So, I guess pirate socks are for boys.

a.k.a. Why I am an unapologetic feminist.

Last spring, I soap boxed about language opening dialogues that work towards change. Guess what, reader type humans? There was incredible discussion, support, dissent, and debate throughout the comments section on my facebook post and messages. This is exactly what I wanted. It was great!

Yesterday, I sported my blue, striped, pirate socks, much to the confusion of some students. One little girl looked at me and said, “Kathryn Teacher, you’re wearing boy socks.”

I looked down and asked, “Why are these boy socks? Am I a boy?”

“No?” she replied, a little shy. “But, they have pirate with knife, and that’s boy socks.”

Thus cracking open a giant can of gender stereotypes and behavior worms. As a pretty left-leaning social liberal with a fairly conservative moral compass, I have a lot of conflicting thoughts about this conversation. In this much belated installment of gender discussion, I would like to articulate how boxing our children into gender binaries so young is harmful and why we need feminism to break these social constructs.

It bothers me that children cut themselves out of opportunities because they don’t want to cross the lines that separate genders. And, it bothers me that adults not only allow this mentality, but feed into it. This hurts all of the boys and girls and girls who are boys and boys who are girls and everyone in between.

When discussing gender stereotypes, it is important to address the children’s behavior, because most young children make gendered choices subconsciously. Yet, those who break away from the binary are often readily accepted by their peers but shunned by the adults. We, as adults, must take a step back from what we were taught. As a child of the 90s, I was in this malleable period where progressive folks used green and yellow (or…maybe just Green Bay Packer fans?) to outfit their children’s bedrooms as opposed to the iconic pink and blue. However, I was also raised in a time where activities and even classes were pretty rigidly divided along gender lines. As adults, we must recognize our upbringing and decide if we want to perpetuate it or if we want to change it. There are many organizations that call all the genders to work alongside one another to create equality.

Gendered activities surround us. In the book I use in my after hours tutoring, we learned about hobbies, which featured model airplane building, collecting cards, beading, and painting. The photos used to help teach showed pictures boys building and collecting and girls beading and painting. When I asked about what my students like to do, my girl student said, “Well, I like to build, but that’s boy. So, maybe I like beading?” I collected my jaw from the floor and talked to both of my students about how they can choose any hobby regardless of if they are a boy or a girl. I explained that there is no such thing as a boy activities and girl activities. There are only activities that you like and activities that you don’t.

Right now, Korean schools often funnel boys into sports and science club classes and girls into dance, drawing, or English classes. However, I see hope in the eyes of one of my students H—A—. She refused to run in the girl’s relay race for Sports Day. She knew she was faster than the boys, and she wanted to race them to help quicken her time. The school, surprisingly, allowed it. On the day of the race, she was stretching with her friends (girls), but when it came time to run, she lined up with the boys. In the end, she didn’t win, but she also didn’t lose. She challenged herself, and she was so much prouder of a 5^th place (out of 20) finish than she would have been with an unchallenged 1^st place finish.

It is imperative that we praise and encourage our students to diverge from the gender norm. By raising our children to question, research, and disregard gender stereotypes, we raise a generation to look for discrepancy and work to fix it. It is also important for us to support our children’s activity choices even if/when they fall on the traditionally girl or boy spectrum. I hope that H—A—and other young girls continue to push boundaries as they grow up. It would be such an amazing uprising if all of the young women in this country and all countries found, explored, and utilized their voices to dismantle the patriarchal society in which they’d been raised.

Progress forward is a long and arduous process. However, more women and men are stepping forward and proudly claiming feminism, dismantling the idea that we’re all a bunch of bra-burning, men hating, bull-dyke lady lovers. There are, of course, those types of feminists, but they are by far not a majority. But, really, the focus of feminism is the raising up of women, not the bringing down of men. Ms. Emma Watson, the United Nation’s Women's Goodwill Ambassador, made a fantastic speech calling men to work with women in a program called #HeForShe.

