• Rediscovering My Personal Style: An Ongoing Quest — Pt. 1

    For several reasons, I would not recommend losing the nucleus of your self-image to the passage of time and the pressures of society. Among those reasons is the fact that, once you do lose sight of your self-image, it becomes very difficult to rediscover. Over the last few months, I have spent enough time in the humid, denim depths of the Madewell fitting room to last a lifetime.

    There is solace in the knowledge that I am not alone in this unstylish void. My research (paging through Reddit) has made clear the fact that many others have experienced similar losses in recent years. The Covid-19 pandemic shifted the way we live and move. This has changed the shapes of our bodies and our bodies’ responses to colors, fabrics, textures. As a result, my body and mind are feuding and frankly it is very tiresome.

    Fashion has always been very important to me. I have always taken great interest in studying fashion history and production. I wore a homemade, asymmetrical smock to a sixth grade dance (I was in my Rei Kawabuko era), and spent a year studying design at the Fashion Institute of Technology. This passion, until recently, translated into my own commitment to personal style. Concepts for outfits once came to me easily, whereas getting dressed now feels like crawling in the dark. The path of least resistance is one well-laid with turtlenecks and baggy jeans.

    I have been searching for inspiration as an antidote to my sartorial slump, but find it difficult to see myself in the images populating my Instagram feed. I am reluctant to blame all of my neurosis on social media. Though it’s probably accurate, it is uninteresting. But allow me a moment of your time.

    Once upon a time, I gathered inspiration for my scaring-church-ladies-outfits from the pages of Lookbook.nu and LiveJournal communities. This eventually morphed into following troves of fashion-minded influencers on platforms like Instagram and TikTok. As with everything on Today’s Modern Fucked-Up Profit-Driven Internet, extremes are favored. This has spilled over into self-expression. As I got distracted looking at my cellphone while writing this, I just watched a video of a woman putting together the following outfit: a vintage leather skirt, an electric blue Coperni top, a bedazzled Adidas mesh top, a vintage silk fascinator, Tom Ford sunglasses, a Swarovski bag, and silver John Fleuvog platform loafers (all complemented by a full face of Dior makeup). This person, without a doubt, looked very cool and interesting.

    Now, I am trying an exercise. I am trying to mentally hold this image side-by-side with a grainy digital-camera photo of a young woman with a terrible haircut, wearing a Courtney Love slip dress she likely shoplifted from Goodwill. I don’t even think I am approaching this comparison from a fist-shaking “things were better when I was a youth!” mentality when I say there is so much more raw inspiration inherent in this latter image. For one, I believe that Courtney Love Slip Dress actually went about her day dressed as she was. I would be surprised if Influencer was getting dressed for more than Instagram.

    So far, brooding on this subject hasn’t yielded spectacular results in terms of my own appearance. But continuing to brood is my intention nevertheless. I hope to continue to reflect — rather than overthink — on what it means to me to get dressed.

    . . .

  • The Protest Vote

    It’s an election year, which means that the amount of time I spend getting dragged into arguments on Reddit has tripled in the last quarter. I know, I know — it’s a complete waste of my time and energy (and I am proud to say this tendency has decreased since my early 20’s, life being too short and all of that, but still. It’s a thing, so work with me here).

    As I was saying, it’s an election year. In 238 days, the United States will relive 2020’s hellish showdown between two rich, senile ghouls. Given this, the moderate rhetoric around every urgent political issue has shifted to the “vote about it” angle. It feels borderline hysterical, the way that large swaths of our society shriek about the need to “vote!” It’s so rare that this instruction to vote is ever coupled with any encouragement of something to vote for. It’s almost as if it doesn’t matter.

    This year, things feel a bit different. In a show of protest against the United States’s involvement in the Palestinian genocide, organizers are successfully encouraging voters to select “uncommitted” on their ballots, as opposed to an actual candidate. In my home state of Massachusetts, 10% or 55,000 voters declared themselves uncommitted.

    The goal of this organizing strategy is to send a message: our votes are not guaranteed. Every four years the Democratic Party relies on youth, relies on women, relies on people of color, relies on the disenfranchised and vulnerable to prop them up without question — all the while their policies and figureheads inch further and further rightward. An uncommitted vote is meant as a wake up call that — shocking — we actually expect our candidates to engage with and to act based upon our ideas. Seventy-six percent of Democrats are asking for a ceasefire, but no Democratic candidate is willing to reflect the will of the majority. Oh right: we live in a republic. Sorry, I forget myself.

    The funny thing is, I’m actually not the cynical one. I remain unsurprised and unjaded by the actions of my corporate-sponsored overlords. It’s freeing — you should try it! The choking mass of cynicism all around us becomes apparent why you try to encourage someone to think beyond the CNN and Fox News binary. You will be informed that by doing so, by demanding more from the powerful, you are the threat. You are the one putting the entire system at risk. The neoliberal mindset would have me believe that I am the sole barrier between democratic order and authoritarianism. Me? How charming!

    Regarding the aforementioned Reddit debates, I did find myself at the center of such ungodly controversy last week when I proclaimed my pride that tens of thousands of my neighbors opted to vote for “uncommitted” in the primary. People whose post history was comprised largely of thinly-veiled racism towards brown people pleaded with me not to “throw away” my vote. “You don’t get it — it will be so much worse if we lose!” About three seconds of introspection could illuminate that complacency does more to uphold individuals like Donald Trump than I ever could.

    I will speak more on that individual as well, as it unfortunately needs to be said. A complete lack of imagination has lead us to a general discourse where any overt critiques of the Democratic Party are perceived as a “de facto” endorsement of Trump. How shameful. What I would love to know, though, is what any of these weak-minded individuals were doing the four years Trump was actually in office. I surely didn’t see them doing much more than sharing whatever Saturday Night Live segment was relevant that week. Were you at the airport after the Muslim Ban? Were you in the streets screaming out against his lawmaking against transgender people in the military? Were you working to ensure that reproductive freedoms would remain protected? No, I don’t think you were — because I was there and didn’t see any of you.

