So, I've written an open letter to 2020

Dear 2020, 

Boy, howdy, what a doozie. 

See, you have entire worlds rooting for your death. You have human beings who have lost so much during your reign. You have bitmojis showing that you’ve been a dumpster fire of a year. You have memes telling you to “Fuck off.” You have so many people who are rooting--not just for your reign to be over but--for you to be destroyed, written off as the worst year ever. 

I’m not here to do that. I mean, do I appreciate how you have packed so many obstacles into such a short period of time? No, of course not. I’m a lazy person, and I don’t like overcoming one just to find another staring at my face. 

But, really, it’s not your fault. I can’t possibly believe that you came in all bright and shiny on January 1st, 2020 being like, “Y’all better buckle up.” Maybe you’re just as heartbroken as everyone else. I can’t believe that your successor, 2021, has been rubbing her hands waiting for you to fail, so she can swoop in like a superhero. 

See, Time is a team. 2021’s success depends on you, as you depended on 2019. Decades depend upon decades. And, we *can* fight about what year actually is the end of the decade (2019 or 2020), but that thought wearies me. Your reign didn’t suck because you wanted a Machiavellian twist. Your reign was hard and difficult because you inherited a mess.

This letter will be America-centric, because it is the reality in which I am living. 2020, you came in so joyfully, so full of life and love to give. Then, COVID-19 became a real big problem real fast. But, you see, 2020, that wasn’t your fault. (Technically, it was 2019’s fault...but, again, placing blame is ridiculous.) We weren’t ready for it. America dug its heels in Anti-Science malarkey.  America’s rugged individualism, for which we are so renowned, was truly the downfall here--each person thinking for themselves, not the community. That’s not your fault, 2020...again, if we’re gonna place blame, maybe the fault lies in 1492, when Columbus “discovered” the New World and followed his selfish interests and destroyed the beautiful cultures that already lived there. Or maybe the fault is in 1776, when the colonies didn’t like being told what to do. Or, maybe in 1773, when we threw a hissy fit over some tea and taxes. 

America doesn’t always recognize the difference between patriotism and nationalism. 

Then, 2020, while you were dealing with COVID, a police officer, Derek Chauvin, knelt on the neck of George Floyd, and a *different* a police officer shot Breonna Taylor in her own home, and Gregory and Travis McMichael shot and killed a man named Ahmaud Arbury, all of which reignited protests around the world. Again, 2020, it isn’t your fault. Maybe it’s 1619’s fault, when White people kidnapped millions of people from a continent far away to work their lands because they thought they were too good for that kind of dirty work. Or, maybe it is the entire decade of the 1910’s, when the Jim Crow Era really ramped up. Or maybe, it is 1955’s fault when three white men killed a *child.* Emmett’s death and Mamie Till Mobley’s bravery set the mid-century Civil Rights Movement in motion. And, guess what, 2020? We’re still fighting that same damn fight. So, you see, it isn’t your fault. 

Then, in November...and December...and probably January...Joe Biden kept winning the presidential election. But, unfortunately, that’s not your success. Maybe it belongs to 2016, for electing a man fully inept at carrying the responsibility for anything at all, let alone an entire country. Or, maybe it is in 2018, when a giant swath of people saw what wasn’t working and ran for office to change it. And, maybe, yes, maybe it’s yours, too. But, *electing* Biden, much like the second after 12:00 a.m. when your reign ends and 2021’s begins, won’t change anything.

We, as a country, have to work to make this a place worth living in. We need to address the death of our planet and the cataclysmic natural disasters worsened by climate change. We need to work to become an Anti-Racist person, neighborhood, city, state, country, world. We need to work to believe in fucking science. We need to take our heads out of the sand and realize that all it took was two months of income instability to throw 7.8 million Americans into poverty while Jeff Bezos’ already gargantuan income increased by 78 billion dollars. 2020, that is not your fault. It is the fault of greed, corporatism, racism, and the many, many years before you that allowed it to happen. 

