A total solar eclipse of the heart

The solar eclipse in Montana, 2017

I do not understand how anyone is planning on doing anything between April 7th and April 9th. 

Because a total solar eclipse will be visible throughout much of the United States on April 8th, and witnessing totality is one of the most extraordinary experiences I have ever had during my one wild and precious time on earth. And we won’t get to see another one in this part of the world until 2044! 

I saw the 2017 solar eclipse in Montana, and it was so strange and beautiful that I’m half convinced I dreamed it. It doesn’t seem like it could have been real. I witnessed it with Mom and Ray and Mikah, and we’re heading to Texas to witness this one in one month.  

Even the existence of solar eclipses is mind-blowing…the moon is way closer to us than the sun, but the sun is way bigger than the moon, and based on both of those things, they just HAPPEN TO LOOK THE SAME SIZE TO US ON EARTH. Like, mathematically, that’s insane. If the sun was just a little closer, or the moon was just a little smaller, we wouldn’t get to see eclipses like this at all. So many planets don’t get eclipses at all! We are so incredibly lucky. 

And it’s not just that the moon blocks the sun—an eclipse like this is also accompanied by all of this incredible phenomena that feel completely otherworldly. 

At “first contact,” the moon seems to take the first little “bite” out of the sun. Not much else is noticeable during this phase—if you didn’t have eclipse glasses*, you might not notice anything is even going on. But as the moon covers more and more of the sun, you’ll be able to see thousands of crescent shadows on the ground near trees and plants. The shrubbery creates natural “pinhole cameras” that project the shape of the crescent sun onto the ground. 

After an hour or so, the light grows strange and eerie. I will never be able to properly describe the quality of the light in the minutes before totality. It’s like twilight, but brighter. It’s like the light before a thunderstorm, but sharper. It’s somehow dim and bright at the same time, and shadows are razor sharp. Sometimes, wildlife that usually come out at dusk make an appearance, thinking it’s already later in the day. 

As totality approaches, the temperature drops by a few degrees—it’s noticeably cooler, and the light continues to dim. If you’re in a very flat area, geographically, you may be able to see the moon’s shadow barreling over the ground at 1600 mph toward you. 

In the few minutes before totality, sometimes you can see “shadow bands” moving along flat surfaces. They look like the dancing light at the bottom of a swimming pool. We actually don’t know for sure what causes them, but the most likely explanation is that the sun’s rays are being distorted by earth’s atmosphere. 

In the very last second before totality, if you’re watching closely, you’ll see the last sliver of the sun suddenly break into a thin string of “Bailey’s Beads.” This is the last of the sun’s light peeking through the VALLEYS OF THE MOON, creating these glittering beads of light that are only visible for a moment. 

And then totality. 

When we experienced this in 2017, on a random hillside in Montana with a few hundred other people, the entire crowd erupted into emotional cheers. I burst into tears, and my mom also burst into tears, and at one point she had to be told to sit down so that she didn’t pass out. It was just so beautiful. It felt like we were on an alien planet, or in a dream, or somehow thrown into a science fiction novel. 

During totality, there’s a 360-degree “sunset”—colored gradients of light in every direction. Stars and planets are visible throughout the sky, even though it’s not quite dark enough to be night. You’re able to see the corona…the sun is a black hole with a white cloudy halo of light surrounding it. If you’re lucky, you’ll catch a solar “prominence,” a flare of solar plasma erupting from the sun’s surface, visible with the naked eye only during an eclipse. 

Totality only lasts a few minutes. (Although this time in Texas, we’ll get four and a half minutes! That’s twice as long as the 2017 eclipse!) And then the whole thing happens in reverse—Bailey’s Beads, shadow bands, temperature changes, crescent shadows. 

And then it’s done. A three-ish hour long wonder complete. 

Then we get back into our cars and slog our way through eclipse traffic** to get back to our Airbnb and wonder if it all really happened. Sometimes we only have to wait a few years for the next one, like in 2017. And sometimes, like now, we have to wait a few decades. 

There are times when I’m absolutely astounded at the beauty of living on this planet. There is so much cause for heartache, but the sun and the moon appear to be the same size in the sky above us and every now and then, we get to see them make magic. 

See you in 26 days, Texas. 

*IMPORTANT NOTE: DO NOT LOOK AT THE SUN WITHOUT ECLIPSE GLASSES. You can buy eclipse glasses online—make sure they’re actually safe and not counterfeit. They should have “ISO 12312-2” printed on them and have an authentic ISO certification label.

**I have never in my life experienced traffic like we did after the eclipse. It took us 11 hours to drive like 200 miles. At several points, we would each get tired of sitting in the car and just get out and walk beside it for a while. We tried to stop for food at a Wendy’s and they were sold out of almost everything, and there was still a mob waiting in line. This time we’ll be prepared! 

Our Flag Means Stuff

In celebration of Our Flag Means Death season 2 coming out, here is a blog entry about why this show is completely brilliant. 

Let the record show that this blog entry is edited down from a SIX PAGE single spaced essay that I wrote for literally no reason other than loving to write about art that I love. And also probably because I miss school? But I’ll keep things casual for the blog. 

(Am I autistic? Yes.)

First of all, I fucking love that David Jenkins took all of the tropes of a romantic comedy and populated it with actual historical pirates (a convention carried into season 2!). But the actual brilliance of this show goes so much deeper. So as a big ole nerd with one degree in theatre and another in writing, I’m gonna break down why this show is so smart and lovely.  

If you haven’t watched season 1 yet, go do that and then come back, because 

***SPOILERS BELOW***

I’m gonna talk about flags and rom-com characters and feelings and lighthouses and touch and transformation. (I could continue talking about these things in season 2 but I’ll save that for another essay.)

FLAGS

There isn’t a verified historical record of the flag that the real Blackbeard flew, but the most commonly cited one is this one: a skeleton holding a spear that’s pointed at a red heart. In the show, when we first “meet” Blackbeard, his flag is just the skeleton. At the end of season one, after Blackbeard’s perceived abandonment by Stede, the flag has had a new section sewn on—the part with the red heart. (The DIY nature of sewing this addition echoes the first episode, when Stede has his crew sew flags for The Revenge.)

ROM COM CHARACTER 1: STEDE 

Classic romance trope: The Sunshine to Ed’s Grump. 

Stede is blindingly, adorably optimistic. He prefers gentler things, and we know that he always has, from the time of his childhood. (He is, after all, the man who got rid of gunpowder to make room for marmalade.) I think there’s also some interesting gender play at work here. Stede embraces who he is without pretense. He’s a bit of a clotheshorse, he loves books and flowers, and he’s horrified by violence most of the time. These are things that society often codes as feminine. But Stede is just Stede. 

But even though Stede comes from a world of finery—wealth, fine fabrics, books—he longs for something more adventurous. It’s notable that the story Stede reads aloud to the crew is one of transformation. Pinocchio is a story of a wooden doll turning into a real boy. It’s the same transformation that Stede longs for. He’s been a bit of a puppet throughout his life so far…inheriting his wealth, an arranged marriage. Selling land and becoming a pirate is one of the first times that Stede is a “real boy.” 

And he DOES have moments of strength, action, and courage. Taking the hostages back from Izzy and the crew. Banishing the ghost of Captain Badminton. Bringing down the boatful of high society folks with his “passive aggression.” 

ROM COM CHARACTER 2: ED/BLACKBEARD

Blackbeard, by contrast, seems to be MOSTLY a man of strength, action. (He’s also the romcom “grump” in this couple.) When we first meet him, he drips with what society has coded as masculine. He’s wearing leather. He’s got a gun and a knife on him at all times. He’s all fire and action and swinging from ropes. And he’s got that BEARD.

But there’s also a softer man beneath all of that. An “Edward” who longed for fine things as a boy, even though he was told that he doesn’t deserve them. His mother told him that they simply weren’t “those kind of people.” Even his childhood act of violence—killing his father—was born out of a desire to protect those he cared about. After that moment, Ed sees himself as the Kracken, as the monster Blackbeard. His reputation is that of an other-worldly, inhuman villain. And although he truly believes that he doesn’t deserve the finer things, Blackbeard longs for them anyway.

And I think he recognizes the absurdity of the character he’s created. When Stede shows him an illustration of Blackbeard, Ed calls him a “fucking Viking vampire clown.” 

