So, we should all learn from this.

Today is one of the most emotionally draining days of my life. It is 11:30 am. I am sitting on a bench at the Cambodian Killing Fields with a dear friend, each of us processing these human atrocities in our own way. As we listened to the stories of several survivors, I watched ants move millimeter by millimeter with their dinner humped on their backs.

Story 1: Loss of an Infant. A woman was too malnourished to nurse her child; she worked all day in the rice fields as her son slowly starved. Revolutionary Slogan to help ease her pain--Better an innocent lost than a future enemy spared.

The ants find the carcass of two bugs: one large, one small. They sent messengers back to the nest to get more help to move the bodies.

Story 2: Witness to a Killing. The Khmer Rouge soldiers, beat, starved, and tortured a man. He was shackled outside of the prison when a guard questioned a woman in the street about two bananas. The man watched as the woman pleaded, but the guard sliced her neck with a hatchet then decapitated her with a hoe. The woman died in silence. The man lived in screams.

The bamboo fence surrounding a mass grave.

The ants come together in groups. Three push their heads under the large bug to raise it up enough for the others to wedge their bodies between it and the ground. Their journey begins.

Story 3: Rape Leads to Shame. Twelve Khmer Rouge soldiers had beaten a woman unconscious, raped her, and left her to die. She woke up naked and filled with shame, guilt, and pain that assaulted her very core of being.

The ants meet a rock that is about an three centimeters tall and four centimeters wide. They run into it several times. Realising that it cannot be moved by force, the ants shifted tactics. A row of ants held the bug above their bodies. Four ants wedged themselves under the first row. Rows wedged under rows elevating the bug to the top of rock where there were four ants waiting to take the burden from their comrades. They worked together to solve a problem that seemed, to me, insurmountable.

Piece of clothing on the ground. The recent rain uncovered it.

Story 3: The Story of a Man. A boy woke up in his home in Phnom Penh. A knock on the door sounded through the halls. The Khmer Rouge soldiers told him he must leave this place and go home. He was confused; Phnom Penh was his home. He knew no other. He went to his grandmother's home hoping to escape the revolution. After some time, his mother and sister arrived. He found out that they had been turned away at the Vietnamese border; they would have left the country without him. One day his cousin came to the town and loudly disagreed with the revolution. The Khmer Rouge soldiers shot him without a second glance. Then, the boy was jailed for his intelligence and birth right, but the sacrifice of another prisoner released him. An old man pleaded with the guards to let the boy go. The guards took the man's life in exchange for the boy. "I don't even know his name," the boy said of the man to whom he owed his life. The boy escaped to Texas and studied with revenge in his heart. He returned to Cambodia with only one thought: to make his mother proud by forcing the Khmer Rouge to suffer as he suffered. His mother didn't want that. So, he has turned his work into shedding light onto this genocide about which so many of us are unaware. He works to prevent this from happening again. He searches for peace within his past, within himself.

The ants run across a leaf that catches in the wing of the large bug. It adds to the mass, but they ask for help and more ants come to raise the leaf to make it a part of their load. They maneuver around other pebbles and leaves. The extra leaf falls away and those helpers are incorporated back into the bug-lifting rotation. They reach their ant hill. Some ants widen the tunnels to accommodate the large bug. And, down they go, finally at home.

Barbed wire surrounding the compound.

These stories are some of immeasurable loss: loss of self, loss of others, loss of reason. Yet, the ants living in the place of destruction find a way to live, grow, and nurture themselves. They met challenges and worked as a unit to communicate, problem solve, and overcome them. The Cambodian people use this place of destruction as a way to educate people about the true horrors of war, about things that happened less than fifty years ago...

about what we need to do to prevent it from happening again.

*I listened to these stories with rice paddies behind me, a pond in front of me, and a friend beside me. We continued our audio tour through signs of clothing found on decomposed bodies, and mass graves of skeletons without skulls.

