Navel gazing is easy, when your belly button is this pristine.

By Anci CL

I'm in a starbucks, sipping on a foamy cappuccino, silently judging everyone around me. It's true: I judge what I can't relate to. (but luckily, due to the mixed bag that is my upbringing, i can relate to a whole hell of a lot.)
 Here I see women opening their mouths a little too widely when they laugh, or speak and it irritates me, and I don't want to fucking unpack the reasons why. I don't want to think about what anger they're trying to conceal-- I want to sit, and stew in my irritation, because dammit, it's comforting.

Growing up, my mom used to always call me out when I was laughing or smiling fakely. Because that's one thing Croatians don't do--pretend to be happy. And that goes for grocery store clerks, and cashiers. If you catch them on the wrong day, they will roll their eyes at you, as they weigh your potatoes, or your plastic bag of blitva.

it's okay to make this face once in a while. because sometimes it's too cold to crack a damn smile.

In a way, I prefer that. Because it somehow feels more human. Seeing women with hysterical, unconvincing grins  plastered to their faces always makes me shudder. Like, why not fucking say "i'm not in the mood for this shit? I don't want to sit here and laugh at your micro aggressions, and your sly digs, and your prying questions about my alcoholic son?"

When I was 12, my school put on a production of Li'l Abner. And naturally, most of the performers were terrible. (because they were 7th graders.) The lead however, was fantastic-- he was confident, and perhaps aberrantly mature in his stage presence. so my mom walked up to his mother and warmly related that "your son was the best." Another mother overheard, and decided to correct my mother's heartfelt praise, with a snippy "ALL the children were  equally great."
"Oh please," my mother smirked good naturedly. (If you've never heard of a good natured smirk, well.. then you haven't hung out with enough Slavic immigrants.)


You can't sell bullshit to a Croatian. Don't tell her all the children were equally good, when one was clearly better. It's not harsh, it's cultural. 

me, my sister my mother... several summers back.

I get up, order another cappuccino-- I sit back down on the computer, and i peruse old photos.

I stumble across the only picture I have with both my grandfathers. (Obviously, one lives in Mexico, one lived in Croatia.. so it was hard to get them in the same place.)

Looking at this picture though, their feelings toward me are so fucking clear. one grandfather is posing for the camera, while limply clutching one of my chubby baby legs. The other is gazing at me warmly, with both arms wrapped protectively around me. I wish I had known my grandpa Nikola better-- I wish the war hadn't separated us for six fucking years.

He came to live with us in Boston for an entire year, when I was a baby, just to spend time with his little American grand-daughter.

My mother says he adored me-- and I can see that by the way he beamed at me proudly in photos. I actually have a video clip of him, practically purring with happiness the first time I walked up stairs ALONE. "she's doing it herself!" he croons in Croatian.
Whenever I relive this moment onscreen, I am moved by his joy-- a departure from his usual stoic demeanor. (my sister inherited that from him by the way.) He was a man of few words, and he sometimes stuttered on the "ch" sound.
I know all of this from stories my mother tells me.

My Adolescent Development My... Self?

By Anci CL

One of the classes I took this past semester was of course, Child development-- which as a former child, ended up being quite helpful in processing a few things that have forever been circling my psychic drain.

You know, its funny the way children- particularly adolescents are routinely pathologized for displaying what amount to typical "growing-up" traits-- anxiety, discomfort, confusion, experimentation. And although we all go through those unflattering phases, it still makes society uncomfortable, when we see these tendencies displayed in the "youths" that we come across. Why? because stigmatizing angst in young people is an effective means of dismissing them.

Think about the most cutting thing you could call someone. Stumped? Try recalling what we compare any emotional person to, when we're trying to put them down?
A teenage girl.

Everything related to teenage girls is considered lesser-- from the way young adult fiction (meant for girls in particular) is deemed trashy, to the way the (developmentally sound) self-absorption that characterizes the ages of 11-21, is reviled. (Newsflash: self absorption is inescapable during those tumultuous years, and it's actually pretty healthy, because.. guess what? sustained internal reflection is kinda necessary for establishing identity.)

as is..apparently,  brooding before bookcases. (me age 16)

The point here is that all of that newly acquired awareness has manifested into the mentally modifying mechanicisms of a cerebral stool softener...  (if you dig enough you'll find a metaphor about relief, buried somewhere in there.)

