From Starving to Striving

Me during my senior year and at the height of my eating dissorder (right).

Every girl wants to have the perfect body. Whether it is curves, a thigh gap, or a washboard stomach; we all have our perception of what we think we should look like. Media has us all confused. On one page of a magazine we see a plus sized female telling us all to embrace the way we look, while a flip of the page brings us to a small petite woman demonstrating different exercises to achieve the beloved “thigh gap.” This can make us question our standards, and lead us to becoming obsessed with analyzing our bodies and standing in front of mirrors grabbing ourselves in multiple places, pulling in different directions, trying to get an idea of what we would look like if we lost that little bit of fat around our waist. It’s a vicious cycle, and we all do it.

 

Growing up, I had always been a little “bigger.” I never was abnormally overweight or obese, but I was always a little on the heavy side. I would get spurts of motivation of working out but would always fall out, causing me to put weight back on and becoming upset every. single. time. Of course, my family and friends would all rebuttal my comments with, “You are NOT fat” and “You are far from what you think you look like.” No matter what they said, I would still never be comfortable in my own skin. I was never happy with what I saw in the mirror.

 

The summer after my sophomore year of high school, I started to talk see a guy, and over the next year we were kind of dating on and off. I would hear rumors going around of the new girl he was talking to, and it was usually the same girl every time we were in our “off” stage. Every time it happened, I would think, “It’s probably because she’s so much prettier than me,” or “She’s really skinny.” I would torture myself with these thoughts. One of the times that this happened, I did not take it well at all. I overheard some girls talking about it, and heard them saying something similar along the lines of those exact thoughts I was having. This sent me into a major outrage, and I was determined to change myself to show him I could be the same way.

 

Over the next few months, I worked out every single day and made sure that my diet contained no fast foods or unhealthy products. People took notice, and I would get comments such as, “You look so good!” and “Have you been working out?” I was so excited that my hard work was paying off. Soon enough, my boyfriend and I had gotten back together and he had even asked me to prom. I was so excited with my found love for fitness, and I was determined to keep it going.

Over the summer, I finished the well-known workout series called Insanity. Although it is a great program for those who are looking to drop some weight, I really wish I would have never came across it.

 

Over the summer, I dropped 40 pounds, and had become unrecognizable. My legs had lost their curves and had become sticks, and below my eyes were dark circles. The “You look so good!”s had ceased and I just got stares. At the beginning of my senior year, there were many rumors going around saying that I had been taking Adderall or doing drugs in order to lose weight. These rumors really hurt my self esteem, but I wasn’t going to let it affect me. I thought that I looked good, and I was going to keep on doing what I was doing. This is where my life quickly turned to a downward spiral.

 

On average, I would run 4 or 5 miles almost every single day. Although many other people in the world do this or run even more, I was not eating the amount of food my body needed to be in homeostasis. I dropped even more weight, and people took notice. I would get called into my counselor’s office because teachers would voice their concern. I was always cold, and I now know that it was because I did not have a sufficient amount of body fat, but at the time I thought there might be something going on in my body. I went to the doctor to get a total blood count, and when I got called back to the doctor’s office, he could not believe the amount of weight I had lost, but not in the good way. He was very concerned, and I had scheduled office visits every other week for a weigh in. I always was trying to convince him, my friends, my family, and even myself, that I was truly trying to gain weight. But deep down, I knew that I had a problem. I was deathly scared of gaining even a pound, although I was at an imperceptible 98 pounds.

 

I also began to see a nutritionist that was friends with my mom, Miranda Reinhardt, at the Ottawa, Illinois YMCA. Although I had never met this woman before in my life, I could tell from the first moment that I talked to her that this was somebody that cared about her clients. I continued to have sporadic visits with Miranda, and I loved going to see her. Even today, I still keep in touch with her and shoot her a text every now and then whether to say hi or a question about nutrition. Without her, I would not be where I am today.

