Queen B Vs. Plan B

Originally published in the Indiana Daily Student, Jan 11, 2012

Beyoncé Knowles is one of the world’s most recognized and celebrated pop stars, and her well-documented power-couple relationship with Shawn “Jay-Z” Carter has, as some critics would say, solidified their dynasty as the King and Queen of America.

Well, 9 months and 8,000 “Destiny’s Child” jokes later, the heiress was born.

Perhaps the most genetically gifted human being that will ever come into our mortal realm, it has been speculated that Blue Ivy Carter is the preemptive reincarnation of the Dalai Lama and the second coming of Christ.

But more interesting, maybe, is the speculation and sheer amount of media coverage surrounding Beyoncé’s pregnancy itself.

Was she faking it? Did she get a surrogate? What is she going to wear?

Teenage girls, one of Queen B’s biggest demographics of little divas, are submerged in a culture that is both aggressively opposed to and morbidly fascinated with childbearing.

Especially in Indiana, where abstinence-only sex education reigns, young girls are assaulted with a culture that simultaneously shames and celebrates women’s bodies, so it makes sense that an experience which is so uniquely feminine as birth should be even more of a talking point.

My personal reproductive education was, as they often are, full of contradictions. Your body is a temple.

Oh, but when you open up your temple to others, you also open yourself up to a wide range of consequences from incurable diseases to perhaps the worstconsequence of all — pregnancy.

 But pregnancy is a gift in itself, it is a child, it is a life, which is not to be sacrificed or squandered.

Media targeted toward young adult audiences is saturated with teen-pregnancy-related programming.

In recent years we’ve seen shows and films such as “16 and Pregnant”, “Teen Mom”, “Secret Life of the American Teenager”, “Glee” and the quintessential teen pregnancy flick “Juno” tackle the controversial topic, but rarely are the girls on these shows portrayed in what many would consider a realistic setting.

Almost never are there complications with the pregnancy, or the ubiquitous subsequent adoption, into what we can assume is another wealthy family.

Even in the film “Knocked Up”, a romantic comedy in which a young, driven and successful woman becomes pregnant after having a one-night-stand, the possibility of having an abortion receives about a minute of total screen time and is quickly dismissed.

Why would the media choose to portray childbirth out of wedlock ­­— an occurrence which is more common among the lower-class, disadvantaged population — this way?

Generally, the women in these programs are middle-to-upper-class, white and have a strong, familial or societal support system.

At the same time, these girls’ choices are not glorified, but rather mocked, shamed and scandalized.

Pregnancies like Beyonce’s cause such a stir because her status of being wealthy, happily married and of a societally appropriate age is so coveted and idyllic.

In Kate Bolick’s piece for the Atlantic, “All The Single Ladies,” Bolick dissects the problem in the changing dynamic of the modern American family and describes the direct correlation between male financial success and the success of their romantic partnership as well as their family.

What is it about our collective unconscious that glorifies this family structure and scandalizes others?

A rumor that didn’t surface heavily in wake of the recent pregnancy was that Jay-Z had already fathered a child from a previous relationship.

But why would this information not be as relevant or as prevalent in media coverage as suspicions of a rumored surrogate or fake pregnancy?

Why are motherhood and fatherhood treated so differently, and what needs to shift in our psyche for those who are mothers and fathers to achieve any kind of honest reproductive equality?

The idea of a traditional, idyllic marriage, which is exemplified by our adored celebrity couples such as Bey and Jay, who courted, wed and had a child in that exact order, is a rarity more than it is a normality.

Hey Guys.

Sorry I’ve been gone for so long.  But don’t worry, I’ve been off having lots of successful human interactions.  Like this one.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Alright, folks, that’s all for now!  Stay tuned.

-Allison

 

Some Housekeeping

Well, we’re about 9 months into this now, so I think it’s time to throw out a little “here are some things that I am actually thinking about right now that I am directly addressing to you, the people who read this” kind of post.  I’ll try my best to keep this brief.

