Taking Candy from Babies (& Other Ventures)

Well, it’s been about two weeks since my last post, and over a month since my last real update about my shenanigans.  I guess things on my side of the crater of life can best be understood by looking at the weather in Ohio this summer.  My romantic life isn’t as cold as it’s been in the past, but it certainly isn’t as hot as last summer.  It’s a comfortable mid-80s average–a hook-up here, a hook-up there, a delusional he-loves-me, he-loves-me-not crush on a co-worker.  There’s been a couple of pretty rough emotional storms, the kind that rip roofs off city hall and topple brick walls.  The sirens went off and people were warned to stay inside, but they blew over in the end, as storms often do.  The sun is out; the ground is moist.  There’s a present, fuzzy happiness swaddling a deep, persistent sadness, and that gradient is what’s making me feel human for the first time in almost a year.  I’m neither an optimistic alien or a gigantic human bruise.  My contentedness is not robotic, and my depression is no longer omnipresent.  I’m still responsibly reckless.  I’m anxiously happy, firmly rooted and floating aimlessly.  But the sun’s in my eyes, and what’s so terrible about wearing rose-colored sunglasses every once in a while?

So, here are a few things that have happened recently that are worth remembering on the next rainy day:

1) I am 23.  Taylor Swift’s famous 22 no longer incites me to go 37mph over the speed limit as I sing my solidarity at the top of my lungs.  Wearing Forever 21 clothes feels more and more like stumbling upon my own fountain of youth.  Most importantly, though, I had a great birthday.  A dear friend took me out to dinner at this specialty grilled cheese place in Lakewood.  When we came back, I opened the door and even more friends surprised me with so much unexpected joy I forgot I had ever been sad.  They even came the next day to celebrate again, and I baked one hell of a blueberry cake.  For the first time in a long time, I didn’t cry on my birthday.  I wasn’t broken up with.  I didn’t feel a more-than-friendship dying.  I wasn’t mocked for being childish.  I didn’t feel too old, or too young.  And, most importantly, I didn’t feel like a burden for not wanting to be alone.

2) Jobs, jobs, jobs.  I did start a new job at Hale Farm & Village in Bath, OH.  It’s a living history farm & museum, which basically means that I dress up and interpret historic buildings on the museum campus for families that decide to drop by.  Yes, I am costumed.  Yes, I do farm chores.  Yes, I do historic crafts.  Yes, you are jealous.  If you’re wondering why I haven’t posted about it extensively, it’s because I don’t have a digital camera and I want to have good pictures and good info.  I want it to be my best blog post yet, but since I’m impatient, here’s a little preview:

Unfortunately, Ohio weather dictates that, in about a month, my hours will be cut dramatically and I’ll probably have to find something new.  The good news is that an old professor sent me a link to a position doing local history work in Ohio through AmeriCorps.  The even better news is that, should they not want me for whatever reason, I am perfectly fine with that.  I’m actually really excited to not have a job or any potential jobs in the oven.  I’m ready to fully commit to running away from home.  I want to go to Europe for a couple of months and spend (almost) all my money.  I’ve been saving it for a rainy day, and this whole year was a rainy day.  It’s time I use it to just use it.  I’m only 23 for twelve more months, anyway.

3) I’ve got a green thumb. My garden, despite a few setbacks, is exploding.  (Perhaps that explosion is one of those set-backs–too many plants!)  I harvested three zucchini today and there’s more on the way.  Even though a creature has twice decimated my swiss chard, I’ve gotten at least five good harvests out of it, and I am confident that it is on its way back again.  My basil is still kicking, which is surprising because the zucchini plants have completely overrun it.  The mystery plant that I rescued hoping it was a pepper plant is not a pepper plant.  At first, I was sad and contemplated killing it so that I could have more space, but I’m no fan of planticide, so I let it chill.  I’m ever so glad I did, too, because I now have pretty purple flowers gracing one corner of my plot.  I’m anticipating tomatoes soon, and I will definitely have more cucumbers than is physically possible to eat in a few days.  I’m not going to lie and say I’m an expert now.  Much like my existence in the kitchen, I like to garden when no one is watching to witness my many blunders.  But the fact that I have a place to nurture new lives into existence, something I can mother (even if it is just a bunch of photosynthesizing green things), is pretty darn nice.

