April 19

Today, April 19 is the due date my pregnancy would've had, if it had gone to term. When I miscarried back in September, this due date still felt very far away; I thought for sure I'd be pregnant again by the time April 19 finally rolled around, and be able to use that new pregnancy for solace. But trying to conceive after miscarriage has unfortunately turned into a longer journey than I anticipated, and as much as I wish I had good news to share right now - I don't.

There are days (this week in particular) when it's hard not to focus on the could've-beens, thinking about that alternate universe where my pregnancy went to term and I became a mother this week. There are other days when it's hard to remain optimistic about getting pregnant again. There are days when I feel like a failure. Though deep down I know it's not my fault and there's nothing else I could be doing right now to try to make this work, a part of me still feels like I'm letting everyone down (myself included) every month that my period shows up again. I feel like I'm depriving the people I care about from the happy ending they're waiting to hear.

In moments of defeatism, I have several quotes I turn to for inspiration. My favorite right now is this one, from Helen Keller: “Remember, no effort that we make to attain something beautiful is ever lost.” I remind myself that even though we can't control the outcome, we can keep trying anyway... and then try to find hope in our resilience. Many days, this doesn't feel like enough. I want to do more than that, have control over more than that. But at least that's something.

These are not things we usually talk about. Worse, these are things that are hard to talk about. It's hard to post about disappointments and things that feel like personal failures - especially on social media platforms where most people only post their success stories, happy memories, and best selfies. It's hard to admit that there are things we can't earn just by wanting, just by trying. It's even hard to admit to wanting something at all, in a world that encourages us to blow out birthday candles and wish on shooting stars in silence. Not only is vulnerability hard - but, we are taught, also punishable. Share your deepest hopes and dreams aloud, and risk seeing them "jinxed" and never fulfilled.

But as hard as it is to be vulnerable - especially with something like this, where I'm still in the middle of the story, without any idea of how long I'll be here - it's also hard to be lonely. And going through a miscarriage and trying to conceive are often very lonely endeavors. When you're struggling with something privately, and your pain goes unrecognized, it's hard not to start feeling invisible. And that's a shitty thing to feel, on top of everything else.

Which is why I'm sharing all this. I debated with myself for a long time about whether or not to post anything, writing and rewriting several drafts over the last several days, weeks, months... Ultimately I decided that, at least this week, I want to be visible again (and I deserve to be). I want my experience to be acknowledged, my pain to be just a little less private - if only for a moment.

You can read more about my miscarriage here - the post I wrote last October 15 for Pregnancy Loss Remembrance Day.

Missed Miscarriage

Trigger warning: Discussion of miscarriage, including emotional grief and graphic descriptions of the physical process

***

Today, October 15, is Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day.

I wanted to make a happy social media announcement this week - the week that would have marked the beginning of my second trimester of pregnancy. Instead, I'm making a different sort of post.

At my eight-week ultrasound at the beginning of September, I learned that I was having a missed miscarriage. Though my body had yet to get the memo, the ultrasound showed that everything was measuring only six weeks and five days along, with no detectable heartbeat. I had no symptoms of miscarriage, and over the next few days, while I researched what might happen next and talked to my doctors, I would still never have any symptoms.

And so I was faced with a series of awful options:

1. Anxiously wait several more days (or weeks) for my body to start naturally expelling what the medical field calls "the products of conception"

2. Take medication to induce uterine contractions to speed along the process

3. Get a D&C - a surgical dilation of the cervix and removal of the uterine contents by suction

I read several accounts online of women who had chosen options 1 or 2 (or been forced to endure them by nature, their doctors, or financial limitations), and knew from their stories that the experience was often physically and emotionally traumatic. For one thing, it would almost certainly include some degree of labor-like pains as I “birthed” into the toilet the blood clots and tissue of what could’ve, in an alternate universe, become an April baby and its placenta. Furthermore, there was a chance I could end up in the ER if I started hemorrhaging or fainting due to blood loss - or that I wouldn’t be able to pass everything naturally anyway, and still end up requiring a D&C to prevent infection. It all sounded horrific, from both a physical and emotional standpoint, and more than anything, I didn’t want to do it.

Option 3 carried its own risks - as any surgical procedure does - but on the whole it seemed the “least awful” to me. At least a D&C would get the physical process over with faster, less painfully, and on my own terms - something I longed for in a situation where I felt like I had so little control about what was happening. (It is worth noting that my husband has health insurance through his work which covered the majority of my D&C, and we have the means to cover what’s likely to be our $1000-1400 out-of-pocket expense. I didn’t have to factor in the financial cost when making my decision - a privilege that I wish every person had when weighing important options about their health.)

I told my doctors I wanted a D&C, and they quickly scheduled the procedure for me, on the day that would’ve-could’ve-should’ve been one day shy of a nine-week pregnancy. My first pregnancy was thus completed in the span of exactly two months, from July 13 to September 13.

Left: At my 6-week ultrasound on August 24 we were told that everything was measuring slightly behind, at maybe 5 weeks 5 days - but that it was common for dating to be off by a day or two that early in the pregnancy, especially if there was a chance it implanted later than expected. The ultrasound tech insisted that she could see a fluttering signaling the beginnings of a heartbeat, and while it was "still too weak" to officially measure the heart rate, she remained optimistic that it was just because it was so early that a day or two can make a huge difference in the embryo's development. We had no reason to believe I would have a miscarriage, and the ultrasound tech spent time showing us which parts were the gestation sac, yolk sac, and fetal pole.

Right: In the two weeks between my early ultrasounds, I watched some of my early pregnancy symptoms lessen or disappear - while other pregnancy symptoms ramped up. Part of me worried that I might be having a missed miscarriage, but as this was my first pregnancy and I had nothing to compare it to, I had no REAL reason to believe that these changes meant anything. Still, I was much more nervous going in to my 8-week appointment on September 7 - and not just because I'd told more people about the pregnancy in the interim and was getting rather attached to the idea of being pregnant and becoming a mom. The ultrasound tech at my 8-week appointment was much quieter, making her measurements quickly and silently. Before she said the words, I already knew. She handed me tissues while I cried. After a moment, she said: "This may seem weird, but would you like a picture?" I didn't think it was weird. I was grateful. And even though I already had one from my 6-week ultrasound, I said yes, I wanted another one.

Pregnancy loss is a grief that is hard to reconcile, with very few answers to explain why, and very few memories or pictures to draw on for comfort. And all of these feelings are compounded by changes in hormones, which come crashing back to pre-pregnancy levels after weeks of steadily rising. I am not often a crier about Big Things - I tend to grieve more silently - but there were days before and after my D&C when I was surprised at how emotional I felt.

There is so much to process - not just the loss of someone you'd never met but somehow started to bond with anyway, or even the loss of potential: what that baby could've been, what our family could have been. There's the fear of what will happen physically: the potential pain and loss of blood if the miscarriage should start to happen naturally, the possible complications of a surgical procedure, and anxieties about how long physical recovery will take. There's the feeling of being cheated out of a joyful pregnancy and birth and sharing that happiness and excitement with the world - and the awkwardness and grief of telling family, friends, and coworkers that you miscarried, many of whom never even knew you were pregnant. There's the loss of the sense of pride and accomplishment in carrying a child to term, giving birth, and becoming a mother. There's envy towards women to whom pregnancy seems to come easily, and anger that I was not one of them.

There's even difficulty readjusting back to a state of non-pregnancy: planning meals for the week that suddenly aren’t restricted by pregnancy diet requirements, re-adopting my pre-pregnancy blood glucose targets, unsubscribing from weekly pregnancy update emails (and trying to ignore all the targeted pregnancy-related ads on my Facebook feed that I couldn’t unsubscribe to), and packing up maternity clothes I purchased prematurely and never got to wear. These mundane tasks might seem like nothing - but they’re not unlike the tying up of loose ends that many mourners go through when a loved one dies: sorting through their belongings, stopping mail, contacting other people or businesses to let them know of the loss, and paying off medical bills.

There's also resentment stemming from never knowing the cause of my pregnancy loss. I never truly blamed myself, but many women do. I’d read so many articles and statistics even before I’d been through my own that I knew miscarriages were caused by unpredictable chromosomal abnormalities; furthermore, I was fortunate enough to hear from many people (including my very kind doctors) that it was nothing I did or didn't do, nothing I ate or drank, and not even anything related to my diabetes, which is generally very well controlled (and a discussion for another time). But that didn’t stop me from WANTING to find a way to hold myself culpable - because then at least there would be a reason it happened, and something I could do differently to prevent a recurrence. Without that, I'm left with the unsatisfactory truth that life and death are unknowable and uncontrollable; I'm left with a loss of innocence for potential future pregnancies and the fear that this could all happen again.

In my particular case, preparing for my D&C, there was also a longing for my pregnancy to "not be taken away" from me, or (to put in other words) for me to somehow find a way to both get the physical process over with as quickly and painlessly as possible while also not being "complicit" in having my pregnancy terminated. Of course, it was already ended, whether I was "complicit" in it or not - my hCG hormone levels were dropping, the “products of conception” were starting to break apart, and my pregnancy symptoms had been disappearing or gone for days if not weeks. But despite all the evidence from blood draws and ultrasound screens, it was still hard to believe that it was over - and hard not to ask the doctors to triple and quadruple check for signs of potential viability.

