Really Really Real

To meet a hero is to meet infinite sadness and unrest. It’s not enough to get a person’s signature on an object of meaning, to say thanks, or to brush up against them the way any stranger too close might.

In your mind, they’re the silent best friends, guiding you through the best and worst times of your life. They are the standards you hold yourself to, the inspiration to do something (not just for the sake of creating, also for the sake of one day being noticed by them or having someone revere you the way you revere your heroes).

But when you meet them, you discover they are human. If they care about how much they mean to you, they’ll politely smile and chat for a few minutes, creating a favorable memory to carry you through the days ahead. If not, devastation.

Either way, you are left with a picture or an autograph, a story, and they go back to being the fictional hero on a pillar that you’ve made in your head.
Or they crumble, leaving the worshiper alone in the dust of his faith.

Beware of heroes. Beware further still of meeting them. They are only human and most humans are not nice people.

SuperGuy

For half a second, when you first see him, you forget that the stories you heard as a kid never happened. The resemblance is uncanny, a doppelgänger in a world where fiction is regulated to books and campaign speeches. The glasses, the hair; for half a second, you swear that Clark Kent lives in southern Louisiana.
He doesn’t, not simply because truth and parallel dimensions would keep him from doing so. Mostly in the way that this particular gentleman dresses only in superman shirts and jeans( negating the need for secret identity). There is as well personality differences. SuperGuy, as he is known as to those who do not know him very well, walks with a sense of confidence more likely associated with He-Man that the mild-mannered reporter of comic book fame. A rare breed of nerd in possession of technically good looks by society’s standards, and a passion for playing general in any group activity, he unconsciously attracts women to him. Despite the part of Lois Lane going to a curly-haired brunette, from sorority parlors to the bleachers of the football stadium, all are in agreement: SuperGuy is on everyone’s list.

Twitter

In Defense of Twitter

I was adamantly against Twitter when most of my peers originally started sending out tweets. I believed that twitter had to be the most self centered, egotistical creation in the world. I mean, sending out short blurbs about your life every few minutes, in the vain hope that someone cares enough to read it?
(On an unrelated, I thought that a blog was a perfectly reasonable thing to have, and not at all vain.)

But then I signed on, lured by the idea of following a favorite author and other beloved people on the Internet. This next statement is only a slight exaggeration: Good Things Come From Twitter.

It’s been less than a year since I’ve downloaded the little blue bird on my phone and already I’ve ha numerous opportunities presented to me just by following people, retweeting, and tweeting things that interest me. It may not seem like a huge victory to some when an author retweets an article that you make an appearance in, but for me, it was. Neil Gaiman is one of the reasons why I want to write, and that little, out of the way contact made me feel happy.

Twitter connects people in vague, fabulous ways; the woman who made me fall in love with comic books, Gail Simone, follows me. A voice actor from the childhood cartoons I used to watch retweeted me once. A feminist study got in contact with me which resulted in me being interviewed for said study. In real life, I do so many things in an attempt to change the world. Online, one little click of a button is all it takes to make me feel like I’m taking steps towards that lofty goal. It’s silly, but isn’t the first step towards doing something amazing believing that you can accomplish something amazing? Twitter makes me feel less alone, a daily reminder that there are millions of other people trying to make a difference in their own lives.

The problem in standing still

The problem in standing still

I have a superpower where, no matter where I am, I can single out the one person or group of people who watch doctor who or read graphic novels or something I can relate to. On an off day, I can narrow it down to one topic I can comfortably discuss with people I’m uncomfortable around. A lifetime of moving around has helped me get pretty good at this. When I do open up, I’m great at making friends. The problem seems to be keeping them.
The people I consider to be my best friends at this point in my life are not the people I text everyday or see often. A high school friend I see every few weeks to catch up, a former Americorps friend I send funny pictures to and swap stories with occasionally, a convention friend I talk about boys with sometimes. I don’t know how to be the friend who sees the same person everyday and still has things to talk about. Someone I know joked recently that I “collected” people. I laughed until I realized the truth in that statement. I wander around, making connections with each location, then relegating said connections to Facebook on the off chance I’ll see people again. I rarely see people again, or stay in touch. Even people I’ve known for ages surprise me or I fail to understand. I sound like a terrible person, but sometimes I don’t know how to care about the petty issues in the lives of people I pass day to day.
I love humanity, how can I not when global issues fill me with a sense of empathy that hurts? I just don’t know how to care about the individual, the person who wants to tell you all about how an article of clothing caused a massive controversy on television. I don’t understand why I don’t care, but I don’t. I want to be your friend, but I think I have friendships the way some people have loves: brief, intense, passionate, over. I don’t want to collect people so that I can say “oh, I know people there.” I want to listen to what someone has to say and actually be interested in the person, not about how being around them will benefit or influence me. Now, I’m in college. I’m stationary. I can’t run away the moment I get bored. I have to buckle down and make some friends that I can be around. Is it too late to learn?