4) All your awards are belong to me.  This weekend, I was in Columbus for the Clann na nGael summer feis.  I volunteered last year, and it rained all day.  Now, this being an outdoor competition, that was rather problematic.  This year, we were lucky enough to have a bright, sunny day.  Mom and I woke up with the birds and headed out to the venue to volunteer with the feis set-up.  Nine hours later, after baking in the sun all day, I finally was allowed to check in for my first dance.  Needless to say, I was completely sun-drunk at that point.  My mouth was too dry to swallow, the inside of my dress was a lake of sweat, and the music was coming to me like I was watching Netflix on a really slow Internet connection.  Somehow, and I’m honestly not sure how, I managed to rake in three silver medals and a first place trophy.  I suppose it helps that I’m older and I know how to play a ruthless game.  I definitely staked out my competition and placed myself where I needed to be in the line-up so I wasn’t dancing with anyone who was leagues better than me.  I was goofy and let my personality shine through to the judges.  It paid off, and I was terrifically surprised, but I do feel a twinge of guilt.  You can’t pay Peter without robbing Paul.  Beating fifteen-year-olds at Irish dancing is a bit like stealing candy from babies.  Then again, like one dance mom told me on Saturday, I “don’t look a day over thirteen.”

5) You can call me The Scribbler.  I have been writing a lot of letters (and getting a few in return, too).  There is nothing more relaxing than shipping off a short missive and some doodles in a hand-made envelope to someone you care about, and nothing compares to having that sentiment reciprocated.  I currently have three penpalships that have made it past the initial letter.  My letters are all goofy and superficial most of the time, but that doesn’t stop me from pretending like I’m a young girl in the American Revolution about to stumble upon my political voice.  It’s all thanks to this awesome squirrel stationary an old co-worker sent me from when she was in Japan a few years back.  Ah, just thinking about it makes me want to tear off a sheet and jot out another one!

So, there.  A boring post without any point other than to let you know that I am still alive.  Things aren’t good, and even if they were, I don’t think I’d ever admit it for fear that it would be taken from me.  But, you know, even though I broke my phone last week by crying on it, things aren’t too shabby either.  A girl could get used to this.

Dear Mr. Governor John Kasich:

My name is Jen Graham, and I was born to two loving parents twenty three years ago, on July 2nd, 1990.  I have a little brother, who I love dearly, who was born four years later.  I am, despite the overwhelming existential dread in which I appear to be drowning, incredibly grateful that my amorphous sprit was able to take this shape, to grow, to learn, to travel, and expand in unbelievable ways.  I can’t imagine what my life would be like if my brother’s amorphous spirit hadn’t had the same opportunities, hadn’t taken shape, hadn’t held my hand, given me hell, and grown into an amazing young man.  In my vision of my future, there is a pregnancy.  There is another vague, amorphous spirit coming into my life, one I will treasure, one I will teach, nurture, and eventually send out into the world to explore and grow.

I preface the rest of my words with this statement so that you can know me.  I want you to know that I am a functioning, independent, thoughtful human being, and I want you to know how much I value the gift of life.  I want you to know that I was born and raised a Catholic, that I am a practicing Catholic, that I believe in one God, the giver of life and blah blah blah, that I look forward to the resurrection of the dead and the life of the world to come.  I am not currently on birth control (disclaimer: not for religious reasons), and when I am frightened by the potentiality of my womb, it is because I do not think I could ever, personally, abort a pregnancy.  I want you to know all of this, because I want you to keep this in mind when I tell you that your decision not to veto the lines in the new Ohio budget dealing with abortion, planned parenthood, and rape crisis makes me ill.  Just days after Texas State Senator Wendy Davis’s filibuster gave me goosebumps and made me cheer with happy, misty eyes for the future human race, your voice came to me over the radio waves, thick and dripping with pleasure.  Governor Kasich, you were asked whether or not you would use your veto power to correct an obviously erroneous addition to our state budget, and you responded with a sick, smarmy satisfaction, “Remember, I’m pro-life.”