 

As the new 2013 year came around, I become seriously depressed. No matter how hard my boyfriend tried to make me happy, I was always sad. I couldn’t find joy in the things that I used to find joy in, unless I was running. I struggled with the idea of eating, and would not eat if anyone were around me. I specifically remember one afternoon I had just got done running outside at a nearby lake (after running on a treadmill at the YMCA), and had drove home to have a post-workout snack. When I got to the corner of my house, I noticed that my mom’s car was still in the driveway. I thought that she would have already left for work. In order to avoid eating my small snack in front of her, I drove around town for about twenty minutes, crying, until she had left. I felt so guilty after eating ANTYHING remotely “unhealthy.” My mom would offer me a bite of her cookie, and I wouldn’t even take that. I would eat a small cookie and would dwell on my feelings of guilt.

 

I loved my friends and family, I hated life. I loved food, I hated food. I loved working out, I hated working out. I loved seeing Miranda, I hated talking to Miranda. It was a constant battle of love and hate. Eventually, my boyfriend couldn’t take my changed personality. He knew I wasn’t happy, and he felt that he wasn’t enough. Eventually, we broke up, and I hated life even more.

At the time, I would have denied having an eating disorder. I knew I had a problem, but I couldn’t convince myself that it was an eating disorder. Today, I can say that I suffered from EDNOS, an Eating Disorder Not Otherwised Specified. Many people had their suspicions, and many of my friends and family defended and stood up for me. For those of you that did, I’m very sorry and I hope you don’t feel betrayed.

 

I’m not sure what it was that made me change, but after graduation I stopped running. I began lifting weights and slowly put back on all my weight. I started hearing, “You look so good!” again, but this time I knew it was sincere. I began to look like a healthy teenaged woman again, and not deathly ill.

Today, I am comfortable with myself, and even though there are things on my body that need improvement, I am fine with how they are, and continue to work on what I want to change. Since coming to college, I’ve learned to accept myself for who I am. The world is not going to end if I miss a day at the gym, and I’m not going to gain 10 pounds from eating some ice cream at lunch.

 

Whenever I am having negative thoughts about my body, my roommate is always there to convince me otherwise, and I’m reminded of how far I’ve come. This past January, I joined a crossfit gym here in Iowa City, and have met numerous people who are working at the same thing I am: bettering my self, body and mind. One particular person that I met through crossfit, Krissie Alesch, who actually is the person that I am blogging for, has been one of my biggest motivators and a good friend. Her, along with everybody else in my gym, have helped me accept my flaws and myself, and inspire me to reach for my goals every single day.

 

When I started my journey, I weighed 146 pounds. During my journey, my lowest weight was 98 pounds. Today, I weigh 155 pounds. I would take this over being my senior year self any day. Although this story was very hard for me to share, I wanted to do so to inspire others and help others who may be in the same boat as I was. Body image is a topic that needs to be addressed among young woman. Everybody is different, and no two bodies are going to be the same. Do not compare yourself to the Victora’s Secret model on TV, the body builder in the magazine, or the beauty queen that you sit next to in class. The only person you need to compare yourself to is the old you, and focus on bettering yourself, body and mind.

Before I go, I wanted to thank all of my friends and family who have supported me through this rough time. I’m sorry that you spent all of your time defending me when I was suffering all along, but I couldn’t have came out of this without you guys. The very last thing that I want to say is to other women who may be suffering from any type of eating disorder: You are not alone. There are people who care about you and want to see you succeed. Remember, a journey of 1000 miles begins with a first step.

-Written by: Shelby Straughn
                     Age 19
                     Freshmen at the University of Iowa

Me as of today: Heavier, healthier and STRONGER
 

 

12 Year Old Boy

She caresses her naked body, tugging on every bit of loose skin she can possibly find while observing it as carefully as a piece of glass under a microscope. She looks herself up and down in what she thinks to be a tainted mirror, with thoughts of doubt and questions about her appearance racing through her head. Sometimes she's in love with her body while other times she cannot stand to look at who is looking back at her.

Every night before I go to bed and every morning just before getting dressed, this scenario would ocurr. I would analyze myself to a T and pick out everything about my body that I was unhappy about. Thoughts of my hips being to wide, my thighs being too big or if only I wouldn't have drunkenly ate that Pancheros the night before would race through my mind. Sometimes these thoughts would overwhelm me to the point of tears, hatered and disgust, and thinking irrational thoughts about dieting. I would talk myself into believing irrational ideas such as that I had gained weight profusely, even though others would say I looked great. I would have arguments in my head of how I was a piece of shit because I didn't stick to my particular diet and I would condemn myself because I didn't have a six pack of abs and was not a size 4.

