Age of Nonsense

Since I was a child, I have never felt like I’ve been the right age. Part of that may be attributed to the fact that I have three older siblings, but I’ve also just always felt a bit like a misfit in my age bracket.

When I turned 14 I was eager to get my first job. In New Jersey, you can’t legally work before then, so I had previously stuck to babysitting. Everywhere I tried to apply seemed to tell me the same thing: they only hire at 16. When I was 16 I went around again with two more years of babysitting under my belt, some volunteer work, and everyone told me the same thing: they only hire at 18. Then I turned 18 and everywhere I wanted to work wanted me to have 1-2 years of experience.

Now I’m at the ripe age of 20. I’ve had a few jobs at school and when I’ve been home in the summers. I have a resume I am constantly updating and distributing. Yet I still have this nagging feeling that I’m not where I’m supposed to be. Nay, I know I’m not where I want to be.

I spent the first half of my life wondering when I was going to be old enough and now here I am wondering if I’ve earned my admittance into the twenty-something club. Maybe I’m a victim of my own generation. We have this obsession with infantilizing ourselves by calling everyday tasks “adulting” and accepting defeat as these millennial babies that no one wants near their workplace. I know I’m not a part of that. I’ve been doing my own laundry since before I could remember. I am confident that if I had a full-time job I could support and take care of myself.

The problem is I’m in the weird limbo that is college and I can’t figure out exactly what that means for me on this societal timeline. I’m supposed to have job prospects. But I’m also supposed to still be learning. I’m supposed to be getting my life together, but it’s also apparently cool to be letting it fall apart.

I’ve written before about how I don’t really believe in this concept of “wasting time,” yet here I am feeling like I’ve wasted so many years. People younger than me have incredible internships and are starting their careers and I feel like I missed my window of opportunity. Is it possible that in the blink of an eye I went from waiting to be old enough to wishing I had more time?

 

Rules of The Dance Floor and Life

It’s summer, which for a lot of people means weddings, barbecues, and other parties of the like. In the summer I work at an event hall, and that means I see a lot of these events and a lot of dance floors and P!nk once said, “If God is a DJ, life is a dance floor.” I have compiled a list of my own rules for the dance floor accompanied by what they mean in the metaphor of life.

