Tag: lifestyle

What is a Safe Space?

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Because I constantly face nagging from the side of my generation against the improvement of society, here I am talking about coddled college students again.

So much of society (or people on the internet) spend their days complaining about how college kids “need their safe spaces” these days. The theory is that we’re not going to make it in the real world because none of us know how to function without a “safe space,” and we’re too easily offended and so forth.

Wikipedia defines a safe space as:

“In educational institutions, safe-space (or safe space), safer-space, and positive space are terms used to indicate that a teacher, educational institution or student body does not tolerate anti-LGBT violence, harassment or hate speech, but rather is open and accepting, thereby creating a safe place for lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, and all students.”

This is a little outdated, at least in my own definition, because now I think a safe space—or at least the safe spaces I know—are broadened to support anti-racism, anti-sexism, etc. Either way, the point of a safe space is to designate a space that is free from hate.  But there’s more. A safe space supports discussion, debate, and disagreement. A homophobic person is allowed in the safe space, but they’re not allowed to spew hatred when they come in. They can ask questions and try to seek understanding, but they should not come in with a closed mind.

We know the world is not a safe space. We see it every day on the news. How stupid do you think we are to think that we assume everyone is trying to make us comfortable when we pay witness to not just offensive words, but murders happening in our world because of sexuality or race or gender or ability.

What is the point of a safe space? The point is to try. If one room starts as a safe space then turns a whole college into a safe space which turns a town into a safe space, couldn’t the world eventually be a safe space? I know that is wishful thinking. Look at our presidential candidates.

Someone at my school said, “There are no safe spaces, there are only safer spaces,” and that is true. But when people say “there are no safe spaces, we just have to deal with that,” they are promoting violence. I understand where they are coming from. It is difficult to imagine a world where everyone gets along. Equality is a really big word. But why would you be complacent? Why are you okay with the fact that black men and women are being murdered for the color of their skin? Why are you okay with police officers shooting unarmed people in wheelchairs? Why is it acceptable for women to on average make 21 less cents per hour than men?

A safe space is not a bubble. A safe space is an opportunity to learn without being attacked. A safe space is not a barrier we put up so we don’t have to listen to oppression. A safe space is a hope that one day no one will be seen as inferior for things they cannot change. A safe space is not an attack on the freedom of speech. A safe space is a counter-strike on violence.

The 2016 Oscars

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I will preface this post by reminding everyone I am a feminist. I am a mixed black and white woman who believes in equality. I would agree, The Academy Awards this year was unnecessarily white washed.

I watched the Oscars at an event in New York City called Every Single Word: The Oscars at the Bowery Ballroom. The event was a live commentary featuring: Franchesca Ramsey (MTV’s Decoded; Creator of “S*** White Girls Say to Black Girls”), Danielle Henderson (creator of Feminist Ryan Gosling), Sean Rameswaram (WNYC Host), Crissle West (co-host of The Read; Drunk History), Naomi Ekperigin (writer for Broad City & Difficult People), and Bowen Yang (Broad City). The event will be hosted by Dylan Marron (Welcome to Night Vale; creator of Every Single Word). It was awful.

While I have not read or seen most of the work of these writers or comedians, I understand they are all pretty accomplished and well known in their fields. What I saw of them last night makes me not want to read or see any of their other work, frankly. I understand the need for dialogue and debate about the racism at The Oscars and the systematic issues at play—this event was not that. It was unproductive heckling.

I can’t remember the last time I was in a room full of so much hate. The host opened the show with a lot of sarcasm about what we were about to watch, and an explanation why we were all here to watch it. He asked all the straight white men in the room to identify themselves so everyone could laugh at them. He handed out tally cards for people to count the times certain inevitable things happened such as “the word ‘diversity’ is mentioned.” He even handed out confetti poppers to be exploded every time the camera shows “white guilt.” I understand the point, sort of, to uplift people of color in this space, because we have been put down in the world’s arena. I did not feel uplifted. I felt uncomfortable. Maybe it’s because my “white side” was feeling the “white guilt,” but I think it’s more because the whole event was overkill.