Actually, 2020, you have maybe been the best year of all. You have given us a year with the fewest school shootings. You have shone a light on how delicate our economy is. You have allowed us to see the true monsters within. You have shown us that we cannot continue to live in a sustainable way. You have punched holes in America’s belief that we are the best. Finally, 2020, you have shown us who true patriots are--people who love America so much that we see how hurt she is. People who love America so much that we work to make her better. People who love America because she is our home.

So, it’s December 31st. Go ahead, take your bow. Pass on your burden and relax. You’ve had quite a year.  

So, I drank three cups of tea

I have a lot of feelings about this world, many of which focus on how we're heading towards hell in a stylish yet affordable hand basket. But, that's not what this is about.

My time in Taiwan thus far has been filled with some great surprises, including but not limited to amazing tour guides through the national museum and stinky tofu (thanks M and K). As traveling often goes, there have been some hitches. I have found myself in a foreign country with no access to my funds and a cell phone which doesn't charge with the immediacy I am used to. While both of these are solveable and definitely first world problems, they are frustrating nonetheless. Don't worry, Mom. I will be alright.

So, despite the steady showers, I decided to rent a bike and lose myself in foreign scenery and thoughts. As showers shifted toward downpours, I sought refuge under a tent with loads of furniture seemingly abandoned. Bonus: there was a puppy sitting on the table. So, Jericho and I sat watching the rain for a while.  I was thinking about all the small things (not the song but actual small things) that have been great in this past week.

Then, an older man pulled his bike up and told Jericho to get off the table in a string of syllables (suspicion: Jericho is perhaps not the dogs actual name). The man dried off the table at which I was having my belly button time*, then brought out a huge thermos.

Using no words, he motioned towards the thermos, pointed at me, and mimed drinking. I nodded and he pulled a cup out of nowhere and poured some tea for me. He settled into a wicker chair and had some belly button time, himself. That, that was when I started writing this, furiously penning it into a pocket notebook (in other news furious writing = cursive, I guess. I was surprised, as well). Anyway, I finished my tea and moved to a different spot on the table, so I could write more easily. Before I sat down, though, he snatched a towel and dried the seat and table to make sure my paper didn't get wet. He poured me a new cup of tea and gestured a "continue working" motion, so I listened. He settled down behind me, watching me, watching the rain, watching Jericho-not-Jericho.

And this, this is what I have been thinking this whole writing time: is this my language now? I have been slowly losing my English as I have lived abroad. I am not nearly as bombastic as I once was. I am not even close to sufficient in Korean to make up my language deficit. But, as I embark on a two month journey to all sorts of places, I'm learning a new language: one of kindness, universal gestures, yes, no, drink, friend. It is beautiful and humbling. I put so much effort into verbal communication--saying things exactly right (and often miffed when others do not follow suit). My voice is now a set of movement, a dance with intricate steps.

In that moment, I tried to choreograph the perfect way to express my sincere gratitude for the tea. So, I drew him a picture. It was in the classic Botsford style of stick figures and no sense of proportion whatsoever. I gave it to him, and he looked flabbergasted. He just kept looking at it and smiling. He put it in his pocket and then took it out again to laugh. He poured me a final cup of tea, and we sat and watched the rain fall content in our belly button company.

*Belly Button Time is a Botsfordism which means you take time to stare at your belly button and contemplate the complexities of the universe.

Note: I will update with photos as soon as I can access them.

So, it has been a year

and like seven days, but I have been thinking about writing this for about a week. So, that counts, right? Whatever, you don't tell me how to live my life. (Unless you're my mother, then you can totally tell me how to live my life. hashtag HiMom)

It has been a year since my last anxiety attack. I have told two very important people to me about this milestone, and both of them responded with a confused congratulations. Congratulations because that is a big effing feat. And, confused because they didn't even know I have an anxiety disorder.

So, I am here to out myself, I guess. I have had anxiety for a long time, and I have worked really hard in the past several years to be a healthier person. I don't always feel like my best self, but I wake up every day with that as a goal. And, for right now, that is enough. 

