Appetites

 By Anci CL

This Christmas vacation played out like a study in good food--I didn't take a picture of every beautiful meal, I ate (unfortunately...though, maybe not for you?] But I did document a couple of my gastronomic feats of consumption.

Going to New York, to watch my sister play in Carnegie hall, meant... eating from a plethora of "high end" platters, (well, high end for me. Not for rich people, obviously)  and then coming back home meant indulging in my standard fare of beautiful, but substantially less impressive dishes. (Okay, So I wanted you to know my sister played at Carnegie... six times more than you have. Can you blame me?)

In many ways the food we eat is indicative of our stations in life-- it conveys our attitudes, our values, our tummy troubles. (and my god, are they beautiful.)

NY

Ohio

NY

Mom's cooking

Ohio

I love food presentation almost as much I love food-- anything really, that brings dignity to one of our basest impulses. It's really the same principle as seduction, -- without which intercourse would be vulgar and over, quick. Food presentation attracts us, and makes our mouths water in anticipation... just like a pretty boy flashing a grin, or a dancer wiggling her hips.

There's something so inherently feminine to presentation-- (although men can certainly participate. Femininity is inclusive, y'all!) Whether it's food presentation or physical presentation...(aka  how we make up and adorn ourselves in our daily life)
It all smacks of that wonderful artifice that comes with socialized womanhood.

Artifice gets a bad rap, but look what beauty it creates-- what comfort, what experiences, what sweetness.

That's something powerful I took away from my American upbringing.

cultural elasticity, ethnic hair, and a gallery of selfies.

 By Anci CL


"Happy new years!" She trilled from across the street.I nodded back, a little thrown by the timing.

But more importantly?
It's happy new year, not happy new "year's" We call it new year's day, because the apostrophe with an S makes that shit possessive. (in the same way, that referring to my verbose rantings as "Anci's blog, doesn't make my name "Anci's")


(And that, ladies and gentlemen is why I am in education.) 

resting blog face

I like blogging-- I like that I get to sit down somewhere-- messy, unwashed hair strewn across my shoulders, reaching just past my clavicle, and settling into an unkempt arrangement of dark brown chaos.

I like my hair-- I like that two years after my last dye job, it sits as a stark reminder of an off-white heritage. I like how overcast it feels (and how golden it can seem in certain lights.) I appreciate its heaviness-- (the one consolation, assigned to this thick Lebanese eyebrow-haver)
I'm going to take better care of it in 2015--- like, do more than just throw it in a ponytail, whenever it starts to over-complicate things.

Hair is the only (immediate) external marker I have of of my more ambiguous heritage. Well, that and my nose, which isn't so prominent as to raise airport suspicion.
 I like the fact that when I dye my tresses blonde, I look completely Slavic. Even my nose starts to take on a daintier disposition, in compliance with my softer visage)

But when it's darker, (and i have dyed it black twice) I take on a much more visible exotic "otherness" (which I have rightful claim to-) When its darker I'm suddenly harder to dismiss. I seem more articulate to others.
Not many people get to play with their racial/ethnic presentation. But me?  I am the halfway point between so many cultures, and I love getting to show it-- (And i love the way some people resent the way I can dip in and out of identity. Sorry not sorry.)

okay it's not like i never fuck with them on purpose either:

It's not cultural appropriation, it's Diwali. (2013)

and again in 2014...

Sometimes I think I talk too much about my identity issues--  but then someone walks up to me and says "Is  that Armenian?" "Are you Russian?" "Croatian? You mean Korean?" "Ana... pronounced the Spanish way, really?" And my favorite "What do you mean you're Mexican? How Mexican?"

Then I feel less mired down by my proverbial writerly pita-chips, and more radiantly righteous in my prickly predisposition. (And also, suddenly hungry for pita.)

File this under "Personal"

 By Anci CL

I'm at.. where else? Another starbucks. And  I feel strangely light, after exchanging a few harmless flirtations with the barista. (Okay, I know its his job to be friendly, but he was really cute, really black, and really charming and nobody got hurt)

The thing about harmless flirtations is that they keep you going during the day-- they're like this tiny bit of validation wrapped up in dazzling warmth, that remind you how sexy and interesting you are.

The word flirtation has such a weird connotation--We all know it can sometimes be the start of infidelities, or sexual addiction... but 99% of the time it lives in it's own moment in time.  You never have to know the other person's name, never have to feel disappointed, never have to be disenchanted, never have to see them again, really. In your mind, this person exists just to smile and remind you that people are sweet, and want to make you happy.  They're like a mint on your pillow-- unnecessary, but also delightful in small, unobtrusive bites.

Growing up, I used to flirt with guys (way too obviously), and part of the allure of those exchanges lay in the fact that I believed (incorrectly) that expressing interest in men, in any way other than demure, backhanded glances, was slutty. That making bedroom eyes at a stranger I never intended to see again made me a big, 'ol skank. I thought it meant I was a "bad girl." 
There's something powerful about taking control of your personal interactions, and saying "no, this is how far I want to take this," and then walking away at the right moment. Men do it all the time.
There's even a term for it... "catch and release?"

It means engaging with something, until you're satisfied (until you feel warm and tingly, and giggly) and then saying "byyyyye" 

If both parties are game, and neither feels used, then why the fuck shouldn't we validate each other, when the mood catches us?