Number 15 Audio Guide Tour: The Killing Tree

As I started this part of the audio guide, Katniss' song from the Mockingjay movie circled through my head. I knew that this was the grave of women and children. The previous track warned us the next one would be tough. I steeled myself. I pushed play.

The Killing Tree with remembrance bracelets

The guide discussed the treatment of women first. They stripped them, had them kneel blindfolded and hands bound, then swung with a hoe or hammer or axel severing their spinal chords, then slit their throats with a palm tree knife or a sugar cane frond and pushed them into the grave. Revolutionary music blared from speakers to cover the sounds of their screams.

The Killing Tree, however, was not used for women. In fact, I don't think anyone but children died here. The Khmer soldiers, humans with a conscious, grabbed children--infants--by the feet, bashed their heads against the tree and flung them into the grave. They watered its roots with blood.

I wrapped my arms around myself, squeezing my eyes, willing this indescribable sense of loss escaping my eyes to go away. But, it didn't. So, instead I watered its roots with salt water.

My friend wrapped his arm around my shoulder, and we existed in a time that was neither now nor then, but instead a half-memory that should not belong to anyone.

We finished the tour walking slowly looking at the ground from which bones grow like palm trees. The birds sang a to each other reminding us that there is still good in this place, but from it we must learn.

*Written in my hostel at1630.

So, Mama's a little broody

Little did I know that broody meant something other than David Boreanaz circa 1999.  I lived 25 years thinking that broody was an emotion linked to reservation, consternation, and misplaced sexual tension. Lord (and my mother) knows I was broody as a teenager, and boy could I tell you some stories. My inner 14-year-old is currently flipping her stylish yet bi-curious bob cut and saying, "God, Kathryn, why do you always bring me up like this? My life is so unfair; no one knows what I am going through. Just leave me alone."

Recently, (okay a year and a half ago) I learned that broody also means wanting to have a baby. And, maybe it is the anticipation of my niece's arrival. Or, maybe it is because so many of my social media acquaintances (and best friends) have babies. Or, maybe it is because I know that there are very few things I am naturally good at, but being a mother will be one of them. But, oh my gosh, it feels like everywhere I look a tot is holding his dad's pinky finger, a baby is asleep in her mama's arms, or a three year old is inexplicably covered in both peanut butter and pizza sauce. 

And, I want it. I want it all. I know that there is more to child-rearing than adorable instagram photos and facebook updates; I am not an idiot. I know that those midnight, three a.m., and six a.m. wake-ups are going to be difficult and annoying at the time. But, I also know that it will be worth it at some point down the line. 

Yesterday, my student Anna came up to be before class and said, "Teacher. I'm stuck. Help?" Her coat zipper did that thing where it unzipped from the bottom up leaving the toggle at the top and about a thousand jagged teeth below it. You know what I'm talking about. Sometimes it is just an easy zip down, but sometimes you feel like it is a shark's mouth with infinite rows of teeth. It was the latter. At what point do you give up and allow yourself to be swallowed? I mean Jonah hung out in a whale's belly for a spell; I am sure a shark's belly would be more accommodating. There might even be some sushi laying about. Okay, off track. Anyway, so together Anna and I worked through her zipper centimeter by centimeter. Finally, we were at the very end. At this point I had gone from bending, to squatting, to kneeling, to finally sitting . There was about five centimeters (about 2 inches) left. I took a deep breath and gently pulled the zipper through. As it came free, Anna threw her coat off and jumped into my arms. She said, "Wow! Thank you, Kathryn Teacher. That sure was tricky!"

And, as I type this now it doesn't seem so fantastic, but I cannot explain to you the lightness I felt after helping this child do something so simple. I held her--goofy smiling--when she does not even belong to me or anyone I love. It was just a brief moment, about which I am sure she's already forgotten, but it filled me with such happiness.

But, isn't that a part of parenting? You remember a thousand little moments as your children breeze through. They realise too late that even the mundane can be extraordinary. 