For feminism to work as a movement and an ideology, we, as men and women, must change our behavior, our thoughts, our ingrained ideas of masculinity and femininity and impart that change onto our children. We must end slut-shaming and victim blaming. We must teach all of our children that beauty lies in both strength and sensitivity. We must teach them that “like a girl” does not equate to “less than a boy.”

When my niece Q’Jawsie Kathryn Marie Botsford Phelps is born, I’m going to send her all of the truck, dinosaur, monkey, ballet slipper crazy onesies that Korea has to offer. I want to teach her how to use her voice—how to giggle and cry, shout and laugh, burp the ABCs and sing like a gosh darn angel. I want her to grow up in a society that shows her that she has value as a girl but more importantly as a human.

This is Katie, signing out.       

PS My niece’s name will not actually be Q’Jawsie. Although, I might call her QJ regardless of what her name will actually be.

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, an era ends

Happy Thanksgiving

In three hours, the matriarch of our hodgepodge family will depart on a grand adventure that includes islands, motor cycles, and mediocre life decisions. I am petty and jealous, but more importantly, I am excited for a woman more sister than friend to embark on this fantastic journey.

I know that as she makes her way through the dusty back roads of Cambodia and clogged thoroughfares of Bangkok, she will gain knowledge and experiences to which bright, shiny tourists are not privy. She took an active role in shaping her dreams to form realities. She is the real deal. She is a traveler. 

I, on the other hand, never meant to be worldly. I never meant to travel. I never meant to do any of the things I am currently doing.

I ran away. I ran away from responsibility. I ran away from emotion. I ran away from everything that made me who I am. And, sometimes, you have to do that. I am guilty of using travel as an escape. But, instead of using Korea as a moment in time, a first chapter in a nomadic lifestyle, I found a home in myself. I found a strength I did not know I possessed. I found a voice and a means to use it.

K was instrumental in this process. She forced me to live all of the parts of my life. She held my hand when I needed support. She pushed me out of the nest when I needed to fly. And, she mended me when I needed to heal.

We're all hand models

She is not running away. She is running towards. She is running towards her best friend, towards adventure, towards the life she is meant to live. I am excited for when our quests collide again.

When I hugged her goodbye, I told her I made a spot in my right atrium that has her name on it. The space comes equipped with floor heating, hammocks, and puppies who aren't douche canoes. She thought that was a pretty fair trade. Of course, I am going to miss her. But, I know that she is doing exactly what makes her happy, and that is so much more important. 

To all of those who are running away or running towards or running just to feel the wind, adventure on.

Nailed it

The Importance of Pineapple in the Midwest, Including, but not limited to, Wisconsin Summers

Disclosure: This is creative non-fiction, which means that some of it is real and some of it is not.  My mom is not as ridiculously Wisconsin as she seems in here. I promise.

Bottom line, without fruit you get scurvy, and since really to be an acceptable case of scurvy you also need a combination of three of the following five things: eye patch, peg leg, tri-cornered hat, plentiful assortments of rum and probably a tattoo of sorts.  However, I also found on Google search (while fighting the brain fart for the disease: “scurvy”) that cancer is also a consequence of fruit deficiency (or cigarettes or drinking or unprotected sex or hard-living or really just bad and unfortunate luck). Thanks, Dr. Furhman.  So, instead of drinking your Ovaltine, eat your fruit, kiddo, or else your life is going to suck.  I digress.

So, now that I have discussed the base line importance of fruit in the average person’s life, let’s break it down.  Why pineapple?  Really because it is fantastic and not native to anywhere in the Midwest, or the nation for that matter (with the exception of Hawaii, but we’ll get to that later). 

Getting pineapple is like getting a super yummy treat, like when you’re good in church or you didn’t beat up your brother.  (Side note: Pineapple is a healthy alternative to rice krispi treats or chips or donuts or Hostess anything or chocolate covered bacon. It also prevents scurvy and cancer.)  Pineapple is also on sale about one week in the summer time when it is so God awful hot you can’t even leave your box fan in the window to go into your car (or bike) and drive (or ride) to the store to purchase a fruit that is now only $5.50 a pop versus $7.50: the regular price.  