Having thoughts like these eventually become extremely wearing on a person because it is hard to feel good about yourself and it is hard to go about enjoying life when you are constantly preoccupied with eating your next meal, when you are going to work it off, and worst yet, what if you didn't have time to work it off. My biggest fear was not one of death nor spiders, but my biggest fear was that I saw myself in a different way than how others perceived me. I constantly asked myself what if I only think I look fine while others may see me as being 300 pounds. I once asked my roommate if our mirror was broken and if it was lying to me, making me look skinnier than I actually was. I've struggled with these irrational thoughts ever since I came to college and depending what I am going through at the time determines how prevalent these thoughts are in my head.These thoughts have always been very disturbing to me, but I would somehow find a way in justifying them as me having an off day and shove them to the back of my head.

I would constantly wish my hips would go away and I would have a straight down body with no curves. I didn't want bigger boobs because if I didn't have them then it would most likely increase my run time. One time, before my friend and I went out, I even asked her, "Don't you ever just wish you had the body of a 12 year old boy, skinny and straight down with no hips or curves?" I was basically, in a sense, wishing away my womanhood.

Then, one night a couple of weeks ago, while I was laying in bed, once again feeling how far my hip bones stuck out, it finally hit me. I came to the utmost fantastic realization that I am not a 12 year old boy; I am a woman. My womanly figure will never shrivel away to that of a 12 year old boy and my boobs and hips sure as hell weren't going anywhere. Why? Because that is a woman's natural anatomy.

This realization sparked a whole different line of thoughts for me. Instead of embracing our womanhood, why are several females striving to eliminate that? Why, instead of embracing that we have hips and boobs so that maybe one day we can carry a child, do we condemn that? And why, while we are embarrassed of being a size 8, do we strive to be a size zero? Sometimes I can't help but wonder if women strive to transform their womanly bodies because in our society being a male is the desired sex. I can't help but wonder if we are slowly trying to, in a sense, eliminate women.

Obviously, because we are human, we are going to have thoughts of doubt every once in a while, but they do not need to control your life. Putting all your energy toward your appearance, weight, and how others perceive you is only taking away from the energy you could be putting toward starting a new organization, getting that new promotion or being a better friend and family member. I still struggle with letting these irrational thoughts control me every once in a while, but I remind myself that I am not a 12 year old boy, nor will I ever get down to being a size zero. I am a WOMAN.

So, now every time I look in the mirror, which has become less and less since I gave my full length mirror away to my roommate, I try to embrace my hips, my boobs and the little bit of extra fat I have on my belly. I remind myself that the woman's body is beautiful and that we should not strive to eliminate it by conforming to that insane ideal of being a size zero. I try and direct my thoughts and energy to something that is more beneficial than worrying about the little flaws that I may never change; because at the end of the day, L
adies, the more time you spend on trying to control every last bit of your diet and image is the less time you have trying to spend  on creating a life and living it. <3

Popcorn and Prayers

Chaplain. Minister. Pastor. Up until a couple of years ago, these words held very little personal meaning for me.  Even though I was attending divinity school and pursuing my Master of Divinity, none of those terms had been relevant to my experience thus far. For example, many of my peers had year-long internships with local congregations. My year-long internship, however, was with Belmont University as a teaching assistant.

This picture was taken after I gave my first sermon-
which happened AFTER I graduated from divinity school!

Nevertheless, all of that changed when I decided that I wanted to pursue some type of career in chaplaincy. With almost zero prior experience, I began a position as a chaplain at a hospital, and within one day, I was suddenly supposed to think of myself as a chaplain. This sudden need to include “chaplain” as a part of my identity was a bit of a shock to my system.The first couple of times that a staff member referred to me as a chaplain, I remember looking over my shoulder to see who was behind me. It took me a few seconds to realize that I was the one that they referring to- I was this mysterious chaplain person that was supposed to support patients/families in the midst of acute crises.

I have grown significantly since I first started chaplaincy two years ago, but I still often reflect on what it means for me to be a “chaplain.” For example, I often wonder about what it means for me to take on a “chaplain” identity- and to what degree that can actually be separated from my identity as just “Anne.”

