Why Movies and TV (and most books) Suck

(Written Christmas Eve, Posted….today.)


Being in my mother’s house for the holidays has its advantages. I don’t have to get up or go to sleep on any schedule, like I imagine Snow White needed to do; I don’t have to see ANYONE that I don’t want to see and this is mainly because it would be hard to see them if I tried (which is the complete opposite of the main wife on Everybody Loves Raymond); and I don’t have to worry about wearing something cute and impressive each day like all those girls on The Bachelor (see previous list item). And this year it’s especially just TJ (my mother) and me, since she’s recently decided to divorce her ungrateful bum of husband, and my brother won’t be home from his tour in Korea until nearly April. Just us unwed girls.

One more advantage to a Texas Christmas is the number of TV shows and movies on cable I’ve been able to see. In fact, if it weren’t for movies, my sudoku book, and my recently purchased copy of Wicked the novel, I’d be terribly depressed--due to a sparse Internet connection and the fact that my partner and I once again are spending this holiday apart. But back to movies. Last night (23 Dec. 2009), after an all you can eat fried catfish special at The Flying Fish in Ft. Worth, TJ and I went shopping. And after driving our bags back home (with the windows down and not a jacket in sight) we cozied up to the movie Miss Potter with Renee Zellweger. It wasn’t my first pick of what we should watch, but my mother thought I’d enjoy it because it’s about Beatrix Potter—the children’s book author which I loved so much as a youngster.

I was fascinated to learn that many of the characters Potter created she did so while still a child herself, and that she’d always had a knack for painting and drawing. I shouldn’t have been surprised to find out that the crux of the story lie not in the struggle of publishing and selling books, nor in the disapproval of her mother, but in the idea of marriage: for class or love or even at all. I’ll repeat that I did enjoy the film. It is only when being distracted while viewing or when contemplating the narrative arch afterward that I become exceedingly critical.

When the movie opens, Beatrix is a thirty-two year-old woman with an eighty year-old chaperone, unmarried and not seemingly unsatisfied with that. Her main goal is to find a publisher, which happens rather quickly.

The next phase of the story takes place as Beatrix plans the first book and becomes close with her publisher and his sister—another unmarried, unconventional, woman, Amelia. At first, I was excited to see a supporting lesbian character. I had secret hopes of Beatrix ending up with the sister whom it seems is very fond of her.  Half way through the movie, though, the publisher asks Beatrix to marry him and she says yes, after asking Amelia for advice and blessing.

Beatrix here is right to ask the friend/sister of the would-be groom. Amelia initially based their friendship on the fact that they are both independent and unmarried.  And yet, Amelia, put in this place has no other option but to say something like ‘it’s better to be loved’ and if you have that chance, take it.

The crux, as I mentioned earlier is that Beatrix’s mother and father do not approve of the marriage, for it does nothing for their standing in the world. And so, her parents cut a deal with Beatrix: she can keep the engagement and eventually get married with their blessing, IF she keeps the engagement secret through the summer. She agrees to this, and they take her to the country for the summer, hopefully to let her feelings for the publisher “cool.” In the meantime, the publisher gets sick and dies before Beatrix can even get back to London to sit by his bed.

Beatrix Potter stays unmarried, for the meantime, buys a farm or several in the country, and keeps making books and oodles of money. We know it is a happy ending to the movie because it says that eight years after Beatrix moved to the country, she married a childhood friend she met there. Oh, and by the way, she ended up buying 4000 acres to keep it from development and gave it to England for preservation.

What a major upset: the extraordinary accomplishments of this woman are mere margin scrawl compared to the power punch of not being able to live the life she wanted with the man she loved. And what is more upsetting to me is that I continually fall for this. Even though I was rooting for Amelia to get the girl, I was all mushy-hearted when the guy secretly gave Beatrix a beautiful ring in the lamp light of a snowy street. Mushy-hearted and jealous. And then I felt guilty for feeling that way and betraying my tie-wearing friend Amelia who couldn’t even ask the woman she loved to marry her even if she’d wanted.

What I can’t understand is whether my increasing want to get married (with a ring and dress and mostly all the other traditionally girly wedding things) is brought on by a bombardment of heteronarratives like the one in Miss Potter and most any other sort of drama—or if it is my increasing want to get married that is making me latch onto all of the wedding stories I hear/watch. I know that it’s an impossible chicken or egg scenario. However, I can’t help wondering if I’d feel the urge to tie the knot less if I were protected from watching any film or Television show with marriage as the underlying arch. (I know, I know—this wouldn’t leave much to see in network or cable TV, but it would help me from feeling like Monica from Friends, desperate for the day when I too can shop for a white dress.)

