The Void

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I stand tall amidst the void. Shoulders squared, I compile my thoughts and construct my arguments. I try to anticipate the points it may make and the questions it may ask. Armed, constantly, with information and insight and perspective. Desperately hoping that today, at long last, it will be impactful.

Our conversation is familiar. We have been here before. Like a recurring nightmare, it gets worse each time.  We were enraged over the pathetic sentencing of Brock Turner in the Stanford rape case; horrified by the public gang rape of a 16-year-old girl in Steubenville; shattered by the truth of the once-beloved Bill Cosby. We were nauseated by the nearly decade-long captivity of women in Ohio; the Boko Haram kidnapping of 276 girls in Nigeria; the tradition of rape at St. Paul’s School in New Hampshire. Complete mortification consumed us when seven men raped a woman to death in India in the most high-profile instance of the country’s epidemic of rape and femicide.

I say into the void, “Don’t you remember? Didn’t we just have this conversation? Do you not understand?”

Perhaps those cases are too incomprehensible. The lack of humanity, the disregard for the right to bodily autonomy, the debasement and denigration – all of it – seem like something that happens somewhere else to someone else. But one in five women is sexually assaulted in the United States. And all women know the fear of a man following her, or the worry of walking at night, or the gross feeling of men yelling at you on the street. At some point, every woman has an encounter where she is not attacked, but she realizes there’s absolutely nothing protecting her from becoming the one in five forcibly violated for no sin other than that of womanhood.

I say into the void, “Did you hear what I said? Do you have any questions? Do you not understand?”

It’s exhausting, circling through this again and again. These stories hit us with the consistency and force of waves. And just when we regain our balance, a stronger wave full of, “She deserved it” and “She’s lying” and “Like anyone would want to rape her,” comes in and knocks us right off our feet. Now we have a man tell the world that he “grabs [women] by the pussy” and when women come out and say, “Yes, he did that to me,” we call them liars with political agendas unworthy of our time or our consideration or, even, the luxury of the touch of the abusive man’s small hands.

I say into the void, “Why aren’t you listening? Do you believe me? Do you not understand?”

The current conversation is spiraling into a bigger, looming, more misogynistic monster. Now, people are not just arguing the issue of assault or the reality of rape culture. There are some who have gone one step further and are calling to #RepealThe19th – the amendment that gave women the right to vote in this country only 96 years ago. Apparently less than a century was too long – we should not have had the right to use our voice or political agency at all. I suppose we should also undo the disturbingly recent rulings that marital rape is a crime while we continue our backwards trajectory towards greatness.

I say into the void, “Why is this acceptable to you? How do you not see? Do you not understand?”

I know, I know, this is not all men. I see and hear the men steadfastly on our side. I appreciate their bravery and honesty as they try to educate themselves and their peers on these issues. I am thankful for every man who stands up and says, “Not in my locker room.” It is not, and never has been, about whether or not all men are sexist. Or whether or not all men are predatory threats. It is about all women experiencing harassment and sexism and even assault – whether on the streets or in the boardroom or within the walls of her own home.

I say into the void, “How many times do I have to tell you? How often must we have this conversation? Do you not understand?”

It is as if we wage a constant battle to defend the value of our humanity and remind people of our personhood. I am tired of saying the same things as we respond to assaults more heinous than the last. I am tired of hearing continued calls for the subjugation of women in the freest country in the world. I long for the day my friend doesn’t feel the need to call me as she walks to her car with mace.

I say into the void, “Do you not understand? Do you not understand? Do you not understand?”

I can no longer tell if the silence of the void is drowning me out, or if I simply do not have a voice.

I am, after all, merely a woman.

 

 

Smile, baby. It’s just locker room talk.

Don’t tell me rape culture isn’t a thing when women have stories like this.

Don’t say they’re “just women’s issues” when women are half of the population.

Don’t teach your daughters how to avoid being raped while excusing your sons with “boys will be boys.”

Don’t only care if it’s your wife or daughter or sister.

Don’t think for a second that I even remotely covered everything.