 If I ever have a daughter, i'm going to tell her to flirt to her heart's content. Get out your stupid impulses when you're 16. Cultivate that slutty reputation, wear scandalously short skirts, let yourself laugh too loudly at his juvenile jokes, and then come straight home. Then when you're in in your 20s, you'll be more selective, and wiser.
It's what I did. The only difference is, my kid won't carry the extra heaping of guilt.

sweet 16..

I'm going to tell my future daughter that it's okay to be giddily aware of the shirtless Italian boys' eyes lingering on you,  that it's okay to play along, and put on a little show for him. It's okay to flip your hair, and pretend not to notice, and take your time applying your cheap lip gloss, between bending over casually, to retrieve your scattered beach items.  And then, it's okay to go home, feeling smug. (conversely, it's also okay to scream "don't fucking look at me," if you DON'T like it. We have every right to dictate who gets access to those parts of us. And just because we want some men to look at us, doesn't mean we want ALL men to look at us.)

 Man, I got a lot of mileage out of that barista. i'm grateful. I wasn't sure what I was going to write about, when I sat down. 

On Leelah. TW: Suicide, transphobia

 By Anci CL

I didn't expect to get so emotional about Leelah Alcorn-- simply because I tend to compartmentalize tragic news into a cerebral "oh well" filing system.  (for self preservation/self care reasons,)  But then I started picturing having a kid of my own one day, and imagining if that kid felt abandoned by the world and by me... and suddenly I was overwhelmed with guilt and anguish.

We need to do better by our LGBT children.  And my God, suicide is so final. There's life, and suddenly there's no more life-- because some piece of shit couldn't accept their transgender daughter?
What kind of pansy-ass bullshit is that?

"We love our son" you fucking asshole, that's exactly why she killed herself.

I don't know what kind of a child I will eventually welcome into the world-- but I do know I will NEVER diminish that kids' agency to self determine.
 I will never dictate what their orientation or gender identity should be-- because doing so would be an act of violence. An act of violence against a baby I'm supposed to protect, and love.

Leelah's parents failed her. Their rejection drove her to suicide, when this troubled little girl couldn't bear to exist in the wrong body, and under the wrong name any longer.

For the skeptics: (first of all, fuck you.) second of all: Imagine being trapped in the humming skin-chassis of the opposite gender... how miserable and stifling that would feel. How horrifying.  Leelah felt that way every goddamn day of her life, and her own parents didn't have it in them comfort her. They didn't hold her, and cry with her, or acknowledge her suffering, or tell her what beautiful little girl she is.

Instead, they kept insisting --to her ultimate, and exhausting expiration- that she was a boy. These 'Christian' people humiliated, and betrayed their daughter. And then to top it off, they buried her in a suit. (completely bypassing the rather significant stipulation in her suicide note, maintaining that she wanted to be remembered as girl.)

That is cowardice, and that is unworthy of parenthood.

Which is why I am formally declaring  that any human being who is unwilling to raise an LGBT child, NEEDS TO GO GET STERILIZED. Because they should not be bringing any more potentially suicidal babies into the world. Because that is what happens when children are abused in this way-- they end their lives, or they end up homeless. (look it up. 40% of homeless youths identify as LGBT)  If that is to you, somehow  preferable to nurturing a gay or transgender child, then FUUUUCK YOU.

I can't put it any more eloquently than that.
 

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Feliz año nuevo! (part one)

 By Anci CL

I'm writing this on January first of 2015, in a Starbucks (but not the same one as before, so we have some variety.)

Last night was blissfully free of chaos, and as a result I am neither hungover, nor baggy eyed.  (Actually my tolerance is such, that one glass of red wine gets me to my happy place.)

Well that, and a round of settlers of Catan: which is how we rung the new year in.

But the point isn't to talk about how hard I (didn't) party/ied

I wanted to say a couple thoughtful things about this past year...  The turning point of which, was definitely going to Croatia and deciding to focus on my wellbeing and fitness (emotional and physical) -- which in turn has cut down on my depression, sluggishness and irritability, and endowed me with an angelic halo of hair twirling pulchritude

la la la

So yes,  I'm proud of that change i made--which consists of one hour a day (nothing less) of intense cardio. and guys?  I've never slipped up, never missed a day, never phoned a work-out in-- (and never gotten anything less than A in school either)

whiiiich shows that you don't need to be rich in order to be committed to fitness AND work/school. (contrary to millenial folklore)

The result of this physical odyssey was a ten pound slimmer frame, and an agile, more athletic physique that can outrun, out-manuever,  out-arm-wrestle most people my height.  And what's more feminist than that? (Other than Laverne Cox's morning breath.)

The other big change I made, which I settled on, while summering on the Adriatic, was to let go of the toxic, angry, militant people in my life (I get too influenced by that shit.) I don't want my feminism to compromise my humanity, and warmth. Because I get angry when people are sexist and i get angry when people are racist, but I don't want it to color my attitude, and rewrite my demeanor... 

Like, I'm already almost too passionate to function, anyway.

So I decided to take a breath, and voice my objections to extreme leftism. (because extremism is bad) and continue living my life firmly to the left of center, and in opposition to white supremacist patriarchy... without letting the ensuing anger consume me. I can't let it. I want to live peacefully, and dammit, I deserve some happiness. We all do.

The final turning point of 2014 was deciding to go into education-- it was a tough decision, and a tough semester, complete with a 2 (and sometimes 3) hour  daily commute. (back and forth)
It meant getting up at 6:30 AM, and coming home at 8 PM, some days.  It also meant navigating a very rural community, and it meant explaining what a cappuccino is to a very befuddled barista. (Which. seriously?)