Let me describe a recent scenario for further illustration. A couple of weeks ago, I was on call all weekend for my current hospice job. Now, this was my first weekend on call since starting the position, and all of the other chaplains told me that we rarely get paged. Additionally, we have an hour to respond in the event that we do get paged. So I decided to just live my weekend as I normally would, and I would just make sure that I had my work phone with me in the rare event that I was paged.  Surely, the odds would be in my favor.

So, Saturday comes around, and I decide to go to a matinee with two of my friends. I’m feeling pretty content at the afternoon movie- these two girls are the type of friends that I just feel really relaxed around- so I just go about enjoying myself. I get a huge popcorn/soda…I sit in my usual aisle seat in preparation for my normal 5 trips to the restroom…I prop my feet up…I start giggling with my friend about a silly inside joke….and then the previews start. I start stuffing my face full of popcorn, and I settle in happily to watch the movie.

Literally two minutes into the second preview, I feel my work phone vibrate. Oh crud. Someone is actually calling me!!! What?! I frantically put my popcorn bucket in the seat next to me, and I slam my feet to the ground. A few choice words come out of my mouth as I leave the theater to answer the phone. I talk to the nurse, and I discover that one of our patients just died, and the family requested a chaplain.

As soon as I heard these words- that someone died, and the family wanted a chaplain- something shifted inside of me.  I hung up the phone and prepared myself. Popcorn- which is normally one of my top priorities- was easily handed over to one of my friends. I quickly explained that I had to go, and I left the theater. Despite the fact that a few choice words had escaped my mouth when I was originally paged, I didn’t feel sad as I left the theater. It did not matter that I would miss a good chunk of the movie. It did not matter that I had to leave my friends behind. What mattered was that I felt a strong sense of needing to go- a strong sense of wanting to be with the family that had requested support.

This shift- from "fun" Anne to "chaplain" Anne- translated into a couple of different manifestations. For example, I did not play music as I drove up to the patient’s house. Part of that was obviously out of respect for the family- I don’t think that playing loud music is the most appropriate response to someone’s death. Additionally, I have to admit, there is a part of me that does not want the family to know that their chaplain is someone that listens to Katy Perry. As much as I try to focus on my own sense of pastoral confidence and identity, I do sometimes feel a bit sensitive about my age, and blaring “Dark Horse” as I arrived seemed to convey a different message than I intended.

And so I arrived at the patient’s house, and I went to support the family. I think that because I had been with friends just moments before, I was particularly aware of the differences in my demeanor. For example, I walked slower. Normally, I walk at either a very brisk pace because I’m excited, or else I meander around very slowly because I’m spacing out. But this time, I walked at a very measured pace. I held my head up high. I clutched my prayer book to my chest. I met the family, and even my voice seemed a bit different. Obviously, I was not giggling, and I also spoke more somberly, and at a more moderate rate.

And so I remained present with the family. I won’t go into too many details because I’m paranoid about disclosing information. However, I will say that I prayed with them, I cried with them, and we talked about their loved one. After an hour or so, however, I discerned that it was time to go, and so I left. I looked at my clock, and I realized that I could still go back to my movie.  We had gone to the movie Divergent, and between previews and the actual footage, the movie was 2.5 hours long. So if I went back to the theater now, I could still catch an hour of the movie.

I went back to the theater, and I became acutely aware of how quickly my role and universe shifted again. Just moments before, I had been present with someone’s dead body. I had touched this dead body, and only minutes later (after scrubbing my hands very thoroughly), I was back at my movie, eating popcorn. The same hands that had drawn the sacred sign of the cross on someone’s body were now a rather unsightly picture as they shoved popcorn into my mouth.  (Is anyone else aware of how often the word “popcorn” has been mentioned in this post? Goodness.) The same person that had been a representation of the sacred was back with her friends, giggling about the character “Four” in the movie.

After reflecting for awhile, I think about how there are so many blurred lines in this experience. Blurred lines between who I am as “Anne” and who I am as a “chaplain.” Are there some noticeable differences? You bet there are. I became acutely aware of those differences as I transitioned between the movie and the patient’s house. However, all of those manifestations of myself belong TO ME. They are all authentic, genuine expressions of who I am. Eating messy popcorn and giggling are sincere manifestations of myself, just as is holding someone’s hand and listening to them cry.

