Day: November 3, 2016

40+ years in and here’s what I know: Everything boils down to love. We do what we do in search of it, because of it, or to run away from the pain it can bring. I spent my first 12 years in a situation where love came easy. I had a mom, a dad, and a handful of friends that brought me joy. Things changed after that, the spaces between the moments of love stretching and morphing into something darker. For a while after I clung to things and people that showed me love. In time I grew less dependent on the idea and more driven by purpose, perhaps finding love in the things I did as opposed to the people in my life.

You can say you love a thing. You can say you love what you do, but the reality is that you are enamored by the feeling you get–perhaps from the act itself, perhaps from the adulation or admiration that comes as a result of the work or thing. People who love their cars don’t actual love the chrome and the rubber. People who love people don’t actually love the bone and the blood. We love the idea of people–the thoughts, beliefs, and actions wrapped in flesh and warmth. We love what they mean to us and, in terms of the living, what we mean to them.

This is where it gets tricky, because for me any real love is more than a self reflection. Love is not a negotiation. Love is saying to someone, ‘you are beautiful and valuable to me with all of your flaws. As I see you is how I love you.’ Love is acceptance and commitment and willingness to take everything in about a person and still love them and be with them. Outside of my boys I have only ever loved like that once in my life. And once is all I ever will.

Everything boils down to love. When it fills you, life is well lived. When it leaves you, the world can feel cold and empty. However, it doesn’t ever need to leave you. See, the most important thing is to be good to yourself by loving yourself.  Perhaps that explains why it is the hardest thing in the world to do.

The man in the dirty sweatshirt was broad shouldered with a potbelly and spindly legs. He wore a hat to mask a splotch of uncombed hair and his smirk promised that he’d yet to brush his teeth this morning. Yet when he saw the girl in the crop top it was he who looked on in disgust. She was not thin, at least as thin as he thought she ought to be, so when she passed by he stared down into her cleavage and said, “yuck.”

I froze, shocked by what I saw unfold. I suppose I should have expected it. In a world where we dismiss stories of proposed sexual assault as locker room talk and our porn is as vile, violent, and removed from reality as possible, why would I be surprised that a man would be emboldened to publicly shame a woman he doesn’t know?

She looked around, unfastening the headphones from her ears and slowing a step. He kept walking. He looked back once, shook his head, and motored on. After a moment I was the only one standing still–the only one in a crowd of shifting students who paid any mind to what just happened.

I don’t know that other people heard. I want to think I witnessed the exchange alone–that the woman didn’t hear the sounds he made, not that she was so desensitized to the commentary and abuse that it no longer registered to her senses.

All of me wishes it wasn’t that way. The truth is Marlo Stanfield had it right all along. I want it to be one way, but it is the other way. I want to live in a world where women are respected as opposed to codified and bullied. But it is the other way. I want to feel like gender and racial equality is a thing that we all want to strive towards. But it is the other way. I want to think that these problems aren’t a central tenet of how our country was both formed and continues to function/remain a global power. But it is the other way.