This is namely due to the fact that for years, I have been carrying guilt for being "bad" when I was in high school-- bad in the sense that I was dramatic, insecure, underperforming, and impressionable. (none of that is code for drugs or sex, by the way. I actually am serious about that.)

But I did have a tragically warped body image, which consumed my daily life, and rendered all other moments, joys, and interests, comparatively empty. And guess what? It wasn't my fault. It wasn't my fault because I was conditioned to feel like my worth was based on male approval, and at the age of 16 I was falling for that nasty narrative, faster than Lindsay Lohan fell of the wagon on that Oprah reality show.  (Man, I am nailing this metaphor thing.)

It wasn't my fault, because puberty and body development, are by definition traumatic. (which is something grown people tend to forget) And it wasn't my fault, because I didn't have any young role models to look up to, who looked, acted, sounded and thought like me-- (which was probably the key element of survival, I was missing.)

To be fair,  the reigning queens of celebrity at the time were Jessica Simpson and Paris Hilton, so... pretty much none of us had a chance.

no.

But more importantly, I didn't know of anyone who had overcome or even experienced depression - because that wasn't something people talked about. And guess what the reigning emotion (or lack thereof) in my life was?  Bleak, unrelenting, mother effing depression.
Every single day of middle school and high school experience was brutal, and as it turns out, that stage in life is pretty equally brutal for most sensitive, intelligent young folk.  (Yes, you can feel mildly vindicated at the strong correlation between intelligence and depression-- which is a relationship that needs to be further explored, but isn't necessarily causal.)

Reading pages and pages of text on this period of time in life, however, has given me a more compassionate perspective, towards myself-- and all teenagers (particularly girls.)
It's easy (and lazy) to write off the youthful histrionics of an up-and-coming generation as the side effects of a spoiled, pampered upbringing... but it's more honest to interpret them as distressed.

That was a long, unannounced hiatus... (A listicle)

By Anci CL

Okay here's the deal guys, I was back in school, taking five classes, commuting over 2 hours every day, and well, I forgot about my blog a little.
But here I am on Christmas break ready to tear the world up with my feminist laser beams. (and radiant, unparallelled... personality.)

I'm not kidding. This is what happens when you look into a magnified mirror after one semester of barely-passable tweezing.

So in these past several months, I have been studying children's literature, child development, education, math, and art education...along with working in an Elementary school, in a place so rural and remote, its legally referred to as a village. (that's not a joke. Which you probably already gathered, because it's better than most jokes I make-- but that's because that shiz is legit.)

As you can imagine, this set up resulted in a series of hilarious quotable moments, which this disgraced blogger is eager to fall back on, in lieu of content. (Give me a break though--- i did  get a 4.0 gpa, which means i was pretty busy killing it academically...or...watching Netflix in my slanket, while hugging a cup of coffee for warmth.)

So here are my top five moments in the classroom this year: I know, i'm such a CHEATER:



5) When I obliged to the odd and adorable request: "Ms. Ana, will you take a picture of my shoes?"












4)The moment when one of my five year old's confidently approached me, about seven weeks into my student-teaching interim, and declared "I know who you are are, ms. Ana!" Me: "Who am I?" Her: "You're the librarian!"

3)When one of my students did this:

It says POOP.

2) When I brought five boxes of cupcakes to school, and one of my more precocious little blueberries came up to me asked "Ms. Ana, is that your lunch?" (Excuse me,  do I look like a sea-monster, capable of polishing forty pounds of processed faux-colate mix off? As always, the answer is: I look like a graceful hummingbird, thank you very much.)

1)The moment when one of my kids looked up at me and said "Ms. Ana, I know why you're here." Me: "Oh yeah, why?" Him: Because you don't want to be alone.

And a bonus number 1B
when I encountered a Zebra, on a way to my rural elementary school.... because that's all an economically depressed group of people needs... other than you know, dental care.

I'm back from Vacation!

 By Anči

Hey readers, so as you may or may not know,  I "just" (as in two weeks ago) got back from a five week seaside vacation in Croatia-- which was pretty freaking awesome, for many (feminist, and non-feminist) reasons.

Between views like these:

hey its me!

