Before I go into what an
amazing, magical, transformative year this has been, I kinda need to rip off a band-aid.
I’m sad that romantic love is missing. I forget about it most of the time,
reveling in my singleness, content to have the world and all of its movements
as partners. I’m often relieved to feel removed from the roller coaster of
attraction—it makes serotonin levels drop! That’s science! But this week I have
to admit that I like and miss snuggles, I miss men, and I still have no idea
how to get to romantic love.
One of my birthday
adventures this week was to acknowledge and start moving past a long-fluttering
crush. I did everything in the being-a-grownup-about-being-rejected handbook,
and the guy was perfectly nice about it, but I was surprised at how SAD I felt
when I found out he didn’t like me back. Crying in the night about a guy felt
weirdly healthy, though, like something in me was grateful that it had been
heard.
In spite of all my fat liberation,
in spite of all my ALL kinds of liberation, this morning found me wondering if
he wasn’t attracted to me because of the weight I’ve gained in the last couple
of years. In weak, night-crying moments, I wonder if I’ve taken myself out of
the guy-running forever, or if maybe I never was in it. Objectively, I think I’m
beautiful. I don’t see a single reason why anyone would NOT want to snuggle me,
but I also want to acknowledge that anti-fat prejudice might be part of it. I
still believe my Aunt Connie, who told me when I was young that fat is jerk
repellent, but I’m not sure I can call anybody a jerk for being susceptible to
societal norms of beauty. Also I have no idea why this particular guy wasn’t
into me, and in clearer-headed moments I’m a big believer in “just not a match.”
Whether I weigh 310 or
250, or even if I can’t figure out a way to stop gaining weight, I think it’s
important to acknowledge that I literally dream about boyfriends almost every
night. The circumstances and guys in the dreams are always different, but the
feeling is always the same—a secure attachment, unlike anything I’ve ever felt
with a guy partner in waking life. I think Jung might say (What? You weren’t
wondering AT ALL what Jung might say?!) that this is part of my psyche’s
integration, that the dreams are about falling in love with my animus, with my
own power. While that ALSO seems accurate, sometime a dreamboat is just a
dreamboat.
Though inconvenient, I
think this longing is a sign of heath. I can feel myself getting enough space
from Amy to make room for new love, and this is the first time since 2016 that
I’ve let somebody fire up the good ol’ imagination machine that is my heart.
That’s good. Also good? That this isn’t 2016.
Speaking
of finding space from Amy, the transition from bookstore life has been one of
the most fruitful and impactful parts of the year. Though I’ll never not be
devastated that the patriarchy took our Rosemont store away, and I’ll never not
be horrified that one of my next bookstore bosses turned out to be a men’s
rights activist, I’m so grateful that life insisted on pushing me out of the nest.
I’m happy that I was freed by fate and my own stubborn will (and big mouth) to
go all in on my tutoring business.
My
tutoring work is the crown jewel of this year and, I hope, of many years to
come. I’ll never stop being delighted that I can transform a suffering,
anxious, tearful child into an excited learner touching her heart and singing
out “Credit!” for every small accomplishment. I love the student who greets me
with “BOOKS!? BOOKS!?” every time and who requested more enrichment work even
though it would mean more homework time later. I love the taciturn grandmom who
was moved to give me a hug when her struggling granddaughter transformed into a
“pleasure to have in class.” I love that the kids get a few minutes of
practicing Spanish as a reward if they’re awesome—they are ALWAYS awesome. I love
our elaborate handshakes, our mini-yoga routines. I love every high-five so, so
much. I can’t believe this is a job.
Week
before last, my fourth-grade student, whom I’ve been with for two and a half
years, had a birthday on tutoring day. His parents surprised him mid-session,
turned out the lights, and brought in candled cupcakes. They had him read their
cards to him aloud. As we eased into the lesson, interrupting ourselves many
times with noisemakers and more cupcakes and singing “Happy birthday to ya!” I
felt the deepest and most satisfying sensation: Home. Work. Times tables. Love.
So
my word for the year is focus. Focus on the beauty and flow of doing my work.
Focus on what I want, change what I need to change, speak up for myself, be a
professional. Also, just to remind myself and to make it official:
Familywise,
I feel like I’ve done a lot to repair my Thanksgiving-ruining damage of ‘016.
(Sorry, SURJ, it’s a bad strategy. Not that I did it as a strategy but still.)
In terms of talking politics (or anything) with my family, my mantra has become:
Being right doesn’t mean I can be a
jerk.
(I
still reject all calls for civility in the public sphere, though!! I’m still
pro-anger all the way.)
Probably
the best day of age 43 was when my SISTER AND NEPHEW CAME TO A PROTEST WITH
ME!!!!! We happened to be up in Oswego the weekend when everybody was
protesting family separation, and to my GREAT joy, they agreed to join us. My
nephew knew what to put on his sign right away: “Superman was an immigrant too.”
It
felt so, SO good to share my political self with my family, without having to feel
like I was a threat or like I was making a demand. It felt extremely important
to show my nephew the difference between Thanksgiving-ruining anger and political
anger—I would hate for him to be afraid of his own anger just because mine is
scary. I feel so, so lucky to have stood on that Oswego street corner chanting “This
is what democracy looks like!” And being proud and angry and sad and wonderful.
My
dad asked me last weekend how I stay so optimistic (Well, 90% optimistic, 10%
apocalyptic.) about politics. I told him what has become the guiding principal
of my life—when you’re on the ground, doing the work, it’s hard NOT to believe.
Seeing the varied and beautiful faces of The People, reading their signs, the
collective magic of yelling for justice feels good to me, it’s what I was born
for. I was born to fight, and I’m learning how to use my fury and power well.
Happy
year, self! Good job! Credit!
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