don't touch me; loves heat and the sun; has very specific needs, but the main one is To Be Left Alone; sometimes produces pretty flowers but they look kind of unnatural and out of character.

Long story short: I am a cactus and apparently summertime is when I do my most growing and thinking and Becoming. However, lately, in sharp contrast to this time last year, I have not been feeling "one hundred," as the kids say. I've been feeling decidedly worse.

I don't think I lost any quantifiable "progress" I may have made last year. I'm still a quasi-minimalist, I still use reusable bags, I'm still mega into the Enneagram, etc. I just feel worse.

I have too much going on inside, and I can't sort it out until I organize it on the outside. About forty seconds ago, I thought this was going to be one colossal, disorganized post. However, in simply siting down to write, my brain was able to get its crap together long enough to tell me what seven or so things are festering inside me, and each thing is definitely a post on its own.

I know that personal growth isn't ever linear, so I'm not worried and I don't feel like I'm regressing as a human. It's just ironic that this time last year, I was feeling so good and so new, and a year later I'm sitting here feeling so cluttered and so stressed.

But I know of two things will help:

1) Jesus

2) Writing it down

So brace yourself for Season 2 of Becoming Me:

Core Beliefs

Centering Prayer

Anxiety as a Body Type

Vulnerability Thoughts Part...4?

How DnD Might Be Helping Me Grow

Southern Pride

Politics and Christianity

~Stephanie

Racism: The First Step

For some reason I've been attempting to process all that has been happening in my head instead of in writing, which we all know doesn't work for me.

I care deeply and I've been wanting to say more, but I'm exhausted. I only know two ways to feel: all or nothing. The "all" was keeping me awake at night, giving me chest pains, and making me shaky. Every day is something new. Every day is some difference injustice, some other constitutional violation, some new threat to freedom.

But this morning, a couple of things hit me:

1) This may be how people of color feel 100% of the time.
2) If God gave me a love and ability for writing, then the worst thing I can do is sit on it when real things come up.

I'm not here to defend my character or be sure that you know my opinions on every facet of this issue. >deleted sentences that amounted to exactly that< If you want to go in-depth, let's get coffee and chat sometime. You know discussion is my love language.

It has taken me an embarrassingly long time to begin to see the racism situation for what it might be.

Do you remember Formspring? It was around when I was like a freshman and sophomore in high school, and it was a platform where your Facebook friends could anonymously ask you questions, you'd answer them, and they'd appear on like a rolling profile page. It was mostly used for trying to get your crush to think about you Differently, but one question and answer by a white "friend" has stuck with me for a decade:

Q: Would you ever date a black guy?
A: No, sorry, I'm not racist, it's just the way I was raised.

I remember thinking, "Wait, that is absolutely racist. What does that even mean? How can you think that's not racist? Are people raising their children not to date black people?!"

That, at age fifteen, was my first recognized brush with racism. A decade and a half on the earth, and the first time I experienced racism was as the most passive of passive observers.

And somehow I still didn't think racism was a real problem.

Some people have said that while personal racism, like the above, is disgusting and may exist, institutional racism is a myth. I can't speak to this from experience, but I think that on paper, that may be true; there may be no racist laws anymore.

Here's the thing though: as long as there is personal racism, there will be institutional racism, because people run the institutions. There ARE racist teachers. There ARE racist politicians. There ARE racist cops. It's not so much that we need to work on racist laws anymore, but racist people.

I can tell you the real turning point in my opinion of racism, and it is both ridiculous and profound.

It was walking in on Gabe watching the TV show Luke Cage a couple of years ago. I remember passing through the living room and watching for a few minutes. I kind of frowned and an absentminded thought floated through my head:

Why is everyone black?

The thought exploded into my consciousness and I made Gabe pause the show.

"They're all black," I said to him. He stared at me.

"Yeah?"

"And it struck me as weird," I continued. "My knee jerk reaction was, 'Why aren't there some white characters?'" I couldn't believe was was unfolding inside my head. "Do you know how many TV shows I've watched where everyone was white and it never even occurred to me? It didn't seem weird. It didn't seem anything. It was just the default. I see ten minutes of Luke Cage and..."

That was when it started to make sense.

The world IS different for me because I'm white. That's not my fault and I don't need to feel personal guilt for being born into this skin or what my ancestors may have done. However it IS my fault that I refused to see this sooner, and I SHOULD feel guilty if I don't fight for real equality.

I said REAL equality. Not just equality under the law, but equality that extends to dating, media, institutions, and everything in between.

Was the murder of George Floyd "racist," or just cruel? We can all have opinions on that, and the truth is, we will probably never know. But I think that might be just the disgusting, tragic tip of the iceberg.

There IS a problem. You might disagree about what it is exactly, but there IS a problem.

I'm sorry it took me so long to admit it, but I'm really glad that first step is over.

~ Stephanie

P.S. I know this can be really obnoxious and I AM trying to work on it, but the way I naturally understand things better is to challenge them and play devil's advocate. If we end up talking and I push on your ideas in a way that seems "wrong," just push back (logically). I want to understand.

5 Thoughts on Pan(ic)demic Homeschooling from a Homeschooled Kid

This post started because I wanted to share the video at the end and couldn't come up with a succinct caption. I had too many thoughts vying for center stage. I expect the result is going to be something far too long for a Facebook caption, but unusually short for a Reason in the Rhyme post.*

If you don't want to read all this, at least watch the video at the end XD It's less than five minutes long.

Thought #1: On one hand, I don't have kids, so I don't feel that it's my place to philosophize on the merits of homeschooling.

I always worry that if I make a pro-homeschooling post, parents are going to roll their eyes, curl their lips, or (EVEN WORSE) just keep scrolling because what could I know? I'm a millennial idealist without children. I should JUST WAIT til I actually have kids.

On the other hand, I was homeschooled. I don't know how hard it is from a parent standpoint, but I know how beneficial it was in the long run as a student. Did I go through phases of wanting to go to "real school"? Of course I did. Thankfully, my parents didn't let a hormonal fourteen-year-old call the shots in the family. I wanted to go to "real school" so that I could test if I would be "popular," have a locker, complain about homework, and go to a really scandalous, raunchy prom.

Instead, I was forced to make deep, meaningful friendships based around timeless, identity-shaping ideas; keep my books fifty feet from my bedroom; not have any homework ever (because you get all your work done in the normal school hours); and go to both a cute, slightly boring prom AND a really scandalous, raunchy prom (for better or worse, homeschoolers can actually go to regular high school proms as guests of students there).

I also learned how to pace myself, self-motivate, juggle deadlines and big projects, think logically, read difficult literature, break down subjects I found challenging, blah, blah, blah, now I have the skills to learn anything—different post ;)

Thought #2: I know homeschooling doesn't sound feasible for families where both parents work.

Again, I don't have kids. However, it is possible to homeschool even when both parents work. I bet if I Googled "homeschooling both parents work" I would get tons of advice and plans and suggestions.

Yep. Just did, and I did.

Also, *ahem*: YOU'RE MAKING IT WORK RIGHT NOW, AREN'T YOU? :)

Thought #3: I hope that parents who are hating public school homeschooling realize that if they did regular homeschooling, it might not be as terrible.

When you homeschool, you don't have to follow someone else's lesson plan. You CAN; if you don't WANT to write a lesson plan, there are HUNDREDS out there, and you can do them at your own pace. There are plans that involve videos. There are plans that don't involve videos. There are plans that involve lots of worksheets. There are plans that involve no worksheets. There are expensive plans, and free plans.

Thought #4: There really are lots of options.

You can even combine some plans that involve videos AND some that don't, AND some worksheets but not others. You can make school work for your family in a way that a public school teacher can't. (Even though he or she might genuinely want to, the plan that helps Johnny thrive is going to drive Susan insane, and some kind of compromise must be implemented for everyone.)

Who knows your kids better than you do? Who loves them more than you do? Who has their best interest at heart more than you do?

There are hundreds of cheap or free co-ops where your kids can mingle with other kids and learn about whatever subjects the parents feel like teaching.