I'm sure that initial disbelief affects all women who go through a pregnancy loss - denial is one of the stages of grief, after all, and there are undoubtedly women who pass golf-ball sized clots or survive unimaginable hemorrhaging and pain and still hold out hope for the continuation of their pregnancy - but I also felt like it was a hurdle somewhat harder to cross when I wasn't experiencing any of the telltale bleeding or cramping symptoms. Not only was I upset that my body was unable to maintain the pregnancy, I was also angry that it couldn't seem to "miscarry properly" either, leaving me stuck in a horrible limbo.

Getting a D&C was not a decision I settled on lightly, but one I ultimately chose for my mental and physical health. I hoped to at least avoid the worst of the pain and bleeding - and I'm sure that I did, compared to what it could've been - but in doing so, I forgot that getting a D&C was hardly nothing. My post-op paperwork told me that bleeding for up to six weeks after the D&C was not uncommon (mine lasted on and off for about two weeks), and recommended that I take 600 mg of Motrin every six hours as needed for pain. To be sure, there were days when I had very little cramping or bleeding, and no need for Motrin. But there were a few days, more than I had anticipated, where the opposite was the case and I needed that pain medication to get through the day. A D&C is still a miscarriage.

It took three and a half weeks (and seven pokes for blood draws at the doctor's office) for my hCG hormone to get completely back to non-pregnant levels after my D&C, but thankfully only about one week to start to feel like my body was my own again - that I could count on it to look the way I expected it to look, feel the way I expected it to feel, and behave the way I expected it to behave. Even though I'd been early in my pregnancy, my body had still gone through several changes: by 8 weeks, for instance, the uterus has already grown to twice its typical size - which isn't really visible from the outside, but feels and looks very different to the person it's happening to, as things get more crowded in their abdomen. It was such a relief, then, when I started to feel like "myself" again; after weeks of emotional and physical turmoil, it was a comfort to be back in familiar territory. But that relief was also colored with guilt, shame, and anxiety that were hard to dispel. What if my relief meant I hadn't wanted to be pregnant enough, or that I wasn't ready to be pregnant again?

I tried to tell myself that if I had carried this pregnancy to term, no one would fault me for my happiness at seeing my body return back to normalcy - and indeed, that no one would likely fault me for feeling this way after this ordeal, either, and that I was once again being my own harshest critic. I also reminded myself that pregnancy can be difficult to endure even when it’s at its easiest and least complicated - and that I would never accuse another person who hated or feared the physical changes of pregnancy of not loving their child or looking forward to parenthood enough. But it’s hard to rationalize your emotions away, and what ultimately helped me feel better (about this and so many other aspects of the healing process) was confirmation from others going through similar situations that they felt the same way I did - that it was normal to feel conflicting emotions even over things as seemingly innocuous as the speed/ease of digestion, the frequency of urination, or the shape of my stomach in my favorite shirts.

When I was pregnant, I thought about being pregnant nearly constantly - from worries about when nausea might strike and how that might affect how much insulin I should take, to the excitement of planning the paint colors for the nursery. When I learned of my missed miscarriage and all those pregnancy thoughts vanished, I filled the vacuum they left behind with other anxieties: Was that twinge a symptom of impending miscarriage? Will I “make it” to the date of my scheduled D&C? Is it typical to have these cramps and on-and-off bleeding after the procedure? When will I feel normal again? As more weeks passed and my body healed, it was hard to stop obsessing. I wasn’t sure if I should toss aside all my memories of what I’d been through or if I should continue to dwell on them, to mourn, to read online articles about grief.

And if I do let all the thoughts about my pregnancy loss fall away - what should I think about instead, to fill that new vacuum? Is it too soon to start checking my temperature and peeing on sticks in an effort to chart what would likely be an irregular first couple of menstrual and ovulation cycles? Is it unhealthy to keep switching out one obsession for the next - pregnancy for miscarriage, miscarriage for trying to conceive again?

Once enough time has passed, it all starts to feel like it never really happened. It feels weird to say “when I was pregnant” when I have nothing to show for it but a couple grainy sonograms and weeks-old, already-fading memories of early pregnancy symptoms. It feels like something that happened to someone else. That, too, is painful. This was my first and (so far) only pregnancy; this was the closest I ever came to having a child and becoming a mother. Until I get pregnant again, these memories are all I have. And I don’t want to forget them.

Statistically speaking, at least 1 in 4 pregnancies end in loss - and yet, we hardly ever talk about it. It is remarkable, when you start talking aloud about your miscarriage, how many people come back with “me too” - people who you would never know had a miscarriage until you mention yours. To quote Angela Garbes in her amazing book Like a Mother: A Feminist Journey through the Science and Culture of Pregnancy: "Many people are uncomfortable talking about pregnancy loss, so they don't. And it's no wonder - any meaningful discussion of it requires acknowledging death, blood, tears, and items being expelled from the vagina." But just because it's difficult doesn't mean it should continue to be taboo.

I'm choosing to share my story publicly because I want other women who have experienced pregnancy loss to know that they are not alone. Pregnancy loss can feel very isolating - but it doesn't have to be. I am so grateful to everyone who showed me support in the days before and after my miscarriage, including family, friends, coworkers and strangers on internet forums.

I’m also choosing to share my story for my own sake. There is a lot of societal pressure to bury this topic, presumably to save other people a few minutes of feeling uncomfortable or sad, and I often feared that no one wanted to hear any of this - let alone hear me “still” talking about it, weeks later. What can I do, then, when talking or writing helps me, but I feel like I’m not allowed to talk/write about it? Share my thoughts anyway, I suppose, without waiting for other people to give me permission to do so. I still want that outpouring of love and support that I would’ve gotten if I’d had happier news to share today; I don’t deserve it less just because my pregnancy is over too early.

To again quote Angela Garbes: "When it comes to pregnancy loss, there is no script to follow. To help a woman navigate it, you don't need to offer advice or perspective. It is enough to show up, however awkwardly, and be there, to listen." Writing has always been a form of therapy for me. Thank you for listening.

Dear Fellow Liberal White Women

Dear Fellow Liberal White Women:

By now you've probably heard the statistic. 53% of white women voted for Donald Trump on Tuesday, while only 43% of white women voted for Hillary Clinton.

This statistic has been the catalyst for articles like this one from the Huffington Post, which accuses white women of not caring enough about sexism, about their friends of color, about the LGBTQ community, and other marginalized groups that Trump has bullied, belittled, unsettled, and threatened during his contentious campaign run. These articles attempt to shame white women. The message is clear: this tragedy is your fault. You should know better. You should do more.

What is less clear is the intended audience. Is the article talking about the white women who voted Trump? They would seem to be the most directly culpable - and yet, they're hardly the ones who are going on Huffington Post the day after the election, heartbroken and searching in desperation for answers as to how Hillary lost. So is the article actually talking to liberal white women? Liberal white women who perhaps knew conservative white women, but didn't "do enough" to convince them not to vote for Trump, or not to vote third party?

Why is the article talking to women at all?

As if women - the victims of the patriarchy - are the worst offenders. As if because they witness sexism, they should "know better." (Isn't that called victim blaming? If you were talking to a rape survivor, would you ask why she let herself be raped? No. You wouldn't.)

This article is hardly alone in casting blame unilaterally, in failing to understand what is actually happening. Even before election day, it was rampant. In an email chain going around my husband's liberal, Jewish family, a relative wrote, "Remember: a woman voting Republican is like a chicken voting for Colonel Sanders."

To us liberals, it is obvious 1) that sexism exists, 2) that sexism is a bad thing that needs to be eradicated, and 3) that the Republican party only perpetuates sexism. But those are not givens. Conservative women do not see those statements as fundamental truths. They do not understand that voting Republican is contributing to their own oppression. And blaming them, or trying to shame them into understanding that is not a tactic that is going to work.

Those white women who voted Republican? I know them. They are my family members, my Facebook friends, my ancestors, my neighbors. Hell, I was once one of those women. It was the environment I grew up in. And if I hadn't had some liberal high school teachers, if I hadn't gone to college, if I hadn't taken Women's and Gender Studies classes - it's likely I would still be one of them.

I know those white women. And I'm telling you - they are not monsters. They are not stupid. They are not mean-spirited or vindictive, and they did not vote for Trump because they don't care about other women, or people of color, or disabled people, or members of the LGBTQ community. Even the ones who were most enthusiastic about Trump did not love everything about his rhetoric. They made excuses for his poor language choices, his misbehaviors, his bullying - rebranding them as antics, as "speaking his mind" - because they liked him for other reasons.

They are not monsters. They are victims. They are victims of the patriarchy, same as us. There is no "perfect" victim. Some recognize sexism and do everything in their power to try to fix it. Others recognize sexism but don't prioritize fighting it. Still others don't even recognize sexism at all. They don't know they're victims. That doesn't mean they aren't victims - just that they don't know they are.

