Poetry Friday: Announcement


I’m quitting social
media cold turkey. I
guess see you later?

Throwback Essay: Quiet

All right, I’m super lazy today. I wrote this essay for school about two years ago. I feel like back then I was a lot more sassy, angst-y, and care…y. It’s unedited except I added [brackets] to one word. I laughed when I read, “…I can find that secret place in my head where everything is okay…” Ha, not anymore, pal! Now you’re the crazy one and you have rely on others! Life is a hoot, eh?

Sorry that today (always) I’m so laxidazical. Laxedazicle. Lacksidazical. Laxidazicle. Lackadaisical! (Thank you, Google. I thought it had an x.)


Stop and reread the title again, if you will. Again. Think about what images and feelings this word brings to the forefront of your mind. I bet after thinking about the title, most people feel a decrease of excitement about reading this, as if the very word “quiet” drains them of something that we westerners have deemed crucial for existence. If I had titled this essay “Power,” “Social,” or “Energy,” I bet you would have settled back into your seat, excited for a positive reading experience. Instead, I’ve stuck you with what will surely be a dull read.

I hope I’ve put my point across. There is definite bias against the word “quiet;” especially, I dare say, in America, one of the most extroverted nations in the world. I could ramble for pages and pages about the social injustices that extroverts inflict on introverts—in fact, Princeton University and Harvard Law School graduate Susan Cain did just that in her non-fiction book Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World That Can’t Stop Talking. I read this book a few months ago, and it changed my whole perspective about being “quiet.” This book illustrates and illuminates the millions of introverts who suffer the pains of western culture. I mention it because I think it is a good read, and it will answer any questions you have about quietness. However, this essay is not to be a book review.

For me personally, being quiet means a lot of things. It means holding my tongue when I know that what I want to say will fall on ears that refuse to hear me or won’t understand. It means constantly running in a hamster wheel in my own mind, carrying thoughts and ideas and daydreams and being unable or unwilling to share them. It means hiding from the spotlight, especially when others demand that I offer my opinion or tell them “what’s wrong.” It means wanting to be invisible some days, and achieving that state on days I wish people would notice me.

There is one very good thing about being quiet, something I don’t know that loud people have: no matter what happens; no matter what anyone says to me, or does to me, or thinks about me; no matter where I am or who I’m with; I am safe inside my own head. I will not tell my secrets, and I will not betray myself. I will never leave myself alone. I can count on me, even if I can count on no one else. And should the world collapse around me, I can find that secret place in my head where everything is okay and I can make it through.

This school year has held many quiet days for me. I can usually tell the night before if the next day will be quiet. If I get that feeling, I pack a home lunch and pick out my school outfit that night. I ride the bus to school, attend my first three periods, and eat lunch as I do homework in the science room. After lunch I go to my last period and then ride home on the bus with my iPod in, listening to a song to keep my heart up, depending on how I feel by then. Some days I can go without speaking to anyone, if you don’t count the halfhearted greetings in the hallways. I don’t know very many people who can do that—on the other hand, they wouldn’t tell me if they did. Do you see the injustice here? I can handle not being asked on dates, not having close friends, not being popular, not being cool—but for people to assume I don’t have feelings? That’s just wrong.

I feel like “normal” people think that since quiet people don’t always have much to say, we don’t think a lot, and therefore don’t feel as deeply. Maybe this is only an issue at [school] (Cain would disagree vehemently), but it seems that people assume “social” or “talkative”—may I say loud and obnoxious?—people are awfully thoughtful because their ideas are always bouncing off everyone else’s eardrums. Not to be intentionally hypocritical, but doesn’t it make more sense that the people who spend more time in their own heads are more thoughtful? I really think people assume I don’t have opinions or interests or problems, just because I don’t feel a desire to gab about them at all hours. And I’m not even the quietest person I know!

Just last week I was in the back of the science room, having finished my lunch, brainstorming story ideas for my novel. The teacher left the room, and upon finding myself alone, I started pacing and muttering to myself since I feel like I focus better that way. A girl walked in to work on an assignment, and I ignored her, hoping she would return the favor. She asked where the teacher was, and I told her. And then, ladies and gentlemen, she asked that timeless, insensitive question:

“Are you okay?”

I had so many things I felt like telling her; I felt so frustrated inside. But I also didn’t want to be rude, or waste my time thinking negative thoughts. Besides, when you only say so many words a day, you have to make them count. So I just stared at her and shrugged, saying,

“Yeah, I’m okay,”

To that girl, I probably seemed certifiable. But she had no idea how I felt inside, what I was doing, what I was thinking. And of course she didn’t bother to ask. Had I not been the quiet person I am, I might have explained that I was trying to figure out the ending of my book, and she would have understood perfectly, would have been interested in me; perhaps would have felt admiration and loyalty to my cause.