And definitely, definitely, definitely:

Don’t grab my pussy.

#GDTBATH

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We won last night.

You probably think I wrote that incorrectly. I didn’t.

We won last night. We won every night during this unforgettable season. We win every day of the week. We are currently winning. Right now. In this moment. While you read these words and breathe this breath.

Villanova fans are saying, “Scoreboard.” That’s fine. Let them. They’re right. The scoreboard and the media and the trophies and the history books will say they won on April 4, 2016 against the North Carolina Tar Heels to take home the national title.

They did.

It sucks.

But, funny thing. Despite the scoreboard and the media and the trophies and the history books: we still won last night.

We won because of Marcus Paige, Brice Johnson, and Joel James – three scholarship seniors who gave us everything they could time and time again despite the adversity and the doubters.

We won because of the class, dedication, and sportsmanship demonstrated by our players all season and throughout their careers. If you’re unclear what I’m talking about, watch Paige’s post-game press conference and tell me he doesn’t embody everything you want to see in an athlete, a human, yourself.

We won because of Roy Williams, who unfailingly stood by and loved this team since day one. Who constantly refused to take the easy way out and avoid the media vultures (said as a journalism graduate) by retiring. Who tried to start six seniors during their last home game to uphold a tradition and pay them back. Who choked back tears as Marcus Paige thanked him for making him a better man.

We won because of that classic #SecondHalfPaige shot in the final seconds of the game to tie it up. That beautiful, magnificent, impossible shot that only Paige could bring to life. That shot that made us remember why we’ve believed in this 2016 season since we lost in 2012. That shot that gave us hope for overtime. That made us think once more, “Yes. THIS is our year! I knew it!” if only for a brief yet glorious moment.

Then there’s you and me. We won because of us too.

We won because we all love that little town on a hill, and a Carolina Blue sky no matter where it may be in the world, and those powder blue uniforms with the argyle piping. We won because our hearts swell when we hear the words “Born. Bred. Dead.” and our eyes go distant when “Carolina on My Mind” transitions into its chorus.

We won because it hurts. It hurt when free throws didn’t make it in, when Villanova broke us in transition, when officiating didn’t go our way, when layups didn’t drop, when plays didn’t work.

It hurt when that Villanova three went up at the buzzer. Because you knew it was in. You knew it was in. You knew it was over. You knew it was done.

That…that…we won’t go into that.

So yes, according to the scoreboard and the media and the trophies and the Villanova fans and the Carolina haters, we lost last night. Yes…according to all available and reasonable metrics, we lost last night.

But we didn’t. At least, not in matters outside of the final score.

We are part of a group of people who drove 17 hours to Houston, dropped nearly a grand on a plane ticket to Chapel Hill, shirked responsibilities to watch a game with friends, hugged crestfallen strangers wearing that NC logo because you understood each other’s pain. This same group of people woke up this morning heartbroken and immediately posted about how proud they are of this team, how grateful they are for this season, how, even today, it’s a #GDTBATH.

And you liked every post. Because you know. Because you agree. Because you are also a Tar Heel, and you want them to know that they are not alone in their heartache or their pride.

You know the people who do those things for each other? Who drive for days to see you, or spend money they don’t have to get to where you need them to be, or risk their success to help you with yours?

Family.

That’s why we won last night. That’s why we won all season. That’s why we win every day.

I’ll see you in October.

From San Diego, With Love

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About a month ago I quit my job and bought a one-way ticket to San Diego. I did it without a job, without an apartment, and without knowing hardly anyone in the area.

I kept my plans close to the chest for quite some time. Partially because I didn’t want too many opinions and I didn’t want to face judgment. But mainly because I was afraid I might back out. Get too scared. Live in my comfort zone. Settle for a life that was good but not great, safe but not sustainable, successful but not inspiring.