(In case you are not from Ohio, or haven’t been following the news coverage on our new budget, these are some [but unfortunately not even close to all] of the horrifying items our esteemed Governor refused to eliminate:

• an abortion provider must check for a heartbeat with an abdominal ultrasound, a procedure that I just read could cost a woman without insurance upwards of $1,000, and inform women of the fetus’s “probable anatomical and physiological characteristics” during its development
• non-denominational Planned Parenthood was put last on the list for funding (which will lead to the closing of many centers).  Funding will be re-routed to “pregnancy crisis centers,” which are overwhelmingly right-wing religious centers that counsel against abortion and which do not always provide correct information
• rape crisis centers that counsel victims on abortion options might lose funding, again leading to closures
• abortion clinics can no longer transfer patients to public hospitals, which means agreements with private [religious] hospitals or, almost more terrifying, an inability to get patients with complications the care they need
• a redefinition of conception as the moment of fertilization, potentially effecting contraception methods such as birth control pills, IUDs, and things like Plan B emergency contraception)

Now, please forgive a shallow and inexperienced young woman (as all young women are known to be, especially on these topics) for deigning to comment on an issue so far beyond my sphere of experience, but what on earth does my choice to conceive, abort, or carry to term have to do with the two-year state budget?  Or, sir, were you trying to be clever and avoid a second triumphant Wendy Davis happening in our great state?  Because, here is what it looks like to me: it looks like you hate me.  In an America where it could cost more than most yearly college tuitions ($50,000) simply to give birth, in an America that still thinks it is appropriate to shame the victims of rape, in an America that prefers to look for scapegoats to blame rather than working constructively to solve its problems, in an America and an Ohio that I nevertheless love, it looks to me like you are immature, irresponsible, and came to class without doing the reading.

To be fair to you, I don’t expect you to be able to get beyond your business suit and your Governor’s Mansion and really understand what it’s like to carry a child to term.  The female reproductive system is amazing and beautiful, but I will concede that it is mind-boggling.  In fact, I don’t expect most men to posses this particular mental capacity, unless they’ve had their abdomen electrocuted for hours on end.  The difference is that I don’t expect other, greater men to try.  Yes, it’s true!  I expected you to pretend you possessed that empathy.  Isn’t that what your male peers have been doing for the past decade or so with increasing surety–pretending that men could possibly know what it’s like to have another human growing inside of you and the looming responsibility of raising this tiny, dependent creature for at least 18 years?  So, that eventually legislation dealing with this issue would rise in our state government was (unfortunately) kind of inevitable.

What I honestly didn’t expect is that you could possibly be so frivolous with our state’s finances, and so sneaky, yet so obvious about it.  Was this one of those Sauron-forged-in-secret-a-master-ring moments?  Do you think women are stupid?  Or did you want us to know so that you could rub it in our faces as you cackled and destroyed Middle Earth?  (In case you missed this part of the trilogy, you burn some villages and make some hell, but the free people of Middle Earth win in the end.)  Oh, and aren’t you guys supposed to be the conservative ones?  Aren’t we liberals supposed to be the ones wasting our state’s money?  So why would you choose to saddle our state with more financial burdens in the form of health and childcare?

The more women forced into unplanned pregnancies they couldn’t even hope to pay for, the more everyone else has to pay to foot the bill.  Even if you do not support abortion for whatever reason, organizations like Planned Parenthood and rape crisis centers provide women and families with the information they need to live and–yes–engage in coitus heathfully and responsibly.  They don’t force-feed patrons abortions.  The contraception information and services provided by these organizations, not only ensures less unplanned pregnancies and (thus) less potential abortions and costly medical procedures, it also increases the chances that this new life will be born into a family whose love is ripe and whose finances are ready.  This can save billions BILLIONS of dollars a year!  So, tell me, Mr. Pro-Life, are you afraid of women killing babies, or are you just afraid of women?