I went to this hoping for a respectful conversation about the real issues reflected in the Oscar nominations. What I got was a room full of hatred towards anyone not of color, or maybe in the LGTBQ community. I don’t think that was the point, but that is what I felt.

The panel hated Chris Rock’s monologue, exclaiming he “sold out” and felt he made a mockery of the situation. I felt he did a good job as a black comedian hosting essentially an all-white party. Someone just said to me earlier in the week “We make jokes about the things we feel most uncomfortable about. It’s how we cope.” That’s how I felt about Chris Rock’s jokes, but apparently I was wrong.

My ~favorite~ part of the evening may have been when Vice President, Joe Biden, came out and the panelists talked about how sexy he is and how they would or would not sleep with him as he spoke about sexual assault. Yet every commercial break the host showed clips of past acceptance speeches where men were sexist because they said the women were sexy. Joe Biden was one of many figures who made the panelists ask each “would you or would you not do?”

If we take out the fact that I was very hungry and physically uncomfortable in my plastic folding chair for four hours, we still have the same result. The event was a screaming match between these panelists and a screen, and it had little positive effect in my opinion. My colleagues seemed to enjoy it, and I’m glad they did, but I did not. I think screaming about how much you hate white people is not going to get us any further towards equality. You cannot beat hate with hate.

xoxo,

Kam

Open Letter to all the “Open Letter” People

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Dear Open Letter People,

Why? Why do you all keep doing this? We all see every OdysseyOnline link that gets shared a billion times “Open Letter to______” I’m sorry, I’m not sorry, it’s unoriginal.

I did it. I have an “Open Letter to the Gays” on my blog. I did it over a year ago before this huge influx of open letters, so maybe it’s my fault this whole thing is trending, but now it’s getting really old.

I encourage writing! I think everyone should try their hand at blogging and writing personal essays. I don’t think every single one needs to be in the form of this “open letter.” Anything you post on the internet is an open letter, you don’t need to specify that.

Writing an “Open letter” to me is first and foremost clickbait. I get it, you want people to read and share your post. Look at this headline, it’s an open letter. I’m hoping everyone and their sister reads it and maybe stops writing these open letters. It’s a marketing ploy, which is fine, but maybe try something different. Instead of “Open Letter to my Former Self,” try “I Killed the Child Inside of Me.” Instead of “Open Letter to my Mom,” try “My Mom Isn’t Beyoncé, but She’s the Next Best Thing.”

It’s like people who think liking coffee is an important personality trait. We get it. You like coffee. You and half the country. I believe that you like coffee, it’s just not interesting. It doesn’t make you different. Do you like the blood of your enemies in your coffee? THAT’S different! That makes you the special snowflake you are!

Mahatma Ghandi once said, “Speak only if it improves upon the silence.” Do that. Be yourself. Be unique. Stop writing open letters.

xoxo,

Kam

 

I Don’t Hate Exercising

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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

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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

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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.

Talking ‘Bout My Generation

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In my post about The University of Missouri, I mentioned that I agree to some extent that my generation is overly sensitive or “too coddled,” as many are saying. I wrote then, and stand by my word, that this does not apply to what happened at Mizzou and what continues to happen with racial injustice across campuses and cities around the country. However, I do want to share my thoughts on when it does apply and why I think this is happening.

I guess my first point is the fine line between raging against a longstanding system and being too sensitive. The reason I don’t think Mizzou had to do with sensitivity is because racism has and continues to be a system on which our country operates. That is a fact. It’s not an opinion, it’s a fact. When students say, “Hey I’m not going to be a pawn in this system anymore,” they are choosing to stop complying with the mechanics of this system and trying to make a change. When a student says, “This is offensive I don’t want to hear it,” they are being too sensitive. I mean this especially in the case of education. Like if a student says, “I’m not reading Huckleberry Finn because it uses the N-word,” I would say that’s being overly sensitive. That is inhibiting their own education because certain things were more acceptable in that time period. Do you see the difference?

People now are just looking for someone to blame. A lot of fingers are pointing at me and my generation for just being too sensitive and overly coddled. This is funny because last I checked we didn’t raise ourselves. Not to say that parents are to blame either. But we have to look at the timeline of my generation.