I also think about how this experience blurs the line between life and death to some degree. For example, sometimes I wonder how to best honor all of the dead people that I have the privilege of praying over.  It did seem almost…callous…to be with a family that was intensely grieving, and then to suddenly shift everything and go back to a movie with my friends. Perhaps it would honor the person more if I had just gone home and had silent meditation. However, I also wonder if my decision to participate in the joy of life- the decision to be with my friends and to enjoy a compelling narrative- isn’t also a way of honoring the person’s life. Because every time that I am with someone that dies, I become painfully aware of the thin, blurred line between life and death. I know that it does not take much to cross over from life to death. And while I am fearing death less and less, I want to embrace the life part while I have it. For me, I think that means embracing all of the various expressions of my identity- understanding that they all fit together, that they are all authentic to me, and that they are all a means of bringing me joy.

Though it may seem cliché...

Hola! By the time you read this, it will be Marathon Monday- the 118^th running of the Boston Marathon! I’m either waiting at the start line in Hopkinton as you read this, out somewhere on the course, or if you are one of those people who don’t catch up on blogs until later in the day, I am probably enjoying a nice meal with sore legs and a tired body. However, I’m writing this the night before filled with reflection and emotion so I thought I’d share…

I’ve done a lot of thinking over the past month- a lot of thinking about what matters in life and what we do with our precious time on this Earth. Sadly, what prompted this reflection were the deaths of two Boston Firefighters who were killed in the line of duty fighting a 9 alarm fire in Boston on March 26, 2014. http://www.cnn.com/2014/03/26/us/boston-fire/. I did not personally know either of the two firefighters who were killed but quickly started to learn more about both of them. In particular, I learned a lot more about Mike Kennedy as he was personally close to many of my fellow Crossfitters (many of whom are also Firefighters) at Crossfit Florian.

For about two weeks straight, I would read something new posted by my friends via Facebook about Mike Kennedy and the type of person he was and what he gave to the world. And from all the articles I read online and all the statuses and posts I saw on Facebook, these are some of the things about Mike Kennedy that stood out to me and that I still remember even now that the articles and postings are dwindling: he was a Marine Veteran, he was going to run in this year’s Marathon after he assisted in the response of the 2013 finish line bombings, he was involved with the Burn Foundation,  he was a Big Brother for the Big Brother Big Sisters Organization, he was a fitness enthusiast, he could make people laugh simply by photo bombing pictures with his mustache tattoo, and he really liked flowers. And what I thought to myself at the time, and am STILL thinking to myself is this: nothing stood out to me about his rank as a Marine or a firefighter (hell, I don’t even know the ranks amongst firefighters); nothing stood out to me about how much money he made, how many degrees he had, what kind of car he drove, or what his house looked like; and nothing stood out to me as far as his what his workout achievements might have been- his marathon times weren’t mentioned and nary a word about his Crossfit statistics.

 And now of course, as I am reflecting on this and you are reading this, it may seem somewhat “obvious” that rank, money, power, statistics, achievements, etc do not matter but why must it always take an unfortunate event to remind us of this? And why do we not consistently and intentionally live our lives in a way in which our daily events reflect what is most important in life? Trust me, I am just as guilty as the next person. I admit that sometimes I stress about the next promotion, my next pay raise, my next “achievement” but I’m trying less and less to do this. I’ve tried to worry less about crossing stuff off of my to-do list at work and more about really relating to those with whom I work. I’ve started to think about more ways that I can give back to the community- I’ve recently started volunteering for the American Red Cross and would love to be involved with Big Brothers Big Sisters in the near future. I’m not perfect but I’m definitely more cognizant these days.

Anyway, tomorrow I’ll be wearing a red “Dork Strong” shirt for the marathon in honor of Mike Kennedy. (Dork was his nickname). And this year while running for 26.2 miles, instead of thinking about trying to break the coveted 4 hour marathon time as I might have in years past, I’m going to be thinking about people like Mike Kennedy and all of the other amazing people in this world- the people who I think are amazing because of what they GIVE to the world not because of what they accomplish. So although it may seem cliché and although you have probably heard it from numerous motivational speakers in the past, I ask you to strive to consistently ask yourself: what are you giving to the world? How would people remember you? Would your rank, money, possessions, accomplishments, etc be something people remembered about you if you left the world today?