ROM COM CHARACTER 3: IZZY HANDS

Whether Izzy Hands’ love for Blackbeard is romantic or sexual or strictly platonic, he takes on the role of a scorned lover/jealous ex. I think Izzy is in love with Blackbeard…but NOT with Edward Teach. His jealousy is not just about Stede taking a new place of prominence in Blackbeard’s life, it’s about the way that Stede is destroying the man that Izzy loves, the imaginary character of Blackbeard. He tells Spanish Jackie and the British that Stede has “done something to my boss’s brain.” 

Izzy is the only other person who calls Blackbeard “Ed” or “Edward.” When Stede uses that name, Izzy violently corrects him. Even Calico Jack’s nickname for Blackbeard isn’t “Ed”—he calls him “Blackie.” Izzy thinks of himself as the most important person in Blackbeard’s life, which gives him permission to use this intimate name. But the irony is that Izzy’s loyalty falls apart when Blackbeard is being Ed. Izzy only loves the idea of Blackbeard, not the man beneath the costume whose name Izzy uses.

I also have a theory that Izzy was once a “Stede” himself in some ways. A man who worked desperately to kill any softness within himself, even though it still surfaces now and then. When Lucius asks him if he’s ever been sketched, there’s a split second when Izzy looks like he wants to connect, to be desired, to be a part of something. But he kills that impulse immediately and tells Lucius to fuck off. 

Still, his ineffectiveness as a man of action parallels Stede’s. The crew is generally unafraid of him, and they mutiny almost immediately when he becomes their captain. Izzy is performing all of the trappings of violent masculinity, but it’s so obviously a performance that everyone else sees it as harmless. 

CALICO JACK

Calico Jack is another ex, and he almost fills the role of “the one who got away.” If not quite that, he definitely serves as a reminder that Blackbeard has a past that Stede has no part in, and a path forward that Ed could take. Stede has been falling in love with Ed, but the character of Blackbeard looms large when Calico Jack shows up. Everything is a performance of masculinity with Jack. Stede can’t compete with it, but he also doesn’t seem to want to. Calico Jack and Stede LITERALLY have a pissing contest, which is fairly one-sided, and later Stede spends hours comparing himself to Jack while watching him and Ed on the beach through a telescope. 

FEELINGS

I don’t think Edward realizes the depth of his feelings for Stede until the night of the fancy party on the ship. I think before that, he’s intrigued. He loves that Stede is doing something “original.” Stede is the break in Blackbeard’s monotony. I think Blackbeard sees Stede as his escape…literally. He makes a plan with Izzy to kill Stede and take his place as an aristocrat. (This plan is the exact one that Stede carries out with Mary later—a corpse showing up, horribly disfigured, but still identifiable.)

After Stede avenges Ed by passively aggressively destroying everyone on the fancy party ship, we get the lovely “you wear fine things well” scene. It’s in the MOONLIGHT, for godsake. Ed has decided that the rich are truly not his kind of people. But he still clings to the bit of red fabric from his mother from all those years ago. Without even knowing its significance, Stede tells Ed that he deserves it. That he’s very sophisticated. That he wears it well. 

The fabric is red, and that Stede puts it in Ed’s breast pocket…almost like Ed’s very heart is “this tatty old thing,” and Stede puts it back into his chest for him. 

(And it’s at the beginning of the next episode that we get a brief “falling in love” montage.)

As far as Stede goes, he doesn’t have a clear understanding of what love is for most of his time with Ed. He knows that he cares about him, but it’s not until Mary describes the feelings of being in love that Stede understands what he feels.

LIGHTHOUSES

There’s the scene when Stede says that he should have been a lighthouse to his family, a guiding light. Ed points out that people are supposed to avoid lighthouses, so that they don’t crack up on the rocks. But the reality is that lighthouses are both guiding lights and warnings. It’s a lighthouse that saves the whole crew from the Spanish in episode four. 

I think Ed has created the character of Blackbeard to serve as a sort of shadow version of a lighthouse…the fire in his beard serving as a light, warning to stay away. Because he’s a monster—the Kracken who killed his father, who doesn’t deserve fine things because he and his family are “just not those kind of people.” 

The tragedy is that when Ed goes towards the light of Stede, he breaks up on the rocks. 

TOUCH

In episode five, when Ed and Stede attend the fancy party, there’s a moment at the dinner table when Antoinette reaches over to pick something out of Blackbeard’s beard. He startles so much that it’s violent. In episode seven, Stede and Blackbeard have a similar moment, but this time it’s relaxed and Ed is open and calm. When Calico Jack shows up, the use of touch returns to violence, even just casually. Blackbeard and Calico Jack initiate things like “whippies” and “yardies” and “coconut wars.” At one point, Blackbeard laughingly tells Jack to whip his balls, all as part of the maniacal, unhinged “fun.” All of the touch between Jack and Blackbeard is a heightened performance of masculinity. By contrast, Stede stands on the beach with a parasol while everyone else drinks plays with knives, not participating in the violence.  

TRANSFORMATION

This theme is at the absolute heart of this show for me. 

Blackbeard’s gender expression softens the more time he spends with Stede, eventually leading to him shaving off his beard, completing his transformation from Blackbeard to Ed. Right before he shaves is the only time we ever hear him refer to himself by his full name. “Edward Teach, born on a beach.” The next time we see him, he really is just Edward Teach. No longer Blackbeard. He’s ditched his Mad Max leather and his black beard, and is in soft, flowing fabrics. A billowy shirt for the kiss on the beach (where he says he just wants to “be Ed”). He wears Stede’s old floral robe during his time on the Revenge afterwards (the same one Stede wore while jealously watching Blackbeard and Jack on the beach). 

Which makes his re-transformation at the end of the season all the more heartbreaking. He tries to “hold on by a thread” to this softer version of masculinity, sometimes by literally holding on to the threads of Stede’s old clothes. But in the end, the harsh Blackbeard version of masculinity takes over again. 

He lets go of the fine fabric that Stede told him he wears well. He lost the finest thing he’s ever had—Stede—so he must not deserve the fine things after all. He lets go of his own heart. And in the next moment, he pushes Lucius overboard…the first time he’s actually killed a man since killing his father. Then he cuts off Izzy’s toe and force feeds it to him.  

The transformation ends with Ed drawing the beard back on, with the addition of dark makeup around his eyes. (This look felt to me like a masculine echo of the “mascara streaming down her face” image, and we see this parallel even more strongly in the shot of Ed sobbing in Stede’s now empty quarters.) Masculinity is a costume he must put on.   

And y’all there’s so much more. Ed and Stede’s musical theme—the little melody that plays in their moments of connection. The fact that so much of the fancy dress party scene is shot from lower angles, as if Ed has to look up towards them. The fact that the first time we see Mary, her dress style is from the 1850s even though it’s the 1700s, because she’s a woman ahead of her time. And the way that it normalizes queerness and anti-racism and women in positions of power. 

DO YOU SEE WHY WE ALL LOVE THIS SHOW? 

The way the fandom has embraced and celebrated and fan-fictioned and cosplayed and taken this show on as their own is just so beautiful. So consider this blog a part of all of that. 

(And then someone tell me how to get into a writer’s room for a show like this.) 

Skydiving on my birthday

Imagine for a moment that you hate the idea of skydiving. That you can’t think of anything you want to do LESS. Imagine that the thought of jumping out of an airplane fills you with so much anxiety that you’re paralyzed. Almost literally—your entire nervous system is just in a freeze response. You might not even be able to talk. But you’re in the airplane anyway, and the door is open. 

Now imagine that a bunch of people you love are on the ground. Somehow you can hear their voices calling up to you from the ground. (Ignore the laws of physics for the sake of the metaphor.) They’re saying they love you and they appreciate you, and it means a lot to hear it. 

But what you really actually want is for them to be in the airplane with you. Or for you to be on the ground with them. You want to sit around and talk and maybe have a campfire and sing songs or share poetry. You want connection. But in this scenario, the only way to get that connection is to jump out of the airplane. 

That’s how I feel every year on my birthday. 

I turned 38 last week. For the first time, I felt a tinge of existential dread about getting older. In general, I think aging is beautiful and embracing each phase of life is beautiful. But I did have a vague sense of not being where I thought I would be at this age. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with where I am, it’s just so different from visions I had when I was younger, and I think I’m still grieving that a little bit. 

But the stronger feeling I had, and have had every year for the past several years, is one of just…loneliness. 

I don’t know how to write about this without feeling profoundly sorry for myself, and worrying about sounding profoundly pitiful. I’m sharing it all anyway because one, writing about things helps me untangle them, and two, maybe someone can relate, or has words of advice or affirmation, or…something. 