Faken Bacon

Yesterday, before going to work, I had a lunch date with my partner. I later described this meal to my coworkers as our Kindergarten Lunch Time. We made grilled cheese sandwiches in a waffle iron and played along with the interactive Super Readers TV show on PBS. The only thing I think that could have made the lunch even better is if we had had bacon in our sandwiches. Well, maybe bacon wasn't the only thing. You see, I foresee a long and happy future with this woman, a future filled with all kinds of wonderful lunches, but my right to a recognized commitment of the nature my parents used to have, is not acknowledged. I can't get married, not to my partner, not to any woman.

So for me, getting married is like eating bacon.

I know that I can survive without it, and part of me knows that I really shouldn't want it. And yet, I still do. I've looked into substitutes, like civil unions, turkey bacon, (or just plain not eating meat,) but it's not the same. While there are certain recipes when the replacement works just as fine as the original, there are always going to be times that only the real deal will do. And, there will always be the bottom line--the original just tastes better.

The question of the bottom line though is where we get sidetracked. America is so juiced up over the "why"--Why does 'real' bacon taste better?--that we don't see this is a red herring. All anyone needs to understand is that pig bacon and turkey bacon are different things, and therefore, not equal, right? Our Supreme Court already decided decades ago in the other civil rights struggle that separate but equal is inherently unfair. And yes, I'm waiting for all the fuddy-duds to come out of the cupboards and tell me that Life isn't Fair, that the World isn't Fair. Well, thank you Mr Dud, I do realize this. However, just because something is unfair doesn't mean that I should settle for it.  Furthermore, when we are engaging in conversations about 'equality and justice for all'--about human rights and citizens' rights--we, in fact, are obligated not to settle for anything but fair.

So, when I watched 20 or so NY Senators yesterday, stand up, one-by-one and speak (overwhelmingly in favor) of marriage equality for same-sex[and gender] couples for two and a half hours, only to be flash frozen by the five minute roll call that destroyed the bill by eight votes, I couldn't help but be rubbed by the idea that here, even in NY state, I am not allowed to buy real bacon. Or at least, it's not available in any of the stores I'm allowed to shop. And this fact is enough to make me steam my way up to Albany and give them  a little 'what for.' But in the end, whether NY state passes a marriage bill that allows the option to get married, my eyes will still be looking toward DC. Because I know that even if NY allows me to marry--and it would be an awesome appetizer--the real happy meal will be a federal law that allows me to have married rights, should I choose to get married, no matter what state I live in. Anything less is just another substitute.

Hesitant Feedback

Today I got to read an excerpt from a student's paper for feedback, something I haven't done since the last semester I taught college in Maryland, spring 2008. I read a short section, took notes, and then we had a conversation about what was working already and what needed rearranging, tightening, and so forth to guide the lines into their resting places. It was... invigorating. But I'm not sure the student, my partner Drew, thought so.

She's working on her Masters thesis final draft which is due December 3--that's right, this Thursday. And when I was Skyping with my mother today, and she asked about how Drew's thesis was coming, I said: We don't talk about that right now. This was meant mostly as a joke, but it's true that Drew is not having a fun time drudging through the intro and conclusion.  It's like when you move--at first, it's all very exciting. You get your large pieces of furniture in place, and then unpack your clothes, dishes, bathroom stuff, and special photos and decorations to make the place feel like home--and it does, but you still have a few more boxes looming in the hallway that need unpacking. Well, Drew has saved her crap boxes for the end, like all of us, and is naturally not as motivated to tackle the part of drafting with which she feels least successful. Enter me, the once writing professor turned professional homosexual.

While Drew has been working on her Masters over the last couple years, multiple people have mentioned that she is lucky to have a writing teacher for a girlfriend, or that she's got an experienced proofreader on hand, but what most people either don't realize or haven't had the chance to know is that Drew is an organized, articulate writer herself. Therefore, I rarely have seen or commented on her writing before it has been turned back to her by a professor. (see Side Note below.)

And that's why I like today. Not only did I a) get to see Drew's writing in the raw, but I also b) positively impacted (even if it was a very small impact)  someone else's work. I felt, for twenty minutes or so, like a teacher. And it was the same sort of natural high I felt after I finished my last blog posting. But the look on Drew's face while we discussed her work reminded me why teachers aren't supposed to date their students. Even if I only imagined the hurt or annoyance or frustration I was causing, partly by being giddy and partly by being direct, I still imagined it, and I still felt hesitant to say what I thought.  Part of the inherent power of being in a teacher/guide role is having good information to share--and to have something from inside you want to hold back that information for personal reasons is thwarting to the mission at large.