We are the participation trophy generation. Since I started t-ball at age 5, I was showed that if I showed up, I would get a trophy. Our coaches (who were often our parents) told us that everyone was good enough no matter how much better or worse you did than the other kids. There was still a prize at the end of the season.

We are the “No Child Left Behind” generation. I had my first standardized test in 3rd grade. As a ten-year-old, I was responsible for determining the funding my school received. Maybe it wasn’t that extreme, but I’m pretty sure I’m not far off. From then on, I was a test score before I was a student.

We are the selfie generation. Yes. Social media has doomed us all. Myspace came out when I was 7. Facebook the year after. So by the time I was old enough to join, I could already have 100 people be my “friend” and pay attention to whatever I wanted to say. In a way, social media is a lot like a participation trophy. Anyone can join, and at least one other person will likely give you a thumbs up just for typing the words, “I farted.”

It’s no wonder we’re soo messed up. We are the first generation that has hardly lived in a time where we couldn’t send a message to millions of people in an instant. We have become dependent on that ability to gain attention without working towards acclamation.

This is not to say my generation is a generation of underachievers. I think we will end up being a generation of amazing overachievers, but we’re not quite there yet. We need to figure out how to use all this power for good. I think we’re starting to do that, every time we post something and say, “Why is no one talking about this?” Every time we use our smartphones to help our parents and grand parents, we’re using that power for good. Every time we post meaningful things online we’re using that power for good.

I think the misuse of that power is a big source of that oversensitivity. If we’re not being praised for insignificant action, we play the victim because it’s an easy way to gain that attention back. I think it’s stupid. I think it’s childish. And too often, it’s not just annoying to other people, it’s inhibiting our own growth. We use these catchphrases we learn online like “politically correct” and “triggering” to describe situations that have nothing to do with such adjectives, and suddenly we’re putting ourselves in a corner because the world is “too offensive.”

Look, friends, it’s easy for me to say it because I have always been tough-skinned (I’m the youngest of 4, I had to be), but grow up. If you feel attacked, don’t cry about it, do something about it. If you feel opposed, form an argument. If you feel like someone doesn’t understand you, try to understand them. We have all our priorities messed up, and this idealistic society we think we’re creating is not going to work. There’s always going to be a hater, but crying in the corner isn’t going to get rid of them.

xoxo,

Kam

 

In Defense of the Student Athlete

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This is going to get ranty, and it also is going to be somewhat specific to Sarah Lawrence, the college I attend.

For those of you who do not attend SLC, as of 2015, we are a member of the Skyline Conference of NCAA Division III. We currently have 15 men’s and women’s varsity athletic teams, and will be adding women’s basketball to that list next year. Sarah Lawrence is known for its quirkiness, in a nutshell. We were founded as a women’s college, we are now and have been co-ed since 1968, and our men to women ratio holds around 40:60.

Campus climate is changing. I don’t know when it started, as I’ve only been here a year and a half, almost, but very soon after I arrived I was made aware of these changes. There is a common belief that the administration wants to make Sarah Lawrence a more “normalized” college essentially by adding more males to campus. How do we do this? Add sports and science. Duh, because every male ever loves sports and science. I have heard the president herself say this is not true, and whether or not she is speaking in truth can remain in question. However, regardless of the reasons behind the “push” for athletics, the campus climate is very heavily enraged at athletes.

Whether it be due to the gender situation, or the “ideal Sarah Lawrence student” idea, the hatred towards athletes on this campus is clear and visible. I know. I am an athlete. I don’t go a single day without someone complaining about athletics.

I bring this up now because I am fed up. I just sat through a student senate meeting where other school issues were in discussion, and this idea kept popping up that some of these problems would go away if we didn’t become Division III or we stop “pouring money into athletics.” First of all, I cannot find anything on the world wide web that says it costs anything for a school to join the NCAA. So the idea that we spent all this money to join this jock club is at the moment, untrue.

Second of all, our school is broke. No one has money. We have such a small endowment that not a single department is functioning to its best ability. That is a fact. We can’t blame one department for this. You attackers of athletes are making us a scapegoat.

Third, there are no athletic scholarships. Period. The NCAA doesn’t allow it.