I think the thing that really got me broody was playing music with my students. I have learned exactly two songs on the ukulele thus far, one of which is "Home" by Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros. I played the introduction and then taught the chorus to my students. The lyrics are:

Home. Let me come home.
Home is wherever I'm with you.

We talked about what the lyrics meant. They came up with the idea (with no help from me!) that we find home in the people and places we love. This made me so happy because it is exactly what I have been telling my family and friends for the past three years as I've ventured on this self-journey. I have people homes living in Vietnam, Canada, Korea, Florida, Texas, D.C., Boston (soon), Madison, Neenah, Antigo, Waukesha, and so many more. I have place homes in the rocky crags of Busan, white sand beaches and stone cliffs of Thailand, and gentle streams of Scuppernong Springs. 

During break time, the students wanted to play my ukulele. So, I sat on a desk and the students sat in front of me. They strummed as I made the chords. In the middle of the chorus, one girl looked at me and said, "Teacher, here is home." I replied, "Yes, school is a great home." She stopped me, "No, Kathryn. Here. Now. This. You." I had to take a very long and deep breath before I said anything. I was shocked and surprised and not quite sure how to proceed. But, she just nodded and continued strumming and I made the chords.

It is in these kind of not-so-special special moments that broodiness niggles my brain. These simple exchanges between two humans who feel safe with each other make me want to share them with someone that I created or helped create. There may never be a perfect time or a perfect partner with whom I can share a little person. But, neither of those really matter because whenever this child comes into my life, I am going to love him or her with...with...with something I can't describe. I can't define it because it will be a love so pure that I couldn't possibly know it yet. 

So, no one is going to argue that teachers aren't important, BUT

Teaching in Korea has monumentally shifted who I am as a teacher, educator, role model, and, frankly, human. Now, wait, before you roll your eyes and gag a little bit (or after, let’s be honest), just, just hear me out.

I came to Korea after teaching in the Wisconsin public school system a little tainted by the politics of education, but still ready to change the hearts of all the students I met. I had Howard Gardner in my pocket and Nancy Barbiaux* in my ear; I was ready for anything. 

I walked into my classroom on the first day ready for anything. By day five, I realised how woefully underprepared I was to teach English as a language. As the days, months...ahem...years went on, I've fallen into a rhythm. I know different tricks to help kids remember superlatives and participles. I also know when to throw up my hands and say, "I have no idea why though and crow rhyme and through and blue rhyme, but not though and through. English is a crazy language." I know that. 

Let's get one thing straight before I flip everything on its head, teachers are important. We need teachers to supplement parental education. We need teachers to talk to when we're too scared to talk to our parents. We need teachers to... We need teachers to... I could write a litany of why we need teachers.

BUT

Sometimes, adult tendencies cloud teachers' perceptions. For the past two days, I've walked into my fifth grade classroom with a rock solid plan. I had detailed directions written on the board, on a powerpoint, on the paper itself. I still had kids asking, "What are we doing?" This is fine, normal, and all too real for my fellow educators. However, I also have several kids who, regardless of what I can do in my limited Korean and/or all of my teacher tricks, do their own thing despite my meticulous planning. And, that’s fine, too.

What I have loved most about these two days has been the ingenuity of my students—of what they do despite my guidance. My students have found better ways to play a game I designed. They have sorted out who goes first, second, third, and fourth with little tattling. They challenge each other to play the game efficiently. They think critically. 

As much as teachers bluster about critical thinking modules and objectives, we really can’t teach it. We can’t teach someone how to think. We can show them, give them everything we have, use all the tricks written in all the books, but we cannot open someone’s brain and link the neurons together to turn on that light bulb. So, when that light bulb pops and crackles, starting dim, we can encourage, praise, and watch the wonder that happens when the watts grow and a student “gets it.”

These past two days have been incredibly humbling for me as a teacher. As a human, I thrive on helping and teaching…and knowing that I do it well. So, when this realisation snowballed from, “Wow, that is a really intriguing way to approach that obstacle” to “Oh, man, my students just schooled me in learning,” I was flustered and questioned the way in which I’ve approached education for the past five years. 