I started this blog with low to no expectations.  I am not, nor have I ever been a ‘writer’.  I still don’t consider myself one, in a sort of self-involved/self-deprecating way (I would definitely never say it out loud.)  It was at the encouragement of a close friend that I just start writing something?  Anything?  And that I don’t have to tell anyone about it or do anything with it but maybe just put it out there on the internet and see if somehow through internet mystery, anyone absorbs it or takes notice of my little voice in any way.  I actually didn’t show it to anyone until I had several posts up (is there anything more frustrating than stumbling upon a friend’s blog and seeing nothing but a single ‘Hey I guess I am blogging now this is my first post this is a blog if you say blog enough times it stops sounding like a real word I don’t really know what it will be about yet so get ready for the rollercoaster ride!”

Back to my expectations– I was mostly hoping that someone would read it and not hate it.  I was hoping that I would build up a sample of writing to eventually submit to real blogs, blogs that lots of people read.  I was hoping that I could maybe take some of the ideas that were building up in my head and put them into a tangible plane and then maybe have a little more room in my head for other, important things.

My ideal demographic was a collective of kind, unassuming, faceless strangers that would discover my blog by happenstance, instantly fall in love with me, savor my every word, that I would never have to meet or talk to in person about my writing or make eye-contact with or touch their hands, ever.  I was hoping that my older brother and parents and ex-boyfriends and future employers and current employers and more-intimidating peers and extended family members would not read it.  I did not meet these expectations.  That is, however, one of the more beautiful/terrifying things about throwing things into the void of the internet.  It instantly becomes archived and available everywhere, anywhere, to anyone.  So, I began by showing it to a few close friends.  I extended myself, meekly posting my entries to facebook and twitter.  To my surprise, people read it.  Not that many people, but enough for me to take notice.  Sometimes, also, even more surprising, people liked what they were reading.  Sometimes, even, they told me “Hey I read this thing and I liked it.”  I’m sorry if you ever had to experience my reaction to any of those exchanges, because I’m sure I responded in a way that was neither appropriate or very thankful.  But really, thank you.  Thank you so much.  Thank you, thank you, thank you.  Thank you to my brother, and my mom, and my more-intimidating peers, and my future/current employers, and my ex-boyfriends, my friends, my extended family, and the occasional stumbling stranger.  Thank you for embarrassing me, and encouraging me, and helping create this.  Thank you for helping me to not take myself so seriously, and telling me to write more, and sharing this with your friends.  Thank you for telling me when I write something bad, and when I write something good, and for telling me that I am going somewhere, when usually I just feel like the bird in the video at the end of this post.

Oh gosh, thanks guys, a whole lot.

-Allison

10 things I ask myself whenever I consider buying a romper

1.  Would Michelle Obama wear a romper?

 

2.  Would Anna Wintour wear a romper?

 

3.  Would Tina Fey wear a romper?

4.  Would Helen Mirren wear a romper?

5.  Would Meryl Streep wear a romper?

6.  Would Katharine Hepburn wear a romper?

7.  Would Joni Mitchell wear a romper?

8.  Would Eartha Kitt wear a romper?

9.  Would Penelope Cruz ever, ever wear a romper?

10.  Do you have to take the whole thing off to pee?

 

 

 

 

 

10 Things To Do Alone That Are Better Than Hanging Out With That Guy Again

skateboarding sucks.

Does he fulfill at least 3 of your mental list of top ten dealbreakers?*  But wait, you love the attention/you are emotionally needy/you don’t have anything better to do? Well, here are some things you can do by yourself while you’re working your way through the “we are not really breaking up because we were never together or maybe we broke up but it was a long time ago and then we started hooking up again but that was weird so I am just going to start gradually phasing you out” stage that I absolutely guarantee will be better than another frustrating conversation with someone that doesn’t deserve your time.

baby, it’s time for you to do you.

