Automatic Problematic
This professor’s eyeballs are about to pop out of her head in front of this surly discussion section. She wants you to find what is problematic. Oh honey! What isn’t!? Moby Dick is problematic. The Help is problematic. Jezebel should be more problematic. Your polyester Navajo booty shorts. Your paper coffee cup. Your non-fair-trade coffee. The fair trade system. Mother Teresa. Beyoncé.
Compare your problematics to mine. Are we all on the same page? Former disenfranchisement will never let you go. Walk a mile in my shoes. Give me my shoes back; what do you know about Girldom anyways? You feeling oppressed today? You feeling a little vomit-y today? You feeling that wealth gap guilt? Non-disabled guilt? White guilt? Male guilt? Youth guilt? American guilt? Are you an ally? Are you a minority? How is that apple going down now that you know it was plucked by migrant farm workers? You better not choke on your words, there are innocents in jail. Was that politically correct? Tell your girlfriend that we are post-Feminism.
Stillettos=Barbie=empowerment=date rape? Does this follow the model? “Third World” is an outdated term. We live in a melting pot. Mosaic. Human stew of flailing parts. She has permission to use the N-word. He does not have permission to use the C-word. Squeeeeeze that boiling hot slime of the Automatic Problematic into my special tank, and we’ll rocket to the moon. On the moon, everyone does their readings, and no one uses buzzwords. We are critical listeners, not underinformed reactionaries. On the moon, we are still angry, and life is still unfair, but when we finally decide to speak, slowly and clearly and thoughtfully through the tiny transistor radio back to earth, we will say, “Let’s take a quick dance break.”
Grounded Wires Through Girl Rooms
Have you ever seen a person like me stomp around her room looking for something to wear? The number of kilowatts of horror that can be reflected off a mirror is enough to power a treadmill. Listen to the wasted energy of tugging shirt sleeves and pant zippers, full body twisting to see from behind, picking at holes, rubbing at stains, fluffing hair, kicking off shoes, hurling dresses to the floor. Extended roommate conferences on what looks Baldessari Right (yoga amphetamine chic) and what looks Baldessari Wrong (magenta, your hips in those jeans). Give me one girl who hates her arms and a couple ratty sweaters and I’ll have enough sickened electricity to toast a thousand pieces of bread. But no need, she’s skipping breakfast.
Collecting Pools of Crush Eyes
I fell in love with a girl last Thursday. Was completely smitten for at least fifteen minutes, and then it was gone and I felt okay again. The next day, I fell in love with the Co-op checkout boy for thirty-six seconds. I hardly ever sleep with the people I love, which is very sad, but very important. This isn’t your I-love-you love, this isn’t your mama’s love, but boy, is it no less potent, no less intimate. It’s an untapped gold mine, really, how rarely we use that energy from sources unknown and inexhaustible to actually keep someone close, how often it dies down, unspent, as you move out of each other’s path. Think of what we could gain from of all those unrequited passing shivers! We have a whole pool of trembling feels to dip into, a reserve of heat that floods through us despite all our politeness. Some sort of giant sponge might do the trick. Think of possibilities of irrigation, the innovations in light production, the greenhouses we could operate solely on the energy of our double-takes!
Harnessing Ambient Judgement
This comes from all of us, hanging low in the undersea rodeo, circling each other. I’m a coward, and these are the gross indulgences I ride. Is there a name for the stomach drop that comes with stumbling over a sentence, with saying something tactless or strange, something that makes everyone turn away from you and continue their conversation with anyone who isn’t you? And then the scramble, the excuse, the apology, the desperate attempt to brush it off, take it back, reassert your normalness. Three months ago, in the vitriolic heat sparked undoubtedly from miscommunication, my mother looked me dead in the face and asked me if I had Asperger’s. I wasn’t hurt or angry — I was taken aback. Maybe I do, I thought, pausing to consider if it felt right, if it felt thirst-quenching, nourishing. It didn’t. My psychiatrist thinks I have acute anxiety. My friends from home think I have a superiority complex. My ex-boyfriend thinks I’m trying too hard. My sister thinks it’s narcissism. I think I have ADD. My roommate thinks I’m a paranoid hypochondriac. Here’s what I suggest: whiplash your diagnoses together and tie them around your frame. Coil the symptoms into a helmet, pad your shins with the thinks. Now you’re twice your size wearing armor built from everyone’s book reports on “The Sad Story of Me.” You are neon and sparking and leaking battery fluid. Hoist yourself on a donkey, or some sort of trusty steed, maybe your bike, and point yourself towards the sunrise over the hill. Maybe stop to take a picture with your phone and while you’re at it, look up the definition of the word “quixotic.” We all look like fish out of water. Charge on regardless.
Artwork by CHARLOTTE FAIRLESS