But then, I sat back and recognised that when my students can work independently as they view, attack, and puzzle out problems, that’s when I’ve made it. Obviously, a teacher should never stop learning; you never “make it.” But, it means that my students feel comfortable enough in the environment to try new things, stumble, and succeed with the support of their friends and teacher surrounding them. And, isn’t that what teaching is all about? I lost myself in “school” and “education” for a moment. But, now I am back elbow deep in experience and learning. Teaching must be a relationship in which all parties work together to better each other. There really should be no other way.  

*Nancy Barbiaux was my 10th grade AP World History teacher, Forensic Speech coach, and, later, friend. She is one of the most influential women in my life. She taught me more about teaching, patience, and loving your students more than any other person. Ever. Basically, on a scale of one to an entire Starburst pack of "red ones," she is pretty high up there.

So, I feel conflicted.

June 7^th, 2014, I took to the streets of Seoul with joy in my heart. My home state just leagalised same-sex marriage; I strutted through Sincheon at my very first Gay pride parade. We listened to a woman sing, “Let it Go,” which has been rumoured to be a bit of a gay anthem of letting go of the restraints that we and society put on ourselves. I found myself in the company of thousands of like-minded people. We began to march the short 1.5 kilometer route filling our bellies with beer and laughter. Everyone anticipated the post-parade drinking, partying, and dancing.

We pulled up short—a temporary delay. Perhaps one of the floats had some issue with the tinsel or flags. After about 15 minutes, a friend and I walked towards the front of the parade to see a Christian group sitting in the middle of the street, prohibiting the legally sanctioned parade from moving forward.

This sit in went on for hours. I, as a Christian also queer woman, struggled between feeling ostracised from one group because I was a part of another. This is, of course, not a new feeling to anyone who claims both queer and Christian identities, but I felt an anger that reached a point I had not yet experienced. It scared me.

I responded with the only way I knew how; I talked to the people sitting down. I didn’t move when the police told me to simply because an older Korean wanted to sit down and protest in a space that I had claimed as my own. I told the police officer that I had the same right stand here as she does to sit, perhaps more because I was there for twenty minutes…waiting and watching. I stood peacefully countering their out of context Bible verses while I was pushed, shoved, sat upon, had water thrown on me, etc.

That was my response to dealing with it. One of the greatest women I have ever met had a very different response. She shouted (in Korean) about this injustice, about their ignorance, about the way the police protected the Christian protesters and bullied the LGBTA parade participants.

The next morning while she and I ate Thai food, we talked about how we felt about our personal responses and the other person’s responses. I told her that I envied her passion, and that I felt embarrassed that my response to anger is passivity and words. She countered with my ability to keep a level-head and wider picture in mind when I am angry. She was Malcom X; I was Martin Luther King Jr.—neither one more right than the other. We’re both fighting for the same goal.

I know my personal beliefs. I know that if I were in Ferguson, MO right now I would be peacefully protesting. I would be heeding President Obama and the Brown Family. With the information I know (from non-partisan US and Global news sources), I am infuriated with the outcome of the Ferguson trial. I do not know how the jury came to their decision, nor will we likely ever find out despite releasing the testimonies and evidence. But, in this aftermath, we have several options in how we respond. I plan to follow the “Let’s not just make noise; let’s make a difference” philosophy of Michael Brown’s family (Bennett and Burman, The Atlantic).

However, a man for whom I hold a lot of respect has posted about this, too. He brings up many valid points in that peaceful protests have become “cliché and commonplace,” with which I agree. I would also like to add  to his argument that some police officers respond to peaceful protests as threats to society (pepper spraying at UC Davis; tear gas anywhere). How can we stand by this passively? How can we allow this behaviour to happen while our hearts are still beating and our brains still functioning? Where is the breaking point? When is it enough?