    This will be the third presidential election in which I am an eligible voter, and it turns out — per the violently desperate superpac emails in my inbox — they are all the most important election of my life! Wait…I’m getting a vision. Something tells me that no matter who wins this election, life in the United States will continue to deteriorate at a rapid pace — and 2028 will officially be the most important election of my lifetime.

    I do feel deeply sorry for the vote-crazed. You wake up every morning and you really see the world as a pale and changeless mass of rot. You think to yourself “I won’t even try for something better, I will just eke out my meager existence on this plane and be grateful that I don’t have it quite so bad.” The guys who do have it quite so bad don’t even enter the equation. What an unfortunate way to be — your only joys in life are for voting (just the simple act will do — it’s all style no substance for you anyway), and bemoaning those who yearn for more as unrealistic troublemakers.

    I am, and proud of it! I will go down kicking and screaming, asking to live in a world worth living in. I will never be satisfied; I will continue to beg for more. Please, just a scrap of a better future. Just a drop! Anything!

    . . .

  • Surrounded by Men

    Apparently, 40% of practicing lawyers are women. This statistic always surprises me given my daily experience moving through courtrooms and offices and Zoom calls where the faces and voices talking at and over me >60% male. Where’s the “almost half” contingent? I ask myself after opposing counsel thanks me for being “so sweet.”

    In therapy I talk about how I have no role models. In law school we’re given the box-checking DEI spiel about how women don’t become partners at law firms because they leave the profession in their 30’s to raise children. It’s an individual choice, not a structural issue, you see.

    I stand there in my freshly-pressed suit, hair sprayed and fake pearls laid just so, while I wait for a sweaty, disheveled potato of a man to confirm with his client whether a disabled single mother of two will be removed from her home in the next 48 hours. The decision is ultimately made because he feels like it.

    Is it better or worse for the people I serve to be coy and cordial? Can well-timed eyelashes lure a bad actor into a false sense of security that ultimately brings about the justice I seek? Is there honor in my supplication? Or is it better to play the bitch? The no-nonsense version of myself lurking within? I’ve seen the spikes incite fear — but as with many men, that fear only draws out a rash, unproductive defensiveness through which no one is served.

    Perhaps the reason that women leave the profession is self-preservation. In this work we are so often confronted by the fact that we are, as individuals, helpless to stop the grind of evictions, of incarcerations, of interpersonal violence. We create, at best, small disruptions in these systems. This logic applies to the spheres in which we move, it seems; our presence nothing but a different box checked on the demographic survey when its time to renew your bar card. How does that make a life?

    . . .

  • An Outlet for the Rage

    Today, I am filled with unspeakable anger. It’s the kind of anger that makes me want to scream, to lash out, to make a fool of myself.

    Earlier today, the Israeli military bombed al-Shifa Hospital. Without electricity, Palestinian doctors are currently keeping 39 newborns alive by hand-pumping oxygen. One infant has already died. This incident alone is unspeakable — a representation of the suffering that humankind is capable of inflicting in the name of settler-colonialism — and yet it is only another minute in another day of a month of bloodshed. 11,000 more Palestinian martyrs lie beneath the rubble of Gaza. Entire families, entire communities. Gone.

    My taxes pay for the bombs used to kill. My government endorses the killing, despite the masses calling for a ceasefire. Around me, people lose jobs and opportunities because they refuse to be complicit in genocide. I have disengaged from friendships, lost respect for professors and colleagues, because they refuse to believe what is in front of us all. How shamelessly they share this information, too. So many masks have fallen to the ground, revealing a lust for blood I didn’t know possible. Perhaps it’s twisted sort of blessing to have the chance to see someone as they really are. Still, I feel shame for the admiration I once felt, and sorrow for what is now forever lost.

    The cognitive dissonance swirls and swirls and swirls without end. How does one function? What is there to do but vibrate with rage?

    . . .

  • The Return of the Blog

    Does anyone really blog anymore?

    I would require multiple appendages to count the total number of blogs I’ve had in my lifetime. LiveJournal confessionals, scenster-era Xanga pages that were more form than substance, BlogSpot-based chronicles of my high school fashion choices — I even had a short-lived Tumblr dedicated to ranking the quality of my Tinder dates.

    Perhaps the personal blog was bystander casualty in the 2010’s War Against the Personal Essay. “We don’t want writing about your lived experience, we want unreadable experimental writing that thinly veils your lived experience!” and so forth. But as I write this, the number of places to publish (and, you know, read) any kind of non-AI-generated writing is shrinking by the hour. This morning, it was announced that Jezebel would be shutting down after 16 years.

    It make sense that models like Substack are on the rise. Where else do writers have but whatever corner of the internet allows them to carve out a space for themselves? Even better if, like Substack, they promise a profitable, growth-oriented model. Medium did the same thing a few years ago, and after cultivating 2,200 readers and hundreds of thousands of views on my posts there, I earn approximately $0.02 each month. So here I am, keeping my intellectual property to myself and bringing it all back to where it started: the blog.

    There is peace and joy in complete uselessness. I’m pretty sure Thich Nhat Hanh said that. To write without a “growth-oriented” mindset and without the constraints of whatever terrible business decision will land in the publishing industry’s lap next. To do something and remember what it was like to care about it before it fed you.

    The other day on Twitter, writer Jamie Hood declared “the age of irony poisoning is over … earnest girlies rise up!” And I have personally never been more excited for such a cultural shift. I will see you on the blog.

    . . .