You also know that pineapples are important because of their placement within your local Pick N Save or Piggly Wiggly or Festival or Lund’s or Aldi.  Pineapples are always in the front; as if all of the coupon-cutting people of the world don’t already know they’re on sale.  I would go to the store with my mom and we would wind amongst the dairies and cheeses (sharp cheddar finely shredded, “It’s fancy,” my mom says).  And then pow (or some other graphic novel onomatopoeia of the sorts), men, women and children flitting about the produce.  They look like little chipmunks skittering around the towering pyramid of foreign fruit. 

My mom would grab my shoulder and say, “Keep your head down, go in and get the greenest looking one.”  Sure, send in the kid who is wily and has no remorse for pushing or pulling or biting or hair-pulling or screaming “fire.”  It is a mad house.   Snag the one at the top.  Snatch the one on the bottom, the cornerstone of the pyramid.  And the fruit comes a-tumbling down.  Now, my $5.50 fruit that wards off scurvy and cancer is now bruised.  Shit.

I feel like I’ve shifted my focus.  Pineapple (as opposed to watermelon or marshmallows or corn on the cob or bratwursts—although brats are a damn close second) defines Midwest, specifically Wisconsin and Botsford summers.  Every summer, my family would traverse the rugged Milwaukee-Suburbs terrain, drive through two-lane highway hell (one lane of which was always closed), and arrive, safely, slightly haggard from the backseat fighting in which my sister and I actively partook.  We’d roll out of the car, nursing bites, bruises, and tufts of hair, straight into the arms of our 20 cousins, and 6 sets of aunt and uncles, and several wayside stragglers clad in black, cut off jean shorts, or straight up cow-boy gear.  They were my favorite.  Gram, Bless Her Soul, would always purchase a pineapple for my mother (even if it was a little “pricey”) to practice cutting them.  It took about 21 years of marriage and Mother-In-Law pineapple gifting and a daughter who spent a summer working as a pseudo-chef to teach her how to do it properly.  She’s got the hang of it now.   

My point is that pineapple, like summer, and life, as it were, happens only for a very short time and you must, taste, enjoy, devour it as quickly as you can.  You must savor it past its point of sweetness and know that there is something waiting for you at the end.  Another piece, perhaps?  A brisk, beautiful autumn?  An after-life, or whatever you believe?   Pineapple and summer and life must be shared with those you love.  Without these things, life is incomplete. 

In my family, you knew you were loved when Mom brought home the pineapple (or you snagged it yourself).  However, she says in a beautifully articulated Wisconsin accent, “Not ‘til another week, honey, it has to ripen.”

What the hell?  Are you kidding me?  I almost died.  I had bruises.  I waited 11 months and 21 days (and fought literally tooth and nail) for a pineapple and you’re going to tell me to wait another week until I can partake in the ambrosia—the freakin’ nectar of the gods.  Jesus, Mary and Joseph, I will eat a fruit cup.  I am still eating fruit to stave off piracy and cancer. 

Growing up in a midwestern town, I came to love all things homey.  My mom, dad, and sister, derived from the Irish Catholic ancestry, all grew up together sharing all of the amenities of one bathroom and a box fan crammed in a window to promote circulation through our house.  That worked as well as tying a hand fan to my wiener dog, Sam, and telling her to run amuck.  Real effective.  Pineapple season with my family also meant about five to ten more of my mother’s “pretties” (a generic term to mean kitsch) amongst the cornhusk dolls and Oklahoma! plates and Christmas cards we’ve yet to take down and artwork from the children who are so not gifted in that particular area.  Ma would arrange the husk-heads around the kitchen, “Just to brighten things up, you know?”  Personal favorite seasonal kitsch: the pineapple boat. You cut the pineapple straight on through the center (headdress still firmly attached), use a knife or spoon or ice cream scoop or spatula or (on one very desperate occasion) a turkey baster—not pretty—to scoop out the insides so that you can artfully display some sort of treat inside.  It was generally hosting lesser food items such as apples or pears or rice or vegetables or rum—generally white, but then you’re evading your piracy.  However, if you want to be a pirate, pineapple is absolutely not the fruit for you.