The Ramblings of a Cynical Romantic

I have a problem believing in the existence of love. To me, it’s like being a kid at the airport. No matter how many times you watch a plane disappear into the sky, you can’t quite believe that something that big can fly.

This month, my parents had their 20th anniversary. They bicker, poke fun, and are still so very obviously in love. It’s painful sometimes, being around two people who have made an art of fitting into each others lives. I’m afraid of that feeling, I guess. I don’t ever want to feel as if I’m sacrificing a part of myself for someone; no one could be that important. But seeing my parents argue about clothes not taken to the dry cleaners, talking about finances…it alls all do very domestic. They are so happy.

I know that love exists, but I try to let myself believe in it, for fear that I’ll start making compromises. Rorschach stands gruffly in the corner of my head repeating the phrase “never compromise.” I’m suddenly struck with my silly inability to write anything (even about love) without making a blatant reference to something related to comic books.

Love…is an outrageous, terrifying endeavor. As a word, love is murmured into the ears of teens eager to feel something. We love that show, that book, that food. We as a society are in love with the idea of love.

And if that’s what love is, some societal ideal based in myths and legends, I think I’d rather a good book, a good show, some good food. I don’t want to love because I’m supposed to, I want to love because I have no choice to. I want to fall in love so unconditionally that the thought of a life without that love is repulsive, like the meatloaf my ex’s mom made that one time that I just couldn’t bring myself to eat, even to be polite.

And I am fickle. I can’t even keep my hair the same color for long, much less look the same person in the eye, every day, until the sun goes supernova.

And what happens if and when I find someone who asks me to put the things I can’t do without away? Emily, the action figures go in the box, with the comics, your notebooks, your silly ideals, and the steel toed combat boots from Americorps. Stay, stay with me, that cause can have another, you weren’t making much of a difference anyways.

In this moment, it is so very easy to say “kick ’em to the curb, girl, NO ONE is that important.” But I think back to when I was 14 and a boy told me my Birds of Prey poster was stupid and that I needed a tan. I didn’t tell him to fuck off, I didn’t tell him to take a hike, I didn’t tell him that the Birds of Prey would kick his sorry ass if he lived on Earth 1. I looked up tanning creams and got burned in more ways than one.

What do I want? I want a love like Amanda Fucking Palmer and Neil capital N Gaiman capital G, two artists who exist as two awesome individuals with two individual careers and fans, but exist together as one couple that love each other and inspire each other and read or sing at each others shows, who accidentally write songs or albums or books for each other and then call each other twits when they don’t quite connect the dots. I want someone who understands just enough to love me but not enough that I stop surprising them. Someone who will make a lifetime goal, an art of trying to get to know me, because I am still young enough to believe that I am that interesting, that special, that much of a mystery.

To THAT Emily

To THAT Emily

You still have problems being polite
Civil
Soft spoken
When those around you refuse to be
Climbing up your pedestal
Tossing indecencies
And you still have issues with the clowns and the puppets
Hands so far up their bums that they don’t even know it
And you’re still frustrated when you care so deeply about something
Some one
Some place
That it seeps into your soul, your being

That it seeps into your tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwich at lunch
That it seeps into the bedtime stories you tell to the children you adopted because love is not limited by genetic code

And you seem to be the only person affected, the only person overcome with passion for something
Some one
Some place

And you don’t know how to explain the word slut to your daughter
Because in your mind, it’s not a bad word

But how to you explain consent and empowered females to a nine year old who heard the word yelled at a girl on the bus who just wanted her boyfriend to love her more than possible?