But I didn’t back out. And I’m not fazed by anyone’s opinions or judgments because I already did the damn thing. So if you’re interested in my move, well, here ya go:

It started when I visited San Diego a few summers ago. I walked out of the airport, saw the palm trees across a spectacular blue sky, and broke into a wide grin. I had a good feeling in my gut. It was the same feeling I had when I visited Chapel Hill for the first time and saw the Carolina Blue street signs across that same spectacular blue sky. I knew immediately I wanted to go to UNC. Ever since, if I have the same feeling about something that I had that day, I go with it. It hasn’t led me astray yet.

After graduation, I found it challenging to find a job across the country. It turns out people don’t always believe you when you say you’re prepared to relocate yourself immediately. Instead, I got a job in DC and lived at home to save money while I figured life out. I didn’t have a clue what I wanted to do so I maintained my status quo even though it never felt quite right.

Don’t get me wrong. I learned and developed in invaluable ways through my many mentors at work. I am eternally grateful to my parents for putting up with me (and putting me up) for a year and a half after graduation. I had good friends, both old and new, in the area. It wasn’t a bad life, and I wasn’t unhappy with it. I was unhappy with myself.

It’s a shit feeling. 0/10 do not recommend.

I don’t recall exactly when I made the decision to make the jump. I just remember one day calling my best friend and telling her I was quitting my job after the holidays and moving to San Diego.

Her response is exactly what we all hope the person who knows us best will say when we make bold life decisions that need support: “That sounds like you.”

After months of planning and saving, I finally executed. I landed on March 22.

I recognize that finding a job will be difficult, having a three-hour time difference will get frustrating, and being across the country from my stronghold will likely make me cry at some point. But none of that scares me. Or at least, not in a way that makes me want to change my mind. More so in a way that makes me want to lean in, work hard, make things happen.

Christina’s right. That sounds like me.

And, you know, maybe it won’t be that difficult. Sometimes things fall into place in the exact right way and at the exact right time, and that seems to be the case with this.

I met my roommate online and all signs point to her not being a Craigslist killer. In fact, she’s pretty cool. We got approved for the first apartment we applied to and met a couple other girls doing the same thing we did. And now we’re friends — comrades in this leap of faith we all happened to take at the same time.

The only thing giving me heartache right now is that I’m not in Chapel Hill to cheer on Roy’s boys with my favorite people. I have tortured myself looking at plane tickets and (to no one’s surprise but to my father’s dismay) have seriously considered dropping $800+ and moving my Monday job interview.

But I won’t. I knew this might happen when I made the decision to move during my favorite month of March (after the holidays but before college graduates join the job market full force) and have accepted my fate. Instead, I’ll root for the Heels with some people who might not all be into basketball, but are down to watch with me. And that’s a pretty cool option, too.

I haven’t second-guessed anything since getting here. This is without a doubt the proudest I have ever been of myself.

It’s a great feeling. 10/10 definitely recommend.

A Year of Questions

2015 did not go as expected. Actually, that’s inaccurate because I didn’t have any true expectations for the year. Mainly I wanted to obtain the ever-elusive feat of “getting my shit together.” In January I turned 23, which is the age Tar Heels (or any Michael Jordan aficionado) call their “Jordan year” as a way to honor the GOAT and pretend turning 23 is exciting. But I didn’t have an actual plan. And I didn’t set goals. And I didn’t even know exactly what I thought getting my shit together should look like. Needless to say, that is not how champion years are achieved.

When I returned to Chapel Hill for homecoming in November, I felt like I was in the exact place I had been in a year before. While it looked like that at the surface, I realized that assessment is the product of negative thinking. In reality, much has changed over the past year, and many of those changes and accomplishments are results of decisions I made regarding what to do, how to handle a situation, and when to move forward. The decisions, accomplishments, and changes were usually not easy, or pretty, and sometimes they weren’t good, but they are mine.

This has been a year of hard-learned lessons, experiences, and progress.  Amongst many other events, I traveled in and out of the U.S., reached my one-year anniversary at my first full-time professional job, had a relationship and dealt with its fall out, saved money by living in my parents’ proverbial literal basement, grew closer with my younger sister, volunteered as an advisor for a stint, maintained close friendships with people strewn across the country, and published an article via RDECOM. The lessons are still being learned, and the progress is still being made, but the experiences were impactful.