1. Read a book

When is the last time you even did this?  Highschool?  Did you stop reading in college and now you are getting dumber and less insightful and boring because you get really involved in celebrity blogs and Korean soap operas?  Was the last book you read Harry Potter/A best-seller/a memoir?  Because those don’t count.  No, what you really need right now is to buckle the fuck down and become intimately involved with some classic fucking literature.  Now is your chance to finally finish The Sound And The Fury.  So what if you have started reading it 3 times and after the first few chapters become mentally exhausted and give up?  This is YOUR time.  No switching between books, no sparknotes, and seriously—turn your phone off, because hey was that a text maybe you should text him I wonder what he’s up to NO WAIT I HATE YOU but augh I just got an idea for a really witty conversation-starter TURN OFF THE PHONE.

2. Spend some time in your favorite coffee shop

Coffee shops were practically INVENTED for (and are frequently staffed by) the weird loner types, so use this time to seek out your ideal caffeinated environment.  Personally, I like ones that are a little quieter, homey, and full of adorable old people.  Unlike bars, all of the people in coffee shops are on edge/sweaty/somewhat dissatisfied with their life choices, so you will be guaranteed that no one will try to talk to you!  Also, it is much more socially acceptable to hang out alone in a coffee shop than hang out alone in a bar.  Hey, maybe while you’re in there, sitting in a cozy chair, sipping a latte, you could read that book you’ve been meaning to get around to?  See what I did there?  But no really turn off your phone.  Leave it at home.  Take out the battery and throw it in a lake.

3. Go for a bike ride

I’m not going to tell you to go out and exercise, because really, that isn’t being honest.  However, sometimes a strenuous, repetitive activity is just what you need to clear your head.  Biking is my exercise of choice because you don’t necessarily have to be athletic to do it, and if you’re going somewhere, it’s not even like you’re exercising!  It’s just like driving, but slower and harder and more dangerous and you can only really go places where it is acceptable to show up sweaty and out of breath.  That still leaves tons of options, though!  Maybe you could BIKE to that COFFEE SHOP and read a BOOK.  Do you see what is happening???

4. Do something creative

Honeychild, I’m not your mother, but I truly and deeply believe that whatever you create will be beautiful and meaningful and better than creating even more mental anxiety and sexual frustration for yourself.  Play music, write a short story, do some sketching, try out a new recipe, look in the mirror for a while and tell yourself how pretty you are.  Can you not do any of these things/they all sound boring as shit?  Well, you can probably catch “Swamp Loggers” but you will have to turn to the Discovery Channel RIGHT NOW.  And for the love of god, do not start writing poetry.

5. See a movie

Shove some snacks from the pantry into your purse, grab your wallet, and catch a matinee of that movie you’ve been dying to see but no one will go with you/your friends have all already seen it/it is too embarrassing of a movie to ask someone else to go with you.  There will be no awkward post-movie conversation (man, did you see that twist at the end coming?  I sure didn’t.  Well someone already told me how it ended though.  Yeah.  No I probably wouldn’t see it again.) no lingering guilt of forcing someone else to go with you if it turned out to be bad (a friend and I once walked out of Sex And The City 2, a movie that I suggested, because it was so unbearable.), and most importantly– no excruciating monologue from your “I-took-a-film-class-once-look-at-how-many-directors-I-can-name” friend.  Even if it is bad, when else are you going to have a societally acceptable excuse to eat snacks out of your purse in a dark room for two hours?  That, in itself, is a definite accomplishment.

6. Clean/Rearrange your furniture

Haha, just kidding.  I would never actually do this.  However, you can use this as a ruse to stay at home and watch bad reality television in your un-ironic snuggie.  Maybe do a load of laundry during commercial breaks that you will forget about in the washing machine for 3 days and then all your clothes will have that weird smell and you will need to rewash them anyway.