How do you explain words like condoms and virgin when she still calls you Mommy and Saturdays are still for cartoons?

How do you tell her that you will always love her, no matter what she decides to do or not to do with a boy, that in your eyes, she’s already got a ticket to the heaven you are dubious about because no God could deny that face?

How do you tell her that you love her more than any little boy with a flower pinned to his suit and braces on his teeth ever could?

And you still have problems being a grown up
When every year, you dream of San Diego
When Barnes and Noble trips don’t always end in the Oprah book club purchase
When you splurge and buy Batman comics
Because that’s the one love you couldn’t let die even in the age of carpools and business meetings

And your hair is probably blonde now, because it takes too much time to go to the store
Buy the box of red dye, the one with the lady on it who seems, as dad would say, too cool for school
And lather into your hair that night
Time that could be spent helping with homework
Writing a proposal to prove a point, your point
Planning a trip to where Dad grew up, so that the kids know that there is more to Colombia than drugs and violence
I’m sure it looks good blonde

And whether married or single or divorced
You still have problems believing any person in existence can love you like you love the feeling you get when you open up a new book and there’s a world of possibilities underneath every finger, begging you to turn the page, to keep reading, to continue forward because you just HAVE to know why a little boy boy with a scar on his head lives under the stairs.

You still have problems with happily ever after and Disney Princesses eager to get boyfriends and sparkly dresses.

And I just want you to know, you still having problems is the greatest accomplishment of all. You still struggle to improve, to exist in a greater capacity. You are still Not Content Capital N Capital C with the word outside your door, your window, because you still don’t like the way Colombian characters are treated on television, because you still don’t like women being shoved into fridges, because you are still uncomfortable, still eager for change.

And I love you, future Emily, because you are one badass woman, I know it. You still want to be better, never complacent, never done, never finished with a word search because one word jumped out to you and you just HAVE to write it down, turning it into a poem, a rant, a song you won’t sing because you are such a terrible singer, your shower head wants it’s money back.

Don’t stop having problems because once slavery was abolished, Harriet Tubman became a suffragette because there was still work to be done, girl. The problems you face and overcome are the the things that make you strong, and if you ever forget that, sit your daughter down and watch some Buffy the Vampire Slayer. You’re still fighting your big bads.

Bad Words

Bad Words

Growing up, I wasn’t allowed to take sexual education classes ’til high school. I didn’t know what condoms were until eighth grade when i had a friend who sold them out of his backpack. I didn’t know that boys could love boys or girls could love girls when I entered public school after some time being homeschooled. I don’t resent my parents at all for this; I was their child and they had every right to raise me as they saw fit. I lived a very sheltered life and I didn’t think to question it until I started to meet people very different then myself.

Talking about sex around the opposite gender was taboo. I wasn’t allowed to audition for the school production of rent. For years, multiple friends confided in me acts of violence and abuse, things I could not comprehend. I had a vague idea of what they were trying to tell me, but all I really knew is that for some reason, girls I walked beside on a daily basis were hurting.

In sophomore year of high school, some people started saying that I had had sex with a boy. I was so angry, upset that people would think I was “that kind of girl”. Those who knew me ignored the rumors. It didn’t really matter if anyone believed it. It hurt me that it was said.

Its taken years for me to realize what was truly wrong with that situation. It didn’t matter that a rumor was spread that damaged my reputation; it matters that an account of my sex life, fiction or otherwise, affected the way people perceived me. Did it really matter in the long run WHO I did? Why did the focus have to be on who’s in the bed rather than what’s in a persons’ head?

I’ve been guilty of it. I’ve let myself be introduced as so-and-so’s girlfriend. I’ve let others make me feel guilty about my personal choices. I’ve stood in the mirror poking at my belly. I’ve talked about other girls behind their backs, the ones with rumors attached to their names. I don’t want to be that person anymore, the person who stands on the sidelines, the person who won’t speak up or against harassment and slut shaming. Why?

I want to live in a world where my sisters don’t feel guilty about the things that make them happy. I want to live in a world where my sisters would never let someone make them feel inferior. I want to live in a world where my sisters don’t feel judged or afraid to behave as they like. I want to live in a world where the girls who cried with me don’t cry anymore, where violence against women is a thing of the past. I want the news to stop being about victims in South Africa, India, and The Congo (because there wouldn’t be anymore stories to tell about violence) and start being about the people changing the world for the better.