When I was a child, I was not able to control how I felt about anything. I felt everything, or I felt nothing. I spent hours awake at night telling stories to myself because I couldn't fall asleep. My stories would be about my day usually with some fantastic elements in there--my dragon second grade teacher or my lion best friend. These stories were my emotional processing tools. I needed them because I didn't have the capacity to process things in real time. So, at the end of the day, I had all of these things that happened and all of these emotions, and I didn't know how to feel them both at the same time. This storytelling activity continued for all of my adolescence and most of my young adulthood. It helped me sort out what I was feeling and when I was feeling it. The why was always illusive, though.  

As I am learning to process things more immediately, I catch myself being emotional at inappropriate times, and I don't really know what to do with it. I also don't really know how to pull myself together after any change from the norm. But, I am working on it. Baby steps, I suppose. 

After I told one person about my anxiety-attack free anniversary, she asked me what would set them off. And, I had never really thought about it truthfully. I wanted to lie to myself because I was/am ashamed of it. In my brain, I had never wanted to own up to my part in whatever was happening. But, this person has a way of calling me on my bullshit, and I didn't want to lie to her. 

So, I thought about it. My anxiety manifests itself in feelings of disappointment. Not when others are actually disappointed in me (that is guilt, not anxiety), but when I perceive others' disappointment. Or, it crushes when I think people depend on me for x, y, or z, and I feel like I cannot give hir my full attention. Or, sometimes my anxiety swoops in on the wings of emotional distress, and I stop breathing--scared, sad, and, usually, frustrated.

My road to mental and emotional health have been paved with friends made of gold--women and men who've taught me things like limits, true heroism, and there is always time to dance. I have learned to set realistic goals for myself. I have learned that I can't be everything for everybody. And, I have learned that it is not selfish to say, "No." 

I don't really know what I am trying to do with this post. Or, if I am trying to prove anything. I don't want pity. I guess, I want to give a face to some kinds of mental health. That people you know and love are not always what society deems "normal." That word "normal" in and of itself is absurd. I guess, I wanted to be a little more real with myself, to be vulnerable. I wanted to take a moment of sonder: the realisation that everyone is living a life equally as vivid and complex as my own (dictionary of obscure sorrows). 

And, that, my friends, is enough. 

So, I drank my last beer

“Wait, wait, wait, Botsford. You are from Wisconsin. That is basically your ambrosia. Your nectar of the gods,” you gasp, panicky, grasping for something real to hold onto--probably a rosary, the couch upon which you’re sitting, and/or a cold brew of your own.

Yes, I understand the irony. I think it is similar to when I told my folks I was a vegetarian. “But, but, Katie, what will I cook for you when you come home?” Cold fear crossed my mother’s eyes. Pretty sure my parents were more accepting when I told them I like to date the womyns than when I chose not to eat meat. Regardless, I digress.

I am choosing to do this for several reasons. I don’t really want to drink during Ultimate season. My body is my temple, blah blah blah. In addition, I cannot exercise for an extended period of time due to an injury, so I am trying to cut out alcohol and other foods that don’t really serve a purpose to keep my sweet bod in beach condition. Just kidding on that last part. But, I am trying to be healthier, and focus on paltry things like self-control.

ANYWAY, I would prefer not to publically discuss why I am no longer drinking right now, but that I am not drinking. I also wish to tell you a story about my last drink.

Once upon a time, there lived a fiery lass from a sleepy hamlet in the northern reaches of an emerald island. She thrived on adventure. Always climbing or running or moving forward towards bigger and better places. Her gallivanting nature brought her to the land of morning calm. She spent some time in the bustling metropolis then ventured south towards the ocean front. She traipsed about the beach chasing and catching flying saucers. She, however, had a secret magic. She made everyone around her a faster runner, a confident catcher. She focused her energy into changing those around her into stars.

People from near and far gathered in hopes of training with her. There was one such girl—raw and new—who was especially eager. Shy, yet anxious to please, she lurked around the lass in hopes of learning by observation. Soon, the two women became acquainted; then their acquaintance turned to friendship. The lass’s magic pulsed through their friendship making the girl into a better human. And, the girl listened, learned, and taught as well. Together, they journeyed towards better ways of living, of existing in their world.

After some time, the lass felt a tugging, a yearning to keep her feet moving. Constantly moving forward. Constantly growing in herself. She chose to leave the morning calm in search of passion and vigor. At a last, last, last going away dinner, the women shared a special soup, mandu, and mediocre beer—their favorite meal.