I’ve had fairly significant social anxiety throughout my entire life. I have had phases where I’ve jumped fearlessly into social situations. And doing so demanded a lot of me, but it was doable. I now understand that what it demanded was masking, because I’m autistic, and it was doable because I had a lot more resources. And nowadays, I have far fewer spoons* with which to mask. There are a lot of things causing that lack of spoons—it’s age, it’s trauma, it’s capitalism, it’s living physically far away from so many of the people I’m closest to. 

For much of my life, I’ve been a part of social structures that automatically gave me connection on my birthday. I lived with or close to family, or I had a spouse, or I was part of a close-knit and active social group because I was in college and that’s what my college experience was like. 

But nowadays, my family is spread far and wide, and I don’t have a spouse, and while I have friends, many of them live far away now, and I don’t have one “friend group.” And we’re mostly “real grownups” now, with jobs and kids and not as much free time in our social calendars. 

So it means that every year on my birthday, when all I want is time with loved ones, it feels…out of reach. And because of my social anxiety and my autism and my abandonment trauma, reaching out and asking for connection feels to me like jumping out of an airplane. 

For my allistic (non-autistic) friends, or those who don’t experience anxiety or “rejection dysphoria,” this may sound absurd. It may sound like I’m describing something very simple as extremely difficult. But that’s just where my nervous system and psyche is right now. I’m working on it in therapy, and we’re making progress, but I may never be “over” my social anxiety just because of the way my brain is permanently wired. 

Here’s another metaphor. If your arm is working fine, lifting a gallon of milk is no problem. You do it without even thinking about it. But if your arm is broken, lifting a gallon of milk takes a lot more care. You may even need help to do it or you’ll make your injury worse. 

Because of my autism, my arm is never going to be at 100% when it comes to lifting gallons of milk. And my arm isn’t fully BROKEN, but there are some old wounds that haven’t quite healed. So lifting a gallon of milk by myself (e.g. putting together a birthday party for myself with friends) feels challenging at best and dangerous at worst. 

So for the past few years, while I’ve been stuck in the airplane with the door open, hearing loved ones far below, I’ve done the best I could to make the airplane as enjoyable as possible. I get a massage, and/or a new tattoo, and/or go to a play or do an improv show. I read the texts and social media messages and feel grateful for them. I take myself out to eat. 

But this year, it feels worth acknowledging that it’s not quite what I ACTUALLY WANT. The best birthday I’ve had in recent years was one where I had brunch with a significant other, got a massage, went to a play, and then sat and talked with old close friends in a car for hours and hours. That perfect birthday included the things I can do myself and usually do (massage, a play), but it also includes things that nowadays would demand jumping out of an airplane, or lifting a gallon of milk with my weak-ass arms. 

I don’t know why my birthday is when this comes up for me. Maybe I have a strong sense of “should” because of all of the cultural things associated with birthdays. I spent a lot of this last birthday “shoulding” all over myself. I should be married with children by now. I should be more established in my career. I should host a birthday party. I should have a significant other. I should have an established friend group. I should ask for what I want. I should be strong enough to lift this gallon of milk. I should be brave enough to jump out of this plane. 

I heard recently that when you are using the word “should” with yourself, you can try replacing it with “want” or “need” to see if it’s still true. If you’re saying “It’s a nice day, I should sit outside” you can try saying “I need to sit outside” or “I want to sit outside.” And if you don’t actually want or need to sit outside, then don’t do it. I think the majority of the tension I feel around my “shoulds” are because some of them are things I actually WANT, but the things I NEED to do in order to get what I want have some significant barriers for me right now. 

I’m not sure how to conclude this. I want to clarify again that with therapy, I’m learning how to lift gallons of milk and jump out of airplanes. And part of me is worried that this blog will make me sound like I’m not grateful for the expressions of love I do receive. Maybe I’m just asking for a little compassion? For each other. For ourselves. Maybe this is just a reminder that yes, be kind, everyone is fighting some battle or other. Or maybe I just needed to untangle this, and have it be witnessed. 

Anyway. 

Here’s to learning to sky dive, and being gentle with yourself when you’re not able to jump yet. 

* Spoons refers to the “spoonie” metaphor, where those with chronic illnesses or nervous system diagnoses or neurodivergence have a limited number of spoons per day, and each task takes a certain number of spoons. 

"When I go to sleep, I can't count sheep for the white lines in my head" --Bruce Springsteen

Let’s imagine, for a moment, that I prioritize travel. 

I’m actively silencing the voices that say “it’s too expensive” or “that’s not for you.” 

Why the hell not? Why not take the extra $1,000 that sometimes comes in from a well-paid gig and go explore some part of the world? 

Granted, right now I’m prioritizing raising funds for my intimacy direction certification program, and I will always have bills to pay. But I’m daring myself to ask “What would it look like if I prioritized exploring the world?” 

I’m also actively silencing any voices that come from outside of myself, about the dangers of traveling alone. I’m not really worried. Our world looks less like that dumb dumb movie “Taken” than people think, and I’m confident in my ability to navigate potentially dangerous situations safely. (Maybe I shouldn’t be, but I am. *shrug*) 

I also have no qualms about navigating a new city or transportation system by myself, figuring out where to eat, or getting lonely. I’m an introvert and homebody at heart, and most of the things I’d want to do in a foreign place are things that can be done alone–read, wander, eat, write. 

(That said, if anyone I love wants to join me, let’s make plans! We’ll go out dancing!) 

I’ve had wanderlust for a few weeks now. Maybe even months. But I picked up a copy of National Geographic labeled “100 Unforgettable Destinations” and now I’m revisiting my globe-trotter Pinterest board and making lists. 

Amsterdam. 

I’ll bring my tattered copy of “Anne Frank” and my own journal when I visit the place that feels so familiar to me already, see the location of a story that has informed so much of my life. 

Paris. 

An airbnb will probably be cheaper by the month. I’ll find some little place and walk to marketplaces every few days to buy food, sit at cafes and write, visit museums. I’ll eat at an outdoor table with a book in my hands. 

Tahiti. Or Bora Bora? Someplace tropical. 

Because for some reason, I just assume that tropical locations are not for plebes like me? But I don’t need an all-inclusive White Lotus resort experience. Just sun and sand and sea. 

Machu Picchu. 

Apparently it’s a whole-ass PROCESS to get there. But I bet it would be worth it. I’ll stop by the salt flats in Bolivia while I’m nearby. Swing up to the pyramid of Chichen Itza. 

Egypt. 

The pyramids at Giza. Hapshetsut’s palace. Amarna. Karnak. They’ve held me in thrall for as long as I can remember. It seems absurd that I wouldn’t visit them in person at least once. 

England. 

Plays at the West End, and a trip to Stratford-upon-Avon. A pilgrimage for the hopeless theatre kid I am. 

But while I make all these plans, it’s been deeply fulfilling to think back to all of the magical traveling I have gotten to do. Through the generosity of family and friends and happy sets of circumstances, I’ve been able to explore more corners of the earth than some people get to do in their lifetimes. (And I've gotten to do it all with some incredible people!)

I’ve eaten Black Forest gateau in the actual Black Forest of Germany, and explored the fairytale castle of Neuschwanstein, wandered the cobbled streets of towns centuries old.

I’ve strolled the National Mall and wandered past Ford’s theatre, walked through the museum of the home where Lincoln died. 

I’ve snorkeled in Hawai’i and Mexico.  

I’ve climbed ancient ruins in Belize and walked beaches in El Salvador. 

I’ve explored the ruins of ancient Greece, where I ran a footrace in Olympia, had a philosophical discussion in Athens, wandered the alleys of Pompeii, spoke the words of Sophocles’ “Oedipus Rex” at the ancient theatre Dionysus. 

I’ve wandered past Italian families playing soccer on Sunday afternoons to get to the Coliseum in Rome, and I’ve taken a train through Tuscany to stand before Botticelli’s “Birth of Venus” in Florence. I’ve eaten pizza in Naples. 

I’ve walked through the maze of the Grand Bazaar and slipped my shoes off to enter the Hagia Sophia in Instanbul. 

I’ve wandered the French Quarter of New Orleans, jazz music pouring out from every open door, a new pack of tarot cards in my purse. 

I’ve looked up at the Redwoods and looked down into Crater Lake. I’ve hiked slot canyons and hoodoos in southern Utah, and looked up at the stars from the waters of Leigh Lake in Grand Teton National Park. I’ve spent entire summers in Yellowstone. 