7. Dance

You know that saying “dance like no one is watching”?  Okay, well don’t do that really.  If people are watching you, for the most part I would say try to dance well, not get too flail-y, or rip off your jacket/shirt/skirt in a moment of hot, dance-induced passion.  If you are alone, however, ANYTHING GOES.  If you have the whole house to yourself, now is the perfect time to haul out the good speakers, plug in your most cathartic electropop playlist, and get all romantic-comedy goofy dance montage because we needed to fill a couple minutes of screen time and you are Cameron Diaz.  For inspiration, please observe one of the single most brilliant single-serving-tumblr blogs:  Dancing Alone To Pony.  http://dancingalonetopony.tumblr.com/

If you don’t have the luxury of a place to yourself, I would suggest putting together a really gnarly driving playlist.  Almost nothing feels better than barreling down the highway while yell-singing along to an emotional pop song.  You may cry a little.  And accidentally power right through a stoplight.

8. Eat Stuff.  (Naked?)

Find food somewhere.   Maybe order a pizza.  Pretend you are having a party when the pizza delivery guy shows up so he doesn’t think you are going to eat an entire pizza by yourself.  The only rule for this one is that once you start eating something, you have to eat absolutely all of it, or you are doing it wrong.  Open up a bag of fig newtons?  Well you better like fig newtons because you are finishing that sucker off.  What else are you gonna do?  Eat them later, like a pussy?  Consider it an exciting personal challenge.  While you’re at it, take off your clothes!  Or be in your underwear or something.  There is honestly no better way to eat things alone than eating things alone naked/partially clothed/in bed.  If you’re really on a roll, get your Oprah-Sleep-Diet on and follow it up with the next suggestion.

9. Sleep

None of us get enough sleep anymore, so why not give yourself a break and take that nap you’re wanted for so long?  In fact, maybe just don’t even get out of bed!  Bed is great.  Most of the time when I am doing something else, I usually just wish I was in bed.  Also you burn calories!  Or something?  Who cares!  Not you, because you’re asleep!

10. Drink

Just make sure to turn off your phone first.  And stay off of facebook.  And seriously don’t check your twitter.  Don’t tweet anything like “DRINKING AL1 LOLZ!?!?!! #LONELINESS”  Just throw all of your social-media-capable electronics into a volcano, open up a bottle of wine, and go to town.  This is your time.  Tonight, you are doing you.

*skateboarding, racist jokes, wearing tennis shoes with every outfit, carpenter jeans, frameless glasses, neck tattoos, being hyper-competitive, being funnier than me, thinking you’re funnier than me, hating beer.**

**The top ten list varies situationally based on outlying circumstances/overall attractiveness/drinks consumed.

An Open Letter To That Girl In The Movie Theatre: On Friendship, Women’s Restrooms.

Long brown hair, black t-shirt, and scruffy converse, you were waiting in line with your friends.  Two of the girls with you, talking conspiringly, turned to the group and announced that they were going to the bathroom and darted off together, whispering and giggling.  You rolled your eyes, and facing to the boys standing with you, said “I don’t know why girls always go to the bathroom together.  Girls are so weird.”

What you just did—that eye-roll, that “cooler than you” attitude,– these are all signs of what you later in life come to recognize as “internalized sexism.”  Maybe you had a crush on one of the boys with you, and wanted him to think you were cool.  It can be hard growing up as a young girl.  There is a lot of pressure on you to act, talk, and dress a certain way.  Often as young girls we will feel a desire to reject these ideals, but instead what we end up doing is rejecting womanhood as an idea.  We don’t want to wear makeup, walk in heels, diet, or attract men with a confusing combination of confidence and precociousness.  Instead of thinking to ourselves, “Those standards are so weird, why do we feel the need to live up to that?” we think “Girls who do that are so weird, why do they do that?  By rejecting this behavior, I am different from and superior to other girls.”