These white women who voted for Trump live in suburbs, in rural areas, where everyone smiles at each other instead of leering. They've never seen an obvious example of sexism in their everyday lives, because they are privileged in other ways (by their skin color, their religion, their country of birth, the language they speak, their sexual orientation). They have always (or mostly) felt personally valued by the men and other women in their lives; they've always felt respected and loved. Their oppression is familiar, a comfort, and they do not recognize it for what it is.

They recognize that there are differences between the genders - both innate and learned - but they don't see this as oppression. They easily fit into the criteria our society has developed for womanhood, and so it is not of their concern for them to be kept in that box. They like the challenge of juggling double standards. They don't even realize they're juggling them.

They like pleasing people. They like taking care of the men in their lives. They are peacekeepers within their families. They do what is expected of them because it is easier that way, or because they like knowing that they are doing all they can to keep their families running smoothly. They like knowing what they are supposed to do. There are traditional gender roles, and as long as they follow them, their lives are pleasant, tolerable.

When they are catcalled at the grocery store, they take it as a compliment. Because they have been taught to take it as a compliment. Because they have been taught that men are allowed to "act like men."

They rationalize and make excuses when Trump (or anyone else) brags about sexual assault, describes women in vulgar terms, or indicates that women are put on Earth for the sole purpose of men's desires - whether that be for her to let him have sex with her, or for her to make him a sandwich - because that is what they do everyday of their lives. They have seen their husbands, their fathers, their brothers, their sons, their friends act the same way and say the same things. They believe (they hope) that their men don't mean anything by it - that it's just silly, that it's fine, that it's the way things always have been and the way they always will be.

They would never dream of working outside the home - because they don't need to, because they don't want to, because they firmly believe that they are not supposed to.

They feel the double-bind of working outside the home and childcare. They feel guilty if they spend too much time at home with their children - they wonder if they should be at work, modeling for the next generation that a woman can do both, that a mother can have a wider range of influence than just the tiny sphere of her home. They feel guilty if they spend too much time at work - they wonder if they should be home, taking care of their children and doing housework, as their mothers and mother's mothers and mother's mother's mothers did. They want to "have it all" and they want to prove that they can "have it all." They think, "All these other women do it. Why can't I? It must be something wrong with me. Me - not the system, or the unfair double standards, but me as an individual. I am the one who is failing."

They don't like to be called a Feminist, because men don't like women who are Feminists. They don't like the idea of rocking the boat. They would rather be the one who smooths hurt feelings, rather than the cause of it.

When they see oppression, they deflect it. They think: "That wasn't what I thought it was." They think: "I was wrong." They think: "This isn't systematic oppression. It's just a one-time thing." They think: "Maybe that woman deserved it." They think: "Maybe I deserve it."

They are Christian, and they believe it when men tell them that the Christian God once decreed that women are inferior to men. They believe that the best thing they can be is someone's daughter, someone's wife, someone's mother. They define themselves - gladly, willingly - as belonging to someone else. They don't feel qualified to stand alone, to be independent. They don't have high enough self-esteem to believe that they have value outside of their interpersonal relationships.

The world has favored men for so long that they assume this is simply the way things are. Men wouldn't be the heads of religion, the heads of government, the heads of households if it weren't supposed to be that way. Life is just harder for women. It's okay. It's what God intended. They think, "God gave me this cross to bear, this cross of being female. And it is up to me to be strong enough to bear it." They tuck their feelings inside, until their feelings disappear.

They have been objectified and condemned and violated. They have been beaten and emotionally abused and sexually assaulted and raped. But they don't want to think about it. It happened a long time ago. It doesn't matter anymore. Best to forget about it.

They blame themselves for tragedies that have happened to them. When their husbands beat them or yell at them or control their money or threaten to leave them or threaten to separate them from their children, or use any number of psychological and emotional and physical abuse tactics, these women wonder, "What did I do wrong? What did I do to provoke him?"

They don't want to act like a victim. They don't want to be upset with their lot; they don't want to cry, they don't want to be angry. They've witnessed sexism everyday of their life, but choose not to acknowledge it, because it is easier to bury their heads in the sand. They have a series of defense mechanisms - defense mechanisms they aren't even aware that they use - to keep them from understanding that women are still second-class citizens, to keep them from understanding why Feminism is important.

Their husbands, their pastors, their Fox News anchors tell them to vote Republican. These women hear that "women's issues" are special interests. They are told that there are more serious issues at stake - issues like immigration, or the economy. Issues that effect everyone. Issues that effect men. Issues that effect Christians. Issues that "matter."

They are tired. They've never fought for their own freedoms before, but it looks exhausting. They've tried fighting before, and it got them nowhere. They see the writing on the wall. They think change is impossible, improbable. They see other things that are easier to change, easier to fight for - and so they focus on those other issues that they care about, the ones they have come to believe are more important to focus on.

They have other things in their lives, other priorities. Being a woman is only a small part of who they are. They have jobs that consume their time, or children that consume their energy. They consider other things when deciding who to vote for. They know they can handle sexism. They've been surviving sexism since they were born; they can do it for another 100 years. It's all they've ever known.

They still live with their parents. They live with their husbands. They live with their children. They live in a nursing home. They are intimidated. They are scared. They have different opinions than their families. They keep quiet.

They worried what a Hillary presidency would do to men. They worried that it would make their fathers, their husbands, their coworkers more intolerable. They worried at the personal backlash that they might witness, or be victims of, in their work spaces or in their homes. They didn't want to have to see the men in their lives suffer under a female president. They've been living under male presidents their entire lives, but they know that men's egos are more fragile. They are frightened of the die-hard Trump supporters, of what they might do if Hillary is elected. They think Trump might actually be the safer choice, because Trump would keep America closer to the status-quo.

They are new mothers, exhausted from late night feedings. They watch Nick Jr. all day, not the news. The information that reaches them is filtered, distilled, distorted - if it reaches them at all. They trust their husbands, their parents, their pastors, who seem to make good points, who seem to know what they are talking about. They adopt the convictions of others because it takes less energy than to figure out what the issues are and how they feel about them.

They are elderly women, more afraid of what will happen now than what will happen in the future, a future they won't live to see. They've seen Republicans and Democrats come and go. They think, "Is one decade really so different than the next?" They have the wisdom of their years. They know that their day-to-day won't change much from one president to the next. They've seen the country survive wars; they know that we can survive anything.

They were sick of an election cycle that lasted two years. They were sick of the arguments on their Facebook feed. They cannot stand conflict. They try their best to smooth it over. They shut politics out of their world because it makes them ill, because they have already enough stress in their lives, because it only brings them heartache, because they don't have time for it, because they are told that their vote doesn't matter anyway.

They have never had enough confidence in themselves to trust their own opinions. They have never been nurtured and given the chance to form their own opinions. When they raise their hands in class or try to speak up at work, they are ignored in favor of their male counterparts. They think, "I must be stupid." They think, "Women must be stupid." They think, "What do I know about politics anyway?" They think, "What do women know about politics anyway?"

They are enthusiastic about Trump.

They are reluctant about Trump, but voted for him anyway.

I understand that some of these are contradictory assertions. But "white women who voted for Trump" is not a homogenous group any more than "white women who voted for Hillary" is. In fact, I have felt many of the above things myself, cycling through them throughout the day - using whatever thought patterns or behaviors are necessary to deal with the Sexism of the Moment, to calm my cognitive dissonance enough so that I can survive my day.

White women who voted for Trump, white women who voted for Hillary, white women who voted for third party candidates, white women who didn't vote at all - we are all the same in that we are all victims. We just cope with it differently.

I wanted Hillary Clinton to be the next president. I was excited at the idea of my future children looking at photos of presidents in their history textbooks (or, let's be honest, a Wikipedia article), and seeing, after a long line of old white men, a black president and then a female president. I was looking forward to telling them, "I voted for both of those presidents. My generation was the one who gave America Barack and Hillary back-to-back." I did not vote for Hillary solely because of her gender - but make no mistake that representation matters. I was looking forward to being represented by a fellow woman.

Tuesday night and Wednesday morning were heartbreaking. Maybe it's always this heartbreaking when the candidate you really wanted to win does not win - I don't know. This is my third presidential election, and the first one where the person I voted for lost. I have a feeling, however, that this is a particularly heartbreaking election to lose. Because it wasn't just one candidate against another candidate - but two very different sets of ideas. And the man who I saw as representing sexism, racism, homophobia, transphobia, xenophobia, and ableism was the man my country chose to elect as our next president.

It hurt. Of course it hurt. I cried Tuesday night, and I cried again Wednesday morning. I check my blood sugar every morning because I have high fasting glucose, and Wednesday it was higher than I'd ever seen before - 151. I immediately looked up on my phone if stress can effect blood sugar. It can.

But I wasn't just crying or stressed because the president I wanted to win did not win, or because I was afraid of what President Trump might do - to women, to minorities, to immigrants, to LGBTQ individuals, to natives, to everyone - though of course both of those worries did factor in. One of my greatest reasons for crying, however, was mourning. Mourning what could have been and mourning what is.