Beaches like this:

and food like this:

I can't say i'm super thrilled to be back:

 Part of the reason I enjoyed my vacation so much, aside from getting to relax by the sea every day is that I made (and followed through with) my commitment to get fit (which is a challenge I plan on meeting, for the rest of my life--  along with dedicating a new section of my blog, (tentatively titled "Fitness and Feminism") to that very kick-ass process.)

Because getting healthy and fit-- is a worthy feminist goal, when at its core it about honoring your body, mind, and health.
 More than that though, real fitness (and no, I'm not taking the Shape Magazine version) also happens to be a tenet of basic self care, which comprises a whole host of healthful habits-- from beauty routines, to nutrition, to emotional well being.
And believe me when I say that five weeks on an Adriatic island proved a pretty ideal environment for soul searching, and general battery recharging. (which is where the semi-non-feminist portion of this essay comes in, because I know that not everyone has the means or privilege to go away to Europe for five weeks. So bear with me while I excitedly rave a bit.. keeping in mind that this was... ya know, first and foremost a long awaited trip home-- and not some luxury-spa-resort-type deal. [Which I could neither afford, nor care to take part in.])

So for me specifically, this vacation represented a welcome return to the basics-- healthy food, sunshine, hiking, and swimming. (the last of which, as a frosty Ohio dweller, I'll have to eventually trade in for stickier, more upsetting fare-- AKA our apartment complex gym)

Anyway, the end result proved much more powerful than the mere effects of a tan and a slimmer physique. (though I can't say I minded either of those outcomes.) Because what I ended up appreciating the most, is how fast, and agile I've become in my daily life. I can run, walk, swim, bike for long periods of time-- without losing my breath. That's a freaking amazing feeling for any able-bodied person. On top of that, roaming the hilly Dalmatian coast also afforded me much-needed bonding with the natural world - (which Dalmatia has plenty of-- from fields of lavender, to.. well just take a look)

I've also learned something about prioritizing-- which is to say that exercise is a choice I need to make every day-- even if it means, cutting into social activities, or (sob) new seasons of orange is the New Black. (Can you believe I still haven't started Season 2?) 

Anyway, now that I'm back I've channeled this renewal into daily workouts, and a new focus on self care...including making time to read, write... and occasionally apply one of those cheap charcoal face masks from the moral vacuum known as Walmart.

Which by the way, should be the takeaway here... I've been back in the states for two weeks, and I've already been to Walmart.

I know, Mindy.

*all non-moving pictures in this post belong to me.

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Turns Out Our National Weight-Loss Obsession Wasn't About Health At All! (Who Knew?)

 By Anči

So after years and years, of exploiting a publicly-sanctioned focus on "health" in order to (I dunno,"scientifically?") justify an aggressive campaign of body shaming, Shape Magazine has finally made a fatal misstep--and effectively unmasked its true horned visage...as that of (yet another) unabashed agent of the male gaze. (Surprise, surprise!) Which by the way is also funny, since I'm pretty the magazine is run by actual male gays. 

So, for those of you who aren't as familiar with Shape as I am, (probably because we don't frequent the same medical buildings,) it's a magazine that purports to celebrate um, "fitness," and "female empowerment" (while exclusively featuring the boner-worthiest images of "well-being")

And Isn't it funny how fitness always seems to coincide with dude nation's current pornification agenda?
Not to mention how this pattern continues to go unnoticed, cause see, fitness is one of those magical coded terms that can easily be manipulated into appropriateness, while signifying something far more troubling and sinister.  After all, it literally means like, glowing and robust. (neither of which terms came to mind, when I saw LeAnn Rhimes on a recent-ish Shape magazine cover...)

"I'm this much fitness!"

You feeling me, readers? Most of the time, these healthy living magazines aren't as interested in advocating healthy living, as ...airbrushing abs onto hot bodies.

I can feel my blood-pressure hitting its target level already!

No one is quite as aware of this insidious hypocrisy as Brooke Birmingham-- who after undergoing (a medically justified) 170-pound weight loss, is now the picture of radiant health.