I myself have fallen victim to this “Girls are so weird” mentality.  A seemingly benign statement, it surfaces in all kinds of scenarios.  Not wanting to go Greek in college, I remember justifying it by saying “I could never live in a house full of girls.”  Not only does this have nothing to do with my choice to stay GDI, but it is completely untrue.  I could absolutely live in a house full of my closest friends that also happen to be girls.   Another phrase that I have fallen prey to is “Yeah, I just can’t be friends with girls.”  This is a complete and blatant lie.  In fact, growing up, due to extreme shyness and a slight fear of boys, I overwhelmingly only had friends that were other girls.  I understand, however.  At your age, it is not exactly instilled within you to appreciate other women.  Instead, we are trained to be in competition with each other. Athletically, academically, socially—the valuable achievements in high school lend to an insane competitive drive that has almost nothing to do with how one should and must function in the real world.

In time, however, you will learn to appreciate the value of other women.

When I needed advice about relationships, my body, sex, and love, I have often found solace in the experience of other women.  When I needed a companion to walk home with me after a long night, I have valued other women.  I was exhausted, at the end of my rope, and on the verge of tears standing in the driveway.  My neighbor, selflessly concerned for my well-being, asked if I was feeling okay.  When I broke into tears, she hugged me without thinking twice.  On my first day as a freshman in highschool, at a large, new school where I knew exactly two other people, it was another girl that offered to sit with me. Truly, there are few things more powerful than kindness and comfort extended among women.

I suppose this brings me back to your original query—why do girls accompany each other to the restroom?  You see, the experience of going to a women’s restroom is much different than that of the men’s room.   First and most importantly, women’s restrooms are generally cleaner and more spacious environments than men’s restrooms.  While men’s restrooms function as impersonal assembly-line style urinals, where talking is discouraged and eye-contact is forbidden, women’s restrooms can fulfill a variety of other needs.  The Ladies Room can help you escape an unwanted suitor at a club.  It can be a place to share secrets and fix your makeup.  By bringing a friend to accompany you to the restroom, you are bringing another soldier into a potentially hostile environment (will there be vomit on the floor?  Is the line 20-deep and you need a companion to talk to while you wait in agony?)  You can ask to borrow a tampon.  If no one has a tampon, someone will lend you a dime for the vending machine.  If your stall is without paper, someone will pass a wad underneath the divider.  If you are crying, someone will inevitably try to comfort you.

So, here’s hoping that boy will like you back.  Just keep in mind that no amount of band t-shirts and girl bashing is ever going to get you there.

A Brief, Chronological History of My Relationship With The Ocean

Born and raised in a landlocked state in the Midwest my whole life, I didn’t really have my first memorable experience of being in the ocean until I was about 4 or 5.  Since then, my relationship with that big, salty mistress has been rather complicated.  Complex enough, even, that I felt it necessary to document our affair over time.  Let us begin:

1995, Captiva Island, Florida, age 4:

“It’s not fun at the beach, its not cute at the beach, I hate the beach.”

You know when you’re a small child, and you have one of those “kids say the darndest things” moments, and you parents lovingly repeat it at every family function for the rest of your life?  This was one of those times.  Evidently, I hated the beach.  The hatred continued until an excursion the following summer.

1996, Plymouth, Massachusetts, age 5:

I have a lot of family out East, and on these trips, when we weren’t eating “chowdah” or hanging out at “Auhnt Mahthah’s restahrahnt” or making fun of each other’s “fahkin ahccents”, we would take trips to the beach.  Now when you think of beaches, I’m sure a lot of things that immediately come to mind (or in a Microsoft Word clipart search) are a hot sun, pleasantly cool water, powerful, surfable waves and warm, soft sand.  The Massachusetts’s beaches that I’ve frequented in my lifetime (god love them) are a little different.  The air temperature usually peaked in the high 70’s and low 80’s, so it was nary too warm.  Not only was the sea wind strong, but it blew in with it a distinctly sharp and salty smell, that crept into the air miles before you even got to the shore.  The water was a dark, waveless abyss, and beyond the first few sandy inches, felt like ice.  Also, at age 5, it was completely terrifying, and I refused to get more than a few feet out from under the umbrella, where I was happily building sand-piles (to this day my sculpture technique has not evolved much beyond that of a toddler making sand piles.  Anyone who has seen me do ceramics can attest to this.)  My father had a solution to this problem.  He picked me up and threw me over his shoulder, “sack-of-potatoes” style, as my family called it (another thing I was rather terrified of) and carried me out into the waves.  I screamed.  I screamed when he lifted me off of his shoulder.  I screamed when he held me high up above the water and tried to calm me down with comforting words.  See, it’s not that bad, I’ve got you, I won’t let go.  I probably even screamed when he set me back down in the sand to whimper and cry and throw a tantrum on the safe, solid ground.  I was, however, a pretty screaming-and-crying-fit-throwing child, so from my dad’s perspective it was probably just par for the course.