There are also programs like the one I work for, Classical Conversations, where your kids actually meet in "classes" and are "taught" one day a week, given their assignments for the other four days, and do them with their families (with tons of online and in-person support).

(Thought #4.5: Public schools may have to cut down on class sizes post-pandemic? Classical Conversations' class sizes aren't supposed to exceed 8 for the younger elementary grades, 16 for the upper elementary grades, and 12 for middle and high school.)

Thought #5: There are solutions for the problem that arises when "THERE ARE LOTS OF OPTIONS."

In this day and age, you can find blog reviews and watch YouTube videos and get word-of-mouth advice as easy as breathing. Do a bit of research, then just pick something and try it for a year. Again again, I know I don't have kids, but my hunch is that one year of ANY curriculum is not going to ruin your child beyond repair. If it doesn't work, you can change it for next year.

Alrighty. *cough* Well. Here is the video I wanted to post.




~Stephanie

* It is not. It is a regular post size XD

Venting

I feel so bitter these days. Not every second of every day, to be sure. I have moments where I feel joyful or make someone laugh. But on the whole, all the things that have always annoyed me about the world seem to be increasing—in frequency and intensity.

I don't know how to explain it. It makes me want to stop being friends with a lot of people. It makes me want to stay off the internet forever. It makes me want to snap pencils in half. It makes me want to throw open my mind and spew things and watch people be taken aback (which, really, is probably just a restatement of that first desire.)

I feel angry a lot. The body-center kind of angry, where your heart beats faster and your hands tingle. The kind of anger that literally keeps me up at night. The kind of anger that can make a difference—for good OR evil, but mostly I feel the evil.

Lately I've had people complain to me about things that they're brought on themselves—I mean, just hand-over-fist, dragged those things off shelves directly above their heads and stood underneath them to watch them fall. As hypocritical as it is, I have a lot of trouble feeling sorry for people who have brought their troubles on themselves. For a person who brings many things upon herself, I have shockingly little sympathy. (Maybe that's why? Not that it makes it any less hypocritical, but maybe I lack sympathy due to the "takes one to know one" effect.)

I have trouble talking to people who complain about things they've brought on themselves. In these situations I feel physically incapable of speaking insincerely, so that leaves me saying a lot of non-committal half-truths punctuated with "LOLs." I don't want to be mean. I don't want to be ungracious. I think about all the things I've brought on myself that Jesus has loved me through and taken me back after. But somehow I still can't think of anything to say to these people that feels kind and gracious AND true.

I've also recently been the recipient of the ol' high school trick where someone passive aggressively calls you out in a disparaging Facebook status. As an Eight, I have a complicated relationship with other people's opinion of me. In one very true way, I do not care what people think of me. It is not important to me to be liked by everyone. But on the other hand, injustice makes me seethe. Unfair, disrespectful assumptions bother me, not because I care what people think, per se, but because it's WRONG; in this case, it reflects something wrong about the person who posted it, not me, and yet the person doesn't see that irony. I find this maddening.

I've also seen posts berating people for occasionally breaking the six-feet-apart guideline. The posts demand that people stop being so selfish and take initiative by always staying six feet apart. On the surface, that doesn't sound like an unreasonable request. However, when you think about it playing out in reality, it just doesn't work.

Say I'm on a bicycle and I see someone ahead of me on the sidewalk. I can't pass them because I'd be closer than six feet, so I cross the street to pass—oh wait, there are people walking on that sidewalk too, and, in THEIR effort to stay six feet away from ME, they panic/stop in their tracks/cross the street, where—uh-oh, they're in danger of being too close to the person I was trying to avoid, and the person I was trying to avoid has to run ahead to give these new people room, but then she gets too close to the person ahead of her on the sidewalk—

It is a nice thought. But in reality, you cannot expect people never to break the six-feet-apart rule. If you are so concerned about your personal safety, definitely wear a mask, stay home, precautions. But if every individual person is supposed to rearrange himself for every individual person, we're just gonna collide even worse—and no one will reach their destination.

Although it doesn't feel directly related, I wouldn't be surprised if this bitter, pent-up feeling is a side effect of quarantine. With two or three exceptions, I haven't seen anyone but Gabe in about eight weeks. I'm beginning to feel permanently disconnected from the aspects of humanity that I actually like. I'm watching as Americans become brainwashed into believing that anyone who stands up for his or her freedom is selfish. There is no other way to put that. We are being brainwashed into believing that standing up for your freedom is selfish. If your reaction to that statement is any form of, "Well, YEAH, wanting to go out in the middle of a pandemic/wanting businesses to be allowed to stay open/etc. IS selfish," then it sounds like you've already drunk the Kool-Aid.

Loving your neighbor by choosing to stay home, wear a mask, and keep your distance is a beautiful, godly decision. Embracing the government's authority to FORCE you to do those things is frightening, un-American, and dangerous. It is not selfish to want to make your own decisions.

I'm going to try to do a better job of giving this all to God. Clearly I'm currently doing a horrible job. I hope getting this out has been in some way therapeutic for me as well. It's been a long time coming.

~Stephanie

I Don't Want to Change the World Anymore

I'm not sure where this post is going. Some good posts have started out feeling like this, but a lot of others have ended up deleted. We shall see where this one goes.

I like to think of myself as a very reasonable, logical person—almost to a fault, at times. I have trouble empathizing. I don't usually care how people FEEL if it flies in the face of reason. I am a very black-and-white person.

When I was in eleventh grade, I studied American history, philosophy, and formal logic in the same semester. We dived deep into concepts like economics and Christianity. We constructed intense, rational arguments to defend our well-developed opinions. We memorized famous speeches that made us proud of being Americans, that made us want to change the world. We were going to change the world, and we declared as much to the adults in our lives.

In my memory, we were met with a lot of raised eyebrows and nods accompanied by smug looks. Sure, the expressions seemed to say. I remember when I thought I was gonna change the world. You'll grow out of it eventually. Their looks offended me and made me all the more determined to speak truth in a way that would make people listen.

I went to college to become a lawyer. I wanted to fight for justice using passion and logic. I wanted to persuade the world of what I knew to be true based on logic, history, morality. However, after an especially tedious class, I realized that becoming a lawyer was NOT the way I wanted to do that with my life. I became an English major instead, because what good are logic, history, and morality if you can't communicate them effectively?

I graduated in 2016. Election year. For all humans who had to endure that year while on a college campus, I want to offer my deepest condolences. If I hadn't already high-tailed it out of political science, that would've done it for me. Twenty-sixteen made me so glad I had evacuated the world of academic politics. To defend myself against accusations of racism, sexism, and bigotry from people who clearly must not know me was exhausting in a way that makes my soul feel tired just remembering it.

Back in high school, I loved to debate. I loved it so much that I would—and I am NOT kidding—seek out YouTube videos that went against my beliefs and engage in comment wars with strangers for DAYS. I would defend my beliefs about anything to anyone, and thoroughly enjoy myself. It might make me sad and frustrated and incredulous that some people wouldn't see the reason in what I argued, but it never discouraged me.

Now, I am tired.

Now, I understand the raised eyebrows and smug looks of the adults I encountered when I was seventeen.

It kind of makes me want to cry. It kind of makes me want to throw chairs against walls. It kind of makes me want to refuse to talk to anyone who believes differently than I do.

I feel very "done" these days. I'm done trying to get some people to see reason, and they're probably feeling the same way about me. I don't know that my logical persuasion has ever once convinced someone to change his or her opinion, and I don't know whose fault that is. Is it mine, because I'm not empathetic and winsome enough? Is it hers, because she refuses to see the error in her reasoning? Is it mine, because I'm too rigid and old-fashioned in my beliefs? Is it his, because he bases his argument on emotion? Is it mine, because I'm wrong but stubborn? Is it his, because he's wrong but stubborn?

I don't know. I'll probably never know. All I know is that talking about it does not seem to work, although I know that's what we're supposed to do. We're supposed to keep an open dialogue, be willing to listen—really listen—to people who think differently than us.

But I can tell you right now that I do not see myself changing any of my fundamental beliefs. How can I expect someone else to? *shrug* I guess I can't.