Crazy Bitch

I'm late in getting this blog posted. I have been late all day. It was one of those days that the only thing that made me get out of bed was my son who came in to report he had not puked.  He had thrown up the day before so this was, indeed, good news.  So I pulled myself from the dream I was having about riding on the Amtrack and got out of bed. I don't know what has prompted this bout of melancholy. I suspect it had something to do with the fact I had military training this weekend. This usually brings my thoughts to Afghanistan and the year I spent there. My son was 2 years old when I left. I was one of a handful of female officers deploying with an Infantry Brigade Combat Team.

I quickly felt the effects of being deployed with infantrymen. At the time i was deployed, women could not hold combat job duties. Because we were unable to perform the jobs that were the crown jewel of the military, we were considered second-class Soldiers. Due to the fact we females were prohibited from holding many positions, the odds of a female being in a leadership position were severely crippled. For example, in the brigade i deployed with, four out of six battalion commander positions were men-only, combat positions.  This meant men had six chances to obtain a leadership role. Females had only two chances and those two positions were not reserved for females only. Rather, females had to compete against the entire pool of men, who already had four reserved positions, for the remaining two positions of leadership. This is an excellent example of institutionalized sexism.  This set of circumstances also achieved a desired result....very few female officers remained for 20 years of service. This reality, in turn, seemed to support the belief women were not cut out for military service. It was a self-fulfilling prophecy so to speak.  And so it was that females were considered substandard.

The failure to have a penis was quite offensive to some.  It didn't seem to matter that I was one of the few females who had passed air assault school and was fire support coordinator qualified--tasks that many men aren't capable of completing. What mattered was the one thing I could never change -my gender. The fact that I didn't behave as someone of my gender should only added insult to injury. There were Soldiers who wouldn't salute me because I was a female. If I called them out on it, I was told to calm down and to quit being emotional. I was referred to as a bitch nearly daily. My own supervisor reported I was "crazy." These words -crazy emotional and bitch- are classic terms used to disarm and undermine a self confident female. And they are used frequently, because, lets face it, they are extremely effective.

I thought there were plenty of men there who were crazier than I. There was the guy who took out his loaded weapon and put it to his head after his girlfriend broke up with him. There was the guy who had no shame in reporting he did not miss his wife and three kids "not one bit." There was the guy who told his girlfriend about fake missions he was going on when he was really sitting in an office. I had done nothing of the sort yet, I was the crazy bitch. For what? Stating my opinion? Standing up for myself? Not being weak enough? Not having sex with numerous men in a port-a-john? Caring about rules and regulations and the people we were killing?

I will never know exactly why I was treated the way I was. But I can tell you I left a part of myself over there.  I changed to survive. I became kinder, gentler, and shamefully weaker. I was overly pleasant and cheerful at all times. I felt like a housewife in the 1950s who was married to 2000 men. I kept my mouth shut and my head down. I stopped challenging the fact that I was an officer who enlisted men routinely ignored and disrespected. I ignored the comments about being a clucking hen when i went to find my girlfriends for a smoke.  I stopped standing up for what was right because when i did, I was deemed crazy and  emotional, which only made it easier to discount me as a Soldier. I'm not proud of this. But when faced with the situation I did the best I could to just get out with my mental health intact.

I took this new person back home with me. Some days, I want to go back there and look for the part of myself I have lost. I miss her.  She was a bad ass and often functioned with a scorched earth mentality. But even if I went back, I doubt I would find her. I like to think she became a part of some Afghan woman who needed the strength to take off her burqa and show her face to the warmth of the sun.

I have learned to live with this familiar stranger I have become. And it's not all bad. I probably needed to tone it down a bit and speaking one's mind isn't always the correct choice.  But I did admire the girl who wouldn't back down, who wouldn't give up, and was intent on showing the world that women could be just as good as men. It's ironic the very organization that I joined to foster this bad ass took her away from me.

I would like to get out because even though it has been three years since I returned from over there I still find myself struggling not to cry when I'm on my way home from drill. But I have four years to retirement and I'm trying to hang on. So for now, I accept that drill weekends make me sad and that I might not be able to get out of bed for a few days afterwards.  I'm grieving the loss of a person I used to like - that crazy bitch I used to be. If I were a man I suppose this would be called PTSD. But since I'm a female and not a real Soldier, I will chalk it up to just being a pussy. 