~

As I finish this, Drew is across the room on her laptop with furrowed brow and strained sigh. She listened to my suggestions in stride, but I know that has no bearing on her rocking out this thesis. Writing is a love/hate/poop relationship. You have to deal with some s*** before finishing your revolution. And Drew has come a long way, baby.





(Side note: Rarely seeing an unfinished draft both makes me proud and somewhat sad, but I wouldn't want it any other way. I like being useful, but I don't want to be "needed" for simple assignments, or even complex assignments. I want to be included in a conversation about whether the syntax of her opening sentence should be inverted, but I'm never going to be the go-to answer key.)

Is being an Adult getting the best of you?

In September, I thought about blogging again, and attempted with this start:


"I've decided it is time to start writing again. The new school year is a reminder that we do start over, that I can start over. Sometimes I think I forget this, or shove it aside in favor of New Year's resolutions I won't keep or the renewal of spring. However, for as long as I can remember, the beginning of school has been the origin of my phoenix-ism. It was 9th grade that I became the girl  without a past, eleventh grade that I solidified my status as the popular non-popular girl. And again in freshmen year of college, I shed my high school feathers in favor of mystery, artistry, and good grades. In fact, the return to school has always been more reflective of my life-altering behaviors and moods than any other seasonal period.

"Unfortunately, each time I start to write, I have the fear that I've lost the ability. I guess I'm still under the impression that you 'snooze it you lose it.' And let's be honest: I haven't written a piece of non-fiction in a very long time.

"But I did start a piece this summer. I also started some poems. It will be three years this December since I've graduated with the MFA. Which means, three years ago, I was starting to teach my first college courses, and to finish my poetry thesis. I was also in therapy for being angry at myself and at my most recent ex. And, I was dating someone who was not good for me. I was living alone, struggling for a rent I couldn't afford, living off tuna and wheat thins. That semester was one of the best times in my life. And I know now that it was because I wrote and ran every day."


The question I'm asking myself today, as I sit recovering this blog here in bed, in too much pain to move, is if we know what makes us happy, why don't we do it more often? 


Is it that we honestly believe we can't? Do we all have such subtle self confidence issues? When I was in high school I knew a guy who was an oil change mechanic, dating a college student. Neither of them had any money. And when he told me they had decided to go to South America for a week, my first response was HOW? He just looked at me and said, we bought tickets; we like to travel; we're going. Since then, I've tried my best to be like that. I wanted to go to NY. I went. I wanted to go to grad school in DC. I went. I wanted to have a successful long distance relationship. I did. And yet, I still can't manage to do the little things on a daily basis that make me happy: writing, art-ing, exercising. 


Maybe I don't do what makes me happy more often because the little things don't cost money, and now that I'm an Adult these things which can always be there are the first to go. Maybe my life includes an unnecessary hierarchy of first giving up things that only sacrifice time (ex: jogging) before things that sacrifice money (ex: alcohol), even if both make me happy and one is technically much easier to get than the other. Is this our society's idea of what it means to be responsible? I feel like the motif in so many pieces of cultural literature between the Adult and the Child is one of the Child being told to sacrifice the dream for Adult responsibility.  Er, not that alcohol is an adult responsibility, but having a good paying job that gives money for food/rent/happy hour is more of an Adult classified thing to do than spending an hour outside with your sneakers on.


My stepfather is a firm believer in this cultural motif, which is why I think he is a fiscal Republican and I am a liberal. He keeps waiting for me to get a 'real' job and start voting with the elephants based on the 'logic' of what 'makes sense' for the white upper-middle class pocket book. Which is why on a lot of accounts, I've always felt that my adult-self hadn't given up the dream--because I haven't given into to some people's ideas for me. I'm realizing now that the scale I've been using to measure isn't the one that matters. 


Do any of you KNOW something makes you a happier you, and yet, still don't find the time for it in your routine? 

new year?

So, it's only a quarter until seventeen-hundred--meaning that the night time youth-group I'm working with hasn't been open even an hour, and I'm super bored and somewhat sick of being here.
Although I didn't really want to come in today, partly because it's one day of work sandwiched between four days off of work and partly because my partner and two of our closest friends are at home having a good time, I'm glad that I did come in today. There are a lot of youth here, somewhere between thirty and forty, and it's still early. If we weren't open tonight, some of these youth would not have a safe place, or a place at all to go. If we were not open tonight, some of these youth would be at home getting shit from their families, and some of them would be doing their best to try not to sound, look, or act "gay."

There is a new girl here tonight, an eighth grader, who has met a new support group. And there are a couple kids back from their first semesters of school away from home.---more later.