At this point, I don't want to change the world anymore; I just want to keep myself from going crazy. That seems like a big enough bite to chew these days.

Hopefully soon—now that I'm beginning to admit and process these thoughts and feelings—I will have a more encouraging, Christ-like update. Until then, don't expect me to join any comment wars.

~Stephanie

How One Line in the Christopher Robin Movie Changed Me

"What is your favorite movie?"

Until the summer of 2018, I would experience the same gentle exasperation and uncertainty as most people do when they hear this question. I am kind of a Leslie Knope when it comes to having passion and opinions ("You have an opinion on pockets"), but I did not have a favorite movie. I'd ask you to specify a genre (fantasy?) or a quality (funniest?), and even then I'd probably give you my top three to five.

But then came...

The Christopher Robin movie.

I've seen it three times (not a lot, I know, but it's important to me that I don't EVER risk getting tired of it) and cried between four and seven times with each viewing.

However, this isn't actually a review of Christopher Robin; it's a post highlighting one teeny, tiny line in the movie that has tumbled around in my head for a year, begging to have a spotlight shone on it. It might be the line that hit me the hardest, caused me to give a quiet gasp and--duh--tear up.

(I don't think this line is a spoiler for normal people, so I'm just going to talk freely about it, but if you haven't seen the movie and feel the way I do about spoilers [special circle of Hell], maybe don't read this?)

It happens when Christopher Robin and Winnie the Pooh are sneaking around outside, trying to get away unnoticed by Christopher's wife and daughter. (Pooh has never seen Christopher's family.) As Christopher and Pooh tiptoe under the kitchen window, Pooh looks in and sees Christopher Robin's wife, Evelyn.

We all know what a character says when he sees the hero's girl for the first time. "She's beautiful!" It's a given; we practically hear the line before it's said aloud.

But Pooh sees Evelyn, and says, in his husky little voice, "She looks very kind."

That is the compliment Pooh gives. That is his observation. I had seen the line's set up and assumed what Pooh would say with so much certainty that to hear "She looks very kind" actually caused my brain to pull up short and stare.

Then I realized how sad and backwards our culture must still be for me to have made that assumption.

In one line, Christopher Robin taught me that 1) physical beauty is still what we expect to be commented on, 2) innocence and character see past that, and 3) one can "look very kind."

I hope that I can cultivate a spirit such that when people see me, their first thought isn't about my physical appearance, but about whether or not I look very kind.

Excuse me, I need to go get a tissue.

~Stephanie

In Response to Lori Alexander's "Men Prefer Debt-Free Virgins Without Tattoos"

After the initial blink of shock and small pinch of indignation at the post's title, my knee-jerk reaction was,

"Because a woman's goal in life is to be preferable to men?!"

As a woman, the post's title offended me. But as I read, the body of the post offended me as a Christ-follower.

As a lover of lists and logic, I feel I won't be able to rest until I respond, tackling each of this woman's "points," which are really a collection of statements sitting atop a veritable mountain of ridiculous and unspoken assumptions.

Alexander's first paragraph is a prime example of such assumptions: "Do you know how much more attractive debt-free virgins (without tattoos) are to young men? Unfortunately, there are so few of these types of young women anymore because of the high costs of college (debt) and sexual promiscuity even within those in the church. As believers in Jesus Christ, we need to live in a way that is pleasing to Him because His ways are the best."

Main Assumption 1: All men find the same type of woman attractive. To some men I'm sure debt-free virgins without tattoos are most attractive. However, I bet there are more men out there who prefer debt-free virgins WITH tattoos, or debt-free women of any experience with no tattoos, or don't mind debt but want to be a woman's first, or don't care about debt or virginity or tattoos.

Main Assumption 2 (which she leans on more heavily later): College necessarily equal debt. Yes, the cost of college has risen (thanks, big government), but that does not mean all college graduates have debt. Because of my parents' incredible generosity and sacrifice, my sister and I are both getting a college education and will have NO debt because of it. Many people--even some women *gasp*--work to put themselves through college with no debt.

Alexander then completely changes the scope of the article from "living in a way that is pleasing to Christ" or even "why men prefer debt-free virgins without tattoos" to "reasons that women shouldn't go to college." (She never even touches on the tattoo thing.) Talk about a bait and switch! And talk about building a case on an assumption that isn't even true.

The first reason that women shouldn't go to college is because men prefer debt-free women. So, pretty much a restatement of Assumptions 1 and 2.

The second reason women shouldn't go to college is because college-educated women are unlikely to stay home and raise their children because they want to pay off debt and use their degree. I would like to point to the hundreds of women I work with who not only went to college and stay home with their children but actually home educate their children. Oh, and lots of them have careers too. College does not make women less likely to stay home with their children. The desire either to stay home or not is present in a woman's mind before she gets her four-year degree. If she wants to stay home, she will, regardless of her education level.

The next reason why women shouldn't go to college made both me and my husband (Wait, what? I found a good, godly husband despite my college education, past experiences, and tattoo?!) gasp out loud: "The husband will need to take years teaching his wife the correct way to act, think, and live since college taught them every possible way that is wrong."

This makes my blood boil. First of all, husband, if you have to "teach your wife" how to be a person, then she's probably not ready for marriage. It is not a husband's job to raise his wife; that is the job of parents, the potential wife herself, and--oh yeah--GOD. Sure, as kids (male and female) grow up, they need people guiding them in HOW to act, think, and live until they've mastered the skills and logic to conduct themselves well. However, even after Alexander's implication that wives begin as clueless, uncouth children, she is really implying that the husband should teach his wife WHAT to think.

How are women supposed to love the Lord their God with all their hearts, souls, minds, and strengths if they are not allowed to use their own minds and strengths? (I'm sure there's an argument to be made here that the "strength" of women is only in child-rearing and cooking. I don't believe that, but even if it were true, what about the "with all their minds" part?)

Next reason women shouldn't go to college: "They will start having babies later in life. That is if they can still conceive naturally." Sorry, I forgot that a woman's eggs dry up and fall off her uterus at age twenty-two. *insert eyeroll emoji*

The fifth reason why women shouldn't go to college is because they lose valuable years of learning to cook large meals. To be honest, I cooked more in college than I did at home (not that that's saying much). And a lot of the time, cooking large meals is a matter of being able to double or triple a recipe. Of course, that requires math. Wait, are women allowed to do math?

Alexander goes on to say that "young women learn nothing about biblical womanhood or what it takes to run a home when they go to college." First of all, this can depend on what college a woman attends. There are such things as "Christian colleges," although maybe Alexander sees that as an oxymoron. Second, Alexander isn't insisting that college doesn't teach biblical womanhood, but that for some reason women are INCAPABLE of learning biblical principles when they go to college. Is it because our minds aren't strong enough to withstand cultural influences? Or because we aren't clever enough to seek out edifying Bible studies? Third, I feel like I learned a lot about how to run a home while in college. For the first time, I had no one reminding me to clean my room or the bathroom, or to eat enough veggies, or spend my money wisely, or remember to buy more toilet paper. Are you kidding me, Alexander? College is literally the time in your life when you DO learn how to "run a (mini version of a) home."

Alexander then talks about how women should live with their parents and work from home and stay under the protection of her father until she's transferred to her husband's keeping. Whatever. I don't care if a girl chooses to live at home or not, and fathers do offer some protection. None of that is sufficient reason not to go to college.

And lastly, the other gasp-inducer: "Most girls have not read the Bible with their father (Ephesians 6:4) or husband to explain to them (1 Corinthians 14:35)." I'm wondering if the original author threw these verses in hoping that no one would actually investigate them, because they are

"Fathers, do not exasperate your children; instead bring them up in the training and instruction of the Lord." (Ephesians 6:4)

and

"If [women] want to inquire about something, they should ask their own husbands at home; for it is disgraceful for a woman to speak in the church." (1 Corinthians 14:35)

At first glance, that second one could be pretty damning, I guess, but the first one? "Dads, don't be annoying. Lead the family in a godly way." How do you get "women can't read the Bible for themselves" from that?