Hillary Clinton would have worked tirelessly for everyone. She knows that all women are victims of the patriarchy, even those who do not recognize their status, or those who try to ignore it, or those who (willingly or unwillingly) participate in perpetuating their own oppression. She would have bolstered the status of all women - even those who fought her tooth and nail, even those who did not want her help, even those who did not see what she was fighting for as "help" at all.

But that is not what we got. I knew several of those white women who were voting for Trump, and yet I still allowed myself to believe that we would not end up with Trump as our president-elect. I believed (naively) that enough women had come to recognize their oppression, vowed to fight it, and prioritized that fight above the other concerns in their life. I was wrong.

It deeply saddens me how many women willingly participate in their own demise. I don't like the joke my husband's relative said ("Remember: a woman voting Republican is like a chicken voting for Colonel Sanders") - not because it isn't true, but because of its flippant tone. It's not funny that Republican women believe in their second-class status. It's heartbreaking.

I know a lot of liberal women (especially women of color, for whom the symptoms of oppression are so much more obvious that it is hard to fathom how anyone could be blissfully unaware of them) are angry at the white women who voted for Trump. It is easier to be angry at people than it is to be angry at the system. But it is not their fault.

Not all victims are capable of recognizing and fighting their own oppression. The women who are blind to the reality of the world? The system made them that way. The women who follow all the patriarchal rules? The system made them that way, too.

Sexism works very hard at keeping women from recognizing their oppression, and at denying them access to the resources that would help them fight it. It has to. Women exist in equal (or slightly higher) numbers than men; sexism would not have endured for so long if it was not successful in those goals. Of course women perpetuate their own oppression. They were raised to.

I am not trying to make excuses, or say that people who voted for Trump (or who voted third party) should not be held accountable in some way. I don't know what that way is, but I can't think going around blaming demographics is going to do any good. You're not going to convince the white women who voted for Trump that they did something bad. You're probably not even going to convince them to label themselves Feminists. For many, to become Feminist would be to give up the one thing that has made their oppression, their lives bearable. Christianity, God, gives them hope and strength when times are shitty. How are they supposed to understand that it is also part of what contributes to their lives' shittiness?

Shaming women, telling them that they are supposed to pull themselves up by their bootstraps, regardless of the cost done to the personal lives, is not only unhelpful - but also anti-liberal. Lumping everyone together into demographics without considering their personal stories is counterproductive and insensitive both. It is not a very good way of getting more people enthused about politics - on the contrary, it will make these people angrier and less interested. They will disengage even more, they will deflect further into the oppressive Republican camp.

We need to come together, not pull each other apart.

Creative Legacy

I often feel like I'm part of (or trying to be a part of) a long-standing creative legacy. This isn't always a good or easy legacy; there are stereotypes of the "starving artist" and well-known connections between artists and mental health problems, which I'm definitely aware of, often fascinated by, and occasionally worry about (with regards to how such traditions might impact me, how others label me, or the work I create).

But besides the broad legacy of all creative people throughout time and the Western tradition of art and writing, there's also a more personal creative legacy - that of my family.

Like many things, it's hard to tell if it's nature or nurture that might encourage traits like creativity to run in families. Do we like art and writing because of some genetic programing passed down through our families? Or do we like such things because these activities were modeled for us (consciously or not), or because our families encouraged us to read or explore art?

In the case of my family, there isn't a clear person I looked to. None of my relatives have made a living off creating art or writing stories; those who are creative pursued such interests as hobbies rather than their professions. Still, I feel like there are enough people in my family who have such interests that it's worth noting.

My dad currently works as a manager at a print center for DTE Energy in Detroit, but has also held jobs in computer networking. He likes computer hardware and has been known to build computers from scratch. Growing up, he loved photography (this was before the age of digital photography, so we're talking film and darkroom techniques), and did some drawing in his spare time. My grandma tells stories of him holed up in his bedroom listening to The Beatles and practicing drawing portraits. And he also enjoys making videos - photography slide shows and training videos conveying information, both for work and at home.

My mom also had some creative hobbies growing up. She did a lot of sewing and embroidering and has shown me samples of some of the things she made as a teenager.

Perhaps the most obvious example is my grandma (on my dad's side), who over the years has found hobbies in writing poetry, coloring books, sewing, and painting. She has also kept handwritten journals for years (as I do), writing daily.

I also have crafty aunts - one who learned guitar and sings songs and puts on puppet shows for the kids at her church (and who did many craft projects with me and my cousins over the years, including a memorable "Egyptian pharaoh" costume that we created with metallic fabric and painted pistachio shells), and another who is into stamping and paper work, designing and stamping her own Christmas cards every year. These are not blood relatives, but are further examples of how I was encouraged to be creative when I was growing up.

Continuing to look toward relatives not related to me by blood, my husband's family also has some artists. His late great-uncle was a painter (we have a few of his paintings hanging in our house). Even my husband himself is creative - in college, we often spent time writing song parodies, funny Harry Potter-inspired rap lyrics, and exchanging short stories we'd written.

Looking at these examples often does two things for me -

First, it makes me pretty proud that I get to be a part of this creative tradition in my family - and also validates my experience. Theoretically I would be happy acknowledging my artistic or writing inclinations even if no one in my family ever shared similar interests, but because they do I feel like it's okay that I do, too - that indeed I'm meant to like such things, or perhaps have a natural talent for them.

Secondly, it makes me wonder if I'm putting too much significance on my creativity. If it's so common that several of my family members have pursued creative projects as hobbies, then why do I think I'm special? None of them have felt compelled to make their creative interests into a viable career. Am I only kidding myself in thinking that I could actually make money as an artist or a writer? Am I better off keeping my art and writing to myself, as most of my other relatives have done? Or do I just have such doubts because none of my relatives have tried to cultivate their hobbies into careers - and thus have no example to follow, no person to model myself after or pick her or his brain for advice?

I feel like I am often torn between such seemingly contradictory feelings. High self-esteem and low self-esteem. Which one is truer to my real feelings? Am I not so deep or despairing as I think, and only "activate" my low self-esteem so that I feel like I belong with all the artists and writers before me who have suffered with issues in confidence - or because, as a woman, I've been conditioned to downplay success, put others first, and think of certain aspirations as outside of my talents or outside of my reach? Or am I actually more inclined to my anxieties and doubts, and only developed what little (or well-hidden) belief in myself that I do have as a way to compensate for the not-so-great feelings of constantly questioning if I'm "good enough"?

Does it matter which came first? I suspect everyone goes through such fluctuations at different times in their lives - thinking, for example, that they're good enough at art or writing that they might make a career out of it and that such a goal is worth pursuing while also wondering if they're insane for even trying. Perhaps creative people have such fluctuations more often - or anyone else who works in a professional field where so much rides on what critics say and who you can convince to like and purchase your work. Actors. Writers. Musicians. Chefs. Entrepreneurs. There are a lot of unstable jobs out there where you don't always know when your next paycheck is coming - and without that immediate, predictable, and stable monetary validation, it can be hard to balance confidence levels. You have to believe in yourself and your projects - so that you work on them and make it to the next paycheck - but such continual efforts to prove yourself and the worth of your work is also bound to take its toll on self-esteem.

In any case, I am very lucky that I have a family who supports me while I try to figure this creativity thing out. I don't take their support lightly, and am immensely grateful. :) 

Why on earth should that mean that it isn't real?

This post is going to be a continuation of yesterday's post about mind-body dualism, so you may want to start there if you haven't read it yet.

As I said yesterday, though part of me is swayed by the scientific proof of monism - the idea that everything is built out of one category of substance (atoms, molecules, chemicals, cells) - I am ultimately too enamored with the idea of dualism to suspend belief that there is a second, incorporeal substance also at play in nature. We are not just bodies, but bodies and minds (or souls, depending on how you want to label it).

I acknowledge that I am, to some extent, governed by my chemicals and hormones and neurons and all of the other building blocks that create and multiply and manipulate my cells, or communicate between them. I even understand that when I dream at night I am in actuality at the mercy of coincidences and firing neurons; that what I choose to interpret as a story, with colors and faces and emotions and conflict and resolution, is not created or influenced by a separate substance (my mind, my soul, my intuition, creativity, inspiration, a collective unconscious I'm tapping into, or anything spiritual like that) but by the same category that maintains my blood circulation and digestive tract: Atoms. Molecules. Things that science can observe and quantify and explain (or are working toward observing, quantifying, and explaining).

But I care about those stories I dream, or the stories I come up with in the daytime and attempt to put to paper, or the subjects I want to draw or paint - and to write or create art the way I want to, I feel like it diminishes it to think of it through the lens of monism.

Sure, I am able to see color because of the way my eyes work and the cells that make up my eyes; I am able to hold a paintbrush because of the cells in my hand; I am able to retain muscle memory and things I've practiced and learned in school for the best techniques to use because of the cells in my brain. And to some people - the scientifically minded, the monists - this is more than enough, and they can find excitement and inspiration in the idea that everything comes down to essentially one thing, or that everything is born from essentially one thing, and that any differences we see - at the molecular or macro level - are just different rearrangements of the same basic substance.