  1. Do not be the person texting on the dance floor. I see this all the time with people who are near my age. You’re dancing and having a great time, but then your friend who is somewhere else texts you about her boyfriend troubles or your own boyfriend is texting you making sure you’re not stepping out on him or hatever it may be. 90% of the time, it can wait. You look dumb trying to dance and have fun while staring into a screen. In life, need I say much more? Yes, technology is great. We all love our iPhones and Snapchat and everything. But take a minute and look up sometimes. You don’t need to keep everyone updated on every second of your life. Enjoy the moment in which you are present with those who are around you in real life.
  2. No one cares about your diet on the dance floor. Stop thinking about how many times you went up to the buffet. Stop wondering how long you have to Dougie before you burn off that piece of cake. Have fun. On an everyday basis, no one wants to know about how restrictive your diet is. If it makes you happy, and you enjoy what you are or aren’t eating, do it. But if you go to dinner with me, I’m getting a burger regardless of whether or not you’re just having a salad.
  3. It is [almost] always acceptable to be the first person on the dance floor. So in reality, if it’s a wedding and the dance floor is not open yet because they’re waiting to announce the bride and groom, do not be the first person on the dance floor. However, if the DJ says the dance floor is open and everyone is just looking around, be the first person. Everyone will silently thank you. Similarly, if you’re the only one willing to start something new, you should probably do it. There is a word derived from an indigenous language of Tierra Del Fuego known as Mamihlapinatapai, which refers to “a look shared by two people, each wishing that the other would initiate something that they both desire but which neither wants to begin.” We don’t have a word for this sensation in the English language, but we all know exactly what that is. Pro tip: be the initiator.
  4. If a dance circle opens up, take a turn in the center. I know not everybody loves being the center of attention as much as I do, but I think it’s always a good idea to take a step outside of your comfort zone, even if only for a minute. Take the spotlight sometimes. Even if you’re really bad at dancing. If you’re having fun, no one cares that you don’t have the best rhythm.
  5. Even if you hate the song, if everyone’s dancing, and you are otherwise having a good time, dance with them. You all know how much I hate Taylor Swift. But if I’m at a party, and Shake it Off comes on, you can bet I’m getting down to this sick beat™. It’s not worth my time to stand in the corner refusing to dance solely because I can’t stand the singer. Obviously in life, if you hate doing something or you are uncomfortable doing it, don’t do it. But if it’s something so minuscule as dancing to a Top 40 song, you might as well sing along.
  6. Learn the words to Bohemian Rhapsody. If you’ve been living under a rock for the last 40 years and still don’t know the words, or the gist of the words, do it now. Period. It’s basically the National Anthem. Just do it.
  7. Being single on the dance floor is usually more fun anyways. I have danced many a dance floor without a date. It’s fine. Don’t pout about it. Own it. When Single Ladies inevitably comes on, own that. Every living human being born not as a conjoined twin has had to be alone for some event in their life, and they have survived. You will survive if you make the most of it. It is okay to embrace singularity. On the dance floor and in life. It is okay to be alone. You’re never even really alone, there are 7.1 billion people in the world. Some alone time does us some good sometimes, anyway.
  8. Have a go-to song. On the dance floor, for karaoke, for the worst days of your life, have a go-to song. Learn a dance routine, learn the lyrics and the harmonies, make it your own. Get it tattooed on your body forever, if that’s what you’re into. Impress your friends with a flawlessly memorized Nicki verse, or some perfectly nailed choreography. This goes great for when you put #4 in practice. In life, you should figure out how to make yourself happy. Find your ultimate happy place that grounds you and brings you back into yourself for when the inevitably crappy things happen throughout your life. Find the thing that’s going to help you say “I’m okay. I’ll get through this.”
  9. Dance like nobody and everybody is watching at the same time. There is a psychological phenomenon called the imaginary audience when humans tend to believe that everyone around them is noticing them. Like when you’re having a bad hair day and you think surely everyone will notice. Truth is, no one really notices, and if they notice, they don’t care. So when you’re dancing and you don’t actually know how to dance, dance anyway. But don’t be afraid to show off if you are a really great dancer. Use the dance floor as a stage every now and then.
  10. What happens on the dance floor stays on the dance floor. Have fun. Life is short. Embarrass yourself, laugh about it, move on. Don’t take yourself too seriously.

 

xoxo,

Kam

Why is That Girl Crying About the Black Eyed Peas?

Spoiler alert: I’m the girl.

We all have that one song that whenever we hear it, wherever we are, we are sent into an emotional trance be it ecstasy or dejection.

For me, one of those songs is “I Gotta Feeling” by the Black Eyed Peas. I am not kidding. And the trance I go into is not necessarily happy. Every time that song plays I fight back tears. I was working my catering job last night for a Bar Mitzvah. The DJ played that song, and I had to tell myself, “Kamaron you are NOT about to cry in front of these 13-year-old kids.”

I sound crazy at this point, I realize that, but I’m so serious and I’m not totally proud of it. The Peas literally sing the days of the week in this song. It’s not exactly a lyrical masterpiece. Yet what it evokes in me would suggest something like that notion.

I remember when the hit song came out. It was huge, and 7 years later remains iconic. The song marked the unofficial (and shortlived) comeback of the Black Eyed Peas. It was regarded as the most successful song of the 21st century until it was surpassed by Pharrell’s “Happy” in 2014.

For me it means a lot more than the records and its cultural significance, though. It brings me back to middle school and the year following the untimely death of my father. I was getting ready to transition to high school and leave all my friends behind when I transferred into a private school. It was this moment of uncertainty for my life, but then will. i. am proclaimed, “I gotta feeling that tonight’s gonna be a good night.”