Interestingly enough, though, it worked.  After a few days to cope with my 5-year-old PTSD I was completely over it.  I was no longer afraid of the ocean.

1997-2002, Various beaches throughout Massachusetts.

Now that I had befriended the ocean, I almost never left its side.  Even when faced with the terrors of dead jellyfish, giant crab skeletons, seaweed, and an unsettling (probably toxic) beach foam, there was not a single stretch of sea I wouldn’t swim.  I was always the first one in and the last one out.  Somedays, when the water and the wind were so cold, I would swim until my lips were blue.

2003, Normandy, France.  Age 12.

Normandy Beach continues to be one of my most memorable ocean experiences, despite never actually going into the water.  It was a chilly, overcast day, and we had spent all of the late morning and the early afternoon touring WWII bunkers.  Now, I am not saying that I in any way believe in ghosts (although I am terrified of them.)  I am, however, saying that growing up in a family of American history enthusiasts, (who once took a family vacation to Gettysburg, and many subsequent trips to visit various presidential boyhood homes, or would drag me along to meetings of the Abraham Lincoln Society), I have seen my fair share of battlegrounds, and been on quite a few historical ghost tours, but none of them were quite as somber as Normandy Beach.  I filled a small bottle with some sand, while we stood there in quiet reflection for some time.  All of us, except for the three high school girls that ran screaming and laughing out into the water.  That was kind of a mood killer.

2003, Nice, France, age 12.

A few days later during our French excursion, we were staying in the beautiful city of Nice.  Now this—this was my real first European beach experience.  There were topless ladies, large men in speedos, and the beach was mainly covered in giant, unavoidable rocks.  I think, perhaps, being a shy, sheltered Catholic girl, I was not quite ready for Europe.

2007, Outer Banks, North Carolina, age 16.

God, the ocean out there was so beautiful.  I greeted it with such enthusiasm, that at one point a wave took me under, I swallowed a giant mouthful of ocean water, and upon resurfacing, threw up.

“I just threw up in the ocean!” I yelled to my cousin swimming near by.

“You threw up?  Just now?”

“Yeah!”

“Ew.”

2008, Plymouth, Massachusetts, age 17.

While visiting family, my three cousins and I, all girls, aged 16, 17, 19 and 20, set off on our own one day to go swimming.  We tanned, shared headphones, and watched boys.  We laughed together at inside jokes that were somehow infinitely funny, no matter how many times we repeated them.  We tackled, dunked, splashed, and mercilessly threw giant globs of wet sand into eachothers hair.  We sat around talking as my cousin Hanna smoked a cigarette, her long white skirt floating around her ankles.

2011, San Diego, California, age 20.

My first time in the pacific, I was greeted warmly by playful harbor seals, swimming and sunning themselves on nearby rocks.  I’ve enjoyed myself swimming here until I inevitably get caught up in a large mass of seaweed, which, for whatever reason, still completely terrifies me.  I put on goggles, thinking that if maybe I could see where the seaweed is and avoid it, it wouldn’t be quite so traumatizing.  Nope.  I suppose I should update my list of fears, which is now as follows:

1. ghosts
2. heights
3. dates
4. seaweed

We’ve had a good run so far, ocean, and I would definitely like to see more of you in

the future.  I still haven’t read my copy of The Awakening that I brought along. Probably for the best.