In 1 Corinthians 14:35, scholars believe that Paul was referring to some specific kind of inquiry or speech of women. Earlier in chapter 11, he both references women prophesying in church and says that women should have a symbol of authority on their own heads, so clearly he isn't against women having a voice in church.

(In all honesty, chapter 11 has some puzzling passages, but one of them ends with this great equalizer: "For as woman came from man, so also man is born of woman. But everything comes from God." Boom.)

Back to the original point that women need their husbands to explain the Bible to them: No. God gave me a brain and a will of my own. I will use the brain to understand the Word myself, and the will to study and apply it. Is it important to discuss scripture with your spouse? Of course! But not so that the woman can have the Word interpreted for her like she's a peasant in the Dark Ages and her husband is a controlling Catholic priest. You study the Word together so that both man and woman can learn from each other, digging deeper and sharpening each other as iron.

Closing Thoughts:

I am deeply saddened and offended that there are people out there who believe God created women to be silent, subservient shells of humans. How rude is that to our Creator? To say that he made half the population brainless and spineless and do-less? What about all the strong biblical heroines? What about the command to love the Lord your God with all your heart, soul, mind, and strength?

What's more, Alexander implies that women are only worthy and godly when they are either married or trying to be married. Is appealing to men really the highest calling a woman has? What about living in a way pleasing to God? What about the TONS of verses that SPECIFICALLY warn against living to please men/other people? (Galatians 1:10, John 5:41-44, 1 Thessalonians 2:4, Luke 16:15, et cetera.)

Lastly, while marriage is good and created by God, it is not actually necessary for a good and godly life. Paul only even "concedes" to the notion of marriage. He says that in his opinion, it's better to be solo and focus on God. So, biblically, Mrs. Alexander, your argument fails again.

And now I'm going to go back to my life as a married, college-educated, debt-free, Bible-studying woman with a tattoo who can't wait to have kids, stay home to raise and educate them, and continue the career for which God has given her passion.

~Stephanie

Some strange mixture of sadness and apathy. Cloudiness, dimness, drained. My soul is tired and bruised. I think "What can I do? What can I do to make myself feel better?" I don't expect an answer, but I get one. It floats across my mind and I feel my soul lift its head, like it's hopeful.

Metal music.

It's exactly the thing, so perfect I don't even hesitate to get my earbuds. Even in this state of heaviness, my body moves easily for my music.

I put in the earbuds, connect my phone, and hear the first few notes. I smile. My soul unfolds in a way that feels like stretching, blooming. The ragged melodies fit into the rough edges of my heart and complement them, making me feel whole. It's beautiful, and the music and I rise together, on a journey. It's complicated, but so controlled, so planned. Wild, but guided. I let the music tell me what to feel, and as the music resolves into its key, I resolve with it.

inspired by As I Lay Dying, An Ocean Between Us
"Separation," last 1:15 of "This is Who We Are"
favorite tracks:  "An Ocean Between Us," "Forsaken," "I Never Wanted"

PSA: Switching Birthdays

For years, Gabe and I have thought it was cool that our birthdays are exactly six months apart: mine is February 7th, his is August 7th. But I'm not sure how we started the conversation when we decided to switch birthdays.

It started as one of three conversations, which are also the three reasons we've decided to do it.

1: Our birthdays are in the wrong seasons.
I hate winter. I hate being cold. I hate the sun being far away. I hate the sun setting early. I hate cold and flu and stomach bug season. All growing up, I'd want to have fun outdoor birthday parties, but it would be thirty degrees, or it would snow and people couldn't come, or, like, the pool was closed because it was the dead of winter.

Gabe "hates" the summer. (I put it in quotes because he doesn't have enough malice of character to hate something properly like I do.) He hates being hot. He hates getting sunburned. He hates not being able to wear jeans all the time. He doesn't even like the beach. His favorite activities are brutal in the summertime: hiking, camping, bonfires and s'mores. Winter would be a great time of year for any version of his preferred birthday parties.

2: The gift-giving windows don't suit us personally.
I am not good at presents. (Some people will staunchly defend me and say that I give AMAZING presents. I don't know if that's true or not, but I DO know that any time I've given a gift that wasn't the amazingness of reused teabag, it took me MONTHS of planning and thinking and stressing and crying and wracking my brain and panicking. So, whether or not I "give amazing presents," I am not "good at presents." It is not one of my natural gifts. [Ha, pun.])

That being said, if Gabe and I go with our biological birthdays, I have to plan and think and stress and et cetera virtually ALL YEAR LONG. I stress from January to August about his birthday present, and August to December about his Christmas present. I would much rather just BAM: give him a present in December, and a present in February, and then I can relax until, like, August.

Gabe is insanely wonderful at presents. Giving gifts is the way he likes to show love to people. So, it was sad to him that he only got to give me anything during a little quarter-of-the-year window. If we switch birthdays, he gets to spread out the horror joy of gift giving all year.

3: We prefer each other's birthstones.
This one is pretty simple. My favorite color is green. His favorite is purple. August's birthstone is a peridot. February's is an amethyst. WHAT MORE OF A SIGN DID WE NEED?!

So, what does this mean for you, as a friend of one or both of us? Nothing, if you don't want it to. You can stick with our biological birthdays for all card- and gift-giving purposes if you wish. This is just an announcement to say that as far as WE are concerned, my birthday is now August 7th, and Gabe's is February 7th. We will give each other gifts on our new birthdays, and any birthday celebrations that we plan and execute will correspond to our new birthdays.

*happy sigh* I wouldn't want to (and couldn't) be this weird with anyone else. Happy almost birthday, Gabe ;)

Missing the Mold of Manners

We've been watching the old TV show Poirot. A brilliant, stout, impeccably polite detective (the Belgian Hercule Poirot) finds himself around complicated murders and proceeds to solve them through observation and conversation. He is the epitome of class, good manners, and gentle dry humor, and if he weren't an old guy, I'd have a crush on him. He's like a favorite uncle that I want everyone to meet.

The stories (based on Agatha Christie novels, which are even more excellent than the show) take place in the early twentieth century and mostly in Europe. As such, everyone is Just So. The men, even on their days off, wear three piece suits and carry themselves with perfect posture. They pay their debts, watch their language, and rise to their feet when ladies enter the room. The women exude poise, pride, and propriety to the point that it's palpable. Their dresses are flimsy and flowy and they wouldn't dream of leaving the house looking a wreck or failing to offer a guest tea.

I've also been using The Dick Van Dyke Show as my mindless, while-I-chop-veggies-for-salad show. (Gabe doesn't care for it, but I grew up watching reruns so it's basically comfort TV.) Though that takes place in the '50s, I think, it's got that same air of class. If people are invited to dinner, they put on a suit or a dress to attend. Men call for ladies at their houses for dates. Words are well-chosen and well-enunciated. Ladies sometimes wear gloves. Houses are neat. Everyone understands what's expected of them to do or say, or not do or not say. It's so...pretty. Life was pretty.

Now, I know I'm supposed to rage at the fact that in Poirot women are treated like dainty, delicate creatures who can't be exposed to nasty words, and in Dick Van Dyke, women are expected to do the housework and look nice for their husbands...but I don't. I just don't.

I wish I lived in one of those times. I just absolutely love the cultures. The more I watch stuff like this, the more I think we've gone too far in the opposite direction. In our quest for "realness," we've completely disregarded tact and presentation. In our quest for equality, we've demonized the idea of women being managers of the home. In our quest for expediency, we've neglected to foster healthy, precise vocabularies.

This paragraph here was originally me admitting that "of course, there are some things I'm glad I can do today that I wouldn't have been able to do in Poirot's day," but I couldn't even come up with anything besides "wear shorts," and I think dresses and skirts are more comfortable anyway. I guess I'd miss some modern medicines and plumbing. Yeah, that's definitely true. But to give up such amenities in return for Such Classiness sounds like a fair trade.

(Note: These thoughts are more about manners than societal/gender roles. That's a topic for another post.)