If your first thought was to gawk at her stomach, let me remind you this woman did something that millions of Americans struggle to do every day-- lose 170 pounds. She's a freaking superhero. (If you don't believe me, just try losing five pounds. I do all the time, and it's the absolute fucking worst. (Because chocolate is delicious, and running is fucking boring. Not to mention that self-sabotage can feel weirdly comforting, when you have questionable self esteem as well as an ice-box full of cheese. )

Anyway, due to her extreme weight loss, Brooke was slated to appear in Shape, as one of their featured inspirational weight loss stories-- so naturally they requested a picture of her new body to showcase in the issue... at which point shit got seriously lookist, and creepy.
Cause once Brooke provided the (above) photo of herself, the sassy sisterhood at Shape turned an even ghastlier shade of pale... (get it? cause they're probably all-white over there?)  before mumbling something to the effect of  "erm, actually, could you send us a picture with your shirt on? Not that there's anything wrong with your body--it's just that there's this new pro-shirt policy we implemented literally two seconds after we received the attached snapshot of your weird loose skin."

Of course Brooke knew  the "policy" was bullshit, and publicly outed the magazine for their incredibly degrading, shitty behavior*.... which shouldn't have been a surprise to anyone, because hello:
MAGAZINES DON'T CARE ABOUT YOUR HEALTH! THEY JUST WANT TO SELL "HOT" BODIES!! (bodies.. bodies...  that was an echo.)

Which brings me to my final point: Weight loss campaigns and hardly ever about genuine concern for the overweight-- If anything, they are an excuse to bully women into submitting to the patriarchal demand for appropriate fuckability. If not, then Brooke's body would not have been deemed problematic to display in a piece about healthy body transformations.

Get it?

*after being publicly shamed, the magazine changed its mind.

It's Not Bragging, It's Resisting! (A Memo)

By Anči

Psst, guys! Complaining about cat-calling ISN'T tantamount to bragging about how "attractive" I am.
 (cause of all things I have to be proud of, why would my alleged fuckability-- which by the way is entirely dependent on the whims of a handful of sexist creeps-- make the cut? Duh.)

Not to mention, that I have no problem talking about how hot I am, without the aggressive promptings of a balding passer-by.  Don't believe me?  Here goes:  I'm a sexy bitch, with rosy apple cheeks, and the breasts of a young boy. (see? Easy.)

So yeah, I don't eagerly wait around for a bro to whistle at me in order to "finally" get the "opportunity" to let y'all know about how flyyyy I must be.  I can do that much more effectively, by.. simply posting a selfie, or straight up saying "daaamn I look good."

mexican magic

 But that brings me to something I've struggled with for a long time-- the momentary self-consciousness that arises whenever I choose to draw attention to predatory behavior. Sure, it never lasts long enough to deter me from speaking out, but it does give me pause. Because, regardless of how confident I am in my own convictions,  I still painfully aware of how needlessly vigilant society can be about keeping our lady egos in check. And I'm also aware that any feminine display of self-importance is instantly regarded with a kind of hostility rarely afforded to comparably confident men..
Of course the irony here is, that being catcalled has NEVER actually made me feel confident-- if anything, it's only served to strengthen the tedious constraints invoked in this aforementioned brand of know-your-place backlash. Get it? Catcalling puts us in our place,  while speaking out elevates us. Hence, speaking out must also be turned into a punishable offense. (anything to silence the uppity bitches right?  Like, "be grateful men want to fuck you, and stop pretending to be offended.")
And because I sense that some people still aren't buying what I'm selling, i'll put it in very plain vulgar terms:

The thing I deal with, when I talk about being cat-called is a strange man-- usually  middle aged, fat, and sweaty-- going out of his way TO LET ME KNOW not only that he would like to fuck me, but that he derives pleasure from my visible anxiety and discomfort at his unwelcome presence. (Sexy stuff, right? Makes a girl feel like a million bucks... NOT.)

Can I get this made into a shirt?

 Because getting approval from gross-looking, Panera middle-managers named Chet does NOTHING for a self-respecting broad like me, maybe it's time y'all stop flipping my harassment narratives into one of forced-self empowerment. (cause like I said, I only have to post a selfie to feel smug and sexy.)

And that's not to diss (both) women who do (inexplicably) happen to thrive on street-side creep attention.
Like, if that kind of dynamic conjures up feelings of pride and confidence in you-- then, you're very lucky because you happen to live in a world that's tailor-made for your ego. But if you're anything like me, or pretty much any other living woman, you'll quickly recognize this phenomenon for the intimidation shit-show it really is... and hopefully, turn that anger into feminism.