Good for them! I'm not knocking monism. It's just not how I think of things, and I don't see the value (and in fact see negative consequences) in retraining myself to think of the world that way. I could persuade myself if I really wanted to. I definitely see the reasoning and the merits. But I don't think it matters to my life, and because it is not my gut reaction, I fear that it would take away something of who I am to try to dissuade myself of my belief in dualism.

I am an artist, and a writer. I like looking at art, and reading books. I like writing poetry. I like listening to music. I like being creative. I like thinking of myself as a body and a soul, and other people as a body and a soul. I like imagining that there is this creativity or inspiration that ebbs and flows and visits us and abandons us and takes us on journeys and sets our hearts on fire. I like dreaming; I like trying to influence my dreams in the moment of the dreaming, and I like interpreting them after the fact. I like sitting around and thinking and philosophizing. I like asking 'what ifs'.

I like thinking of my emotions, my mood, my intuition, my dreams, my creativity, my art, my writing, as a separate entity. Something to conquer or challenge or accept or adore or avoid or manipulate or mold or cherish or abhor. Something that is unique to me, but also something that is similar to what everyone else has and experiences - a collective pool that we all dip our toes into once and awhile, and dive into even rarer still. Something that is sometimes out of our control - which is frustrating at times but beneficial at other times. Something that is separate from my physical body and will exist in some form after my body dies.

I don't think my soul will go to heaven or hell because I don't think those are actual places. But I am open the idea of reincarnation. I like the idea of the ancient goddess, where we are all birthed from the same womb, live physical lives, and then are returned to that sacred womb to be reborn into another life (with or without knowledge of previous lives). That doesn't mean I believe in a goddess, or a specific womb that exists. I just like the imagery of it. The Neo-Platonists had a similar idea - this Oneness that we all come from and return to. It's actually almost monist sounding, right? We are all essentially the same thing, born from the same substance, made of the same substance, and return to that substance when we return. But I think of it in a dualist way.

There's this spiritual substance (spirit, soul, mind, unconsciousness, etc.) - let's just call it Substance 1 for the sake of simplicity. And this substance is unquantifiable and unidentifiable and really hard to understand or know or label - because that's kind of the point of it. We can only feel it - in our guts, in our hearts, in our minds. We can't touch it with our hands, or see it or hear it or taste it or smell it or observe it in any way. It's extrasensory.

I like to imagine that we are that substance, at our cores. If our bodies ever ceased to exist, or if we were in a transition state between bodies, we would still be Substance 1. It's our emotions, our collective unconscious, the stuff of dreams, our creativity, our childish sense of wonder, our pleasure, our pain, etc. When we are on earth it is encased in a body, which is a different substance (Substance 2). It has to be a different entity, because it can be observed with our physical senses. We can see and feel and taste it. We can study it under a microscope. It gets hurt or sick, and we watch it heal (or not heal). It is observable, in a real, quantifiable way. It can be categorized and labeled. It can (more or less) be understood.

So we start as Substance 1 and end as Substance 1 (if we do indeed end). We still have access to Substance 1 while we are encased in Substance 2 (our bodies), because we are always Substance 1, whether or not we are at the moment connected to Substance 2.

Of course, at any given moment we can understand, we are connected to Substance 2, because that's the only way we can understand or acknowledge or interpret or observe things at all. I have no proof that Substance 1 exists before/after/outside Substance 2 at all. Perhaps it doesn't. I like to think it does, but it hardly matters (to me) if it actually does or not. I would not act differently in this life if I knew for certain that my soul would or would not extend past by body's life, so it makes no difference.

The point is, that I am drawn to thinking of myself this way, for better or worse. It is so engrained in me to believe that there is some essence to me that is more than just the sum of my bodily parts that I have to think it is a belief I would hold dear regardless of whether or not I had been brought up Christian and taught to believe that we all have souls and which go to Heaven or Hell when our bodies die. I was drawn to color and art from a young age. I loved stories and reading. I have always been drawn to fantasy. I have always put more significance on my mind than my body. It didn't matter what was happening in "the real world" if I had another world I could escape to in my mind.

And I think that, is essentially, why I would really have to talk myself into monism. Because I like Substance 1 better; I could never discard it in favor of Substance 2. And it doesn't make sense to me believe there isn't a Substance 2 - indeed, I would be way too scared to pretend Substance 1 is the only substance. While I like Substance 1, I also often keep my distance from it. It's unreliable. It's mysterious. To believe only in Substance 1 (and thus ignore the "real" physical world) would be to lose all control, lose anything tangible to grab onto, and, essentially, to go insane.

So Substance 2 must exist - it is the rock in the flowing stream of Substance 1, the tangible, sturdy, steady thing to grab onto. And I want Substance 1 to exist - because it's the flowing stream, and more interesting. And so I am a dualist.

But I also call myself an "atheist."

Being an "atheist" doesn't mean I'm not spiritual, in my own way. It doesn't mean I don't like sitting around philosophizing. It doesn't mean I don't believe in something by faith alone. The "something" that I believe in through faith alone, however, is not capital-G God, nor any other god or gods of any organized religion on this planet. There is no Creator. There is no Destiny. There is the Human Experience, and the Soul, and the Collective Unconscious, or something along those lines - but I vacillate between whether or not I think this other Force, whatever it is, has any sort of semblance of control over me and my actions, or even any understanding of me, or anyone else, or itself. Perhaps it is just Nature, going through its cycles as it does; and I am just a part of it, a cog in its incognizant machine.

I even (as you can see with these last two blog posts), debate with myself on the issue of my dualism. Do I actually believe there are two substances - mind and body - or do I just really want there to be two substances, because it's a more interesting story, and one that I am immediately drawn to?

So I call myself an atheist because I do not align with any modern religion or its beliefs, and I do not one anyone to get the impression that I do, or that I could be persuaded to. Calling myself an agnostic, I think, is not strong enough to get this point across. But really I would identify myself more as an apatheist - because not only do I not believe in god, but it really doesn't matter to my daily life if god does or does not exist - or even if there are one or two categories of substances in the world.

From the Wikipedia article, Apatheism

I like thinking about such things in the abstract, but have no real motivation to come to any sort of concrete conclusion. I'm fine with sitting in the corner and imagining the world I want to imagine, with its mind and body separation. It suits me. It doesn't really matter if it's "real" or "true" or not, because it's true to me. And even if someone could prove to me that God exists (or doesn't exist), or that everything I hold dear about my "essence" is really just nothing more than neurons firing in my brain or the chemicals and hormones in my body fluctuating their levels to influence my emotions or mood - it wouldn't matter. I would still make art. I would still feel things. I would still write. I would still go on pretending that what is in my mind is important and real - because that's what makes me feel like me, and I think it's what makes me good at the art and writing I do.

I've rambled on about all this long enough. I'll end here with a favorite quote by J.K. Rowling:

Mind & Body

I'm not an expert on philosophy by any means.

I took one "Intro to Philosophy" course in college, which built on the pretty solid foundation I acquired with my high school humanities classes. I also took a course that was cross-listed between the Women and Gender's Studies department and the Philosophy department; it focused primarily on philosophical manifestos written by second-wave feminists (with the occasional first- and third-waver thrown in) on the topics of privilege and oppression, as they relate to gender. Since college, I've read a few books on philosophy - both as research for the novel(s) I've been writing and as a sort of general interest project. These have been mostly compilations of Major Points philosophers have made (as explained by contemporary philosophers or humanities professors who know how to write clearly and concisely), and not the actual, historical texts that, while I'm sure offer more insight and nuance, also require a lot more brain power to parsing and comprehending than I have time to devote.

So in bringing up one of the Big Topics philosophers have debated for today's post, I'm not trying to convince you, or persuade you, or educate you - if you want to know what the Famous Philosophers have said on such things, you're best doing the research and reading yourself. I'm only explaining what I believe - because it "feels right" to me.

From Wikipedia

The debate is this - are there two types of substances in the world (body and mind, or body and soul, depending on how you want to phrase it), or is there only one substance?

The "body" would be anything we can see or understand in this physical world that we live in. Our physical bodies, with its hands and feet and brain, made up of atoms and molecules. The physical building blocks of life, and the things that we interact with everyday.

The "mind" or "soul" would be something unscientific and incorporeal.

Christianity defines this as our "soul" - the spirit that lives inside everyone, which persists before the body and after the body's demise. This is why murder is a sin - because you're not just killing cells, but cells that are (or were) attached (at least temporarily) to a unique, God-created soul. Christians also believe that this soul continues after the body dies - and goes either to hell or heaven (or purgatory), depending on deeds and misdeeds, what or who you believe in, and what sect of Christianity you're looking at.

Other religions and spiritual ways of thinking define this substance in other ways. Souls can be thought of as being reincarnated - inhabiting one body until that body dies, and then inhabiting another body in another life.

Some say that animals or plants also have such "souls" - and therefore certain animals (or all animals) are off-limits to farm, slaughter, and consume. Many vegetarians or vegans who choose their diets on moral grounds make such arguments.