I wish people were still expected to behave well. Sure, it's easier not having to put your napkin in your lap or bring a hostess gift or stand when an older person walks in or say "Excuse me" when you leave a situation, but...just because it's easier doesn't mean it's better. I get that honesty, transparency, and genuineness are desirable qualities, but can't we still maintain some discretion? Obviously I want to be able to share my thoughts with my sister or husband or best friend even if said thoughts aren't polite or rosy, but maybe that's where we should draw the line, rather than spewing outright, inarticulate shade to anyone with ears.

Of course, even "back in the day" shade was thrown and insults were spoken (have you ever read a Jane Austen novel?), but it was done more subtly, and almost more fairly too, because people were more aware of expectations. If you did X, Y, or Z, you knew it was considered impolite; you opened the door to just criticism.

Some might say that's worse, that all the manners just made it easier to be phony and passive aggressive and prevented people from becoming fully themselves. But...hm. Maybe I'm just a sucker for appearances? Or maybe I'm a little bit right. I think when done correctly, the old manners don't just help you appear to be a prettier, better, politer person, they might actually help mold you into a one.

~Stephanie

*Asterisk*

I think it's time I told you something. Something that still makes me childishly giddy with happiness, something that makes me feel mysterious and unexpected, even five and a half months later. But first, some background.

I don't like female main characters*.
* Except Wonder Woman, whom I love.

I love Bojangles*.
* Though sometimes Bojangles makes me sick.

I hate Chinese food*.
* But PF Chang's is one of my favorite restaurants.

I love cats*.
* But unfortunately I'm allergic to them.

I hate flowers*.
* But I actually love orchids.

I hate gray area*.
* Although I do rely on and often seek out gray areas.

I'm terrible at directions*.
* Except inexplicably in Italy. I never get lost in Italy, and can even create efficient shortcuts.

I am not girly*.
* But I do love dresses, skirts, and makeup.

I'm a writer*.
* I don't actually write very often anymore.

I'm not a touchy-feely person*.
* But I like snuggling with Gabe in bed.

I'm a huge cheapskate*.
* Except for when it comes to books. There is always money for books.

I need alone time to recharge*.
* But I get bored and lonely really easily.

I'm terrible at tedious, detailed things*.
* But I'm an editor.

I am a dead, failed creature*.
* But through Jesus, I'm made alive and perfect.

I would never get a tattoo without my best friend Cassidy there*.
* Unless it was only my honeymoon.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

An asterisk. A piece of punctuation. A reminder to pay attention, an indication of exception. Sometimes we love them; sometimes we hate them. They're a part of language; they're a part of humanity. They're certainly a huge part of me (and sometimes I love it, sometimes I hate it).

It's tiny. It's subtle. It's hidden. But never doubt, every time you look at me, there's an asterisk behind my left ear.

~Stephanie

Survivor's Guilt, or Something

I don't know how to say what I'm feeling, which is why I'm here, saying something. It might sound arrogant and obnoxious and insensitive, like a scrawny person complaining to an obese one that they can't gain weight (which is a real issue, and not one that I'm trying to hate on, but you get what I mean). I will be the first to admit that I struggle with arrogance, obnoxiousness, and insensitivity. But here's the thing:

I got good grades in college and graduated with honors. I found the love of my life and got married and moved into an apartment. I got a job that actually fits my college major and I love it. All the main things in my life are going pretty great.

And a lot of times, I'm made to feel guilty about that.

In college, I studied and made flashcards and outlined and wrote. (I also watched Netflix, had movie nights, and ate dinner with my friends, just the Reader's Digest versions.) I worked really hard because I wanted A's. And my friends who strove for Cs made me feel like such an erudite brat for being sad if I got a B, like it was personally offensive to them that I thought I could do better.

So I stopped talking specifics about my grades or study habits, almost ashamed that I could pull off all A's some semesters.

When Gabe and I started planning the wedding, time became even more of a commodity. Now, if I wasn't studying or writing papers, I had wedding stuff to figure out. Venue hunting, dress shopping, taste testing, and decoration hunting swallowed up nearly every weekend. And my friends got mad about that too. I still hung out with people (though mostly my roommates), but the fact that I had a wedding to plan seemed to cloud conversations with derisive refrains of Oh, right, the wedding.

Now there are all these circulating lists and open letters about how it's perfectly fine that 20-somethings don't know how to boil water and how hard it is to find a job and yourself at the same time.

(First of all, I only recently learned to boil water, and second of all, I have a job and it is still hard to find myself.

And guess what? I got good grades and it gave me gray hair. I planned a wedding and shed more tears in six months than in the collective college years before engagement. I had a wedding and experienced the drastic drop in fitness motivation that follows. I got married and discovered just how damn much there is to fight about in a family of two. I got a job and realized that what I learned in college is only the tip of the iceberg of skills I need to succeed. I got an apartment and learned how much daily attention it takes to live above "slovenly at best.")

I have a lot of friends with whom theses lists and letters resonate. I have a lot of beautiful, funny friends who are still single. I have a lot of intelligent, hard-working friends who are still jobless. It makes me frustrated and sad on their behalves that they haven't yet hit the stride they're searching for. It seems unfair. To break my fast-forming rule about the F word, I feel for them.

But it also seems like the increasingly-popular reassurance lists and letters are aimed, in part, at people like me. At erudite brats who just got lucky and should feel guilty for flaunting our "success"--and "success" is in quotations because how successful are we really gonna feel when in ten years we realize that we didn't even know what we wanted back then and we got on a career path that isn't making us happy and don't we wish we'd taken the time to travel and make mistakes and find ourselves first? It seems like culture/social media is reassuring one group by giving another group the middle finger and saying "Well, GOOD FOR YOU" with as much sarcasm as an Odyssey Online keyboard can muster.

I am sorry that you're single and jobless. But I refuse to apologize for being married and employed. I still have real problems in my life. But I also feel blessed beyond what I deserve.

I guess that's really what it boils down to. Not the fact that I still have legitimate problems, but the fact that I'm made to feel guilty for liking my life. Half the time, I feel like I'm not allowed to voice my problems, and the other half I feel obligated to voice them just to avoid making other people jealous or depressed.

So, keep sharing the aforementioned Lists and Letters if they inspire and encourage you. We all need more inspiration and encouragement in our lives. But I really do mean in "all" our lives, even people who look like they've got it together. Don't throw shade at people who get mostly A's. Don't get passive aggressive toward people who find wedding plans stressful. Don't make people who love their jobs afraid to say so.

~Stephanie

Hey, We Had Dinner Together, Didn't We?

I pull into the Wendy's parking lot, make almost a full circuit before I see an empty spot and pull in. I'm a little late, but it's fine. At least I'm here.

I walk in and scan the restaurant, all plastic and shiny and smelling like crispiness and sugar. I see her at a booth and head over.

"Hey!" she says, getting up to hug me.

"No, don't get up," I say, smiling distractedly. "Er, well yeah, get up." I laugh as I pull out my phone. "We need to order, I guess."

We get in line and she starts asking me about my day. I deflect mostly, just trying to get to the cashier.

"WelcomeToWendy'sForHereOrToGo?"

"TFor here," I say. "Lemme get a 10-piece with sweet and sour and a water."

I text as we take our food back to our booth. I'm not trying to be rude, this text is just about work.

We sit down.

"So," she says, smiling. "How--"

"Aren't you gonna eat?" I ask, nodding at her burger. I can't point because I'm holding chicken nuggets in both hands.

"Yeah..." She picks up the Junior Bacon Cheeseburger. "So--"

"One sec." Another text, but it's work again, so it's not a legitimate diss. It's just--sorry. "Okay." I set my phone down with an air of finality. "I actually only have like five minutes before I need to head out, but what's up with you? Oh, but lemme tell you about what happened yesterday. You seriously would not believe..."

Between bites of whole nuggets, I fill her in on my day, ending with a modest request for her to drop off some milk at my place later. I want to make the really good hot chocolate.

"So this was fun!" I say, raking my trash onto the tray and standing up. "Dinner tomorrow, same time and place?"

She smiles, looking a little sad, which is ridiculous because I just offered her my time again for tomorrow.