The truth that we cannot ignore in this situation, however, is that had I not been the quiet person I am, I wouldn’t be writing my book in the first place, and I wouldn’t have been in that classroom to answer her question.

Am I okay?

Yes, I can say this honestly, and not even in that offhand, dull, if-you-only-knew sort of voice everyone employs occasionally. I am a quiet person, and I am, indeed, okay.

* * *

And as if I haven’t already provided y’all with enough information this Tuesday, here is “From Where I’m Standing” by Schuyler Fisk (which apparently was recorded live in Park City, Utah!). P.S. I really really love this song.

Here we Go

Oh my. Go check out benniegusto right now because he/she/it’s a rockin’ human. P.S. I seriously love C.S. Lewis!

Bennie Gusto

Traditionally I have not been much or a writer. I tend to be a visual person. I love watching videos but often find it hard to sit down and read what people have to say. I guess I should work on that. After all people often have very interesting things to say and many find this their only way to express that. I think it’s awesome that we live in a day and age when we can share these things with people all over the world. I figured I should give it a go.

I have been thinking of various themes I could follow and talk about on here. I could share stories about my life, movies I like, awesome music, school, family and church activities. For now I figure I will just make it a bit scatter brained and post whatever I’m feeling like.

So today I am feeling…

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Misogyny of the Heart

Just awesome.
“It took me years to realize that I didn’t fit, that nobody fits in these little boxes.”
“She knows who she is and everything else is just noise.”

The Green Study

It hit me like a ton of bricks. My daughter is becoming a girl. She’s always eschewed anything stereotypically feminine for that which is “cool” and rugged and associated with being a boy. She declared at four that she was a vegetarian and at seven that she was officially a tomboy. The transition to a developing body, to the social gymnastics of preteens and all the cultural expectations that come from being female have crept up on us.canstockphoto24377829I was surprised at the fear and anger and sadness that washed over me when thinking about the changes and lessons she will experience. While preteen advice is burgeoning with woman-positive messages, I sat glumly thinking about my miserable transitions into adolescence and adulthood. There are my truths and there are the things I want her to believe. The gap between the two feels like a canyon.

She’s acutely aware of the…

View original post 832 more words

Poetry Friday: Decisions


Convinced that my steps are too loud,
and wondering what my butt looks like
while running on this long-avoided treadmill,
I decide to love myself like a friend.

I decide to think my butt looks hot.
Why not?

I decide that any stares will be in awe
of the running girl with the decidedly hot butt,
the one who loves her ugliness.

I Will Love Who I Am

This isn’t a fashion blog. Obviously.

Today I decided to match some worn gray tennis shoes with too-short, loose skinny jeans from Ross, a cloth belt from the DI (a thrift store), and a T-shirt with a Sprint logo on it. I was going for the whole “I’m in college and I don’t care” look, which I really nailed.

I hope I’ve established over the year I’ve been writing to you that I have about zero interest in fashion. A good hair day for me includes achieving a hairstyle that isn’t sticking straight up or mashed down on one side. That’s what I need to feel like a contributing member of society.

It’s been years since I connected with other girls in the arena of appearances. I mean, I take personal hygiene seriously. Like, I smell okay. Generally I don’t sport noticeable stains. But sometimes I look around and notice that 90% of the girls around me, plus some of the guys, are wearing some kind of makeup. (Indeed, a few of them seem to be wearing every kind of makeup.) Where was I when everyone else was in the Has Fashion Sense line? (Prolly the Desperate Blogger line.)

Of course, this is only usually. Occasionally I’ll heed the siren call of sparkles and curls and frills. I get these strange urges to paint my toenails, throw on a bunch of makeup, and get my sister to curl my hair (I usually enlist her help in really difficult things like taking food out of the oven, answering the phone, going to the grocery store, etc.).

What does this sudden desire for femininity incarnate even mean? I dunno. But it’s part of who I am. It’s unpredictable and inconsistent. And it doesn’t even really matter.

I quote Janelle Monáe,

Am I a freak for dancing around?
Am I a freak for getting down?

Even if it makes others uncomfortable
I wanna love who I am
Even if it makes others uncomfortable
I will love who I am

P.S. Happy Tuesday, folks! Glad you seemed to have survived Monday. Onward we go.

Poetry Friday: Afternoon Class

Afternoon Class

Splayed all flat on the
sun-warmed leather couch,
my hair brushes my ears.

I bask in the heat
of a milky-white sun
and purring gray machines.

Eyelashes tangled, earbuds so snug
on this golden, cozy afternoon,
I nap cat-like on campus before class.