I’ve taken a ferry across the San Francisco Bay and taken an elevator to the top of the Empire State Building. 

When I list it out like this, I feel astonishingly lucky. 

So I don’t know what the hell I was thinking, listening to some weird voice that says traveling isn’t for me. It clearly already is for me. I just have to ask myself what it looks like when I make it a priority, instead of something I do when others invite me.  

I guess we’ll find out. 

#ActuallyAutistic

Here’s what happened. 

Multiple people around me got diagnosed with ADHD, including one of my roommates. Watching their journeys, I saw a few things that I recognized. 

Object permanence problems. (If I can’t see a food item in the fridge, it does not exist. I have thrown away so many packages of cheese. And if I need to remember to bring something with me somewhere, I have to either leave myself a note or leave the item right by the door.) 

Bumping into things. All the time. My spatial awareness of my own body is shite. 

Hyperfixations. Having projects or TV shows or movies or hobbies that take up all of my mental time and energy for a significant period of time. Some could be considered specialized interests, since I’ve been obsessed with them for most of my life and have a considerable amount of knowledge about them. (Hey, ancient Egypt.) 

But as I learned more about ADHD, I kept bumping up against one particular idea: that people with ADHD often struggle with executive function. 

 

And I generally…don’t? When I’m in a bad depression dip, I struggle to function, but it’s not quite an executive function issue. It’s not that I have some block surrounding organization or task completion or even being overwhelmed. My block is surrounding energy. In fact, when people talk about how difficult it is to complete a task, I have a hard time understanding what they mean. You just…do it? 

So I was like, “Hey, internet, what has some of the symptoms of ADHD but you’re hella good at organizing things, breaking down a large task into smaller parts, and completing to do list items, and also were a weird kid who struggled with social cues?” 

 

Oh. 

 

Autism. The answer is autism, kids. 

So I had a crisis, because I couldn’t have autism. I hated math growing up, and I’m a deeply empathetic person who’s sensitive to the feelings of those around me, and I actually have lots of friends now, and I understand humor and metaphors. So there’s no way I could be autistic. 

And then I took the RAADS-r test and scored an 83. The minimum score for autism is 65. So I took another test from The Autism Research Centre in Canada, and scored a 30, which is at the low end of high risk. 

And then, based on the RAADS-r questions, I started really looking at myself, and who I was as a kid, and who I am now. A fearless moral inventory, if you will. 

And the truth is that I really was a pretty weird kid. I never quite fit in…I always felt different from other people, and most of the time, that was fine with me. But here is a short list of the ways I was weird, which are all also autistic traits: 

• I was very very anxious about food. I was a very picky eater, refused to try new foods, and had an enormous irrational meltdown if someone tried to get me to eat something I didn’t like or hadn’t tried before. 
• I often wore the exact same thing every day for days and days (and weeks?) on end. For like, a long time. For at least the first half of my freshman year of high school, I wore the same jeans, off-white textured top, and blue cardigan. Every day. 
• I played imagination games (dress up, Barbies, dolls/stuffed animals, etc) for longer than average. (I think.) Until I was 14 or so. 
• I refused to put my head underwater at the pool. I remember a swim teacher specifically giving me this note at the end of several weeks. She might have even bribed me with candy? I also remember having similar anxieties about having my hair washed. 
• Hygiene in general was difficult, because of what I now understand to be sensory issues. I often refused to brush my hair, and would get these awful, matted rat’s nests in my hair as a result. I struggled with brushing my teeth, especially spitting the toothpaste out. 
• In general, I struggled a lot socially. Some of that also probably had to do with the hygiene and outfit things I just listed, but even aside from that, I often just couldn’t connect to my peers. I had a hard time accessing what was “cool” or “popular.” It all seemed so arbitrary to me, and I couldn’t keep track of it, and couldn’t figure out what was important or why. I was teased and picked on, sometimes by people whom I had thought were my friends. I often had a sense of having missed something in social interactions…I could feel the temperature change in a conversation, but I wouldn’t know why or what had happened. I disappeared into books for much of my childhood, and preferred to spend recess in elementary school making daisy chains by myself to playing with my peers. Freshman year of high school, I often sat in the hallway above the auditorium and read books during lunch. Granted, I wasn’t a complete loner. I did have friends and meaningful connections, but for a long time, they were all just as weird (and probably as neurodivergent) as I was. 

 

And you guys. Most of these things were going on well into my teenage years. It took me finally getting into theatre my SOPHOMORE YEAR IN HIGH SCHOOL to feel like I could finally start to fit in with my fellow humans. 

 

(I have a theory about why—I think it’s because theatre kids are VERY EXPRESSIVE and direct, and I could easily navigate conversations that were with people who were weirdos but also clearly expressing emotions in very dramatic ways. Like, weirdness was embraced among theatre kids. And everyone was so dramatic, which meant social interactions were less subtle. And scripts gave me parameters to interact within. I could make strong individual choices, but there was always a “right thing” I could say when following a script onstage. It was enough to give me confidence to develop those skills more as a person offstage.) 

 

But you grew out of all of it, right, Liz? 

 

Here is a short list of the ways I continue to be weird, most of them starting in childhood but continuing on today, all of which are really common traits among those with autism: 

• I’m still a picky eater, tbh. Spicy foods make me feel like I’m dying, and new foods give me anxiety, and if a food has a texture I dislike, it makes me gag. 
• My most prevalent stim is twirling my hair, followed closely by picking at my nails and swaying while standing. I often use fidget toys during movies or plays to keep myself from stimming hard in other ways that are more damaging (like making my cuticles bloody with picking at them). 
• Little spoons only. I am picky about silverware and dishes in general. They must be the right shape, weight, material, etc. 
• Form follows function when it comes to clothing. If it’s not comfortable, I cannot stand to wear it. I often cut tags out of my shirts, and have occasionally cut collars on t-shirts to be lower so that they weren’t as close to my neck. I’ve been known to trim scratchy inner hems. I dislike wearing pants (as any of my previous roommates can attest), and I dislike wearing shoes (as anyone who knows me can attest). 
• Eye contact actually doesn’t come easily to me. It’s much easier onstage, but in real life, I have to remind myself to consciously do it during other interactions. I also have to consciously remind myself of the rules of casual conversations, especially if it’s with someone I don’t know super well. (If they ask you how your day was, ask them the same thing back. Conversation is reciprocal. And also, not everyone is interested in the random trivial fact you learned on a podcast today.) 
• In fact, I uh…I rehearse social interactions ahead of time. For a long time, one of my deepest secrets was that I’ve rehearsed jokes or stories or conversation bits before telling them for like, most of my life. I’m only comfortable sharing this now because I’ve learned that lots of other people do it. 
• I have a list in my phone of conversation starters and reminders to help me navigate social situations where I don’t know people as well. Topics to bring up, questions to ask, etc. 
• I’m easily overwhelmed in loud, crowded areas. When I’m sitting in a theatre before a show (as an audience member), I usually have to put in headphones and play white noise to keep me from like, freaking out. I’ve also used headphones and white noise in grocery stores, on public transportation, and in airports. 
• Repeated soft touch on one part of my skin sometimes feels actually and literally painful. One or two brushes of someone’s fingers over one part of my arm = lovely. Repeated touch of the same kind in the same place = torture. 
• Spontaneous social interactions are hard for me. 99% of the time, I need a day to sort of emotionally prepare. It’s not that I don’t love people, it’s just that 1, the disruption in my plan for the day is difficult, and 2, social interactions take a lot of work for me and it’s hard to jump in really quickly. 
• Walking on my tiptoes. I don’t do this one quite as much nowadays, but I often walk on just the balls of my feet. 
• Always using movie/YouTube/TV/TikTok/etc quotes in conversations. (Or, more often, thinking them and not saying them, because if people don’t know the reference, it often gets in the way of actually connecting with other people, which is the goal of conversation. And also because I don’t know how to explain that the thing I just said is a reference to the blooper reel from an early 2000s British sitcom that I’ve watched dozens of times with my sister.) 

 

There are also a few things that could be classified as just kind of quirky personality traits, but I see them in a new autistic light nowadays. My deep love for forms, spreadsheets, taxes, and organizational documents of any kind. The meticulous tidiness of my room and/or desk. The game I play in my head when I’m buying something less than $20, when I try to think of a historical event that took place in the year of the total. ($14.92 = Columbus sailed the ocean blue.) 