"Yeah," she says. "Tomorrow. Maybe I can call you later toni--"

"Gosh, I don't know," I say. I speak over my shoulder as I dump my wrappers and containers into the trash. "Tonight's kind of busy. How about I just see you tomorrow? Okay? Great."

In Jesus' name,
Amen.

I would never treat my friends this way. So why do I treat God this way?

Feeling convicted this morning.

~Stephanie

The Grammar Fallacy: Yeah, but does she know what it means?

This isn't what I'm being paid to do right now, but hey, I will work until 5:30 and happily call it worth it.

You know how sometimes you'll see or hear something that gets under your skin, and you feel as though you absolutely cannot think of anything else until you respond? Something that makes you fidgety, like you need to stand up and move around, cool off a bit? Something that makes your heart pound and your tongue wedge between your teeth?

Well, that's happening to me. And it isn't even something big. In fact, most of you will probably be disappointed when you find out what's bugging me, because it isn't a big political issue, or a body image issue, or a feminist thing, or even something you already know outrages me, like sex trafficking.

It has to do with four-year-old Brielle who has appeared on The Ellen Show. I saw this video on Facebook this morning, and loved it. Brielle is confident and polite and well-spoken, even though she has trouble forming her words sometimes. Oh, and she's an absolute master of grammar ("grammar": the vocabulary or principle elements of any subject).

So impressive, not to mention adorable.

Since she's only four years old and has had time to learn all this, I immediately wondered if she was homeschooled. I started Googling to find the answer, and found other videos of her. She also knows the entire periodic table of elements.

Automatically, because I'm just naturally a glutton for punishment, I scrolled down to see the comments on the article about her knowing the periodic table. Lots of people were nice ("Good girl!! Hope she falls in love with learning...!"), some people--of course--criticized the parents ("Child abuse."), but one comment made me stop cold. Made my heart pound and my tongue wedge between my teeth. I had to stand up and walk around.

"OK, idiot savant... But does she know what the table means?"

*pauses for a moment, collecting self*

Maybe that seems like a legitimate point to you, and if it does, I'm not mad. I'm actually really glad that you're reading this, and I hope you'll read on.

The simple answer? No, Brielle probably does not fully grasp what the periodic table "means." She has probably memorized a lot of words and terms and definitions that don't mean a lot to her right now. She probably doesn't know exactly what protons or electrons ARE. Little kid brains are just wired for storing information. Little kids are THE BEST at memorizing because their brains are trying to collect info to help them understand the world. Memorization is obviously not impossible once you get older, but it is more difficult, especially if you didn't exercise your memorization skills as you grew up.

So right now, Brielle pretty much only knows the words. She knows facts and sentences.

But fast forward to high school, when she starts doing "real" chemistry. Her classmates have never really thought about the periodic table of elements. They don't know the order of elements, and consequently don't know the atomic numbers of elements. They don't know what any of the elements do, except maybe that hydrogen has something to do with water. Brielle's classmates must memorize the table of elements, at the same time that they're trying to learn and practice chemistry. They're trying to get good grades while learning the grammar (the vocabulary) and the dialectic (applying concepts and asking good questions) at the same time.

But Brielle? Brielle thinks back to the "empty" words and terms and definitions she memorized when she was four. The words didn't mean a lot to her then, but now, with her more mature understanding, she can recall that information and quickly attach more meaning to it. Brielle won't have to memorize the periodic table (or the bones in the human body, or where all the countries in the world are). Instead, Brielle already has that information and can immediately move on to things that are more complex than memorization.

The words and terms and facts she has memorized provide "pegs" for her to hang future knowledge on. The words and terms and facts naturally grow with her whenever she learns new information. If she hears something about hydrogen that she's never heard before, the information will not go in one ear and out the other, because there's already a box in her mind that contains "Hydrogen" facts. The box has been created and is partly filled, and she has only to add this new information to her collection.

If you hear a new fact about breakfast cereal, don't you think you'll store that information better than a random fact about, like, the Winter War?

When I was ten, I memorized a list of 160 historical events. I didn't really know what some of them meant ("The unification of upper and lower Egypt by Pharaoh Menes"?), but now, when I hear something about the ancient unity of Egypt, I'm like "Oh, okay, yeah. Pharaoh Menes did that," and I know that it came around the time of the Tower of Babel and the Old Kingdom in Egypt, because I know what historical events came before and after it.

So to answer your question, "Tonye," no, Brielle probably doesn't know exactly what the periodic table means. But that does not detract from the value of what she's doing. One day, all the "rote memorization" that came easy as a child will pay off, giving her the boost she needs to move on to true understanding.

Never undervalue the power of kids "just memorizing" without true understanding. They are just collecting the light bulbs that will go off later.

~Stephanie

My Reason in the Rhyme: having kids when I'm selfish, scared, and cynical

Spoiler alert:  I am not pregnant.

Anyway.

Having kids has never been a question for me. Of course I am going to have kids. When I was little, I thought it was just what happened when you grew up and got married. As I grew up, I guess somewhere in the back of my mind (where I stored the information gleaned from The Talk) I knew that I didn't HAVE to have kids, but I always knew that I would. I loved babysitting; I never completely grew out of my love for "playing pretend;" I enjoyed conversations with children. Kids never intimidated me, even the ones "you couldn't do anything with."

As I grew even older, I began to think about what it would be like to raise a mini-me. What would she look like? Would she love to read? (Of course she would love to read.) Would she be allergic to peanuts? Would she be a worrywart like me?

When I fell in love with Gabe, my future wonderings grew concrete in a breathtaking, exhilarating, frighteningly real way. His was the other half of my kids' DNA. Brown eyes are dominant, so my kids would now probably have brown eyes. Gabe is much more patient than I am, more steady. Maybe my kids would have his patience and surefootedness, rather than my peanut allergy and inclination to stress about literally everything. Maybe one kid would be like me, another like him. Maybe they'd all be perfect mixtures. Maybe some would be completely out of left field and we'd have to learn them together.

I've never doubted that I want kids.

But then...

Then we started premarital counseling, and had to put our goals into categories:  short term (3-5 years), medium term (5-10 years), long term (10+ years).

Clearly, at age 22 and wanting four children, the logical category for kids was Short Term. But a spark of panic leapt into my stomach and bloomed into something hot and scratchy.

Three to five years? Gabe won't even be finished with school for three and a half years. What, he graduates and gets a job and then BAM--babies? No time as married adults with regular jobs? No years as DINKS to travel and eat at fancy restaurants and go to movies at full price?

Was I terrible for thinking that way? I really did want kids. I love kids. I want my own kids. I want to read to them, and fix their favorite foods, and take them to historical places, and play pretend with them, and hear their thoughts about the world.

But I already worry about my body. I'm already a bit of a hypochondriac. Can you imagine how worked up and freaked out I'd be if I were pregnant? Still worrying about myself all the time, except ALSO worrying about the little person inside of me, and how my own health would affect him or her.

And, if I'm absolutely throwing good taste to the wind, I might as well say that the idea of being pregnant freaks me out. My stomach is going to swell. There is going to be an ANIMAL (I know, a person, I'm there with you, but it is, in fact, a creature) forming out of tissue and soul in my stomach. Growing. It'll be like I swallowed a person, except that it keeps growing.

And don't even get me started on how scared I am of actually giving birth and nursing not sleeping for months.

Also, the world today. What if my baby has to know Hilary Clinton as his first president? Or Donald Trump? What if my baby's best friend has two mommies? What if my baby tries to tell me that he thinks he's actually a she? What if my baby's brain is skewed by the prevalent use of social media? What if he subconsciously feels like if he doesn't take a picture of an event, it might as well not have happened? I already struggle with that, and I wasn't even born into this craziness.

I feel so scared--and so selfish--when it comes to having kids. I feel like a bad person. Sometimes I want kids RIGHT NOW, sometimes I can't even pretend like I might want kids any time soon. But God is doing several things to keep me sane about this, the biggest of which is my job.