Ergo, I am conflicted. Everything in my bones screams for justice. Yes, Mike Brown stole cigars. Perhaps, he punched Darren Wilson. I do not know what happened. But, I cannot shake this feeling that there had to be another way. There has to be another way. Since Michael Brown’s death, more and more articles have surfaced about needless or accidental killing of people by police forces. Yes, I understand this is a tactic to whip everyone up in a frenzy, yet I don’t necessarily think it is wrong. I don’t like demonizing our police force. There are so many men and women who proudly protect and serve. Yet, we, as a country, need to also address the corruption, racial, and social profiling that happens all the time. We, as a country, need to be heard. We’re not just prattling children for the police and government to deal with. We have valid concerns about how our police use their weapons. We have real issues with civilian gun violence. We’re living in a shoot first, figure it out later society by which I cannot abide. Treating violence with violence is not how we’ll succeed. But, sitting-in and passive movements may not be the answer, either. We need a “both, and” approach to this. We need to work injunction with one another to bring about necessary change.   We need Malcom X's passion and Martin Luther King Jr.'s peace. We need both.

However you choose to respond to the Ferguson outcome, please do so with education and purpose. Ignorance and recklessness cannot, will not win this war. I’m not sure what will.

So, I am a super graceful human being

One: Back Story

My sister is one of my best friends. We had some rough patches growing up, but we always sorted it out. I think one of the few times my sister got legitimately angry for more than a day was when our dad said that I was more graceful than she was (he meant in a specific context, but that part was unclear at the time). And, she had every right to be upset. The only time I was ever graceful in my youth was when I was mid-air after jumping from a diving board. For those few seconds twisting and flipping, I was a gosh darn swan-gazelle: a swazelle. Any other second of the day, I tripped, slipped, slid, toppled, and was generally a hot mess.

I would like to say that growing into my limbs and becoming an adult has helped with my balance and body awareness. But, that really just isn’t the case. Just today, I literally hit three different kids in the face because I didn’t know where my body ended and theirs began. It was just soft taps, but alarming contact nonetheless.

Two: Real Story

So, for the past several months, my roommate and I have had a lovely houseguest. I have really enjoyed spending time with him and having that brother-like relationship I always wanted. However, with having more people living in the house and Rufio seeking more attention, I hadn’t been alone in ages. So, when I went to Seoul to visit my cousin, I decided to go up a day early, spend some time in a JimJilBahng (spa/sauna/JJB for the rest of this writing), and soak in silence and mineral enriched mountain water.

I got to Seoul, walked all over Kingdom Come to find this specific JJB about which I’d heard great reviews. After about forty minutes of walking, I found that it is about three blocks directly behind Seoul Station and the googlemaps app sucks.

I checked into the spa and changed out of my travel wear and went downstairs to frolick in the tubs before they closed for the night.

I effing love baths.

After a quick bath with a bunch of strangers, I changed into my pyjamas, went to the sleeping rooms, and found a cozy nook in which I snuggled with my book.

In the morning, I woke up late and had to hurry to meet my cousin. I had to shower because when I go to sleep with wet hair, I wake up looking like a glorious lioness, which is fine for some occasions, but not for cousin meeting.

So, I showered quickly, and left the rooms with all the baths.

(Sidenote for anyone not in Korea: When you are in the showers/baths you are nakey-no pants and the towels you’re meant to use are the size of a postage stamp.)

I walked to the drying area and toweled my hair like you would a puppy. I vigorously dried my arms, and bent one leg to rest on the other. As I patted down my knee cap, I felt my notoriously awful balance quiver. Oh no, I thought. This will be problematic. 

And, there was no stopping it.  

I tumbled ass over tea-kettle, naked, in public…onto another human being.

One more time:

Ass. Tea-kettle. Naked. Stranger.

I profusely apologized while extricating our limbs, repeating, “Oh, my god. I am so sorry. Oh, my god. Mian habnida. Oh, my god. I am so, so sorry.”

The only thing this tiny woman said throughout this whole encounter with giant eyes about two inches from my own, “I’m fine. Thank you. And, you?”