That obscure but simple message is the tale as old as “Don’t worry, be happy.” BEP assures us, we don’t really know what the future or even the night holds, but they’ve got a feeling it’s going to be good, so we should enjoy it.

Maybe it’s just a catchy pop song. Maybe it’s just one of those fun songs we’ll keep playing at weddings and basketball games until we’re dead. Maybe I’m reading way too far into it, but maybe who cares? I’ve gotta feeling that tonight’s gonna be a good night.

I’m Different, Yeah, I’m Different

Peter Griffin, of Family Guy fame, once sang a song that speaks to me on many levels:

What makes you so special/The fact that you are special/But if everybody’s special/that kinda waters it down/So some of you ain’t special/I can tell you who is special/like you and you ain’t special/ and you are, and you’re not.

We’re all pretty much raised to think that we’re something special, and have the ability to change the world. Every parent thinks their kid is the greatest thing. Even if you have siblings, your parent likely brags like “My kid is THE best!” And you ask them which one and your parent is like “All of them . They’re all the BEST.”

I have this weird complex in my head that I always felt like I was actually super special. Like I will be a celebrity or something because my brain can’t function as an average person. This is a real thing that goes through my head.

But I’m in college now, and I’ve met all these people that are incredible human beings. I sit in my writing classes and think How am I supposed to compete in the industry with these people? I sometimes wonder about people who went to my school like JJ Abrams. Did his professors and peers know he was going to be a huge Hollywood director? I don’t even really want that kind of fame I just want to be better than a lot of people.

But then I think about the average people. The ones who kind of just keep their head down, work hard, and live out the American Dream. By that I mean, they graduate, they get a job, settle down, find a spouse, have kids, then work until they die. That’s an “average life,” right? It’s not a bad thing. Some of us look at that and think it looks miserably boring, but like that’s what most people do and that is what life looks like.

That freaks me out a little bit, though. I don’t want to be average. I have to be special.

There’s nothing wrong with being average, though. We need average people, or else nothing would get done in the world. We all have our talents and gifts. I just like to think that my talents and gifts are going to put me on the map. Like Peter Griffin said, “If everybody’s special, that kinda waters it down.”

I’m the worst. 🙂

xoxo,

Kam

I Don’t Hate Exercising

You know, I really really hate to admit when I’m wrong, but there comes a time when we all must humble ourselves and admit the truth. A little over a year ago, I wrote a post called I Hate Exercising where I explained why I felt that way. It actually was very focused on “the look” of working out, but also explained that I thought going to the gym was mind-numbingly boring.

I’m here today to tell you that I have been changed. I kind of sort of love working out. It’s still a lot about the way I feel after a workout, but part of me has really come to enjoy the grind (I still hate gym lingo, but baby steps).

Most of it came from being an athlete. That has never been as big of a deal as it has for me in college. Not only is it part of my social identity, it’s also just a huge part of my lifestyle. From February-May, I am in the gym 6 days a week with my team. Something that takes that much time out of your life has to be something you enjoy, or you lose yourself. And I prefer to be a winner.

This year in particular, I just got really motivated to be as in shape before the season started as I could. I went to the gym as often as I could, and really started to enjoy what I was doing there. Maybe I am just high on endorphins, but there’s something incredible about movement. I’m starting to understand the whole “runner’s high” experience (I get more of an “elliptical high,” but I digress). I feel like my mind and body have synced up and are operating to their full potential.

I could go on and on about the benefits of exercise, but you know them already, and they’re pretty boring. I will tell you that when you start to enjoy this activity, though, it’s kind of euphoric. I can’t even really explain it. I’m in a pretty good mood most of the time anyway, but I’m in a better mood now that I’m more in shape. This my way of saying everybody needs to get in shape to be happy, it’s not even about my physical appearance. It’s more of a mindset. I like the feeling of knowing I have started this good habit and I don’t want to quit.

I don’t know. I wanted everyone to know that I’ve had this revelation. I encourage my readers to find something they like doing that makes them feel this way. Who knows, maybe I’ll see you at the gym.