I work for Classical Conversations: a classical, Christian, community-based curriculum program for homeschooling families. Its mission statement is "to know God and to make Him known," and one of its core beliefs is that parents are the best educators for their unique children. I did this program growing up, and its philosophy and content prepared me for college and life better than anything else could have. Seriously, I will have to write a post entirely about this company sometime.

But this is not that post.

I'm the assistant editor for the multimedia side of the company, which means that I get to read a lot of the curriculum and the catalog and the resources and the emails and basically everything that this company is putting out there for parents and students.

And guys, it makes me so excited to have kids.

I want to read Story of the World to my kids. I want to hear their little voices rattling off complex history sentences from memory, the way I did when I was their age. I want to show them the beautiful logic behind Latin, and how fun it is to read original documents. I want to see the light go on in their heads when they see laws of science work in experiments. I want to hear their thoughts on the Dred Scott decision. I want to see the map of the world they can draw from memory.

I want to help them love learning, even more than I did. I want to help them understand the truth, goodness, and beauty of the world even better than I did. I want them to live a life of learning, even more intentionally than I did. I want them to see the connections between Latin and music, western culture and theology, math and literature even better than I did.

I want them to live with more love for and awareness of God than I did. I want them to feel His joy more than I did. I want them to see His connections better than I did.

Every day, I get to work with resources that help kids become the best humans they can be for God. I'm selfish, I'm scared, I'm cynical, but how can I not want to have little humans who will learn and grow and love and explore and understand better than I did? I know it sounds sort of backwards and silly, but Classical Conversations is such a great program that it makes me want to have kids just so they can participate.

I know this isn't the best thinking process, and I'm struggling with whether or not I should even hit "Publish," but this is my truth for the time being. This is my reason in the rhyme. This is how I'm staying sane and wanting kids even though I'm selfish and scared.

*shrug* I'll let you know how I feel in three to five years.

~Stephanie

~Identity~

I changed my name.

I'd been practicing my new signature for weeks, anticipating my new title as eagerly as I await summertime every year. Meter. Stephanie Meter. No longer Stephanie Bailey. I was excited, and excitement is as deep as my thoughts on the matter went.

Then I got married. It was the perfect wedding. I wouldn't change a single thing. I even remember most of it, despite being assured that it would all be just a blur. And the honeymoon was amazing. And I am completely in love with my husband; I fall in love with him more every day.

Then Gabe (Gem) and I went to another wedding, and I saw my place card at the reception: Stephanie Meter. I felt that happy thrill of excitement. But then a little snaky stream of resentment followed.

Wait, what? Resentment? How?!

That surprised me. It made me very uncomfortable. I was wholly delighted to be a Meter. I could not be happier. So what was this?!

It continued to bug me. I changed my name on Facebook, and every time I saw "Stephanie Meter" appear, I felt that ambivalent rush of joy/resentment. She wasn't ME. That name belonged to someone else. I didn't know a "Stephanie Meter." How could I BE her? How could I not know who I was?

Stephanie Bailey is a writer, a dancer, a bibliophile, a logophile, a best friend, a classmate, an occasional emotional wreck. I know who she is. I've been her for twenty-two years. And now, just because I joined with another person, I'm expected to change my name? My identity?

Maybe it's just because words are so important to me. Names are important to everyone, but ESPECIALLY to me. Words are treasures whose values run deep, all the way to the core of the universe. Whether you say "cat" or "gato" or "Katze," you speak, in much the same way God spoke when he created reality. In changing my name, I am changing my reality, my identity. It's symbolic (and not required), but it's huge.

I suddenly found myself more attached to "Bailey" than ever before. Before marriage, I'd debated whether I would keep "Bailey" or my middle name to go with my new last name when I officially made the switch. Now there was zero question. I was keeping Bailey; it was a part of who I am.

I changed my Social Security Card. I changed my license. I changed my company email. For about an hour, my company email was "smeter@classicalconversations.com." But then I sent an email and asked to change it to "sbmeter." I love Meter. But I love Bailey too. I love who I was.

But I am loving who I am too. And I'm finally, finally starting to get it, starting to get why it's so important and symbolic to change your name.

I am NOT Stephanie Bailey anymore. I gave her up when I got married. Whether or not I ever changed my SS card is irrelevant. When you get married, you cease being your old self. (Hear me out.)

Marriage is about identity. No, I am not changing who I am to fit Gabe; he is not changing who he is to fit me. We are BOTH changing who we are to fit Married Stephanie and Married Gabe. According to God, we are now one person. We act as a unit. We absolutely retain who we are (I love clubbing; Gabe is never ever going to love clubbing), but we change who we are a little bit too. I can no longer be the girl who doesn't rinse her dishes before putting them in the dishwasher. Gabe can no longer be the man who doesn't put the toilet seat down. We're changing.

I was right in my initial hesitation about Facebook's "Stephanie Meter." I DON'T know who she is--I've never been her before--but I get to decide. I'm not Stephanie Bailey anymore; I'm Stephanie Bailey Meter. I am changing because I'm growing, and I'm growing differently than I've ever grown before.

I need not feel any resentment toward Stephanie Meter. She's still me, or at least she will be. I was much too young to decide who I was when I got my first last name; Stephanie Bailey just sort of happened. But this time, I get to be intentional. Who is Stephanie Meter? Is she kind? Is she fun? Does she love Jesus with all her heart? Is she a writer? Is she a dancer? Does she cook?

I can't wait to find out.

~Stephanie Meter

Weirdly Awkward

"I'm nervous."

"It'll be fun!"

"But I'm so awkward!"

"No you're not."

"I am! I'm super weird."

"That's not the same as awkward."

I paused. It wasn't? Huh. It wasn't. I am weird, but that doesn't have to mean I'm awkward:  "causing difficulty; hard to deal with; causing or feeling embarrassment or inconvenience." Being weird doesn't necessarily mean socially unskilled, unrelatable, distasteful, dull.

Being weird is an asset; being awkward is a handicap.

Somehow I had never noticed how I was conflating the terms. I have been living my whole life thinking that because I'm weird--because I read "school books" in my spare time, have two razors in my shower, get dehydrated easily, and can't get into binge watching TV--I am an "awkward person." But that's not necessarily true.

What if owned my "weirdness" and stopped acting like I thought it made me an awkward person?

What if instead of hiding my copy of Romanticism and Consciousness, I brought it with me to the pool and used it as a conversation starter, or even just let people think what they want?

What if instead of making an apologetic explanation for my two razors, I said "Yeah, I have a weird system. But hey, at least I don't leave food debris in the sink. That would be a lot harder to live with."

What if instead of chewing my nails off and smiling weakly and having an inner freak-out when I'm getting dehydrated, I said "I'm really thirsty. Wanna go with me to find something to drink?"

What if instead of chiming in with a lame "Oh, Pretty Little Liars...yeah...I saw an episode one time, maybe..." I just came right out and said "You know, I've never really seen that. What's it about? What are the characters like?"

What if I stopped mining every conversation for the hidden "right" next thing to say, and just focused on being Real? What if I talked when I felt like talking, and let silences flow as they would? What if I used my weirdness as a way of being profoundly honest and authentic? What if I used my weirdness to put people at ease with their own selves? (After all, aren't we all a little odd?)

That sounds a lot easier and more fun--for everyone involved.

Yeah, I AM weird. But I can have a perfectly "normal" conversation with you. I can go to normal restaurants and watch normal movies and listen to normal songs and have a normal good time. Not only that, but because I'm actually weird, I can probably offer you something that the next "normal" person can't.

I'll be interested to see the effects of this latest revelation :)

~Stephanie

Processing "Rape Culture"

I'm not sure how to write about this. I don't even know what I want to say yet (which is--as always--why I'm writing in the first place).

You've probably already heard more than you care to about the girl who was raped behind a dumpster and how her rapist got sentenced to only six months in prison. Part of me agrees that you can never say too much about how awful that was. But part of me is also emotionally exhausted by all the hate and horror floating around on the internet.

If it's not police violence, it's a gorilla getting shot. If it's not a gorilla getting shot, it's how males are absolute pigs and responsible for "rape culture."