I helped her up, then ran away as fast as I possibly could. I mean, how else do you respond to that? I had no idea. No pretext. Nothing. I just left. There is no recovering from that. I just couldn’t even.

So, my hope is that someday I will learn how to not be a bumbling Magoo. But, lesbihonest, that future for me looks pretty bleak.

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, Sorry, I'm Not Sorry: On Learning How to be Unapologetic

Scene One: Friends Apartment

Friend: Wow, you apologise a lot. Are you sure you’re not Canadian?

Katie: I know. I’m sorry. I am trying to stop. Sorry.

Friend: ….

Scene Two: At the Gym

Trainer: Hey, Kathryn, good job today. High five.

Katie: Thanks. Oh, sorry, I’m sweaty.

Trainer: It’s gym. You don’t sweat, I did not good job.

Katie: Oh, yeah. Sorry.

Both of these things occurred in the past month. Scene two not even 20 minutes ago.  Seriously, Katie. Get it together.

I have proudly touted the label “Unapologetic Feminist” for a while now, and I really need to think about what being an unapologetic feminist means. My next blog post (which will be coming to you by Sunday evening) is entitled “So, I guess I wear boy socks and sports are for males: On being an Unapologetic Feminist.” I have been working on that puppy for a couple of months to make it say exactly what I want it to.

But, then these things happened, and I tail spinned into this weird place of not knowing who I am, what I stand for, and where I place my ideals. There are, of course, alternative factors that aided in this quarter life crisis, but that is neither here nor there. And, I will not get to all of those big questions in the next 557 words. But, I will certainly be teasing them out over the next month. But right now, I have this need to sit down, punch my writer’s block in its big, dumb face, and sort some things out.

An unapologetic feminist is one who is not sorry for feeling strongly about gender equality in the work place, in the home, in political spheres, and also anywhere on this planet. On the surface, I am absolutely an unapologetic feminist. I definitely think women should not have to fear being cat-called or harassed simply because they have breasts and a vagina. I also think that women should be more involved in the politics surrounding their bodies and be able to educate themselves without fear ofbeing shot.

However, on a deeper level I am not an unapologetic person. I apologise all the time. I apologise for things that are not my fault. I apologise for things that are my fault. I apologise for things over which I have no control. I apologise for apologising. I don’t know if I apologise because I am a woman, or young, or if I honestly think that I am the only one responsible to shoulder everyone else’s burden.

I don’t think it is because I am a woman. I have known men whose “Sorrys” roll off their tongues like “I love yous” or “Pleases.” I know women who apologise appropriately. And, there are women from whom I’ve never heard an honest apology. So, I don’t think that my issue is necessarily a gender issue.

I don’t think it is my age either. I don’t think this is something out of which I will ever grow. I hope to study it, and see how I can change it. But, I doubt it will ever go away.

I am going to bet my marbles that it is because I feel responsible for everything that happens around me. It is exhausting. I feel responsible for my friends' reactions to me. I feel responsible for problems in the workplace. I feel responsible for other people’s opinions.

And, I don’t know why.

I was talking about this earlier this week with a dear friend. I feel responsible for other people’s happiness. I’m sorry for any blip that may have affected their joy. That’s it. That is why I am sorry. Holy Bingo, light bulb!

By feeling responsible for other people’s happiness, I not only shelve my own needs to help others, but also I take away their opportunity to find and cultivate their own happiness. This is extremely problematic. I will definitely work this.

            This is not to say that I will stop apologising for things that are deserving (e.g. I am sorry I ran into you at full speed while you were trying to catch that disc; you should absolutely call a foul or Sorry I kicked you Rufio; you were sneakily coiled near my feet because you don’t know how to handle human contact). But, I am going to try to stop feeling responsible for others and apologising for things over which I have no control. If you interact with me at all, please help me in this. I don’t often ask for help; it isn’t in my nature (another problem, I know.) But, really, please help me in this. I would really appreciate it.

            (Un)apologetically,

            Katie