When the lass departed for her train, the girl didn’t cry. Not because she wasn’t sad. But, because she knew that the lass’s magic will continue to course through their friendship, and someday their adventures will again be in the same place at the same time.

The end.

So, I guess what I’m trying to say is that my last gamjatang with W seemed a fitting time to take a break from alcohol. She taught me to stop bettering myself for others, and instead try bettering myself for me. She walked with me on some pretty wobbly steps towards being a healthier human, and now it is my turn to also grow in myself under my own volition.

Thank you, dear friend. I will see you soon.

So, it is my two year anniversary week

Whelp, as the two year anniversary in the Land of the Morning Calm, approached, I really lived it up whilst Rufio cuddled me and watched my three favorite Emma's: Watson, Stone, and Lea Seydoux. I have learned and observed a few things in my time abroad, and I would like to share some with you.

1. Do not rise the challenge of a Korean saying she can drink Soju, Maek-ju, and Cider faster than you. Yes, you may win the challenge, but you will lose your pride when you wake up on a beach with a bottle of maekgeolli in your left hand and a peanut butter banana sandwich in your right.*

2. Personal space and privacy do not exist as evidenced by:
     a. Spontaneous hand holding with ajjumas on the subway
     b. A week ago, I heard a noise outside the bathroom door whilst showering. Thinking it was a mischievous Rufio, I opened the door to see my landlord's wife who had used her key and opened my door to show the apartment to a prospective tenant.

3. Rome wasn't built in a day, but whole buildings have been torn down, cleared out, and rebuilt in a matter of  hours. So, basically, Rome needs to get it together.

4. There is exactly one beach in Busan where you can go into the ocean past your kneecaps. However, I have never seen more people (children AND adults) in full on buoyancy apparel.

5. 24 hour convenience stores are EVERYWHERE. They are so handy for a midnight snack of kimbap or a 7 am banana milk.

6. I have learned that there is at least one other person in the city who shares any interest you may have. Spoken Word poetry? Yep. Ultimate frisbee? Definitely. A woman dressing as a man dressing as a woman? I have photos.

7. Your mom does not clean out your cat litter box, so you need to deal with that shit yourself. Which, I also think is a kind of a life metaphor.

8. Eight is my lucky number. It has been my lucky number since I was eight years old. It is also an infinity sign on its side, so that is neat. This is not a Korea observation, just a Katie observation. Both start with K, so I think we are twins.

9. Cheesy pajeon (savory kimchi pancake) and makgeolli almost always ends in fantastic memories, or sometimes it is a disaster. It is a flip of the coin, really. Just be aware.

10. Batting cages for 50 cents (or a dollar at the fancy places) is always worth it. Going with pros or n00bs, westerners or Koreans, hitting balls will solve all problems you may be having. If one problem is particularly stubborn, gamjatang (delicious pork soup) will fix it right up.

Now, I must go get my clothes off of the roof, where I used a clothesline for the first time in my life. I literally clothelined myself whilst hanging them. Rookie mistake. Hopefully, I will have wised up. Then, I'm heading to dinner to meet my very first Korea friend to celebrate our two year anniversary.

Adventure's awaiting.

*It happened at a beach Ultimate tournament. This fact, however, makes it no less embarrassing. 

So, I’ve not yet donned pants today…

…in neither the British nor the US English connotation of the word. (17:30)

01:30

It very well could have stayed that way, yet a friend knuckled me into getting Gamjatang with her at 20:00. By knuckled, I mean, she politely invited me, and I acquiesced.

Regardless, I had a lot of time to think today about the idea of Valentine’s Day. What it means to me; what it means to my friends; what it means to society.

It seems to me (according to my brief and unfocused analysis of Facebook), that there are two types of people. Those who are so incredibly ecstatically in love that they want to share it with everyone. And, there are those who are in a different camp of apathy or cynicism. And, to be honest, both are a-okay. As a closeted (not-so-closeted) romantic, I love it when my friends share their happiness.  We encounter enough negativity in the world that wee rays of love are a refreshing reminder of the things that are good in the world. I also can understand the need for friends showing independence of “I don’t need a partner; I got my own life.” These posts highlight the necessity of knowing your own person. Both are okay, and because you are in one mindset, it doesn’t make it the better place; it just makes it yours. There are two things I would like to address this Valentine’s Day. The first being the idea of radical self love. The second is spending quality time with those about whom you care.

