Today is April 13th 2014 and I am currently typing in the back seat of my mum’s car with my brother joking about the explosive power of propane tanks like the scientifically minded teenage boy Michael Bay wishes he were. We’re currently driving through Starbuck Minnesota where the biggest attraction is the Cemeteries with a semi flattened tire. I’ve decided to write this Feminist Memoir now of all times since we’re coming from seeing the play, ‘Uncommon Women’ by Wendy Wasserstein in which my best friend played the character Susie Friend. It isn’t any sort of stretch that a play about feminism, existential crises and college would inspire me to begin writing my first draft now. I don’t know how to start writing this, but I just told my Brother about my project, and surprisingly enough, not only did a conservative republican boy find a play about feminism and the lives of women who some would claim as Misandrist hilarious, but he also said this project of mine is an admirable and worthwhile venture. That boy never ceases to astound me! I asked he and my mum for advise regarding this and they said to simply start at the beginning, but from that comes the question, what is the beginning? I think, like Uncommon Women, I have to start with now and work my way back. I suppose I already explained to you where I am physically at this point in my life, and I have approximately 150 miles back to the Twin Cities and the semi-flat tire that’s making us slow, so I’ll take this time to explain where I am otherwise. I am still amidst the same existential crisis that chose me as its host while I was in Chicago, but at this time, my depression is still existent, but not as entirely biting as it was when I attended Columbia. I don’t yet know what I want of my life in terms of career, or really anything aside from my passion for making art and the selfish human need of being beloved. All is uncertain aside from that and the absolute need I feel to write this book. The main thing that caused me to gain this idea of hopeful resolution was the Women’s studies class I’m currently taking at Minneapolis Community and Technical College. Taking it made me feel so much less alone when I read articles about other actresses judged on opinion rather than talent, other fat women who were deemed as less than people compared to those who could painstakingly fit size double zero and other queer ladies who felt the everyday ache of systematically taught heteronormativity. All of these relate to my experience at Columbia College Chicago, and all of those women telling their stories and dissecting the bigotry they faced, all those authors give me strength to feel like my story is also worth telling. Had it not been for this class and those authors and other such artists, I’d be writhing away aimlessly over these difficulties still believing that I was somehow alone in this emotional state. Of course bullying exists, it’s always existed and we as humans will likely never be rid of it, but I only recently realized this bullying is something else as well. That something else is called microaggressions. Microaggressions are little tidbits of bigotry, be they spoken or actions, that add up quickly to the point where those who experience microaggressions feel unsafe. Microaggressions, according to Laureate Education, Inc. take a psychological toll on the victims, yet the victims are often shrugged off as overreacting by those who are the majority. Knowing this made everything click in my brain that what I’m experiencing now- the depression, insecurities and a portion of the existential crisis are most likely the psychological toll the microaggressions I experienced at Columbia took on me. My hope for this project isn’t to kvetch for fifty-thousand words about stuff in the past I should be over by now, rather I want to make aware the things that happened to me in the desperate and probably pollyanna thought that this book of mine might be a drop in the bucket to improve things. I also really want to be the me I was before I went to Columbia, who was a much happier, healthier and well adjusted person and soul, but that seems like an even less likely goal. Nevertheless, this is an attempt, and, in my mind, an attempt is much better than stagnancy. I feel like, though, at the rate we’re going, a third of this book will just be me trying to convince myself that writing this is an actually good idea.
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