On body confidence

 By Anči

So I've been getting a lot of messages from friends and readers seeking advice about body image, and self-esteem... which I suspect has something to do with the dreaded advent of "Bikini Season" panic being shoved down our collective throats. (patriarchy loves coming up with new ways to shove shit down protesting feminine windpipes, eh?)

And because I'm neither famous nor unbearably in demand these days, or actually ever (though I've heard that's not something you're supposed to advertise? Oh well my wasp points were in the negatives  anyway..) I always take the time to answer each and every query...utilizing my exhaustive scope of registered empathy-for-hire, (which for a highly sensitive person like myself, tends toward the dramatic.)
Anyway... this compulsion naturally makes for an colorful communion of exchanges, with other women...which I fervently cherish, (as an introvert, inexplicably fitted with an extrovert's connective tissue. But we can analyze that anomaly some other time...)
But, because the letters I get are also very similar in theme,  I do end up repeating myself quite a bit... so I thought I'd tackle the crux of this body image issue in one sweeping, verbose motion. (with plenty of room for future follow ups in my inbox!)

So... I'm sure you've all heard the feminist saying by now, though it certainly bears worth repeating: "How do you get a bikini body? Put a bikini on your body." Succinct, and brilliant, eh?

Though yes I know, no punchy adage can undo decades of sexist conditioning, but it does make for a promising start, when the only alternative involves some degree of self-loathing.

Moreover how are self-described "bigger" women reasonably supposed to feel confident about themselves, when they're surrounded by representations of conventionally fit bodies?

First of all, take a breath, ladies. What I'm about to tell you, won't magically evaporate all your insecurities away-- but it should  give you the mindful skill-set necessary to debunk any abusive  self-talk.
So, whether or not you believe me, you.are.fucking.sexy. Yes you are. I am talking specifically to YOU right now, nobody else. (so don't over think this.) You are sexy, and it's your feminine birthright to own the crap out of that blessed certainty, with as much dissident daring as you can muster. 

I get it: it's a scary burden to shoulder-- after all, we're taught that beauty comes with a terrific responsibility to impress or 'deliver'-- but girl, you don't owe nobody shit. You don't owe anyone your time, your attention, or your respect-- just like you don't depend on anyone else's! Why? Because the miraculous fact remains that you deserve to take up space-- as much space as is required to comfortably accommodate each luxurious layer of flesh adorning your abundance.

And your abundance is damn sexy. From the alluring shimmer in your thigh which creases and crescendos every time you hop up and down, to the ripple that embraces your abdomen, with its notoriously demanding volume, every time you sit down or bend over. More than that, it's magnified by a  lover relishing in the generous expanse of your sinewy bounty, and then again by a child seeking comfort in your welcoming lap, (because nobody else's will do!) And girl, you radiate resplendence just by knowing  how freaking gorgeous you are--and not letting anyone-- anyone convince you otherwise. Because the second you give in to self-destructive habits, disordered eating, or similarly punishing behavior, your glory starts to shrink and diminish. And nobody is worth sacrificing that.

So ask me again how to reconcile the pressures of bikini season with the fickle immensity of self love. Or better yet, give yourself a giant fucking hug...
Remember, it's not for nothing you are somebody's source of comfort, and it's not for nothing that you're somebody's wild wellspring of unrestrained gropey passion. (that's the ardor your body inspires! And that's also the only narrative you should be internalizing... as long you never post any pictures. There is such a thing as too much luminosity see, and the corresponding cut-off wattage is generally heralded by the unscheduled appearance of its purveyor's pubes. ) Now.. ladies, carry that certainty with you-- store it in the softest corner of your gut-- until it unravels into a brilliant outpouring of warmth and self-acceptance.
Believe me, this will lessen the impact of the hoards of skinny bitches, paraded unceremoniously into your criminally violated consciousness... and will hopefully help ground you to a much more ancient fountain of feminine power. The first power. The one that you draw your esteem from.
Cause anything else is a manufactured mirage, cynically imbued into an elaborate reservoir of consumerist self doubt and guys? its foundation have begun to crumble.