So, radical self love, what does that even mean? It means loving yourself in spite of all of your flaws. This is something with which I personally struggle. All.the.time. “Well, Botsford, if you aren’t self-aware enough to have your life together, who do you think you are giving me advice?” Wow, what an excellent question from the back row. Life is a learning curve. Sometimes, it is steep. Sometimes, it is meandering. But, we are always learning about ourselves. The moment you stop working towards being a better person, you’ve lost.

It is imperative to love yourself, which is sometimes difficult to do when you’re mouth breathing through a retainer, wearing pirate socks and mismatched pajamas (totally hypothetical; my pajamas always match). But, it is so important to know things about yourself that make you genuinely, intrinsically happy. If you are constantly searching for external affirmation (Katie Botsford), you will find it uncomfortable to create internal happiness and a sense of independence. Now, you can sometimes achieve that with a partner if he or she (or they or ir) chooses to work through it with you. However, that is a lot of pressure to put on another human, so make sure you communicate your needs to your partner.  You will continue to learn and grow whilst in the midst of relationship (see above: life=learning curve). I promise.

Sometimes, looking in the mirror and appreciating what you see  (physically, emotionally, mentally) is hard. Sometimes, it is easy. But, it is always necessary.

The other thing I would like to stress this Valentine’s Day is the gift of your presence. It doesn’t matter if you are with your significant other, not-so-significant other, family, friends, or even by yourself. Exist within the moment. Put your phones and iPods away. Turn off the television. Spend quality time with the person/people in the room. Have a meaningful conversation. We are so wrapped up in the immediacy of this technological age; everything has to happen NOW. I need the updates NOW. I want to know what ________ is doing NOW. Chill out, bro. The internet will still be there in a few hours. 

Tonight, I had dinner with several people who are incredibly important to me. Afterwards, the four of us split up and two of us went home to have tea. For the first time in quite a while, I had a real conversation. Neither of us rushed to get the latest Facebook update or text our other friends (we DID send an important photo to one of our mutual friends). If you find yourself alone this evening, spend time exploring yourself or dreaming of a future adventure. Take time to be present with yourself.

Whatever you are doing tonight, be an active participant. Choose to make this a positive Valentine’s Day. If you are ecstatically happy within your relationship, run amok with fireflies in your wake. If you’re in the deepest, darkest forest of fear or anxiety, just try to find one firefly; cup it in your hand, and allow it to light a path.  

Wherever you are in your life, have peace, friend. Goodnight.   

So, I'm figuring out family

So, I'm figuring out family: an observation of "home" after an extended absence

By the time, we reach the 894 bypass, I could have driven the rest of the way to my mom’s house without hesitation or doubt. My mom took all the right exits chatting away while my father scrunched up in the back seat listened to our small talk.

When she pulled into the garage, I ran into the house and engulfed my sister in a hug that had neither beginning nor end. It just was. Then I sidled up to my brother in law and felt whole in his embrace. A few moments later, I remembered my luggage and trounced down the stairs to collect it. Within the hour, my father dealt the cards for Dirty Clubs, and in that moment my patchwork family quilted a new memory: That night Katie came back.

The routine was so familiar. The couch and wing backs still stood sentinel to the fireplace. The bookshelves housing my childhood favorites continued to wait for the next generation of adventurers. Bailey and Brenden wove underfoot both calling for then rejecting my attention. The cards dealt 3-2-3-2-3.

Yet, there were spider web cracks in this mirror of Christmases past—four stockings hung on the mantle, figurines perched in the place of my father’s dusty tomes; his antique Santa bank watched over another house this year.

Everyone did their best to make me feel at home. They each contributed a favorite food to the homecoming feast. We ate, drank, and talked over one another, per usual. We shelved our differences, our opinions, and our hurts to celebrate everyone's health and presence at the table.

