But in Kylo Ren, the franchise has certainly introduced some complexity to its fandom, by reminding us how susceptible we are to giving unlimited chances to sad, angry young men.
Feeling justified in my assumption that there’s a cultural significance to the urge to comfort and fix smad boys that has nothing to do with postpartum hormones or the mama bear instinct.
Why do we feel so much compassion for angry white boys? Is it a byproduct of oppression by white men or conditioning from having to identify with them through the prevalence of their narratives? Either way, they are getting away with too much, ya’ll.
Here’s hoping 2018 continues the reckoning that 2017 began.
How likely is it that people who trash a story just didn’t get what they needed from it?
That’s what I’ve been thinking about lately. Between Riverdale and The Last Jedi, I’ve been reading a lot of vitriol in the realm of fandom that doesn’t seeeeem like criticism as much as bitching. It’s not in the way of intellectual discourse so much as whiny baby bullshit. And while it can be argued that many internet commentators are just dummies with a digital soapbox to abuse, it seems like many of the haters are just hurters lashing out against the story’s failure to address their inner turmoil.
I’ve written about this both here on the blog and in the novel-length, only sort of fictionalized, unreliable narrator-led personal essay NaNoWriMo project I’m still working on editing:
You know what it is? I think the reason I’m feeling the pain of these two characters so strongly, the reason I feel this kind of intimate connection to them is because they’re so broken and fragile and seeing what comfort they take in each other is vicarious comfort for me. Not that I’m broken and fragile. Not in the same way. But yeah, actually, maybe I am and maybe I’m lacking in comfort in the same way. Maybe I’m not OK at all and there’s more to my current mental state than postpartum hormones and sleep deprivation.
But it’s been on my mind a whole lot more since… well, yesterday when I got home from seeing The Last Jedi and immediately read as many articles about it as possible.
Lots of bitching. Only a few critiques.
And I get it! Some of us want a story we can recognize and predict because it makes us feel safe about an unknown future. Some of us want a simple story where good is good and evil is evil and we don’t have to stretch our morality or consider the perspective of The Other to understand motivation. Some of us just want the pretty people to make out so we can live vicariously through them. When we go in expecting that, wanting that, neeeeeding that and we don’t get it?
LASHING OUT! BIZARRE THREATS MADE TO ACTORS! CURSE WORDS a’FLYIN’!
Meanwhile, I like how emotionally and morally complicated The Last Jedi is. It’s not what I expected and I don’t understand why Poe and Finn can’t be the next great space romance, but it certainly wasn’t boring, was it?
People don’t get quite so worked up about boring stories.
“Morning time! It’s morning time,” my toddler announces repeatedly from crackly baby monitor feed, through hallway, and directly into my face as I sleep on the very edge of the mattress. My husband is still snoring from the center of the bed because years of marriage and cohabitation haven’t broken him of the habit. The baby is stirring, by which I mean flailing, in her bassinet.
“Les go downstayahs?” the boy asks.
“You wanna go play in your room for a few minutes?” I suggest instead.
“Yeah! Me wanna play in my room wit you!”
“OR, do you want to play in your room by yourself and then we’ll go downstairs in a few minutes?” I try again.
He laughs. Loudly. Maniacally. And he runs back into the hallway to rattle the baby gate at the top of the stairs. “Les go, Mom! It’s morning time! Les go downstayahs.”
My husband chuckles, “so that failed.”
“He’s too smart, man. I hope it serves him well some day because it kinda sucks for me right now.”
There are few things more enjoyable on a cold morning than a warm beverage in a quiet place with a nice view. That place for me is work on a Sunday when less than an eighth of the people who usually work on my floor are here and most of them are just trying to get their stuff done so they can leave. Meanwhile, I’m here for the duration so I’m taking my coffee break in the lobby by the big windows, enjoying the sunshine and silence.
There is so little silence in my life anymore.
Friends, blog readers, countrypeople… I have reason to believe that I have recovered from my “baby blues” and have rejoined the world as a normal person who already had issues with mild depression and occasional existential dread. And it feels wonderful!
It feels like time to start the editing process of my NaNo project, which was written at the height of my baby crazies and is therefore probably a giant pile of poo. I’m sure it has all the narrative flow of my wildly unpredictable mood swings and stays on topic like a dog at the window on a windy day.