Others might think of this incorporeal substance as something less connected to an individual person or animal, but something that just kind of floats around and inhabits each of us at different times. Intuition. Fate. Destiny. The ability to communicate in extrasensory ways (mind reading, ESP, etc). Creativity.

In her book "Big Magic: Creative Living Beyond Fear," Eat Pray Love author Elizabeth Gilbert talks about creativity and inspiration as kind of this mythical, spiritual thing. It gives us ideas and sometimes a passion to see that idea through, but it is up to us to take that opportunity when it comes, pursue other opportunities if an idea is not actively knocking on our door, and learn how to be creative without relying on inspiration to guide us every step of the way. Similar to an athlete or musician "being in the zone," artists and writers are capable of creating things they didn't think possible, things that sort of momentarily seize them and take them on a journey over which they have little or no control. But you don't find that "zone" without putting in lots of effort and practice and opening yourself up to such experiences, and you can't rely on that creative spark to always be around.

The ancient Romans thought of this as a "genius." A person was not a genius, he had a genius - a little elf or sprite or guide or fairy or however you want to think of it - who came around and helped occasionally. (Females didn't get geniuses... there was another word for their helper friends; but I don't remember it at the moment.) This would also fit under the idea of this "mind" or "soul" - some otherworldly spark that we can't see or ever fully understand, but that is there and occasionally able to be tapped into a bit, or connected to us.

Whether we have the ability to connect with such incorporeal things or whether we have to wait for those substances to hook up with us is a matter of belief - and would get into another question of Free Will vs. Determinism.

I would also like to point out that many (most) people who believe in some sort of incorporeal substance don't believe in all of those examples that I listed above (or others). Many would find the idea of creativity as a gremlin that gifts inspiration as sort of hokey. Many Christians can easily believe that they have a soul but that animals and plants do not (and are thus perfectly willing to eat all sorts of meat). Historically, there were many groups who even believed that not all humans had souls, or that not all humans had equal souls - that men were inherently created by God to be better than women, or for whites to be inherently smarter or more powerful than blacks or other races. Now, we think such things are ridiculous (racist, sexist, elitist, horrible), but that wasn't always the case. The idea of what this non-body substance might be vary vastly from culture to culture and person to person, as well as throughout time.

But a lot of people believe in something. They believe there is something out there - whether God or gods, Fate or Destiny or Fortune, a person's individual soul, or occasional creativity, or just some other underlying thing that connects all of us mystically/spiritually, like the Human Experience, or the Collective Unconscious, or whatever.

Then there are others who don't believe there is anything besides the body. That any emotions or moods we feel, any ideas we come up with or feel like we've been gifted, any extrasensory understanding we think we may possess, any uncontrollable Force that guides us or hurts us, whether indiscriminately or consciously and deliberately - all of these things are still the same substance. Dreams are just neurons firing in the brain. Religions are just systems based on stories we've created to explain we don't (yet) understand. Everything comes down to chemicals and molecules - how those atoms interact with one another to form plants, and animals, and humans, and human emotions and moods and inspiration and dreams. Pure science.

That is not to say that all scientists cast out all spirituality and believe that there is only one substance - the body. Some scientists are religious. Many undoubtedly believe in souls. Several even say that studying science has brought them to the conclusion that there must be something more - some Divine Creator who designed all of the intricate systems of cells and chemicals that are increasingly observable with the advent of new and better technology.

But pure science is, by definition, based only on that which can be observed or experimented with. Even if individual scientists may yet believe in another substance - mind, souls, spirits - the discipline as a whole does not give that idea much (if any) credence.

From Wikipedia

With the continued new technology that is being invented and perfected, I think this belief in only one substance (monism) is gaining steam. There is observable proof that drugs and medicines can alter the chemicals in our body and change our emotional state. Or give us purpose and direction and inspiration where depression or chronic pain or some other illness took it away. Or help us see an "alternate reality" or a "different plane of existence." Or increase our likelihood of nightmares and vivid dreams, just by increasing or decreasing the way our cells communicate in our brains or altering hormone imbalances. (I am not a scientist, so my terms/explanations may be off. But you catch my drift.)

Indeed, what proof is there (what proof can there be?) that another substance exists? The only thing that can be cited is that many humans feel like more than just a body - they feel like a soul, too. Many humans want or need to believe that part of themselves will transcend their bodily deaths, or that some things are out of their control and cannot be explained. And science can account for this, too - I'm sure some explanation can be crafted for while so many of us feel this to be true, something about neurons and chemicals and other things that I haven't studied and don't understand. Maybe we believe we're more than firing neurons because our firing neurons fire in such a way and light up the parts of our brains that have us believe that.

But I'm not a scientist. I'm an artist and a writer. I grew up Christian. And though I can shake the idea of God, and deny organized religion, I cannot shake the idea of a soul. I have to be more than just molecules. There has to be something about me that is unique and special that molecules could not recreate somewhere else, in someone else. It's perhaps egotistical to think, and very likely wrong. But the idea of dualism - two substances, the mind and the body, which work (or don't work) together in harmony and which are ruled (or rule) slightly different sets of laws - is too important to me, as a creative person, to give up.

Science may scoff, but many philosophers would agree with my assessment. There is a mind and a body. It is (to me) the more exciting and fun and desirable explanation, and it is (for now at least) the one I'm sticking with.

2015 Media Roundup - Books

This list of my favorite books of 2015 is not necessary books that were published this year; some were from previous years that I only this year got around to reading. In any case, I had a Goodreads challenge of reading 85 books in 2015 - and succeeding in that goal - and of those 85 books, these were my absolute favorites.

Some of these reviews are reposts from my previous "Feminist Books" entry.

In alphabetical order by author's last name:

-

Me and Earl and the Dying Girl 
by Jesse Andrews [YA]

My husband and I read this book and watched the movie this year; both were fantastic and the movie stayed very true to the book. I don't often laugh out loud when I'm reading, but this one totally had me laughing. It doesn't seem like a topic that would be funny - and the topic itself is not - but the voice is so authentic, refusing to shy away from teenage emotion and awkwardness, and the teenage boy narrater is often funny in an attempt to deal with the tragedy of a cancer-stricken friend.

-

Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World That Can't Stop Talking 
by Susan Cain [Non-fiction]

This was a really interesting read, not least because I am incredibly introverted (as are most of my family, friends, and people I know and love). I especially appreciated Cain's acknowledgment that modern America is made for extroverts, and that being introverted can often be difficult and harrowing - in relationships, in business, in careers, in society - not because it reflects a deficiency in character but only because our society values extroversion more. Indeed, introverts have a lot to offer, and this book makes the case for why.

-

My Education 
by Susan Choi [Fiction]

Here's the review of this book I wrote for Goodreads:

I loved this book. I didn't always love it when I was in the thick of it, and it wasn't an particularly fast or easy read, but both the language and the story itself have stayed with me long since returning it to the library - indeed, my ability to identify and sympathize with the protagonist, Regina, seems only to increase with added distance. She represents all young intellectuals, all self-assured college students, all those who have felt passionate about something or someone, all those who've fallen in love. The basic plot of the novel is a common one - Regina has fallen for a married professor, and soon the two embark on a lustful, life-changing affair. What's new is (view spoiler) Now, as for the writing itself - My first clue that I might simultaneously love and ridicule the prose came upon reading this beautiful and accurate blurb on the back cover: "She (Choi) has written lines that could be framed and displayed at a sentence festival." As expected, the language often walked a fine line between lovely linguistic calisthenics and ostentatious rhetoric. I especially laughed at the odd, formal descriptions of graphic sex scenes - but then when I read aloud some choice paragraphs to my husband to share its absurdity, I found myself defending her pretentious prose. "It makes sense, though," I said, suddenly believing every word, "because of who the characters are. They're professors and English majors." Regina is twenty-one, barely out of adolescence, yet desperate to be seen as older and wiser; of course she's going to adopt an attitude of self-righteousness, of course she's going to choose flowery narration in a misguided attempt to project worldliness. As soon as I interpreted the language through that lens - that it was the language of the character(s), not necessarily Choi herself, I loved it all. So what if there were days when I didn't read a word because I wasn't in the right mind set, wasn't awake enough or engaged enough to adequately slog through the page-long paragraphs? It was brilliant. Let it take readers longer to read. I didn't mind.

-

The Circle 
by Dave Eggers [Dystopian/Satire]

This book was satire at its finest. If you think any part of our contemporary social-media-loving, surveillance-accepting, terms-and-conditions-ignoring, "like"-obsessed world is amusing, absurd, or potentially dangerous, this book is for you. It isn't hard to imagine Eggers's America, because we're practically already living it. Are there any downsides to a lack of privacy? Will social media go to far? Are people entitled to know everything? 

What I thought was most interesting, actually, is that a "lack of privacy" is really nothing new - it's just compounded by the Internet, making even privileged people feel its effects. I feel like women, and people of color, and other minorities or disadvantaged groups throughout history often are refused privacy because people with privilege feel entitled to taking it. How many pregnant women have been asked by a stranger how far along she is, what the baby's gender is, if the stranger can touch her stomach? How many black people with natural hair have had their hair touched by strangers without even asking for permission, just because white people are amused by their "exoticness" and want to fetishize it? How many people with visible physical handicaps or birthmarks or skin conditions have been asked "what happened?" How many transgender individuals have been asked what genitals they have or don't have? How many gay people have been asked how they have sex, and what position they use, and "who wears the pants" in their relationship? How many women accusing a man of rape have been questioned about their own sexual history, and what clothes they were wearing, and how much they'd had to drink? How many women are asked if they have children or are planning to have children soon or how they balance families and careers? 