 

xoxo,

Kam

Time

First and foremost, let us all take a deep breath and remember that time is a man-made concept.

I’ve been thinking about the future and life in general lately, and it’s insane. That’s the best way I can describe it. Life is insane. You’re born, you do some stuff, then you die. And whether or not that matters does not matter. Whether you believe each life is equally meaningful or completely meaningless does not matter because they mean the same thing. Stay with me.

If you want to believe my life as a contribution to this earth means equally as much as Mother Teresa’s great. But that belief, I think, means the same thing as the belief that every life is meaningless. Because if we all mean something, we cancel each other out. You need me, and I need the next person, so it’s a random cycle of meaning that doesn’t mean anything.

What does that have to do with time? Well, I think our culture revolves around this idea that we’re running out of time. “Life is short.” “If you’re not living you’re dying.” “Time is money.” Everyone is at least a little obsessed with this hourglass inside of us because we’re afraid that time is going to run out before we get to accomplish great and amazing things.

I once read this thing probably on tumblr or whatever that said “I wish people would stop saying life is short. It is literally the longest thing you will ever do.” That’s a fact. The longest thing I, Kamaron, will ever do is my life however long that may be. So what is the rush? I’m not saying slow down and live every moment like it’s your last–that’s a whole other thing I don’t really subscribe to–I just think we should stop overthinking the time thing. Think outside of yourself. Sure, you could die at any second, but you know what? The world could stop spinning at any second. Who knows?

I think it’s really important for young people to wrap their heads around this. We get so caught up in what other people are doing faster than us that we lose sight of what we want. Goals become should-have-dones, and life is just a race to the graveyard. Yes, some things are time sensitive. But there isn’t going to be a time when your days move faster than days before them. Sure there are times you feel like all this time has passed, but that’s all in your head.

I don’t think it’s really possible to “waste time.” You gain something out of every moment. Whether it’s a lesson learned in time management or a moment when you just unwind, you got something. I told a professor last semester I needed to prioritize my time better and not just watch Netflix and she said, “Yeah, but if Netflix is what you need to do to relax and rejuvenate, then you need to do it sometimes.” No, this whole idealistic stream of consciousness wasn’t an excuse for me to keep watching Netflix, but she was so right. There are times when you have to buckle down and work towards a goal, and there are times when you need to take a break and give yourself the space to feel at ease.

 

xoxo,

Kam

 

 

That’s What Happened With Cat

My lack of posts recently can be directly attributed to a major case of writer’s block. Therefore, I have decided to try something different and share an essay with you readers that I wrote for my nonfiction workshop this past semester. I hope you enjoy.

Pyewacket was a member of the family before I was even a thought. I grew up right behind her as if she was my third older sister. As she watched me grow from infancy through adolescence, I watched her grow from a spry young feline into a decrepit bag of bones.

When I was young, I wanted to align my opinions closest with my older brother Zack. As the only male child, he assumed dominance among the siblings, even over our oldest sister, so I imitated him the most. He didn’t like peas, so I didn’t like peas. He preferred vanilla, so I avoided chocolate. He always wanted a dog, so I affected a distaste toward our cat. As I grew older, while the rest of my opinions formed independently, I kept my apathy for Pyewacket.

Domestic house cats are typically expected to live up to 15 years. So when Pyewacket reached 17, then 18, we knew it couldn’t be much longer. First she started slowing down. Like any creature past its prime, Pyewacket slowly stopped doing normal cat things. She used scratching post less and less. She only went outside to cry to be let back in. She started sleeping all the time. Not that cats are usually playful and overly energetic, but there was a distinction between her youthful sleeping habits and those as she entered her final years.