(Since you seem so unable to understand and trust the vexing female mind, I’ll clear up a few things and say I can’t think of any sane woman who wakes up on a usual Monday morning, eats her cereal, and contemplates her next exciting abortion.)

Again, I lament that the most tragic aspect of studying women of the early American Republic is the realization that so little has changed.  In 1797, Charles Brockden Brown wrote a little novella in which an educated woman shows an ignorant male school teacher the light.  In 2013, over two centuries later, I despair that her words still resonate and ring true:

Even the government of our own country, which is said to be the freest in the world, passes over women as if they were not. We are excluded from all political rights without the least ceremony. Law-makers thought as little of comprehending us in their code of liberty as if we were pigs, or sheep. That females are exceptions to their general maxims, perhaps never occurred to them, if it did, the idea was quietly discarded without leaving behind in it the slightest consciousness of inconsistency or injustice…If they generously admit me into the class of existences, but affirm that I exist for no purpose but the convenience of the more dignified sex, that I cannot be entrusted with the government of myself: that to foresee, to deliberate and decide belongs to others, while all my duties resolve themselves into this precept, ‘listen and obey;’ it is not for me to smile at their tyranny, or receive as my gospel, a code built upon such atrocious maxims. No, I am not a Federalist.

Later in 1883, Lucy Stone expressed a similar view in an essay, urging Oberlin College, her alma mater, to support a woman’s right to vote.  She wrote:

As I sat here, I looked up to your torn and tattered flag.  It marks the battle-fields where your soldiers carried it for freedom.  But I remember that other flags with their stars and bars ar floating on our hilltops everywhere, and taxed without representation ad governed without their consent.  When the war was ended and the Government asked in its reconstruction…’What shall be done with the rebels?’ and with one voice the people said, ‘Let them have amnesty and universal suffrage.’ And they got it.  And then it was asked, ‘What shall we do with Jefferson Davis–the man who had been the greatest traitor to his country?’ And the nation, looking over all its borders to find the worst punishment it could inflict upon him, did not put him in prison for life, did not set him to hard labor, did not load him with chains that should clank in human hears, but took away his right to vote.  It made him the political peer of every woman in the land.  When the women who had in camp and on the field nursed the soldiers, who hand turned night into day to raise supplies for the Sanitary Commission and to help the brave boys in blue–when these women went to Washington and asked, ‘In the reconstruction of the Government, what will you do with us?’ the Government left us all the peers of Jefferson Davis.

Why is it so difficult for you men take women seriously?  Do we not have minds?  Can we not process ideas?  Do we not feel?  Do we not bleed?  We are no strangers from a distant galaxy.  We are your flesh, and we are your blood.  The women of Ohio are your daughters, and you have a responsibility to us to listen and respect us.  As the highest public servant in our state government, you have a responsibility to be upfront and honest with us, to scold rather than gloat when your party sneaks unnecessary, hurtful items into a necessary budget proposal.  I love Ohio.  I was born here; I was raised here; and, until very recently, I had planned to live out the majority of my life in this great state.  But you, John Kasich, by showing me that my vote counts almost as little to you as it would have in the nineteenth century, by dismissing my own agency and seizing undue control of my body–a gift my God gave me–you have proven to me that there’s a new boogeyman in town.

I don’t have to watch out for monsters under my bed or vampires in bushes.  A full moon isn’t when the werewolves hunt.  You have proven to me that a bright, sunny day at the end of June is when the real monsters gather, and they’re not furry or disfigured.  They’re men–they’re fathers, brothers, husbands, and sons–they’re wearing business suits, they’re crowded around a big mahogany table, and they’re smiling.

Ohio Governor John Kasich smiles while signing the new two-year Ohio budget during a bill signing ceremony at the Ohio Statehouse in Columbus, Ohio on June 30, 2013. Kasich had vetoed a piece of the budget that would bar the state’s Medicaid program from covering additional low-income residents. (Columbus Dispatch photo by Brooke LaValley)