Sure, some of those questions might fall into the category of "small talk" - but the fact is that for oppressed groups of people, "small talk" is often more intrusive than it is for privileged groups. Perhaps the better question is - how many white cisgendered heterosexual men have been asked such questions or similar ones? The answer is - not many, at least not until the Internet and social media became what it is. The Internet is "the Great Equalizer" because it gives everyone the same access to information and communication (assuming one has the Internet connection) regardless of location, race, ethnicity, gender, sexuality, and so many other factors. But with that, more and more people feel entitled to all of that information, from anyone they might connect with. When we're all equal (or more equal anyway - let's not pretend Internet bullying doesn't happen), we all start to demand transparency from everyone, and not just the underprivileged. 

This book is sort of a case-study for what might happen if everyone (white cisgendered heterosexual men included) were treated as if their lives were available for monetizing, objectifying, and reclaiming by strangers and cooperations. Guess what happens? Some people put up with it and try to adapt; some make it work to their advantage as best as possible; and some fucking hate it - especially the white cisgendered heterosexual men unused to such treatment. (I'm thinking of one character in particular, who would rather commit suicide than be forced to adopt the social media platforms in this book.) A fascinating read, to be sure.

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Big Magic: Creative Living Beyond Fear 
by Elizabeth Gilbert [Non-fiction/Advice]

There is so much I could say about this book. In fact, if I have the time some day I plan to write a longer post about this book specifically - so I won't get into all of the goodies it has now. Suffice it to say, if you ever find yourself struggling with following a passion, investing in a hobby, indulging your creativity, or taking on a big project that you're excited about but anxious about attempt, you'll find some good advice in this book.

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The Girl on the Train 
by Paula Hawkins [Psychological Thriller]

The review I posted on Goodreads:

"The holes in your life are permanent. You have to grow around them, like tree roots around concrete; you mould yourself through the gaps."

"You can't step directly into a cold shower of water, it's too shocking, too brutal, but if you get there gradually, you hardly notice it; it's like boiling a frog in reverse."

Told from the point of view of three women - Rachel, the scorned ex-wife; Anna, the new wife; and Megan, the neighbor - "The Girl on the Train" raises familiar questions about the lives we live behind closed doors and the destructiveness of secrets. Rachel rides the train past her old house every day - the house where her husband now lives with his new wife and their child. She doesn't look at her old house; instead, she focuses all her attention on Megan, whom she imagines is named "Jess," and the seemingly loving relationship she has with the man Rachel silently names "Jason," because she wants what they have.

Of course, as readers we know that not all is what it seems. We see each of these women struggling with their lives and flailing in their relationships - some more than others. And then Megan goes missing, her face shown on every television set, her name in every newspaper. Rachel wants to figure out what happened, but she doesn't know who she can turn to, who she can trust. She's not even sure if she can trust herself. As readers, we are caught up in the same mystery, reading the different women's points of view for hints of the truth - the real truth - underneath their lies and secrets and doubts. 

I don't often read "psychological thrillers" - or thrillers of any kind, really - so my endorsement might not mean much to true connoisseurs of the genre, but I present it here nonetheless. "The Girl on the Train" has everything you would expect from this type of book - intrigue, mystery, misdirection, characters that are simultaneously sympathetic and distasteful, and a fast-paced plot that keeps you turning the pages - and it does all of these things very well. I particularly liked the complex character of Rachel, a struggling depressive alcoholic who wants exactly what all of us want in life - to love and be loved in return, and to have a secure home and family.

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When We Wake & While We Run 
by Karen Healey [YA, Dystopian]

These books have diversity, and the second book was even better than the first. I expected to relate most to Tegan (the white Australian female), but often found myself drawn to the staunch atheism, insightful mind, and deep empathy of Abdi (the African male). The first book is Tegan's POV; the second one is Abdi's. Watching Abdi's reaction to Tegan being appropriated for the mouthpiece of a rebel group was like getting to see The Hunger Game's Mockingjay installment from Peeta's POV - except that Katniss disagrees with how she is being used in The Hunger Games but lets them get away with it, and Tegan doesn't let anybody push her around. There is also a rape story line in the second book that was NOT used as a ploy to develop the female character, which was an interesting subversion of how it's typically utilized. 

The general premise is a little out there (like any dystopian book), but the character's dialogue and reactions felt very authentic. I liked that they cared about religion and had existential discussions/arguments with each other, and weren't just stuck in love triangles and doing their makeup and other typical "teenage" fare. Kids are people too, and they're just as prone to existential crises as the rest of us.

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The Buried Giant 
by Kazuo Ishiguro [Adult Fairy Tale]

My Goodreads review of this book:

I am frankly astonished that this doesn't have more 5-star ratings on here. This story captivated me. The plot was entertaining, the characters a pleasant band of familiar fairy tale stereotypes, and the premise thought-provoking. I finished this book at midnight - and I was still wide awake at 1:30 AM, internally debating profound questions.

- Can true love only exist long-term when couples learn to forget past quarrels? Or is a relationship without a remembered, shared past inherently dishonest and not "real" love at all?

- Are there times when memories are better forgotten?

- Is peace won by magical trickery and deceit unstable, undeserved, and intrinsically temporary? (Do the ends justify the means?)

- How do we rationalize hating an entire race of people even while acknowledging exceptions in those we've come to intimately know as friends, even while acknowledging that every race has blameless innocents?

- Is it possible to completely bridge the gap between those with different customs? Or do cultural differences and a history of antagonism prevent the possibility of harmony?

- Is vengeance ever an acceptable course of action, or is forgiveness always the better choice?

I was reminded at times of Harry Potter. (Just because something is in your head doesn't mean it's not real. It can be comforting to stay ignorant of the wrongs of the past or present, but near impossible to maintain this ignorance long-term and remain a good person. The world is not divided into good people and Death Eaters. Death is not something to be feared but something that welcomes us and reunites us with those we've already lost when it is our time to go.) 

It also reminded me of The Hunger Games. (Particularly Katniss's decision to reinstate the Games with the children of the Capital, to make the Capital atone for their mistakes, to perpetuate the cycle.)

(And I don't compare The Buried Giant to these two series lightly; they are perhaps my favorite two book series of all time.)

This might just be the best thing I've yet read in 2015; it's certainly a book I want to own, so that I can read it again and again.

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The Disreputable History of Frankie Landau-Banks 
by E. Lockhart [YA]

In this fun Young Adult novel, sixteen-year-old boarding school student Frankie is absolutely unwilling to act "appropriately" for her gender. She hates being excluded from her boyfriend's all-male secret society - especially when she knows she's smarter than any of them - and uses both her intellect/creativity and the boy's utter dismissal of her to her advantage to plan a series of pranks with socio-political commentary right under their noses.

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A Tale for the Time Being 
by Ruth Ozeki [Historical Fiction/Contemporary/Philosophical]

This book is about strong women spanning generations: an elderly Buddhist Japanese nun, her Japanese-American granddaughter Nao, and a Japanese-Canadian novelist named Ruth (very meta) who finds Nao's diary washed up on the shore of her Vancouver island residence and believes it's an artifact carried across the Pacific by the 2004 tsunami. But what really makes it feminist is the struggles Nao goes through at her Japanese high school, where she is mercilessly bullied.

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Aristotle and Dante Discover the Secrets of the Universe 
by Benjamin Alire Saenz [YA]

From my Goodreads review:

What this book does well: - Demonstrates healthy family dynamics and stresses the importance of familial physical affection. (I still can't get over how Dante's father actually kissed his son's cheek on the regular. We need more dads like that in the world.) - Demonstrates how family and friends can help you figure out who you are/who you want to be. I feel like so many YA books, especially those that are LGBT, treat LGBT teens like they're in some kind of vacuum, where they have to figure out who they are (and who they are attracted to) and come to terms with it all on their own, or with their closest friend/significant other and that's it. This book, on the other hand, shows how family relationships can play an important and POSITIVE role in helping adolescents figure out who they are. It can be so hard to understand ourselves from the inside; getting outside perspectives from a strong support system is so crucial - both for adolescents AND adults. - Demonstrates how the real significance of discovering one's sexuality is not the "coming out" to OTHER PEOPLE but the "coming out" to YOURSELF. It's about being true to yourself and comfortable with yourself. If you have that, it doesn't matter if you're an outcast at school or in your family or wherever (well, it does matter, of course it matters, but it's easier, I think, to deal with if you know that this stage of your life is temporary and you'll have further chances in life to make meaningful connections and friendships with those who accept you). What I'm trying to say is that it's called SELF-discovery. And I think a lot of books either focus on that too much (and leave off the important relationships that the kid DOES have, like relationships with family and friends, as discussed above), or not focus on that ENOUGH, and make the story more about how the kid fits into his world, instead of how his world fits in with HIM. This book strikes the perfect balance between those two extremes, succeeding where many stories fall short. - Demonstrates how to be the best possible parent Seriously, I think every adult should read this book and strive to act like Aristotle's parents and Dante's parents. Dante's parents seem to be the "better" set - but perhaps only because Aristotle is our narrator, and so he can't see all of what goes on in Dante's home when he's not around. And any faults that Aristotle's parents have are mitigated by the fact that when they become aware of these faults, they do their darndest to try to CHANGE and grow as people. So many adults/parents forget to be open-minded, forget that all relationships are two-way streets, including those with their children. Of course parents influence children, actively molding them, trying to make them good people, good human beings. But kids do that, too, or try to, and parents should listen to their kids, should accept that their kid might have some useful opinions and advice of their own that could help the PARENT be a better person. - And it does all this with a genuine, heartfelt voice. I realize that a lot of the reasons that I loved this book are from an adult's perspective - and I guess that means I'm actually an adult now, if it's the parents I am most influenced by and enamored with and relate to, rather than the kids - but there is so much good that can be said about this book from a teenager's point of view, as well, I am sure. This book was recommended to me by a friend who is a high school teacher, and she knows teenagers who have read and loved this book just as much as I do (and she does). It's all about the voice. Aristotle's voice is, as I said, completely genuine. My heart broke for him when he was feeling down; my heart leapt for him when he was happy. He read like a genuine teenager struggling with life and love and self-discovery.

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Station Eleven 
by Emily St. John Mandel [Dystopian]

From my Goodreads review of this book:

There is a lot that could be said about this book. In this review, I will stick to how it made me feel, because that's what has stayed with me most in the week or so since I finished it. "Survival is insufficient." For a book about the end of the world, there's a lot of hope to be found in these pages. It's apparent right from the book flap description - in a world whose population is drastically reduced by pandemic and roving bands of murderers and looters, there are still those who devote their lives to art, to theatre, to music, to entertainment, and to the preservation of the best accomplishments of the human mind. It's a romantic notion not unlike that presented by Robin Williams in "Dead Poet's Society": "We don't read and write poetry because it's cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. And medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for." Because this is the crux of the book, it reads differently than most post-apocalyptic tales. I found that even in moments of true danger - moments of separation from the company of others, moments of attack, moments of near-death - I never felt afraid or upset or lost, for myself or for the characters I'd grown to know. I felt reassured. Not that everything would "work out" for our protagonist, or that everyone whose names we'd learned might survive, but that it wouldn't really matter one way or the other. Humanity would continue. Humanity would persevere. Shakespeare would be read or recited or heard; music would be played and appreciated. Life would go on. "Hell is the absence of the people you long for." In a world like the one portrayed in this book, everyone has lost someone. Everyone has been displaced from their families or their homes (or both) and has to make a new life. Some succeed where others do not, but an overwhelming majority of them at least try. Humanity is resilient. It does not give up easily. In part, this book is about the way humans fail each other; the way humans fall and break and die. But more than that, it's about the way humans survive and thrive, the way humans overcome adversity, the way we love and care for each other, the way we look fondly back on our past, and the way we hope, always hope, even in the bleakest circumstances, for a better future.

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Golden Boy 
by Abigail Tarttelin [YA]

From my Goodreads review:

Max is a fifteen (soon to be sixteen) year old intersex kid growing up in an English suburb. He has a penis and a vagina. He identifies as male. His parents (lawyers both, and a father who's considering running for political office) don't like to talk to him about his intersexuality. **Trigger Warning: This book has a very graphic, heartbreaking rape scene. (This is not a spoiler. It happens in the first twenty pages or so.) There is a lot of fallout from this sexual assault. Because Max doesn't know much about his body. Because he has so little experience with sex. Because he doesn't know what to think about it, and himself, in the aftermath. He has to make a lot of important, adult decisions (not least of which is: Do I report my rapist to the police even though he's a family friend?) that no kid (and hell, no adults) should have to make. This book is told from many different perspectives. Max was my favorite voice. Daniel, his ten-year-old brother, was another great one. There's also a doctor (whose sections allow for important expositions), a girl Max likes, Max's mother, and (only toward the end of the book,) Max's father. Seeing what his parents are thinking is crucial to our full understanding of Max, but his mother's voice also creates some of the most aggravating chapters in the book. Do I understand why she does what she does? Yes. Does that mean I can forgive her? Well... Maybe not. I've been reading a lot of GREAT books recently, but this one stands out even among these great books as my current 2015 frontrunner. Here's why: First of all, I think the subject matter is Very Important. (Think Middlesex but more personal and less "sweeping family epic." Instead of decades upon decades of story to mine, there's just a single school year of Max's life.) There should be more books that raise these kinds of questions about identity and gender and trauma and love and society. Secondly, it made me sob. It reminded me of The Language of Flowers in this regard; both books have some beautiful, real moments about families and the way they communicate with each other and love each other that broke me (in the best way). There's a quote on the book jacket that describes this as a "read in one sitting" book. This is a lie. If you are anything like me, it is actually a book that you pick up and read in several smaller spurts. I did finish it in 24 hours. But I took breaks. I slept. I ate. I stepped away from it for an hour or two or three. I couldn't stay away long - the story haunted me until I picked the book up again - but I did need those breaks as I read, because it was too much to read straight through without taking the time to process, to distance myself, to breathe, and yes, to cry. I don't care who you are and what you normally like to read - if you're looking for your next book, pick this one. It's important.

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All My Puny Sorrows 
by Miriam Toews [Fiction]

From my Goodreads review:

"She wanted to die and I wanted her to live and we were enemies who loved each other."

This book is about sisters. The older one, a well-known concert pianist with a loving husband, is trapped in a cycle of failed suicide attempts. The younger one, a struggling author with two children from two different divorces, doesn't understand how the sister with the seemingly-perfect, easy life could be so intent to end it. And so begins this important book - a book that doesn't shy away from difficult questions, a book that proves mental illness can't be cured from will alone, a book that proves depression doesn't discriminate between the beautiful and plain, the talented and mediocre, the well-loved and the abandoned. 

The way it's written is almost as important as the subject matter. Like Etta and Otto and Russell and James (which is also from this year and also Canadian), the lack of quotation marks gives it a sort of lyrical, "stream of consciousness" feel and equalizes the dialogue and inner thoughts and action so that every part of the story is treated with the same weight and respect. Furthermore, for a book about a suicidal sister, there's a surprising amount of humor, of life in these pages. Life goes on, even around tragedies and heartbreak. 

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Dietland 
by Sarai Walker [Satire, Revenge Fantasy]

Plum Kettle has always believed her weight is an abomination - until she meets an underground community of women who live life on their own terms, and realizes she's been living the life others expect of her. Meanwhile, a dangerous guerrilla group called "Jennifer" is terrorizing a world that mistreats women, slicing this fast-paced and often funny satire with delicious moments of revenge fantasy.

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My Sunshine Away 
by M.O. Walsh [Fiction]

From my Goodreads review:

I was concerned (both before starting this book, knowing what it was about, and while actually reading, worrying where it was going to go, worrying what we might find out about our narrator in the end) that this topic might be dealt with too insensitively or problematically. I was worried that a male author using a male narrator (a grown man, looking back on his years as a preteen/teen growing up in Louisiana) would not be able to discuss the rape of a teenage girl (the narrator's neighbor and childhood crush) without pissing me off. I am pleased to say that I needn't have worried. 

The rape was NOT used to sexualize violent sex or to simply give the female character flaws or an emotion-wrought backstory. She was a well-fleshed-out character despite (not because of) her rape; she was a person in the present, not just a woman with a trauma in her past. Furthermore, it was clear that the greatest suspects in the crime (for most of the book addresses the neighborhood trying to figure out who her rapist was, even as the girl herself tried to put it all behind her) were men who had forgotten how to be people in their desperation to be men, to fulfill the gender role they had been assigned, to use their privilege and power to manipulate and frighten - and maybe even attack - those with less privilege and power. That is to say, by showing just how many men living on their street could have feasibly committed the crime, the narrator (and author) demonstrates how much rape is perpetuated by our culture as a whole, how we are all - to different degrees, but all of us nonetheless - partly responsible, because this is a culture we have all created. There are those of us who see things or hear things but don't report what we've seen or heard; those of who don't even realize there was anything bad in what we'd seen or heard, because it's something that so many people do or say; those of us who believe our need to grieve the loss of innocence is more poignant than the girl's need to deal with the trauma in her own way, even if that means pretending that it never happened; those of us who gossip about rape victims, or blame them. Men are mostly the ones at fault here - in this book, and in the real world at large - partly just because they are the ones with the power, with the privilege, and so whatever they do, right or wrong, has greater consequence than what women do. But women aren't blameless either; there is woman-on-women hate and slut-shaming, and we perpetuate our own oppression. We see this in the book too, most notably when the rape survivor loses her popularity when the school finds out the truth.

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Looking forward to finding more great books to read in 2016! :) Bring on the New Year!