And all those concerns that no one would be interested in reading it? Pashaw! Mental illness is all the rage these days! Oprah will be singing my praises for being so “raw” and “honest”. Especially with such emotional tenderness as this:
“See…” I’m clenching my fists now. Emphatic gestures to follow. “That’s not a normal thing to say! ‘She’s not as mean now,’ is not a reasonable justification for continuing to take our child to a terrible doctor. ‘Not as mean now’ isn’t a glowing review on Yelp. It’s not a person you would willingly chose to take care of your sick child!”
“I just don’t want to change doctors now. I don’t like it.”
“What YOU like has nothing to do with the quality of medical care our son gets! How is this about you at all? Because she’s your doctor too? I’ve got news for you, cupcake, she’s not very nice to you either.”
“It doesn’t bother me is all.”
“Then keep going to her. But let’s switch to the other pediatrician.”
“I just don’t… think it’s… good.”
“I just don’t think YOU are good, you selfish prick!”
“Hey!” he says, pointing to the boy.
Because that’s exactly what we need now, I think, to have our kid calling people pricks. The mea culpa stops my tirade for the moment, but I’m not done. I’m starting to think about all the times I thought I was doing the right thing only to question myself after one of her shitty comments. I’m thinking about those first few weeks with my son when I was still suffering silently with the trauma of his birth, the pain of breastfeeding, the discomfort of my changing body, and the overwhelming emotions of it all and instead of having a doctor I could trust and speak to candidly, I had this bitch making me feel worse.
In comparison, my daughter’s doctor asked me how I was doing. He made me feel normal. He listened. He asked questions and he answered mine. And then, when I admitted I wasn’t so great, he offered me resources. That’s how it’s supposed to be.
“The deal was that we’d check out the new place and see if we liked it. We did, we do, I don’t see why we can’t switch,” I say with less bite. Instead, I feel the tears welling up, the warmth in my throat that tells me a mini-breakdown is on its way. “I just want someone I can talk to, like actually talk to and be honest with instead of always pretending everything’s ok just so I won’t be judged.”
“OK,” he says but it’s distracted and dismissive and he’s looking at his phone again.
“Can you just… with the phone? Can you listen?”
“I’m listening,” he says but he’s not. Even when he is, he’s not comprehending, so what’s the point?
“You know–” I start and the anger is rising again. Peaks and valleys, dips and swerves, my emotions are a five star coaster in a two-bit park and it’s about to break down.
But my son can’t find his red transformer and he’s starting to panic. Normally, my husband wouldn’t even notice, wouldn’t hear the repeated phrase, “My red transformer, my red transformer, my red transformer.” Normally, he would ignore even direct requests for help if it interrupted whatever nonsense he was partaking in but right now, of course, when there is something more important happening on the couch, his focus is on the floor.
He gets down on his elbows and knees to search under the bookshelf and I’m left looking at his ass and wondering what to do with all this righteous indignation. The conversation is far from over but I don’t want to interrupt him playing with his son. Instead, I swallow my bitterness, chase it with a handful of my son’s cheese crackers, and check Facebook for the third time in half an hour.
Oprah’s crying right now as she reads this. I’ve obviously touched her heart.
Listen, I got 0 reviews and a pretty sad number of orders for this book so I’m giving that shit away for free before it cries. Poor little book’s gettin’ NO LOVE which is totally unfair because it’s a pretty good story.
Download it. Give it a halfhearted review. Tell your friends to do the same. Just… pay the poor thing some attention, would you?
You know that woman who will drop everything to run to your side when you need her but asks next to nothing in return? That’s Catori. And not only is she dealing with your crap on her personal time but she’s doing it professionally under much more stressful circumstances.
I’ve had myself another of those birthday things earlier this month and it’s one that ends in a 9 so I’m feeling that looming sensation of passing into a new decade. But I’m not a “youth at all costs” kind of woman so despite the gray hairs and the creaky knees, I’m okay with aging.
Until…
I was chatting with a teenage student this past week about celebrity boyfriends. I told her that I’ve maintained a pretty steady number one celebrity boyfriend since I was about 15 years old and I’m not about to waiver in my affection.
He’s The One, child. Forever and always. ❤
And she said….
…. she said….
“I don’t know who that is.”
“Ooooooooooh my gaaaaaaaaaaawd,” I whined and melted into the floor like a witch doused with water. “NOW I feel old.”
“Why?” I cried, looking up at her from where I had planted my ancient face in the carpet. “Why would you do this to me?!”
“Sorry, I just don’t really watch old movies.”
“BUT HE’S JOHN WICK! He’s… he’s John Wick.”
Seriously, though, it’s not like I said Jason Priestly. Who knows what that dude’s been up to lately? How would a 14 year old in 2017 know who he was? But Keanu Reeves? Seriously? Homeboy is MASSIVELY famous.