I am a Feminist Killjoy. My ovaries are none of your concerns. I am not a sex object, public property, or any of your business. I should not be afraid, I should not be called “slut” or “bitch” like it’s something to be ashamed of. I should not be told to lose weight, or that I’ll never get a man if I act a certain way. I shouldn’t feel guilty or ashamed of my choices or my actions.

My mother is one of the strongest women I know. She chose how she wanted to live. She chose to be a stay home mother, a wife, an entrepreneur, employee, and friend. She’s the perfect example of feminine and feminist existing as one and the same, and I don’t give her nearly enough credit. She’s the one the held me when my heart broke, the one pointed out my mistakes, and encouraged me to come to my own conclusions. She pushed me to leave and become my own person, something I can never thank her enough for. Though she will roll her eyes at my piercings, crazy hair, and talk of tattoos, I know she’s proud of me and her opinions is one of a few I actually give a damn about.

This is all connected, in a hectic, chaotic train of thought. I wish I could be more eloquent to explain it better, but hopefully someone out there gets it. I’m going to live a life with my name in bold, taking up the whole page. No ampersands, no apologies, no more guilt. These ideas should not be taboo, it shouldn’t be blasphemy to be passionate about an ideal. Words like vagina and breasts are not bad words. The only person I have to impress is myself.

Insert witty conclusion here.

In which I am easily distracted

I want to write a book.
Now this isn’t any shocking news. Anyone who knows me would nod at this statement, as it’s something I say quite frequently.
Over the years, I’ve wanted to write many books. Some of them I’ve even started! There have been superheroes (always superheroes), haunted boarding schools, mundane creatures that are mythical beings in disguise, precocious children, musings on my father’s childhood in Colombia, childhood bedtime stories, and melodramatic self reflections (this might be one of those). But as soon as someone says, “hey that sounds like a good idea!”, it seems like my brain has moved on to a new story.
But this book, or potential book, is the one my mind wanders back to whenever I lack inspiration or hit a wall. I wish I could say it’s the grand superpowered epic that’s been stewing in my brain since I was a six year old little girl who thought a super heroine named Super E defending a city called CoCoville was a good idea, but it’s not. It’s even more embarrassing. It’s the sort of thing that if I ever actually wrote, I envision future fans of my work (I know, pretentious much?) discovering in horror, like finding out Sir Arthur Conan Doyle believed in fairies, or that your favorite comic writer/author did Tijuana bibles back in the day.
Every once in a while, pen in hand, I have the urge to write an “every boy who did me wrong” rant, delving into every relationship I’ve ever had and why they fell through. In my daydreams, I experience enlightenment through Taylor Swift like public humiliation for all of the guys in my life, discover what I’m looking for, and reaffirm to myself that I don’t HAVE to be looking for anything.
The characters in question would all be referred to as “boys”, in direct conflict with the anger I express whenever someone refers to me as a “girl”. I’ll have you know that I’ve had my Quincenera, that I can vote, AND I buy bras at Victoria’s Secret, thank you very much!
Oh, and all of the boys would be included, from the crush in preschool to the latest tragedy. They’d all read the book, learn the error of their ways, and become better people for it. It’s practically a public service. Their partners would probably thank me!
This is all a prime example of an “Emilyism”. This is where someone knows something is a bad idea but they either do it anyways or try to convince themselves that it’s a great idea! It’s that moment when you know the answer to a question was just given, but you’ve already forgotten so you ask for it again. Or when you have no idea how to navigate the metro in an unfamiliar city but decide that you’ll “probably” be able to figure it out, ending up having a panic attack before you do.
Maybe these things just happen to me.
But isn’t it the most human thing to think ourselves, our lives so interesting that OF COURSE others would love to read/watch/know allllll about it? Isn’t that the basis for reality TV, autobiographies, blogs, and YouTube?
My name is Emily Roldan and I am not nearly as interesting as I think I am. In the time it took you to read this, you probably could have mastered that metro, tracked down an antique Tijuana bible, or written the outline for an angry rant.
Have a nice day.