Next came the howling. We understand that she may have gone deaf or, at least, hard of hearing so to compensate, her meows became howls. This would be fine for a normal healthy cat, but Pyewacket became a finicky old bitch. My bedroom was situated closest to Pyewacket’s food bowl, so I spent most of my high school years being woken up by these howls. If she was hungry, which was around her 6 am, she let me know. She would situate herself right outside my door and cry for an hour before I could motivate myself to get out of bed and feed her. MROW! MROW! MRRRROWWWW!!! became my alarm clock. I never wanted the job of caring for the cat, but she decided it would be my job for those years until the food itself wasn’t enough.

A curious thing about this aging cat was finding teeth throughout the house. I’d run my hand along the back of the couch where she habitually napped, and find a fang or two among the cushions. Soon it was hard to believe she had any teeth left, and apparently she had lost too many to continue to manage hard food. We noticed her food bowl went untouched for days before, I assume, she would endure gumming her food to avoid starvation. My mom ultimately decided to start buying wet food, and Pyewacket ate right up.

Then there was the peeing. In the beginning of her decline, Pyewacket started peeing on soft things. If a blanket or pillow were left on the floor, she would pee on it. She still used her litter box sometimes, but if you left any kind of fabric on the floor, you could expect it to smell like ammonia the next day. Whether she conditioned us to stop leaving things on the floor or she just stopped caring about where she was peeing, she eventually started peeing everywhere. The carpet, the linoleum, sometimes her litter box, but anywhere else was fair game. This was when my anger and hatred grew for her. She would look me square in the eye and pee on the carpet as if to say, “F*** your youth.” I eagerly awaited her death. Every time I found her sleeping especially static, I would check for a pulse only to be disappointed by the sudden up/down of her frail body taking a breath.

The summer before I left for college, I spent most of my time around the house. One day my sister, Kassidy, and I were home, doing nothing and expecting nothing. The landline rang and neither one of us answered. A woman’s voice echoed through the house leaving a voicemail, “Hello this is animal control. We found your kitty on the side of the road…” Kassidy and I met in the living room, realizing the situation. We glanced out the window and saw the animal control truck across the street. I bit my lip trying not to smile.

We approached the truck, and found the woman who had been trying to contact us.

“Hi, you were just leaving a message on our machine?” I asked.

“Hi! Yeah, your number was on her collar. I’m so sorry.” The woman opened the side of the truck.

“Ohhh no,” Kassidy feigned a sad face.

The woman brought a black garbage bag out of the truck and asked if there was some place we wanted it.

“Oh. We have to take it?” I asked, confused as to what would have happened if we hadn’t come outside.

“Yes..” The woman seemed appalled at my willingness to part with this animal.

“I guess you can leave her here on the porch, and we’ll wait for my mom to come home.” The woman gently laid the bagged cadaver on my front porch and left us with her condolences. I called my mom and delivered the bad news. I was shocked when she said she’d leave work on her lunch hour. The cat was still going to be dead when she got home at 4.

My mom pulled in the driveway with a wet face. I had hoped there wouldn’t be any crying. I showed her where the cat laid, baking in the sun. “What happened?” she cried.

“They’re not really sure. I guess she was on the grass across the street, and one of the neighbors called animal control. They didn’t think she got hit by a car. She didn’t look all bloody or anything.” We decided it would be best to put her in a better container until we could give her a proper burial later, so I brought out an empty litter container, in which she should not have fit, but she folded right in it. My mom returned to work.

That afternoon, my brother-in-law Alfredo came over to help us bury Pyewacket. She loved him the most, honestly. He dug a hole, and I brought out a paper bag to contain her more ecologically than the garbage bag. My mom scoffed at the inappropriateness of the Olive Garden bag in which we buried her, and I counter the fact that we could pay for an honorable pet funeral, and she quieted.

“Well, I don’t really believe that pets go to heaven,” my mom delivered a eulogy. “But if they do, I sure hope Alvin is rubbing your back with his foot [My father would do this all the time before he parted]. And I hope you weren’t in any pain. You were a good cat.” She wiped her face, and we took a moment of silence.

The whole situation was bittersweet on my end. I was not sad to see the cat go. I might even say I was glad to be done with her. I was however, disconcerted by the noises that continued throughout my house at night that I had previously attributed to Pyewacket. A thud here, a creak there. Now there was no comforting explanation as to what went bump in the night.