Are males responsible for rape culture? Well, they are statistically more often the rapists and than the victims. Males do have more of a reputation for objectifying and sexualizing women, and reputations don't just form for no reason. So, I guess yeah, males are primarily responsible for rape culture.

But not ALL males. Gem is not responsible for rape culture. My dad is not responsible for rape culture. And I resent all the broad, sweeping statements about how "No, you know what, because you have a penis you ARE part of the problem and the fact that you don't think you are means you're even worse and there's nothing you can say or do to make me change my mind."

I'm sorry, but isn't that just another form of sexism? Don't women get enraged when sweeping statements are made about them? People are individuals. "Men" is not a homogeneous group of macho rapists any more than "Women" is a homogeneous group of emotional b*tches.

Brock Turner did something wrong. But TWO other males did something right by stopping him and calling the police.

Yeah, males are primarily responsible for rape culture. But not ALL males.

I also happen to think that it is really stupid for a young woman to get so drunk she can't remember her night, so drunk she thinks it's wise to wander behind a dumpster with a strange boy. I do NOT mean that it was "her fault" that she was violated. But you are more likely to get knifed in a dark alley alone than in a well-lit Starbucks. You are also more likely to be molested if you are totally plastered and unable to enforce your wishes. (A 2012 study posted by Campus Safety Magazine reports that "90% of acquaintance rapes involve alcohol.")

But then again. I just read an article (why do I even do that to myself? It's like reading the comments on YouTube) by a 20-something Christian guy who made a point I had somehow overlooked:  "As men, it’s our job to protect women regardless of what they wear or how much they drink."

Oh.

How could I have forgotten the way I was raised? How could I have forgotten the Southern values I hold to so proudly? How could I have forgotten the Biblical responsibility of men?

I've been so caught up in how dumb and irresponsible it is to wear short skirts and get plastered in an alleyway that I forgot that THAT SHOULDN'T MATTER. In a common sense and empirical kind of way, it totally does matter, but on a moral, Christian, Southern level, it shouldn't matter at all.

Men are supposed to protect women, not because women are weak or cowardly, but because it's polite (and clearly women are the ones who need protection in this particular case, since most rapists are men and most victims are women).

But no matter how confident in and proud of Gem and my dad I am, I will never wear a short skirt and get plastered in an alleyway.

~Stephanie

You Might Be an English Major If...

~ You like to laugh at whoever made notes in your literature book before you. They had no clue what they were talking about.

~ You get a special thrill when you've already underlined a passage your professor highlights in class.

~ It takes you three times longer than necessary to study for a literature exam, because you keep getting caught up in how beautiful the words are.

~ Your idea of "relaxing" is paraphrasing Paradise Lost in modern English.

~ You're reading a book for pleasure, but keep feeling like you ought to be taking notes.

~ People ask you grammar questions instead of looking up the answers, because you're faster.

~ Some of the truest joy you've ever felt comes from finding a book source that is truly PERFECT for your research paper. (This happened to me about an hour ago and I'm not gonna lie, I'm still coming down from it.)

~ If listening to your favorite song looks like this.

~ You experience gut-wrenching horror, anger, and sorrow when book-burning is mentioned.

~ A fun evening of relaxing can totally include watching a Macbeth adaptation or reading scholarly articles on femininity in "The Birthmark."

~ You are beyond tired of the question, "So do you wanna teach then?" English majors do not have to be teachers any more than math majors have to be calculators.

~ It feels completely normal to spend 80 minutes talking about phallic and yonic symbols. In fact, you don't really even notice.

~ The inappropriate use of "literally" makes you want to walk away from a conversation--LITERALLY.

~ You are the go-to person whenever someone needs his or her paper edited. And you don't mind.

~ You hear the phrase "country matters" and start giggling mischievously, because Hamlet.

~ You check out a book at the library called "Gold-Hall and Earth-Dragon:  Beowulf as a Metaphor" JUST BECAUSE IT SOUNDS INTERESTING.

~ You have turned in over 100 pages of writing this semester.

~ You cringe whenever directly quoting forces you to use controversial punctuation. {I like my Oxford commas, thank you very much.}

~ You actually have an opinion on the Oxford comma.

~ You go out with your friends and end up talking about Hamlet's psychological state, why you're in love with Emily Dickinson, and how Wallace Stevens was a total nihilist.

~ You care enough to compile a list of things called "You Might Be an English Major If..."

Bonus Round:
You might be a SENIOR English major if...

~ You accept the challenge of writing a paper on a text you have not quite finished reading.

~ You email your professor a question about your paper and justify crossing off "work on paper" from your To Do list.

~ You really hope your professor remembers the amazing paper you wrote freshman year and gives you a massive benefit-of-the-doubt about this current one.

~ You write a blog post about your paper and justify crossing off "work on paper" from your To Do list.

~ You do not crumble at the thought of reading 250 pages in a weekend, and another 400 between Monday and Thursday.

~ You start crying when your professor changes a paper requirement from "12-15 pages" to "10-12 pages."

~ You start crying when your professor postpones a paper deadline by a week.

~ You just generally start crying a lot.

You might be a senior English major at Campbell University if...

~ Your professors are some of the most important and amazing people you've ever had in your life, and you are going to miss them every bit as much as you're going to miss your friends. And free pizza.

I'm not even going to make a joke about Just Kidding I'm Gonna Miss Free Pizza More.

I can't believe this part of the journey is almost over.

~ Stephanie

There is No Brunette Superwoman

I want to live in Italy for a couple of years.

I want to live in Germany for a couple of years.

I want to have four kids.

I want to get a PhD in English literature.

I want to get into fantastic shape.

I want to learn Greek.

I graduate college in T-minus two months and then my "real life" begins. As I look for post-graduation jobs and plan my wedding, I am frequently plagued by a relatively new thought:

What if I don't do all of that stuff?

That has never really occurred to me in quite this way. As a kid, you never really connect with your Grown-Up Self. Adult You is a separate, theoretical entity that exists by himself in the future, with no concrete bridge to Actual, Current You.

When I planned/plan my Future, the plans are for the brunette superwoman I wish I could be. It is only lately that I'm starting to realize the fact that I am the only "me" I will ever have. There is no point where this oxymoronic, scattered, passionate twenty-something will cleanly dissolve into the universe and Brunette Superwoman will come to live the rest of my ideal life for me.

If *I*--real me, right here, right now, as I am--don't live my dreams, then I won't live my dreams.

And that is terrifying and stupidly surprising. Like, wait, what? I personally have to weigh the pros and cons of living on another continent from my family and trying to work in a foreign country? I personally have to push four small humans from my body? I personally have to dedicate my time and energy and passion to words and research for another bunch of years? I personally have to eat right and work out? I personally have to find a Greek curriculum and do the work?

What if I--this oxymoronic, scattered, passionate twenty-something--can't do that? What if it looks too overwhelming and I just get tired and settle?

What if I decide that I don't want those things anymore, now that I personally have to do them? What if I disregard them for truly good reasons? How will I know I disregarded them for good reasons and not because I got scared?

How seriously do other people take me? When I say I want to live in Italy and get a PhD, Gabe believes me. Will he be disappointed if I don't follow through?

My fourteen-year-old self had THE MOST grand plans for my twenty-something self, and even better ones for my thirty- and forty-something selves. She intended for me to Change. The. World. Not that she matters anymore (seeing as she doesn't exist), but what if I disappoint her? What if I disappoint my twenty-two-one-month-and-three-days self?

I know living a happy, successful life has nothing to do with money. I believe that. I have never struggled with and am at complete peace with that. But I have always thought that living a happy and successful life means Italy and Germany and four kids and a doctor of philosophy and a strong, healthy body and an ability to read Greek. What if that is just as wrong as placing my happiness in money?

I know true happiness comes from Love: love from and for God; and through him, love for others and myself. But now, with reality staring me in the face, I am wondering how much I will really accomplish--not how much I CAN accomplish, mind you; that's what trips me up. Dismiss me as arrogant, but I know I am capable of fantastic things. The question is, will I do them? And if I don't, how much does that matter?

As always, I will let you know if I ever find out.

~Stephanie