We are still trying to figure out how to function as a five person unit. Some of the cogs are misplaced, some of the joints were broken but are now mended, and some of the wheels that kept everything turning are lost forever. But, we try to make it work because that’s what we’ve always done.

So, what if the hokey pokey was really what it's all about?

Some necessary background information:

1. I teach at an all-women’s high school.

2. South Korea has their final exams at the beginning of July, and then three weeks before the end of the semester. Don’t ask me why; I have no idea.
3. My main goal for this semester has been to bust through stereotypes given to my students merely because they were born as girls. I have tried my damndest to teach critical thinking, creativity, and empowerment. I have tried to teach them that they do not need to work within the binary of male or female, but under the umbrella of being a human.

We good? Okay.

So, today, I gave my students the options of watching a movie or practicing for their pop song contest on Friday evening. They unanimously voted to practice. I said, alright, have at it.

One student found an instrumental version of the song “Mercy” by Duffy. My students were sitting and singing beautifully and sweetly. I asked if they would want some pronunciation help or idea help—a little timidly, since I may or may not be a judge at the contest. They accepted, and I corrected some of their pronunciation (“beggin’” instead of “beggING,” etc).

Then, on a whim, I asked them if they knew what the song meant and what it means to them. They explained it to me in rapid Korean, which of course I didn’t understand. But, with their motions and the words “namja” (man) and “yeoja” (woman) and “upsaiyo” (not or no or without) showed up, I figured that they understood the basics.

My students sang it again, and their words sounded great, but they were still not really singing like they understood the gist of the song.  When they finished, I praised their pronunciation, then I asked if the singer was happy, sad, or angry about not being with her boyfriend.

 

They said, “Sad teacher. She is sad and angry.”

Then, together, we dissected the line, “Now you think that I/ will be something on the side. / But you got to understand that I need a man / who can take my hand.”

I asked if they knew what “on the side” meant. They shook their heads, so I created a metaphor with a chair and two desks, and that the chair was dating both of them at the same time. I asked if they thought that was okay. They shook their heads, but one student said, “Not really, but there must be a reason for him to do that. It is important to have a boyfriend.”

After I collected my jaw from the floor, I looked at each of my quietly nodding students and settled on her. I said, “No, honey, you do not ever deserve to be on the side.” I turned to the class, "You are so smart and so creative. You have so many qualities that are perfect, just as you are. You do not ever deserve to be less than your partner’s number one. And, frankly, you do not even need a partner. You are whole and important just by yourself. The only person you should want to be sexy for is you. When you love yourself wholly and truly, that is when someone will come along, and together you will grow into the best versions of yourselves. You are nothing less than amazing. Please, bring that attitude when you sing this song.”

It was their turn to drop their jaws. When we sang the song again, their voices were so much stronger. They started moving their bodies to the beat and giving meaning to the lyrics.  I watched this instantaneous transformation in my students. This realization of self-worth took me months, years to figure out. For me, it was slow and painful. But, in one minute, these children stopped being girls or women, but became human. It was one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen. Afterwards I told them, “I have never been more proud in my entire life than I am right now. That was perfect. You are perfect.” I paused, “I want to teach you a dance—a dance that we do at weddings.”

“Teacher, can we show you our dance first, then we learn yours?”

As they ran through their routine, it started as “K-Pop Sexy.” By that, I mean to say, that is was about the provocation and sex appeal. But, then they kept practicing and speaking in Korean, pointing at me. They changed some dance steps and their posture, which made it much more about respecting their bodies and internalizing their “sexy,” not enticing the audience. The understanding of this change and what it meant to my students settled around me. It became a manifestation of empowerment and strength.

Afterwards, they asked me to teach them my dance. I lined them up in two columns, facing each other. I said, “Okay, this dance is all about self-expression. When it is your turn, you dance through the column with the person across from you. This is a safe space, and you are free to dance however you want. Then, go to the end of the column, and cheer on your classmates. Okay? Okay.”