There is no more vivid memory in my mind than that of a nasty brown spider descending from the ceiling of my childhood bedroom. In the same way the young couple in a coming-of-age movie accidentally turns their heads toward each other at the same time, conveniently placing them lip to almost lip, I greeted that spider with an intimacy only now reserved for the closest of family members. That one experience cemented a life-long fear that no amount of therapy, cognitive or Fear Factor-style, could ever assuage. I am irrationally, screamtastically afraid of spiders.
My son, on the other hand, watched a spider descend from the ceiling of our living room just the other day, awed and transfixed at what he called the “butterfly spider.” What he witnessed was a magical creature, beautifully lit from behind by the ceiling light it was affixed to, floating down towards him and filling his world with wonder. He already loves Halloween and kid-friendly versions of spooky things, spiders included. The real thing was all the more delightful.
Our childhoods are very different, he and I. I’m almost as jealous as I am proud.
That difference in presentation of reality is what’s on my mind today, post-Riverdale. I’m still working out my obsession issues, although writing 50,000+ words about it certainly did help. I’m not nearly so upset by the breakups as I am by the act, the song, the presentation of a reality I’m familiar with and the debate I read on Twitter about the responsibility in that representation.
If there is a more existential song than Mad World, then I don’t know it and I’d prefer to keep it that way. That shit does something to you, man. Between the haunting music and the depressing lyrics… and then to show Betty’s very public exploration of her sexuality, not for her own gratification but to, well, solve a problem. It’s all a little too… real.
I’ve written about my experience with how culture shapes sexuality, specifically that of a young girl or teenager. Because, even now, even with #MeToo and #rapeculture, things haven’t really changed THAT much from when I was young. Maybe we’re ready to speak out about it now, but the experiences, for the most part, haven’t changed.
Women’s sexuality was and is defined in relation to men and I don’t mean just heterosexual women and I don’t mean just biological women. I mean we’re still part of a culture where sex is a commodity used to control others.
The purpose of Betty’s dance was to control Jughead by gaining entrance to his environment. The purpose of the serpent dance as entrance is to control the women belonging to the gang.
Was the scene exploitative? Yes. Does the show need to take responsibility for that? Yeah, probably. But was it a pretty good representation of the half the world’s experience with sexual discovery? I think so, actually, yeah.
“Children waiting for the day they feel good”
Part of that scene did feel good because DAMN BETTY. We finally got to see the buttoned up girl shed some of her layers and come into her own in a brand new way. But it also felt a little… ishy, a little uncomfortable, a little wrong because she did it for those reasons in that place in front of those people.
It is about choice–because feminism is about having and owning our choices–and that dance was Betty’s choice, but it’s also about determinism because how much of it really is our choice if we’re stuck in this culture that only reveals to us a limited set of possibilities?
“When people run in circles, it’s a very very mad world.”
I was as blown away by the power of the scene as I was horrified by what it meant for a whole new generation of women. I was as delighted at seeing Betty in a whole new way as I was sad and hopeless that things would ever change enough to get better. It was a terrifying butterfly of triggering magical spiders descending from both the darkest and lightest ceilings of our culture, both promising and threatening.
As I wrote in my journal this morning, ” I’m… shook, as the kids say. Because that song is so haunting, especially for people suffering from depression because, well, hell, it IS a mad world and nothing makes sense and maybe everything is horrible and pointless and then we all die and that’s the best part. … So that’s where I’m at, post-show. Haunted by the ghosts of Donnie Darko and Betty’s butt cheeks.”
I wanted to post today about finishing my NaNoWriMo project, maybe post an excerpt, talk about how I might want to take a pause from the story and work on something else for a while.
Instead, after checking my web stats and seeing something unusual in the search terms section, I have to ask:
WHO searched for “eda j vor nude” and where can I kick your sorry ass?
First of all, perv, I write under a pseudonym so the only pictures you’ll find of “me” are heavily processed, totally incognito pictures of my obscured profile.
Secondly, I just had a baby, man. You don’t want none of this.
And finally, NO! BAD INTERNET PERV!
The part I find slightly hysterical is that s/he landed on this blog post: Hot and Hopeless Strangers which sounds pretty dirty, right? Haha, no, it’s about how reading too much fanfiction can inadvertently encourage some bad writing habits.
Seriously, though… stop being gross at people who aren’t interested. There’s so much porn available online. Go find that. Engage in consensual activities and leave everyone else alone.
Lay Her Ghosts to Rest
Eda J Vor 