Reach or Throw, Don’t Go

When I was in middle school, I volunteered as a counselor at my town’s “Safety Town,” a summer program for children entering kindergarten. The kids came in every day for two weeks to learn about everything safety, from crossing the street to avoiding strangers. I attended the program as a 5-year-old and volunteered as a preteen for four summers. I lived Safety Town.

One lesson, in particular, that has stuck with me over the years was about water safety. When someone is having trouble in a pool or drowning, we taught the kids “Reach or throw, don’t go.” This means in order to save your friend, reach out an arm or a stick of some kind to them or throw them a flotation device, DON’T GO IN AFTER THEM. The idea is that if you hop in the pool to try to save your friend, their panic will often lead to your harm.

The reason I bring up this anecdote is because I think the idea is so relevant but in terms of mental health and emotional peace. If your friend is drowning in emotional pain or stress, reach or throw, don’t go.

I have been someone who has tried to get in the water to help a friend, and I’ve seen it countless times. We as helpers get into the trouble to help our friends, and eventually we’re under so much pressure and stress to make their problems go away that they become our problems. That’s not fair, and it’s not right.

As humans, it is our instinct to help those in need. And of course, you should help your friends as much as you can, but don’t let them drown you. They won’t do it on purpose, but it will happen. Misery loves company, and it’s a burden too heavy with which to try to swim.

The missing part of the rhyme is obviously, get a lifeguard (it doesn’t rhyme so well). Lifeguards always get in the water to help people drowning, why don’t they have to follow the rule? The difference is, they are trained to do this. They have to get in the water to save people, and they know how to do it without hurting themselves. In the real world application, if you’re a trained lifeguard- therapist, psychologist, life coach- absolutely get in the water. Maybe you still shouldn’t if it is a close friend struggling, but that is up to your own discretion.

It’s hard sometimes because sometimes it seems like the person struggling doesn’t have time to wait for you to get something to reach or throw. The tide is pulling them out further and further, and you can’t reach them with this method. That doesn’t mean you have to jump in. Again, get help from a trained professional. It is not your job to save your friends. It is your job to help them as best you can, support them when they get rescued, and be there for them to make sure it doesn’t happen again. But it is not your job to go in after them. Life is hard, but we all have to live it. Reach or throw, don’t go.

xoxo,

Kam

Problematic or Not

I did it. Today someone on my instagram feed “did a thing,” and I had to say something about it. This young woman with whom I attended middle school several years ago has recently been posting photos of herself modeling in various places and doing various things. They’re all beautiful, and she is a lovely girl from what I remember. Today, however, she posted a new photo of herself in an American Indian-style tribal headdress.

Again, I have hardly, if at all, spoken to this girl since around 2010, and we weren’t best friends back then, just to set the scene for you. And I am not the girl who comments on Kylie Jenner’s instagram when she wear cornrows or blasts Iggy Azealea for her racist actions. So did I step out of line? Perhaps. But I tried to do so as respectfully as possible to point out the flaws of this photo. Here is what went down:

Me: “I’m rarely the one to cry cultural appropriation especially to a culture that’s isn’t my own but this is completely disrespectful. You are stunning in this photo and the others but I would recommend you and your photographer do some research especially if you are trying to be a professional. This is becoming more and more of shameful action. I don’t mean to be rude or point my finger at you but it’s really not the best representation of yourself and your art.” I also posted a link to an MTV article about appropriation especially in the form of wearing headdresses.

Girl: “I already read the article. i am fully aware of this being politically incorrect. although to appreciate another culture is nothing shameful. people dress in costume every Halloween like this in face paint as well making it a joke. white girls wear their hair in cornrows. I appreciate you trying but why don’t you rag on all the girls wearing kimonos from lawrence”

Me: “This issue isn’t wearing something from another culture. If you read the article you’ll know the problem with this specifically is a sacred tradition. It’s your gram, you can post what you want. I am just saying if I was trying to be seen as professional this would not be my chosen route.”

