YOU HAD ME AT “GOODBYE”

Watching romantic comedies and dramas through a feminist lens* is a deeply concerning experience. The notion that romantic relationships are acceptable, in the ways they’re typically depicted, teeters on a familiar, vertiginous premise of “true love,” orchestrated by blocking and lighting and wardrobe and makeup and cameras and score, all of which recruit and coach our attention. Those are the things that tell us that the person frantically ringing the buzzer to the apartment, waiting outside the workplace, showing up unannounced with a gift, running to catch the same train, or declaring the night is young, is the hero(ine), and not someone overbearing, unbalanced, or even dangerous. As for gaslighting? Rampant. “You don’t mean that.” “You’re scared to let yourself be loved.” Etc. Such things slip past our censors precisely because they’re so familiar, and because we’ve decided in advance—that is, it’s been decided for us—that in the case of the chosen couple, such presumptuous statements are perceptive and accurate. I used to be a projectionist and had big plans to write about the occupational hazards of so much exposure to culture through film, all the dramatic speeches thrown around (not to mention the overt violence and interpersonal ugliness). But the truth is that the average American in most walks of life has been exposed to as much as I was, if not much more—occupational hazards of being alive here and now. We are collectively gaslighted by culture, and that shows up in therapy offices. Certainly there are gestures, small and grand, that are, in fact, romantic—that do, in fact, show love. There may be someone you’d be glad to see hoisting a boombox beyond your window to play your song. Ultimately, it’s your body that knows the most about who’s safe and welcome for you, and who’s not. If you feel you lack such discernment because of past trauma, which can certainly happen, there are ways to cultivate it. Notice your preferences and bodily responses to foods, beverages, volumes, scents, textures, temperatures, times of day. Honor your senses. Someone who’s not right for you isn’t ipso facto a villain; being clear with yourself and others isn’t about vilification. Nor are our emotions necessarily simple and straightforward, I get that. But resistance—for example, feeling uncomfortable if someone offers to walk you to your car, or suggests you meet on purpose if you’ve met by chance—is a powerful instinct. It warrants attention.

*I’m not a scholar and can’t speak in a scholarly way about the history and current meaning(s) of feminism, which I perceive as signifying different things to different people. My use of “feminist” is meant to imply the endeavor to think critically with care for the well-being of all persons; as such, for me, it is related to environmentalism and to good therapy.

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ALL THAT GLITTERS IS NOT GOLD

Like a human cousin of the Corvid family, I was once upon a time a child who loved anything that sparkled. Mica, tinsel, brooches on ladies’ coats. I played an angel in my second grade holiday pageant, and the gilded poster-board wings hung in my closet until after I had graduated college, when my mom tactfully asked if I wanted to keep them.

I’ve got three hunks of pyrite at home that say I haven’t entirely outgrown scintillation; but I newly hate glitter. It contributes to the microplastics polluting the planet’s water and species. Many in the profession of Youth & Family Therapy espouse the making of glitter bottles as coping tools, and until recently, I was more repelled by the larger, more obvious plastic involved. Now it’s the razzle-dazzle that concerns me most. It’s the bellies of seabirds and fish that matter to me. Our health isn’t separate from theirs.

I know what it’s like to grow up in tight financial circumstances and feel a fervent longing for anything that seems to bespeak prosperity and success. I still feel some reflexive awe when recalling a cardboard crown with convincing paper gems that I could glue on where I chose. I remember the power of certain aspirational goods: name-brand sneakers, clothing, toys, and even snacks.

One of the harder parts of my job, though, is swallowing my environmental dismay to meet kids where they’re at, including acknowledging their sadness and/or excitement over things all too likely made by other kids halfway around the world. My concern is—has to be—the emotional hunger that makes conspicuous consumption so much more appealing. But sometimes I feel, as I listen, an ache for the larger world, of which my lead-free, plastic-free, glitter-free office is just one, infinitesimal part.

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January 21

 

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