To address this idea that Sarah Lawrence athletes are not really Sarah Lawrence students. It kills me that I am being told to prove my worth at this school because I am an athlete. I have not encountered a problem with faculty, but some of my classmates have. So it’s not just the students. I personally must address the students. To quote the Sarah Lawrence website,

“NCAA Division III is designed for small liberal arts colleges—Bard, Skidmore, Wellesley, and Vassar are all members. In Division III, as at Sarah Lawrence, athletes are students first. They’re encouraged to take part in other extracurricular activities, and there are no athletic scholarships or stadiums full of roaring crowds.”

We are students first. We are Sarah Lawrence students first. People are freaking out because now we can recruit athletes to come here. Listen, Sarah Lawrence will always be a self-selecting school. Recruiting is just a way to find Sarah Lawrence students that might also be really talented athletes. Here’s what happens: either a student falls in love with Sarah Lawrence and decides to come here. Cool bonus: they also play a sport and are able to continue playing that sport at SLC (this happened to me, among so many other people). OR: a student is sought out by a coach from Sarah Lawrence. The student is an incredible athlete, but Sarah Lawrence isn’t the fit for them, because, go figure, some people need a college experience outside of athletics. So they don’t come here. Or, they do come here, and they end up regretting their decision because Sarah Lawrence wasn’t the right place for them.

Part of being such a weird school means not everyone is going to like it here. BUT some people are going to like it here and they’re also going to like sports. It’s just how people work. Clearly, some people didn’t watch High School Musical, and learn that it’s okay to be a jock and like theatre or play the cello.

To students against student athletes: we got into the same school as you. We take the same classes as you. We pay the same tuition as you. We abide by the same rules you do AS WELL AS NCAA rules (which aren’t always fun, to be honest). Stop scapegoating. Stop blaming us. STOP HATING.

xoxo

Kam

In Retrospect…

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I recently started binge-watching an iconic American tv show from the late 90’s, and I noticed something. First, there are no characters of color. Every once in a while one will pop up in some exoticized fashion, but will never stay for more than an episode. Second, there is only one recurring homosexual character, and he is so minor, he doesn’t even have a plotline. Finally, in one episode a group of transgender women are verbally harassed and called “trannies” and made a spectacle of. And I keep thinking, “How did they get away with this?”

Then I thought about the history class I’m taking this semester. We had a discussion about Christopher Columbus and the horrible genocide he committed and all the atrocities he brought to this land in the name of discovery. My class got into a bit of a heated discussion about whether or not Columbus knew what he was doing was wrong. Slavery was acceptable and normal in those days. And racism wasn’t even a term it was just the brown natives who weren’t really “people.” But we read an account of someone who saw what Columbus was doing and said it was horrific. So arguably, Columbus was capable of seeing his actions as what they were- horrible.

I compare the two events because I want to talk about hindsight. We look back at the past and say “Wow slavery was awful,” and “Man Columbus was a terrible man.” While both of these statements are true, very few people would have agreed with us in 1492. And now watching this 90’s TV show I think, “So whitewashed,” “Ugh so transphobic,” when in reality the creators likely didn’t know any better. The race thing, I mean, they did know better, but it wasn’t as big of a talked-about issue back then. Of course, that doesn’t make it okay, but to my knowledge Viola Davis wasn’t a household name back then.

Either way, my point is: change takes time. I have seen posts on tumblr and places about how terrible 90’s television was because it was homophobic and all white cast. And while I’ll agree it sucks Danny Tanner never made it out of the closet, it was a different time. We should have known better, but we didn’t. We do now. It’s getting better in some areas- TV casting at least a little bit.

Today’s society is changing every minute. It feels like every second there’s a new gender identity I have to recognize or a new social justice issue I have to be sensitive to. I’m not complaining, I just want the victims to know that I’m trying. I can’t speak for everyone because I know there are and always will be people who aren’t willing to change. But for those of us that are trying, give us a break, and help us to learn. I’m gonna make mistakes, I already have. But correct me, and help me learn from it and I’ll know better next time. Acceptance is a learning process, not a permanent engraving on the brain. For those of you not willing to change, try it out. You might like what you find.

xoxo,

Kam

Reach or Throw, Don’t Go

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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