 

I also have a few common morbidities with autism. I have an auditory processing disorder and misophonia. And hooo, boy, do I have a history of anxiety and depression. 

 

And each of these things on their own are kind of just quirky personality things, but put altogether, it looks a hell of a lot like autism. 

(Okay, quick note: Most of what I've described would have been classified in the past as Asperger's Syndrome, which is now recognized as just part of the autism spectrum. The autism spectrum doesn't mean every person is somewhere on a scale from "not austic at all" to "totally autistic." The autism spectrum means that either you're autistic or you're not, but if you are, there are a spectrum of experiences and supports needed. I have low to medium support needs, where someone else may have more support needs.)

 

I’m a little uncomfortable calling myself autistic without an “official diagnosis.” But it’s not like I took one BuzzFeed quiz and decided I was autistic. I’ve spent months reading articles, visiting websites, using diagnostic tools like the RAADS-r test, listening to other adult women with autism, and speaking about it with other autistic folks. 

 

I’m currently in the process of seeking a formal diagnosis, which is…difficult. One of the clinics I called is booked until the year 2024. And women who can mask their symptoms and have lower support needs are often dismissed or overlooked, so I want to find someone who specializes in autism in adult women, which is not easy. I also understand that if I am not diagnosed as autistic, that could also be accurate. It just…it really seems like an accurate diagnosis to me. 

 

When I told my roommate some of these things that I did and still do, she looked at me incredulously and asked “How did you not know?!” And I replied that I didn’t know because I’ve never been in anyone else’s head! I’ve only been in mine! And also I was born in 1985 and getting an autism diagnosis as a girl in the 1990s was unheard of! 

 

So now, at age 36, I’m navigating the very high possibility that I’m a little bit autistic. My therapist pointed out that I managed to white-knuckle my way through a lot of distress in order to have connection with my fellow human beings, and that I was able to find some helpful coping mechanisms just on my own. That’s worth celebrating. 

 

Does this change anything about my life now? Not really. 

 

Just kidding, I’ve been going through ongoing loops of identity crises, research and self-education, and re-evaluating every single aspect of my life. This also means that all of the social confidence I’ve developed over the last 20 years has frayed at the edges a bit. By my senior year of high school, I’d become confident enough that I could enter into social interactions with very little anxiety. A lot of that anxiety came back after getting divorced in 2017, but nowadays it’s like…middle school level social anxiety, 60% of the time. I’m hyper aware of how I act in every interaction I have with other human beings, while it’s happening, which means that the interaction itself sometimes gets weird because I’m aware of how I act and it’s just a strange, endless loop. 

 

Shout out to anyone who has become friends with me over the past six months or so. 

 

“But Liz, you don’t seem autistic at all!” Maybe not on the outside, I don’t. And maybe not to you. That’s probably because I’ve spent the last 20 years learning and practicing normalcy really really hard. (Also, I thought the same thing but then I learned more about autism.) 

 

But here are a few of the good things that have come from this journey. 

 

I have enormous compassion for little Liz. That weird girl with un-brushed hair who was reading by herself throughout school was doing the best she could with what she had, and no one had the tools or knowledge to help her navigate a world that presented challenges for her. I see her isolation and confusion and pain in a different light, and now I can reach back through time and offer so much love and patience to that young girl. 

 

And some of that sense of isolation has been lifted as well. When I first began my journey with a possible autism diagnosis, I felt this strange sense that the diagnosis would erase my experiences growing up. Like if I was autistic, I was just like a bunch of other people, instead of an unusual, otherworldly creature who single-handedly figured out how to connect to others on her own terms and was more highly evolved than her peers in middle school. I had come to embrace my strangeness as something beautiful that I then grew out of. But nowadays, I see things differently. I can still be an unusual, otherworldly creature…it’s just that now I don’t have to be alone in it. I get to keep the strangeness, but let go of the isolation. (I also now understand that I’m no better or worse than my peers…we just had different tools and experiences.) 

 

And I’ve seen this as an opportunity to embrace my strangeness and my needs. I follow a couple on TikTok who both have autism, and they posted a video about how one day, they just decided to be themselves, in all their strangeness. To not hide their wild, unusual quirks, and to live bravely as exactly who they are. Hearing this didn’t change a lot about my behavior, but it lifted a lot of the shame and embarrassment I had about my behavior. Okay, so I need some time to prep for social interactions! That’s a legitimate need and not a character flaw. So I’m a picky eater. So certain kinds of touch are painful to me. So I need headphones to help me not meltdown in large, noisy crowds. ALL OF THAT IS FINE. I’m allowed to have those needs and to speak them and to do what I can to meet them. 

 

And that’s actually true whether or not I get an official autism diagnosis from a licensed professional. That’s true of all of us. We’re allowed to give ourselves tools to navigate the things in the world that don’t work for us. We’re allowed to look back in time on our younger selves with compassion. We’re allowed to like what we like and dislike what we dislike and be our weirdest selves. 

 

Connection with our fellow human beings is still possible when we do those things. And the more we are our truest selves, the more authentic that connection will be.

Writing Elsewhere

Hello, my friends! 

Things have been a bit quiet here on the blog lately, and I just wanted to post real quick to excuse and justify my absence. 

RJ and I are continuing our Sister Blog Challenge, but we're on a brief hiatus while we focus on other projects. I'm doing NaNoWriMo (again) this year, so for the month of November, I'll be focused on that. And during October, I spent a lot of time editing old works and submitting them for publication and applying for writer residencies and doing all kinds of other writerly things. 

But if you're craving some Liz writing, never fear, because one of my essays got accepted for publication! You can read my creative non-fiction piece, "The Goddamn Miracles of Nature," on the Sad Girls Club Literary Blog by clicking here. (While based on truth, names have been changed to protect the innocent and guilty alike.) 

Happy reading and writing, loves.

What I Learned from (Almost) Doing 50 Hours of Yoga in a Year

Actually, I won’t be able to tell you what I learned doing 50 hours of yoga. Because I didn’t do 50 hours. I did do 30 hours and 36 minutes, though, and I learned plenty from that! 

I set this as my birthday goal last year, but didn’t really post anything about it here like I usually do. It somehow felt more private, so I just quietly made my spreadsheet and paid for the premium version of my yoga app and set up a reminder in my phone to do yoga every other day, even if it was only for 10 minutes. I chose a goal of 50 hours because it worked out to be about an hour a week, or 20 minutes three times a week, or even 10 minutes six times a week. Not so much as to be overwhelming, but enough to make a difference. 

I had visions of being so flexible and strong at the end of this journey. I was going to be able to do headstands. I was going to be able to lift my leg straight up into the air, knee by my ear, my eyes gazing out serenely. I was going to have clearly defined abs and no double chin and I was going to be Zen as f*ck. 

Surprise: none of that happened. I am not really any stronger or more flexible than I was a year ago. And honestly, I don’t know if I would have been even if I had made it to 50 hours. But it was still worth doing.  

Because it sustained me. It kept me grounded through an ongoing pandemic, through a breakup, through cancelled shows and new jobs and stressful days and lonely nights. 

Most of the time, it was me and my app, my iPad propped in front of me in my room, my yoga mat unrolled in the space between my bed and desk. A few times, I joined a virtual yoga class, including one instance where I was the only student. I was always a little wary at the beginning of a formal class—did I really have an hour to give to this? And I always did. 

There were times when I dreaded, absolutely DREADED, doing yoga. When the task felt so heavy that it seemed to pull the rest of my to do list down, a ball and chain to my day.  Sometimes I just crossed it off the list without doing it. I just couldn’t bring myself to “show up at the mat” or whatever. But sometimes I showed up anyway, teeth gritted, until they weren’t gritted anymore. 

There were times when it was a desperately needed respite. When my mind was going 10 million miles a minute, when my whole body felt twitchy with the frantic need to ACCOMPLISH ACCOMPLISH ACCOMPLISH. When it took putting everything else aside and just breathing for one goddamn minute to help me get to sleep. 

There were times when I felt luxuriously glad to be doing yoga. When I moved into wide child’s pose with the kind of sigh that’s usually reserved for slipping into a hot bath. When that “Zen as f*ck” feeling settled into my spine with ease and I felt at home in my body. 

And there were times when I sobbed my way through poses. It happened a lot after my breakup in November. I would be going through my day with a background note of sadness, and then I’d move into some pose and it would all come rushing out. Like all the sorrow I was carrying was waiting for some kind of release. I don’t know what I would have done with all of that ache if I didn’t have yoga. 