Girl: “‘The headdress is reserved for our revered elders who, through their selflessness and leadership, have earned the right to wear one.’ i read it Kam. thank you. i have people very close in my life that are Native American and haven’t said anything. Professional… there’s a whole page of well known models wearing this head piece. I go to college to be a social worker i live my whole life to help others. i’m wearing a head piece that is beautiful. leave me alone.”

I was then told by her other followers that I am “just jealous” and to “leave with my negative energy if her page isn’t up to my standards,” where she did defend that I was just sharing my opinion and we can agree to disagree, so thanks for that.

Now I’m speaking on my own site, so let me continue with my opinion and negative energy.

First of all, like I said to this girl, I was not trying to attack her personally or call her a racist or anything. I think I chose my words carefully, and I appreciate the way she defended herself. I took the approach as to letting this be a teaching moment. I don’t know if she is trying to be a professional model, I don’t know if her photographer is a professional or trying to be one. What I do know is that this post was not “politically incorrect,” it was just downright offensive. The article explained that the use of the headdress is traditionally sacred, which is why it’s not okay for commoners to put one on to take an edgy photo. Kimonos, are not sacred cultural symbol, so for girls from Lawrence or wherever to wear something in the style or even called a “kimono” is okay. Should we all take a history lesson when donning trends from other cultures? Sure. But is there a difference between sharing trends and appropriating culture? Absolutely.

Again, I am rarely the one commenting on things like kimonos and cornrows, because things like that seem more of a gray area to me, and I am still learning. When it comes to headdresses, it’s just a fact. Victoria’s Secret couldn’t get away with it. Pharrell couldn’t get away with it. Will this girl get away with it? Maybe. It’s her personal instagram account and I seemed to be the only person who cared, but hopefully she’ll think about her actions because I said something.

I have posted before about my annoyance with the apparent influx of “cultural appropriation arguments.” My first week of college I wanted to yank my eyeballs out because it was such a “big deal,” but I think some aspects are important. I say some not to say some cultures being targeted are less important, but rather to say that in becoming more aware of this, we are walking a fine line.

The issue is being afraid of cultural appropriation rather than being aware of it. If something you want to wear or do might be considered appropriation, you should absolutely research it. But the keyword there is research, not just avoiding it altogether. If we walk around on eggshells saying things like “I shouldn’t use chopsticks that’s appropriation!” we breed xenophobia. I think chaotically-neutral on tumblr said it best when they said,

“Historically, separating cultures often leads to cultural incompetence, xenophobia, discrimination, stereotyping, and racism. Cultural appropriation is bad, but that doesn’t make cultural segregation good.”

I’m not always right. But I think discourse is important especially when it come to these issues. The girl on instagram said she lives her whole life to help others and I think that’s great. However, I think she made a mistake in posting this picture and I hope she and the people that applauded her can see that.

The world is constantly changing, and it’s hard to keep up with what is still okay to do and what is really looked down upon in society. We’re all gonna make mistakes, but I hope that we continue to accept when that happens and learn from them.

xoxo,

Kam

UPDATE: 9 hours later the picture is still up, and someone else has joined the argument. This person commented:

“Honestly i truly believe cultural appropriation is determined by who you are as a person and your morals and beliefs and i think the issue with so many people is that they are assuming that you are not advocating for the oppressed people you are so called “representing” but they wouldn’t know that. If they knew you theyd know you are going to school for social work aka working against social issues. Basically i always say never appreciate a negative opinion from someone who doesnt really know you.”

To which the poster replied:

“This was so well said. thank you. the whole issue with wearing a headpiece is that in their culture you have to earn the right to wear it, but i do not live in their society. i fully respect their traditions.”