Obviously, as a certified attention glutton, I went first and danced through the two columns of my students. The next two came, timidly, just walking through the columns. But, as I started dancing with them, they became more comfortable. As the song continued, the students danced through the columns. The lines sort of collapsed upon themselves, and it just became a dance party in the back of the classroom. One brave student came up to the front of the crowd and danced with me while her friends kept singing the song. I drowned in singing, dancing, and joy in its purest form. It was one of those moments that everyone was living 100% in the moment, dancing without abandon.

After class, a student, with whom I had never had a full conversation, stayed behind until the classroom was empty. She looked at me, carefully crafting a sentence; “Kathryn, I thinked a lot today. Thank you for telling me perfect. I will remember to dance only for perfect me.” I took her hand and squeezed it, because, in that moment, words could not express any of the emotions I felt.

So, what if the hokey pokey or dancing was really what it’s all about? What if I reached students on a level that no written or spoken word could obtain? What if together, my students and I, created a moment that has never been nor will ever be again? What if that was true perfection?

So, I haven't written in a while

I have no excuses but this: I have been devouring the Game of Thrones series, and I tend to adapt my writing style and subject to the author I currently read. I don't particularly wish to write like Brotimes Martin--mostly, because I don't want to write about gratuitous saucy time when I know my mother reads this.

Alright, so I wrote this poem a while back. The cast of the Vagina Monologues did a photo shoot in March, and my friend asked me about my photo. I told him that we had to dress like our Vagina Warrior. He asked what that meant, and I honestly had no response for him. So, as I am wont to do, I sat down with some Sara Bareilles and wrote out exactly who my Vagina Warrior is, and how I allow her to participate in this absurd life that I call my own. I have a recording of me performing it, but my delivery could use a little work. Perhaps, I will work on that.

Anyway, I hope that you enjoy it.

sea glass

My vagina warrior lived inside of me

pressed down and sodden

like the dregs of yesterday’s coffee grounds.

On a ship in a glass bottle,

I admired her—

             A piece of decoration.

The beliefs of not good

             enough

                                        and

not beautiful

             enough

chain her to the mast,

splayed her, restrained her

in a way that rendered her

             helpless

             defenseless     and

             naked

to the onslaught of

wave after wave of perfection—

             perception.

She will never be

             tall.

She will never be

             thin.

She will never be

             beautiful.

My vagina warrior fought these

             shackles.

She rallied the

             force of her arms,

the

             power of her legs

and the cuffs opened

not with a

             Click,

but with the

             Unadulterated

             Wild

sound of the oppressed.

Enough

The sonic sound shattered the glass.

She refused my

             submissions

my

             control

my

             standards.

She defied definition.

She created discomfort

to make me feel.

             something      anything

She turned to me,

not with rage

but with

             pity--

because I’d kowtowed to

rules     and     opinions    and

             external pressures

changed my self to fit into

society’s

glass bottle—broken

though it may be—

with its missing pieces

and jagged edges

meant to cut me

and keep me from feeling

             whole.

Its shards scattered among the

rubble.

There is no way to glue it back together—

             whole

My vagina warrior stepped inside of

me,

kissed my edges smooth,

and together we became

             sea glass,

living wholly and beautifully as

             One.

So, the sky is a playground

My seat, a chariot aboard a plane. As the engine gurgles, then hums, then buzzes to life, I know that I transcend time and space--even if it is just for a moment.

The wheels and pavement kiss goodbye, knowing that someday they will be together again. As the nose of the plane sniffs the rushing wind, reaching higher and further than just a minute ago, I look down at the receding city. Maybe there is a child, like a past me, who waves at every passing plane, wondering if someone is waving back. Never fear, child, I see you, and I love you. Never let your adventure fade. Never stop chasing what you love.

Bemused, I watch as the plane monkeys through the branches of the atmosphere. In a burst of twilight, we break through the clouds. Fields of purple cotton candy stretch beyond measure. Neither miles, nor meter, nor clicks, nor leagues can quantify it. This is forever, and never. It is all that is, all that has been, and all that will be.

Apollo and his flames give way to Artemis and her bow. The first glimpse of stars mirror the urban twinkle below. Zephyrs toss us about. We are playing tag, and and we are It. The airplane flaps open and close determined to chase them.