I had weeks when I was unrolling the mat every single day. And then weeks where it lay completely untouched. It’s still that way--inconsistent. But even if the habit hasn’t taken hold exactly, I still feel the place that yoga has taken up in my life. Now, I can sense when I’m feeling a little tangled—emotionally or physically. I can feel when I need the slow untangling that yoga brings me. I’ve come to accept that I don’t need the leggings, I don’t need the classes (although I do like them!), I don’t need to do this for an hour every day, or even for an hour at a time. 25-minute increments still settle and untangle and strengthen me. 

There’s often a sort of self-righteous evangelism that comes with yoga. At least that’s how I interpreted it from most of social media. A lot of promises of it changing my life. It takes a certain level of privilege to be able to make yoga practice a part of your life. I used to get the impression that most yoga classes were filled with skinny white women who can afford $70 leggings. Which is sometimes true. But I have discovered spaces where all are welcome, and found a home on my mat that I didn't know was waiting for me. 

And now here’s the thing: I’m becoming a bit of a yoga evangelist myself. I hope I’m not coming across as self-righteous about it, but I've learned that yoga really is for everyone. Rich, poor, fat, skinny, cisgender, transgender, any and all races and abilities. Is your stomach getting in the way of doing child’s pose? Just modify it to wide child’s pose. Can’t afford classes or a studio membership? Find a free guided class on YouTube (there are hundreds). Don’t have an hour to give to your practice? Just do 10 minutes. Can’t touch your toes? Touch your knees. 

It sounds cheesy and evangelical and unrealistic, but I've come to believe that yoga really doesn't ask anything of you except showing up. And I'm grateful for what I found as I showed up this past year. I don't think I'll stop. 

Breaking point

 I'M NOT BLOGGING THIS WEEK I AM TOO BUSY. 

I'll be back with more writing later, on the regular schedule, when I'm not Door Dashing, Etsy-ing (x2), doing other side hustles, memorizing 2 different scripts, doing improv shows, house managing and rehearsing in Provo, and attempting to make food at home so that I don't spend a billion dollars on eating out. 

Love you all. 

Loving Our (Imperfect) Bodies

DISCLAIMER: I am not a health professional, for mental or physical health. I have done research and am providing relevant links, and I'm also experienced in advocacy and non-violent communication, which is really the focus of this blog. 

CONTENT WARNING: This blog contains frank discussions of body image and disordered eating, including examples of harmful things that are sometimes said about bodies and examples of negative inner monologues. I invite readers to practice self-care and discretion in reading, and offer the option of skipping the examples written in orange text. 

Image: A dim picture of an empty dressing room, with lighted mirrors.
(via Travel Salem on Flickr) 

Hello my friends! Before I start this blog, I want to be transparent about the fact that for most of my life, I've been thin. My body has grown somewhat in the last several years, and nowadays I've got a bigger and softer tummy and a proper double chin. But I haven't personally experienced a lot of fatphobia or disordered eating or body image issues. This makes it easy for me to stand up and say "Hey, let's all love our bodies!" with very little baggage. But the amount of baggage I have or don't have doesn't have anything to do with my willpower or character. I just got lucky. I won a genetic lottery and got a body type that happens to be valued in my society and a family that doesn't have too many issues around body image. All of us humans have grown up in this culture, and all of us have internalized messages about fat, about age, about appearance. No one should be shamed for how much those messages affect them. For all my positive body talk, I also still have plenty of moments when those messages get to me, too. This blog entry is about why I do my best to consciously undermine those messages, and some practical ideas about how to do it. It's a skill that has to be learned and practiced. 

So! 

Now that more people are vaccinated (for the love of Osiris, if you can get vaccinated but haven't yet, PLEASE GET VACCINATED), we have more opportunities to do live theatre safely! And with that comes something I had literally completely forgotten about: the negative body talk that gets thrown around in women’s dressing rooms. 

I don’t know what happens in men’s dressing rooms, and it’s been a while since I’ve been in a universal dressing room. But I’d like to invite everyone, regardless of the dressing rooms you’re in, to move away from this kind of talk. The last year and a half has further radicalized me into working for all kinds of equity and compassion, and the dressing room is one place where I can do that work. Come join me! 

WHAT IT IS

Negative body talk is any negative comment about your own body, someone else’s body, or bodies in general. It may include comments about weight, shape, age, or appearance. Sometimes negative body talk comes in sneaky forms, like praising people for weight loss, or assigning moral value to certain foods. 

Here are a few examples: 

• “Ugh, this costume makes my butt look huge.” 
• “These crow’s feet around my eyes are driving me crazy.” 
• “I was so bad today. I ate like five cookies.” 
• “Okay, time to put on makeup. Because no one wants to see this face without makeup.” 
• “I’m gonna have to go to the gym for an extra hour to work off that lunch.” 
• “I hate having such tiny boobs!” 
• “I felt so bad for him, trying to do that lift with her.” 
• “You’ve lost so much weight! You look amazing!” 
• “Time to put on my Spanx. Gotta tuck all of these saggy bits in.”
• “These gray hairs look just awful.”  

WHY IT’S IMPORTANT TO SHIFT AWAY FROM IT

(My radicalization is gonna show here…) 

Negative body talk upholds the patriarchy

It’s the patriarchy that says “women are valuable because of their looks.” It’s the patriarchy that says “Men should look a certain way to get women to date them, because that’s where men get their value from.” It’s the patriarchy that says that women’s jobs are to be ornamental, decorative, and make others comfortable. It’s the patriarchy that makes no room for queerness or anything outside of the gender binary. It’s the patriarchy that says only pretty people can be romantic leads. It's the patriarchy that says women's value goes down as they get older. And there’s no inherent truth to any of it. It’s what society teaches us, but we can decide to disregard it. And as more of us disregard it, the less power it has. 

Negative body talk perpetuates the toxic aspects of capitalism

Think about how much money we spend trying to change how we look. I’m all for cool haircuts and tattoos and piercings and sunscreen and yoga studios—those things help us express and care for ourselves. But the only reason women shave their legs is because some guy in the 1920s wanted to sell us razors. The only reason we have so many diet programs is because people want to make money off diet programs. Even though none of them demonstrably work long-term and restrictive eating is always harmful. (Check out The F*ck It Diet for one resource on this.) The diet industry makes an estimated $60 billion a year. Imagine how much good that money could do if we spent it elsewhere. On small businesses. On bail funds. Or hell, on our f*cking bills. And don’t even get me started on the “pink tax.”

Negative body talk is often deeply rooted in racism

This is way complex, and I’m not the best person to speak on this, and many others have spoken about this more eloquently than I have. (Check out this interview with Sabrina Strings on NPR for one example.) But the idea that “thin is the only and best way to be beautiful” is an extraordinarily Western idea, based on white ideals that attempt to separate “superior” bodies from “inferior” bodies. The beauty ideals of other cultures are all so radically different…if we say “Well, being thin and young are the ONLY ways to be beautiful” we’re saying “White colonial ideals of beauty are the only valuable ones.” (Also, your value as a human being doesn’t have anything to do with how you look ANYWAY.) 

Negative body talk perpetuates the fatphobia that plagues the entertainment industry

There is literally no reason for actors to be thin. Because we use our bodies to tell stories, it’s helpful if our bodies are strong and healthy. But the lie that we’ve been fed for so many decades and from so many sources is that fat = unhealthy. And it’s just not…true. (Check out Health At Every Size to learn more). Health can be measured in a few different ways, but generally speaking, the actual science says that weight is not an accurate predictor of health. Lizzo can do cardio while singing and playing the flute for hours at a time in heels, night after night, for months on end. And have you seen Olympic weight-lifters? And also, the BMI is racist and completely useless and was never intended to measure health. So if you’re ACTUALLY worried about health, you don’t need to worry about weight. And as far as storytelling goes, there’s no reason we can’t have a fat Juliet on stage. A fat Elle Woods. A fat Hedda Gabler. LITERALLY NO REASON. If being thin doesn’t mean being healthy, and if you don’t have to be thin to play certain roles, then there’s literally no reason to push ourselves (or each other) to be thin. 