I’m trying to let it go and walk away, but I am getting angrier. I would post more comments on the picture, but clearly no one is paying attention. Basically, this person is saying you’re only appropriating a culture if you actually hate and intend to disrespect the culture and its people. She is correct and saying I don’t really know the girl who posted the picture. I don’t know her morals or her actions. But, I never said she was a bad person for posting this. I did say I think her actions were disrespectful and it is cultural appropriation.

Once again, it’s not about whether or not she hates Native Americans. I don’t think that’s what she is saying in the photo. The fact is she took a symbol- the headdress- which is sacred in Native American culture, and used it in a casual way. This is appropriation because it is taking something that is earned and highly regarded in a culture and dismissing it as a fashion accessory. She made it worse when she defended herself by saying she earned it because she’s a good person.

Also, does this other commenter know what a social worker is? Not to say they don’t do good work, but “working against social issues” isn’t exactly the job description. I suppose that’s a really general description, but their job is not to be out fighting racism, they help families and in some cases people with disorders and other issues. Again, not bad work, very good work indeed, just not what this person thinks they do.

Also, does the poster realize the hypocrisy in her statement, “I do not live in their society. I fully respect their traditions.” YOU ARE DOING THE OPPOSITE. She is saying “I’m not black so I can say the n-word because I ‘respect’ them.” Her friend is saying, “I can be racist because I’m a good person.”

I am appalled.

I am also counting my blessings because I am so grateful for my education.

Finally,

Kam

Why I Want to be a Trophy Wife

Woah woah woah. Before you start asking yourself, “Wait, isn’t Kamaron a super feminist? Why would she post this???” remember that headlines are meant to grab your attention and pull you in.

The term “trophy wife” is one often used by men and women alike to describe a woman that a man married for her looks. She is there to sit on his shelf and look pretty while everyone admires what a great job he has done.

Stop this.

This idea is ridiculous, and both parties look dumb taking part in it.

I love when anyone- especially men- find me attractive. Who doesn’t? It’s good to feel good about yourself, and it is good to find someone who is physically attracted to you. However, if I am looking for a mate, I NEED him to be attracted to my brain. I will always accept compliments. You love my hair? Great. You think I should be a model? Awesome. But self-indulgence aside, I want him to also tell me how smart he thinks I am. How creative I might be. How he loves the way my mind works. How he is generally interested in the things I have to say.

I cannot iterate how irritating it is to be around a man, or a woman for that matter, who is only interested in how I look. Not just because beauty is fleeting and it’s the inside that counts and all that, but because it’s boring. We can only talk about my physical features for so long then I want to know who you think is the best bet for presidential candidacy or climate change or literally anything that involves some amount of critical thinking.

So why do I want to be a trophy wife? Because I think we should redefine what that means. A trophy is something that you win. You have to be the best to earn the trophy in competition, and let’s face it: life and dating is a competition. I want to be the trophy for most beautiful, but also most intelligent, most creative, most engaging, etc. I want to be a prize that a man earns because he is interested in these traits about me, and he thinks I am the blue ribbon across the charts.

You want to know one of the most destructive phenomenon in out society? The participation trophy. The idea that everyone should get an award just for showing up. That’s wrong. Should we encourage kids that each and every one of them is special and has potential? Absolutely. But don’t tell your kids that if they show up and exist they will get the same outcome as the kid who shows up and puts in the most effort. You don’t walk into a company and expect to get hired just for showing up, right? Why do we teach this to our children? Feelings will be hurt. But lessons will also be learned.

Bringing that into the trophy wife idea, the old meaning of the term is like a participation trophy. If a man (or woman), walks up to a woman (or man), and tells them they’re pretty, they should get a date, or in this case, a spouse. That’s crazy. You have to earn it.

To the “husbands,” look below the surface. Find out their interests, talents, hobbies, everything, and decide if this person is actually what you want. To the “wives,” set your standards high. Be the best you that you can be. Tell this person your interests and your strengths. Let them know that you are an amazing person, and decide if they are good enough for you. Also, reverse the roles here. Every trophy wife needs her trophy husband. He should be someone she wants to show off because she also had to earn him.

Do better.

xoxo,

kam