What Does a Synchronized Swimmer Say?

I can honestly say I haven't said the words or thought about the sport of synchronized swimming in my entire life as much as I have said those words and thought about the sport in the past five days. Since our blog is in its nascent stage, I feel I have much to say and I was wondering how I would pick my next topic. Anyone who knows me knows that sometimes I am not a master of the obvious-thankfully, the universe knows this about me, too, and has taken to what I like to call "the universal 2x4 to the side of the head" approach of clueing me in to important things like life lessons and decision making...important things like what I should write about for my next blog post. I had been thinking about something I noticed at a high school synchronized swimming performance I went to this weekend and I'm taking the universal signs of having the phrase and activity pop up several times since then to heart.

I had never been to a synchronized swimming performance before. It was fun and beautiful to behold. The theme was musicals so the music was wonderful. The female synchro athletes performed a short act on the side of the pool before each number-complete with costumes (high heels, hats, chairs, canes, skirts, glowsticks!) before finishing the majority of the performance in the pool. The swimmers were amazing to watch-the timing had to be just right, even when they were underwater, and I can't even imagine the effort it takes to stay afloat, treading water, while performing dance moves. They made something very difficult look graceful and fluid. The audience enjoyed the performance and cheered vigorously. They definitely had my admiration.

The theme for the evening was musicals-but there was one song on the program that wasn't from a musical and (yes, I am stating this publicly) I was excited to see it: "What Does the Fox Say?" by Ylvis. This song was to be performed by the men's synchro team. I was impressed there were men in synchro. Near the end of the evening's performances, right before the big finale, the men performed their number. The audience roared with laughter and applause as the high school males splashed in the water wildly (it was at this point I realized there really wasn't a true men's synchro team...remember-not a master of the obvious), formed something of a circle and threw each other in the air. The main thing was splashing. It was hilarious. I laughed and had fun and I sang along with the song.

I had a great time at the event-that is not in question. What struck me and what I started to think about after, however, was the difference in the male and female performances. Of course, I recognized there is no structured "men's synchro team" at the school so I'm not saying the males couldn't do what the females did if they had a coordinated team. I'm not saying the women's performance lacked in any way. I found it interesting, however, how different the two performances were and which one got the most notice and energy and applause from the audience. The women spent months in preparation to give a performance that was graceful, unassuming, sometimes sexy, with small, unobtrusive movements. The men's performance was in your face, large and boisterous...and it received the most notice. It made me wonder about the messages given to males and females in our society and from what seeming innocuous places those messages can come from.

The female performance was quiet, with small, delicate, sometimes unnoticeable movements. How many times and places, from birth on, are females given the message that we should be "ladylike", quiet, sexy and demure, often at the expense of our own voice and our powerful selves? How many places in our society are men rewarded and encouraged for the opposite behaviors? Like I said-if there was an applause-o-meter at the synch performance, the male number topped it out, no question.

I have more I'd like to, and will, say in future blog posts on the subject of voice and systemic sexism. For now, I'd like to draw attention the very different messages females and males are given in our society-in sometimes very subtle, insipid ways and ask some questions. What lasting effects might these messages have on an individual's ability to feel empowered and use her/his voice? What do these messages tell an individual about what characteristics are valued in her/his gender and how might these messages affect self confidence, self worth, self love and "success" in the future? Where are these messages "hidden" within our every day life?

Maybe it was "just" a synchro performance...but I don't think so because sometimes the devil is in the details.

21 and Thoughtful

 

So I’ve basically been contemplating on what to write about the past two weeks because honestly, so many unique things happen to me on a day to day basis that my life is like a television comedy. From awkward interactions with former male partners to getting called back for an unexpected final interview with Teach for America, my life always manages to keep things interesting for me. Really, ask any of my sisters. Anyhoo, as you all know, I am the youngest of the 5 and although I may not have as many life experiences as what my four older, beautiful sisters do, I still have a lot to bring to the table.