Negative body talk harms those with body image issues and disordered eating

It's difficult to get really accurate statistics, but eating disorders affect AT LEAST 9% of the population. So if you're in a room with 10 people, it's highly likely that at least one of them has experienced some kind of eating disorder, and even likelier that more people in the room have a difficult relationship with food or body image (if not all of them/us). When we make comments about our own weight, or the weight of others, we're adding our voices to the chorus of already loud voices saying "you're not thin enough" or "you'll only be loved if you're thin" or "you're not worthy of love unless you're thin." This is also why it's powerful to not compliment people about weight loss. I personally have multiple friends who have shared that compliments on their weight loss caused their eating disorder to deepen. Or perhaps their weight loss was because of another health issue, and the compliment made their pain feel invisible. In both cases, they were being rewarded with love and acceptance in times when they were very ill. I want to live in a world where we give people love and acceptance regardless of their weight. 

HOW TO UNDERMINE NEGATIVE BODY TALK IN THEATRE DRESSING ROOMS 

(and any other rooms, really)

Okay, so if you're on board with moving away from the negative body talk that perpetuates the patriarchy, toxic capitalism, racism, and myths about health, here are a few ideas of how to do it. 

1. Aggressively compliment yourself. Look at yourself in the full-length mirror and smile at what you see. Exclaim with ecstasy. “Are you seeing this?! Look at these thighs! Look at these curves! Man, I love this gorgeous tummy.” Grab handfuls of your body and jiggle it with joy.
2. Abstain from the “script” when someone says something disparaging about their own appearance. When one person says “Ugh, I hate how this makes my butt look!” the expected response is either “No, it looks great!” or “Well, MY costume makes my tummy look huge.” Both of those responses reinforce the idea that appearance = worth. Which is completely false. Speak up, or change the subject, or abstain. 
3. Give specific compliments that don’t have to do with size. These compliments can have to do with appearance, but think of it as praising the way you’d praise a painting. (“You have such great eyebrows.” “You have such lovely hands.” “Look at your beautiful elegant feet!”) You can also compliment things that don’t have to do with appearance at all, like talent or smarts or interpersonal skills. 
4. Respond to negative body talk with “That’s the patriarchy talking!” or another quippy one-liner of your choice. 
5. Post body positivity quotes/images by the mirror/on the walls. A few of my favorites include "Love Your Tree" from Eve Ensler's The Good Body, some variation of this popular sticker, or this one, and this cross-stitch from my own Etsy shop (shameless plug).
6. Respond with a simple “Hey, this kind of negative body talk isn’t okay with me. Could we please keep it out of this space?” 
7. If the costumes/time period of the show allows, refuse to wear Spanx or other shape wear. 
8. Invite people to explore the ideas behind the fatphobic comment. “Hey, have you ever thought about where those ideas come from?” (This can also be done more pointedly, in the form of “Explain what you mean by that?”)
9. Speak frankly and matter-of-factly about your own body to the costume team (“These jeans are too small for my belly.” “If I wear this skirt, can I also get something to wear underneath so that my thighs don’t get irritated from rubbing together?”)
10. Respond with “Hey, friends. Someone recently pointed out to me that this kind of negative body talk can be rough for folks with eating disorders. So because we never know what the people in the dressing room are going through, I’ve been trying to just refrain from any kind of negative body talk in every dressing room I’m in. Would it be cool if we did that in here?” 
11. Sometimes negative body talk is an attempt to bond with those around us. The desire to connect to our fellow humans is deep and primal! (This is often what's going on when people are following the "script" mentioned earlier in #2.) So work on finding other ways to connect. Tell a funny story about your day, ask people what their favorite part of their day was, bring up an interesting article or YouTube video you recently read, or ask any of these conversation starters. (I always love hearing about people's journeys, so I like to ask "How did you get into theatre?") 

If you have other ideas, feel free to share them in the comments! Now go forth, and practice showing love to your beautiful, imperfect body and help others love theirs! 

Am Writing

No blog today. But it's because I'm working on two essays, four poems, and one script (at least). The entire point of the Sister Blog Challenge is to stay writing. And I am writing. It's just not ready to be seen yet. 

Maybe in two weeks it will be. See you then. 

Kick off your Sunday shoes

“If Walt Whitman were alive today, what song would he hear America singing? When I turn on television, all I hear is the music of easy sexuality and relaxed morals. I hear rock and roll and the endless chant of pornography.” – Reverend Moore, “Footloose,” Act One 

“You wish to change the law because you want to throw a dance; that is your right. It is my duty to challenge any enterprise which, in my experience, fosters the use of liquor, the abuse of drugs, and most importantly, celebrates spiritual corruption.” –Reverend Moore, “Footloose,” Act Two

Listen. I'm in a production of "Footloose" that opens this week, and it's kind of all I can think about nowadays. (You know how tech week is.) The premise of the show always struck me as so ridiculous as to be unbelievable. A ban on dancing seems absurd for any time period after the early 1600s.  

But the more I learn about American history in the 1980s, the less ridiculous a religious ban on dancing seems. First of all, the show is based on a true story (you can read about it here), but also there were a lot of things going on in American culture during the 1970s and 1980s that could easily lead a Christian preacher to believe that dancing is dangerous.   

I’ve been researching this for weeks, like the nerd I am, so get ready for a dramaturgy dump, my friends. 

THE RISE OF THE CHRISTIAN RIGHT

In the late 70s and early 80s, evangelical Christians were like "You know what we need MORE of? Combining Church and State." For them, the separation was clearly leading to the "decay of the nation's morality." Groups like The Moral Majority, Christian Coalition, Focus on the Family, and the Family Research Council urged evangelicals to get involved in politics and got them pumped up about "traditional family values." Before this, things like abortion, divorce, feminism, LGBTQ rights were all separate issues. It's a great PR move, really, and it carries through to this day. 

SATAN WANTS YOUR CHILDREN 

For members of the Christian right, Satan wasn’t metaphorical. And know who he was after? THE CHILDREN. In 1972, Evangelical Christian Mike Warnke published “The Satan Seller,” a memoir of a childhood allegedly spent in Satan worship, detailing everything from summoning demons to ritualistic sex orgies, and his subsequent salvation and conversion to Christianity. 

In 1980, another even more explosive “memoir” was published called “Michelle Remembers.” Co-written by Michelle Smith and her therapist Lawrence Pazder (who eventually became her husband), the book is based on hundreds of hours of interviews with Michelle while she was under hypnosis. During these interviews, Michelle recounted terrifying childhood experiences after her mother sent her to live with a Satanic cult at age five. She described everything from being forced to consume urine and feces, bathing in the blood of dismembered babies, and being locked in a cage filled with snakes and spiders. She also recalled being sexually assaulted as part of Satanic rituals. The entire experience allegedly culminated in meeting Satan himself, before Jesus, the Virgin Mary, and the Archangel Michael intervened. These beings removed all physical scars, and hid the memories from Michelle until “the time was right.” 

The best-selling book, along with one or two accusations of sexual assault made against preschool teachers (particularly the McMartin preschool in 1983), launched what we now call “The Satanic Panic.” There was a widespread fear throughout North America that Satanists were secretly running preschools in order to use the children in rituals. Under dubious interview practices, children made statements about being taken to "devil churches," being sexually abused, performing Satanic spells, and being tortured. Worried parents campaigned vehemently for authorities to do something with the slogan “We believe the children.” Federal law enforcement made training videos to help officers recognize the signs of “Satanic Ritual Abuse.” 

SATAN IN POP CULTURE

In 1973, the horror film “The Exorcist” was released, and the fear of Satan’s power ramped up among those who believed in him literally. Not only was the movie legitimately terrifying to audiences, but the making of it was also terrifying. (At one point, the entire set burned down in an accidental fire, except for the possessed character Regan’s bedroom???) The film was based on a real life exorcism on a 14-year-old boy known only as Roland Doe. Or rather, it's based on the attempted exorcism, because Roland somehow managed to break out of his restraints, pull a metal bedspring out of his mattress, and slash one of the priests with it, and they declared him beyond their help. When the film was played in theatres, there were multiple reports of audience members fainting and vomiting, and at least four cases of people requiring psychiatric care afterwards. Televangelist Billy Graham said “There is a power of evil in the film, in the fabric of the film itself.” 

And when 17-year-old Nicholas Bell killed a 9-year-old girl in his UK neighborhood in 1975, his statement to the police read, in part: "It was not really me that did it, you know. There was something inside me. I want to see a priest. It is ever since I saw that film The Exorcist. I felt something take possession of me. It has been in me ever since." Turning to the attack on the girl he had said: "I don't know why I killed her. It was this spirit inside me." In a later alleged statement he continued: "One night I was alone at home playing with the [ouija] board and while doing so felt something bad was happening."