Despite everything that happened, or rather because of, the year elicited a slew of sometimes exciting but usually all-consuming, completely overwhelming questions. Questions about the direction of my life, the content of my personhood, the impact I want to have on the world, who and what makes me happy. Most of these questions brought on more questions, such as: am I trapped by the idea of how I think my life “should” be going, at what point is the pressure I put on myself more paralyzing than motivating, how do I change the things I want to change? Finally, the most deafening and humbling question of them all: am I brave enough to achieve my own personal greatness?

These questions have run circuits in my mind for many months. I don’t know their answers, and I’m starting to realize that I might never know them. Not because I’m condemned to a life of uncertainty, but because life is a constant journey of self-creation, and the only way to continue to better ourselves is to ask questions, never become complacent, and accept our curiosities and fears with open arms.

The year 2015 is best categorized as a building year. It was not good. It was not bad. It was necessary. After all, Rome was not built in a day; J.K. Rowling was rejected a dozen times before publishing Harry Potter; and Michael Jordan didn’t initially make his high school Varsity team. I’m doing fine.

 

 

 

 

Going Home // Gone to Carolina

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Last weekend I went to a little town on a hill. In that little town, there are light blue street signs and light blue fire-trucks and shops lined with light blue clothing on a street called Franklin. There’s a flagship university, a renowned athletic system, and the best people I’ve ever known.

Like many others going to homecoming, I made my pilgrimage to the University of North Carolina with a full heart and a quickened pulse. As soon as my plane landed at RDU, my shoulders relaxed. My spirits soared. My hands tingled with the anticipation of coming home. I ran off my plane, found my friend, and together we made the familiar 30-minute drive to that blessed place called Chapel Hill.

My weekend in Blue Heaven was a blur of laughter, joy, good friends, and favorite bars. I visited my sorority house, gleefully and unashamedly met the newest addition to my Pi Phi family, and slept on the floor with ten of my closest friends in a basement apartment. I made new memories in an old place and everything felt right.

While I have always known the feeling of home within my family, I did not have a place that was mine until Chapel Hill. As an Army kid, I moved frequently. Every two years, I packed up my belongings, said my goodbyes, and moved to a different place with a different school and different people. For the most part I enjoyed each town, but I always knew I was not there to stay and that I was a fluid component of my friend groups. When it was time for college, I was ready for more. I was ready for a place where I felt loved, challenged, happy, safe, permanent. A place where I could leave and return years later and still feel that I belonged to it and it to me.

Chapel Hill gave me all of that and more, but it also taught me a crucial lesson. As much as I love the sight of the light blue street signs and the Old Well; as much as I miss the chiming of the Bell Tower and the roar of a crowd in the Dean Dome; and as much as I enjoy walking those brick pathways throughout campus, it is not just the place that is home—it’s the people.

The people are what make the memories that much more colorful and lively and pure. The people are what made tripping over the old bricks funny and staying up all night studying bearable and waiting for a basketball game in the snow an adventure. The people are what make me laugh until my cheeks hurt. It is the people that encourage me to be the best version of myself and love me when I’m not. It is the people that understand how I feel about this place, and it is that understanding that makes me feel at home.

The games won, the excited hellos and disappointed goodbyes said, and the elation of the weekend fading, the last of us made our way to RDU. Five of us went to the airport to catch flights to Houston, New York, Atlanta, and DC. The sadness of leaving didn’t hit me until I said my final goodbye, and I realized my brief visit to a different life was over. Seeing all of us run to opposite gates leading to different places brought our current reality into screaming color. It hurt, and I blinked back the tears as the wheels of my plane parted with the ground.

The next day my texts and social media were full of Tar Heels lamenting not being able to go to homecoming, or being sad that the weekend was over and real life had to be faced once more. Much of this past week has involved missing my favorite town, watching UNC games, and wondering when I can next visit the people I either didn’t see or didn’t see enough of at homecoming. Mostly my week has involved living my life as it is currently—going to work, working out, being with friends. But there were days when the sky was the perfect shade of light blue, and my heart skipped a beat.