Today, April 7, is a very special day for me because it is my birthday! I am finally turning the big 2-1. I will no longer have to be paranoid when the police come into the bars and randomly decide to card people and I will no longer have to have my older sisters dress me in an “old lady” disguise just so I can get into the dueling piano bar. I guess I have finally reached the age where I can do EVERYTHING, not including renting a rental car, and for me I finally feel like I have reached adulthood in society’s eyes. However, although it is a very exciting day for me and will probably be one of the most memorable birthdays I’ve had thus far, my birthday signifies so much more than that to me. Because I am an Alesch, I have the capacity to think and reflect on the bigger message within certain situations, circumstances, etc. and as my sister Anne said in her previous post, “it is both my greatest gift, as well as my Achilles heel.” This is my reflection:

To me a birthday not only means that you are getting one year older, but it also signifies the passing of time. During this passing of time you have experienced many new life endeavors and developed as an individual. For myself, I like to think that every year my many moments of fear, strength, sadness, anger, and so on so forth have all shaped me into the wonderful woman I am today. As my tribute to this blog, I would like to reflect on the ways in which I have grown this past year.

This past year was honestly one of the best years I have experienced because so many experiences have helped me shape my views, opinions, daily routine, etc. This past summer I attended Basic Training and AIT for the Iowa National Guard. Great way to spend a summer, huh? Really, it wasn’t that bad though. I met a lot of unique individuals that I probably would have never come into contact with in the real world because we come from completely different regions and backgrounds. Basic Training and AIT force you to spend time and become best friends with people you normally wouldn’t interact with because at the time, they are the only people by your side to get you through the bullshit you’re going through. You look to the people to your left and right and it’s them that are encouraging you and making you persevere to accomplish the mission. I honestly learned so much through my experience at Basic and AIT about who I was as a person, my strengths as well as my weaknesses, but I also learned so much in regards to other cultures, races, economic backgrounds, etc.

After I returned from Basic and AIT in September this past year, I kind of had an “oh shit” moment. I had gotten back too late to start school that semester so it kind of put me in an awkward place in comparison to my peers. So, once again being an Alesch, I went balls to the wall and got a full time job at Panera Bread in Iowa City and a part time job being a nanny for three children: Julia, Brody, and Tyler. While many of my peers were going out at night, I was in bed by 10:00 p.m. because I had to be at Panera for work at 5:00 a.m. the next morning. At the time, this truly sucked, but now in hindsight, I am really grateful for this experience because it gave me a taste of the real world. It taught me great responsibility and made me realize that I was not going to be young and in college forever. There was more to life than going out and getting wasted with your friends; I had a life to create. However, on the opposite end of the spectrum, this experience also taught me to cherish the time I had left in college because these years were abruptly coming to an end and I needed to enjoy them while I could.

When I first started my babysitting job, I really never expected for it to continue once I started school again in the spring. I thought it was just going to be a temporary job to make a little extra cash, however, I fell in love with the family and the kids and now I feel more like a big sister to all of the children, as well as a close family friend to the parents. I do a lot for them and they do a lot for me and I think it is really hard to find sincere relationships like the one I have with this family. I am truly grateful.

After Christmas break rolled around and ended, it was time for me to go back to school. I had high anxiety about returning to the classroom because I was nervous that I was going to be unmotivated and forget how to even do school work anymore. The exact opposite effect took place though. I am highly motivated this semester and I had forgotten how much I missed and enjoyed school. I love all of my classes this semester and believe this is going to be my best academic semester yet. Many good things have happened to me this semester because of it, as well. I got accepted for an internship out of Washington D.C., called back for a final interview with Teach for America and accepted into the Study Abroad program in Spain I applied for this summer.

Now, you may be wondering what the point of me rambling on about my life experiences is and I guess the point is that it is truly amazing how much can change in a year and also crazy how things seem to fall directly into place and happen because that is a particular experience you might need at the time. How we grow as a person and how the experiences we go through shape our opinions, views and attitude toward the world. Today, I am turning one year older, but to me my birthday means so much more to me. It is a time for me to reflect on the past year and cherish the moments in which I have hurt, been happy, been frustrated, loved, hoped, etc. and say that is why I am the person I am today. It’s absolutely crazy just how much can happen in a year and the results that these occurrences bring to you. So anyway, I encourage each and every one of you to, on top of the presents and celebrations, think back and reflect how YOU have changed and grown as an individual on your next birthday, the one after that, and the one after that because after all, once we stop learning and growing, we truly stop LIVING.

Happy 21^st to me, drinks up ya’ll. <3