The blinking red eye of the plane makes us easy to find. No hide and seek for us. We'd prefer kick the can or capture the flag. Surely, the gods play Night Games. Dionysus shares his fermented wealth. Hephaestus tinkers and hammers keeping us afloat. And, before me, Demeter spreads a feast of fruit and grain. Athena on the right and Ares on the left keep watch to make sure we are safe. Hermes titters ahead, announcing our arrival. And, Aphrodite's beauty shines through the sunset, enclosing us in a tangerine orb.

Together, we play- chasing towards the sun, running from the night. If tired, we rest upon the puffed up clouds. Uncle Zeus and Aunt Hera smile down, grinning while we frolic about in a place where time does not exist; there is no measurement of space. Papa Poseidon greets us with waves, and finally, I am once again whole.

So, I hear tell it is that December month.

It is funny, really. I have no idea where November went—sandwiched between the typhoons of Chuseok and the flurries of Thanksgiving. But, now it is the 6^th day of December, and my hands nearly froze to the steering column of my sassy new scooter, Kyler. 

I have sat and tried to dissect my thoughts and feelings of this holiday season. It is not the graceful, clean process I feel I have to exude. It is rather messy, tearful, and all around unbecoming.

On Monday, I went to Nampo-dong (a large shopping district in Busan) for Thai food and Christmas presents. I went with my dear friend M, and met up with K and T. After dinner and shopping, the four of us, turned the corner to walk back to the subway station. And, after I allowed myself to relax, I took in the sights around me. The Christmas lights sparkled truth, innocence, and the beauty of humanity. 

The Christmas tree banners led one after another to the center round about. Lovers, children, and friends posed in front of a white spiral tree. Red and blue lights emerged from the tip, which created a mystical ceiling. It gave me the comfort of being home.

It reminded me of my early childhood, when my parents would bundle Sarah and I up in our winter boots, jackets, and night gowns, and they buckled us in the car. Dad would drive us down I-94, take the 894 bypass and exit on Oklahoma Avenue. And there, between blocks 92 and 96, is where, I assumed, Santa lived. Candy Cane Lane interwove with my hopes and dreams for years. The deep snow reflected the magic of this four-block radius.  Each house, magnificently decorated, looked like a Thomas Kincaid painting. My eager face, plastered against the window, took in all of the wonder and awe.

I saw that same look on so many beautiful children in South Korea. Their eyes glazed over with lights and joy in the very purest sense. The Christmas trees twinkled and their boughs, weighed down by ornaments and garland, reached through my memories and teased them out of me.

Last night, as I walked out of K’s apartment building, I commented, “Oh, wow. It smells like snow and Wisconsin.” My friends C and H agreed, and we look up to the sky to see little flakes blustering about in the wind. Busan had its first snowfall. Many of my friends changed their facebook status to SNOW or IT’S SNOWING or Take that, Busan never snowing. Boo-yah. There is something about the season's first snow that makes adults stop and appreciate what is around them with the same wide-eyed innocence as children.

All of my time here, I waited for the snow. Maybe if it is snowing here and snowing at home, then somehow we’ll be connected. Imagine if a flake formed over the Midwest and lazily drifted on the winds and seas all the way to Busan. I know that is childish to think that way. The degrees of separation between home and me feel insurmountable at the moment. But, what is December without childlike faith? What is December without the knowledge that Santa will always come on Christmas Eve? We believe what we have to for our brains to make sense of things. I need to know that, somehow, I am connected to my family right now. 

And, that, dear friends, is the beauty of Christmas. In this month, I am allowed to regress in age. I am allowed to be four and wanting to curl into my mother’s lap with shortbread cookies and know that all will be right in the morning. I am allowed to be 12 and play in the snow. I am allowed to be 15 and drink my first cup of coffee with my mother on a cold winter’s day, thinking that this must be what being an adult is like. I am allowed to be 18 and 21, and strong when my family cannot be. I am also allowed to be 25 and scared so far away from home.

But, with all of that said, I know that all of those memories are real. My family is real. The moon and stars that shine over Busan are the very same that twinkle over Wisconsin. And, Christmas will come, and it will be amazing, full of new traditions and faces. And, they too will be beautiful.