Satan was everywhere. Movies. Books. Music. Television shows. Advertisements. Magazines. 

By 1988, Satanism had so permeated popular culture that TV Talk Show star Gerardo Rivera aired a special called “Devil Worship: Exposing Satan’s Underground.” 

Music and dancing were especially dangerous. The 1989 Christian documentary “Hell’s Bells: The Dangers of Rock ‘N’ Roll” linked rock music to sex, violence, suicide, drug use, rebellion, and the occult, and ended with a dramatic call to be saved. In 1989, Mormon church leader Gene R. Cook recounted a story about meeting Mick Jagger on a plane, and asking him what he thinks the influence of his music is on young people. Jagger reportedly replied, “Our music is calculated to drive the kids to sex.”

Here are a few excerpts from the LDS Church’s “For the Strength of Youth” pamphlets—a free publication to help Mormon teenagers live righteous standards. 

From For the Strength of Youth, 1972 edition: 

“Church standards prohibit dancing that is suggestive or sensual in any way…If one concentrates on good posture, many dances can be danced in a manner which will meet LDS standards. Some examples of these dances are the waltz, fox trot, tango, rhumba, cha-cha, samba, swing, and most of the folk dances. When dancing, young people should avoid crouching, slumping over, trying to do a backbend, or having too close a body contact…Members of the Church should be good dancers and not contortionists. Extreme body movements—such as hip and shoulder shaking, body jerking, etc.—should be avoided, and emphasis should be placed more on smooth styling and clever footwork…The kind of music that is played has a definite effect upon the actions of those participating in dance. Moderate and modest music should always be played. When electronic bands or instruments are used, an extremely loud beat is discouraged because it is inconsistent with church standards. Musical lyrics should always be in good taste and sung in a dignified way.” 

From For the Strength of Youth, 1990 edition: 

“Music can help you draw closer to your Heavenly Father. It can be used to educate, edify, inspire, and unite. However, music can be used for wicked purposes. Music can, by its tempo, beat, intensity, and lyrics, dull your spiritual sensitivity. You cannot afford to fill your minds with unworthy music. Music is an important and powerful part of life. You must consider your listening habits thoughtfully and prayerfully. You should be willing to control your listening habits and shun music that is spiritually harmful. Don’t listen to music that contains ideas that contradict the principles of the gospel. Don’t listen to music that promotes Satanism or other evil practices, encourages immorality, uses foul and offensive language, or drives away the Spirit. Use careful judgment and maturity to choose the music you listen to and the level of its volume. Dancing can be enjoyable and provide an opportunity to meet new people and strengthen friendships. However, it too can be misused. When you are dancing, avoid full body contact or intimate positions with your partner. Plan and attend dances where dress, grooming, lighting, dancing styles, lyrics, and music contribute to an atmosphere in which the Spirit of the Lord may be present.” 

RISE OF SERIAL MURDER

There was an enormous surge in serial murders during the 1970s. Why? Who the hell knows. Unresolved PTSD? Intergenerational trauma? Misogynist backlash against second wave feminism? All of the above? Maybe better forensic methods, stronger police communication, and deeper research into psychology just made us more aware of the murders. Maybe the nation was paying more attention because more victims were white women. Whatever the reason, the majority of the most well-known serial killers in American history were committing their crimes during this time period. 

Charles Manson and "Helter Skelter." "Son of Sam" killer David Berkowitz. Edmund Kemper. John Wayne Gacy. "BTK Killer" Dennis Rader. The "Golden State Killer" and "Easy Area Rapist" Joseph James DeAngelo. The "Hillside Stranglers" Angelo Buono Jr and Kenneth A Bianchi. Ted Bundy. Jeffrey Dahmer. Wayne B Williams and the Atlanta child murders. Richard Ramirez. 

Dennis Rader wasn't apprehended until 2005, and Joseph James DeAngelo was at large until 2018. Berkowitz and Ramirez both cited Satanism as the reasons for their crimes. Bundy was a law student who had converted to Mormonism. (Incidentally, he was arrested a few blocks west of the Harman Theatre, where "Footloose" is being produced.) 

From these cases alone, that means there were AT LEAST 150 seemingly senseless murders/sex crimes during the 15-year period from 1969 to 1985. If you were to average it out, that’s around 1 per month. For 15 years straight. Murders that didn’t have to do with gang violence or drugs, or even robberies much of the time. It was happening in Brooklyn, New York and Witchita, Kansas and Provo, Utah. Nowhere was safe. Kids were warned about "stranger danger" through PSAs and children's books. 

SEX IS MAINSTREAM

Also to the dismay of Christians, sex was going mainstream during the 70s and 80s. Chippendale’s opened in Los Angeles, then in New York, and then went on tour, performing mostly for middle-aged white women (who apparently were into sex? What?). Pornography films like Blue Movie, Deep Throat, and Mona were being reviewed positively by everyone from Johnny Carson to Roger Ebert. Madonna and Prince and dozens of other singers were writing lyrics that weren’t even thinly veiled references to sex. 

Thousands of gay men were dying of a mysterious new illness that would later be diagnosed as AIDS, an immunodeficiency disease caused by the HIV virus, and spread through bodily fluids. Ronald Reagan and the United States government intentionally ignored the crisis, and by 1995, over 800,000 people had been lost to AIDS. Conservative Christians viewed the crisis as a “gay plague” and that God was punishing homosexuality. 

So yeah. You take the rise of Christianity in politics and a literal belief in Satan, the occult showing up in everything from blockbuster films to rock music, hundreds of people being senselessly murdered and some of the murderers blaming it on Satanism, children saying they’re being ritualistically abused by their preschool teachers, and sex seeping into every facet of American society? You’re damn right I’m going to do everything I can to protect my kids. And if I have to ban dancing to do it, that’s a price I’m willing to pay for their eternal salvation. 

With hindsight, it’s easy to see how this kind of thinking is misguided. How the impact is miles away from the intent. But it still continues today. Fox News spent weeks clutching their pearls over Lil Nas X’s song and music video “Montero (Call Me By Your Name)” and did the same thing again with Cardi B/Megan Thee Stallion’s Grammy performance of Up/WAP. (It's worth mentioning that a lot of the criticisms of popular music always have been and still are deeply rooted in white supremacy, but that's a whole 'nother conversation.) Evangelical Christians still dominate conversations about conservative politics. 

And we still are determined to “protect our children.” Instead of putting signs in our windows that say "We Believe the Children," we share things with the hashtag #SaveOurChildren. In 2016, a 28-year-old man walked into a New York pizza parlor and fired 3 shots from an assault rifle, in an effort to rescue the children from a child sex-trafficking ring allegedly run by Democratic elites. Despite there not being a child sex-trafficking ring in the pizza parlor, the belief that powerful people were using children as sex slaves persists through QAnon and InfoWars and Trumpism. 

Here in Utah, Tim Ballard’s non-profit “Operation Underground Railroad” allows investors to join Liam Neeson/Taken-esque “rescue missions” in other countries. Despite a lack of any relevant training, problematic sting operations that create demand for underage sex workers, and a lack of recovery resources for victims, Ballard continues to frame his work as guided by God. 

Mike Warnke’s memoir “The Satan Seller” was completely debunked and revealed as fraud. The same goes for “Michelle Remembers.” The Satanic Panic surrounding daycare centers had more to do with anxiety about mothers entering the workplace than the devil torturing children. Child sex trafficking is absolutely an issue worth solving, but the problem has less to do with innocent white girls being kidnapped from suburbia and more to do with foreign policy and economics and racism and resource equity and drug policies. 

It’s difficult to face the real traumas. Poverty and grief and fear are all so messy. And the solutions are equally complicated and overwhelming. It’s so much easier to blame a metaphorical being whose only motivation is evil. If you're a parent, it feels both impossible and vital that you protect your children from sexual harm and violence and substance abuse. And if you're Christian, the stakes are even higher--those things lead to literal damnation. 

So it's easy to see how the parents who proclaimed “We Believe the Children” during the Daycare Satanic Panic had good intentions. They were trying to care for and protect the innocent young people they were responsible for. But the heartbreaking thing is that they didn’t actually believe the children. In interview after interview after interview about the satanic ritual abuse that supposedly happened in daycare centers, the children said that nothing really happened. Transcripts and recordings of the initial interviews show that the children were coerced into confessions and stories of things that weren’t even possible. 

But parents were so afraid of failing their children that they didn’t listen to them. 

Just like Reverend Moore.