moonpiemag-blog

[moonpiemag-blog]

I’m thinking about ancestors. And gefilte fish.

I’m the type of newly minted adult that can barely manage to tie my shoes. I spend 40 dollars on pot in a good week. I use money like it doesn’t matter. I take my daily life for granted. The all-black pants I wear. The nonchalant way in which I assert my dominance crossing the street. In every way possible I am fulfilled in my ability to be a contributing part of society. Yet I squander my power, i tuck it away in a gem covered box, and I quell my fears with smoke. So many people I know find themselves open, and ready for life but empty inside. Pamela uses men to fill the void. She wants someone to prove that her worth is more than a pretty face. Shag uses cigarettes and a dreams for fleeting loves-lost. She needs to know that her dream of another city, another town, another place, is possible. Jay opens a suitcase and packs all the love he carries into it. He knows that when anybody gets too enamored, they lose their vocational motivation. So he locks his need for a loving girlfriend away, pretends he’s okay, and writes and reads and clicks a calculator, settling for a grade on a slice of premium white notebook paper.

Whatever fulfills you, right? We all have our secrets, right?

It seems that problems were created when freedom was handed out. We all got our ticket. One-way, to the future. But here’s the thing, our ancestors, covered in muck, working away for golden bread and butter were poor, and ugly, and probably miserable at times, but they did have one thing: meaning. Forced meaning, that is.

In the olden days only few were destined for greatness. It was common knowledge that you grew into your parents, you fed your children, you wanted for nothing but to keep pushing forward until tomorrow, when you would wake up to the sound of chickens, and get ready to start it all over again. The simplicity of daily life made prospering creatively damn near impossible. It also made the ones that did slip by, societal outcasts. Drunks. Losers. Look at Hemingway. A genius, but sick. He gave in to his purpose by throwing away all hope for a normal life. For someone like Hemingway, the life he needed to live was not for himself. It wasn’t even for the milk-maid's son. It was for the future. It was for the young tuck in 50 years that would wake up, smiling, knowing that there was another outsider of the past that had defied the slim possibility into creativity.

Nowadays meaning could be anything; we can do anything; we can be anything. Nobody sits you down at age 13 and tells you you’re going to be forced into marriage with the milk-makers son. You don’t have to conceive at 16. You don’t have to cook dinner in a frying pan with homemade butter from your cow in the back. You can do what you want, order food in, dream of being a famous playwright, and have your parents sitting quaintly in the back as you tick away their savings at an elite NorthEast college because that’s what is expected of us all nowadays: anything. This is us following our dreams. Being who we want to be.

For our ancestors, you took the societal approach. You fall into the line handed to you, you make that family, and curate that house.

Nowadays, there is no two-choice solution. Anything is possible. You can follow so many paths: you can have kids in your 40’s, and don’t even need to get married to do it; you can get 4 degrees, flying around the world, eating fine cheese, with money somehow always appearing in your designer jeans pockets. It’s just a phase. One day you’ll settle down. Or you won’t, and that, in the long term, is ok, too.

Your life is not just set out for you in such simpleness. We go beyond the kitchen and try to be a filmographer but also tell ourselves that worse case scenario, we can “go to law school” if need be. It’s that simple. Life is a series of pamphlets we can all peruse and flip through at any time. We can choose, try the model out for a while, decide we made the wrong choice, return it, and begin the process again. Second chances are awaiting at every open door.

***

You can build a life from nothing. You can be a creative and talentless, mocking all that your ancestors worked for. And so damn ignorant you’ll never know the difference.

So how do we know If your vision matters more than the next damn fool with a dream?

How do we know If we’re harnessing our newfound freedom in the best way possible? Basically, how do we know if we’re not just wasting our damn time?

It’s so muddled nowadays, the distinction so unclear.  I could go off on a little creative spark and change the world. Or I could lose myself, lose my chance and throw away the freedom i’ve been handed.

And then i’ll be sad because I’ll feel like i’m not living my best life, following my true ambitions. And i’ll be selfish and upset, and complain about my life because that’s what we do. Complain. But how could I even complain about such options? How can I think only of myself and my ambitions and my future and my job in such a way, when 100 years ago I wouldn’t have even considered the ability to change around a few tasks in my daily routine in life a chance. My ancestors never had such time of day to snooze around dreaming of the limelight.

It’s sick but true that my life all comes down to blind circumstance.  I am who I am because I was born in 1997 to parents that let me believe I was special.

100 years ago, I wouldn’t have been special. I would have been another curly haired Jewish girl shipped off for marriage and a life spent in the kitchen, making and concocting delicacies. Chopping and serving. Wiping the sweat off my forehead onto the front pocket of my smock.

Remove a century, and I’m making gefilte fish for a High Holy Day celebration. Female dominance gone, in servitude to my tiny jewish community. I would have known nothing more than a few wooden doors, a Temple, and a city line.

I would wear long skirts, and listen to my disgusting bearded husband assert dominance as I brined up the fish in the bathtub, de-scaled it, sliced it in half, cut and chopped it into discernable pieces, fold and molded it into shape, and served it fresh for Passover supper with a smile for my beaming family. I would tell myself I was happy because how could I not be happy? I had love and was doing everything I was supposed to do. There was nothing more to dream of, there was nothing more to have, life was simple. It was a daily struggle, but one that was worthy in the eyes of the town, and my peers, and my God.

My life could have easily been that. Or worse.

But yet here I am, late into the darkness of night, and I still take this life for granted. I have a blank page ahead of me, no plans for forced marriage or a forced life in servitude.

And, so, I slice and dice my own thoughts up. Instead of preparing a luxury meal for my family, I’m left by myself, attempting to prepare a creative life worthy of success.

Instead of serving a husband and family, I serve a university. I serve expectations. But the problem is, with so much freedom, life becomes unclear. IT becomes a free-for-all where you can do ANYTHING.

but can you?

Should we be allowed so much choice? Am i just destined for a chopping board full of fish bits, but I’m too damn spoiled to realize it? Is it sick of me to even consider such a life?

I squalor the freedom I have been graciously handed on stupid things. I waste all of the fight that women of the past, tasting their bitter tears as they fed their children and men, accepted because they hoped one day things would change.

The freedom that women have fought so hard for has created a paradox wherein we all find ourselves alone, almost hoping for someone to tell us what to do, who to be. We are left in a self-motivated fight for our own creativity. We need it, we crave it, we don’t want to, but we do. And i’m not saying just manly approval. Yes, we crave manly approval, but it’s not the only approval, and surely not the most important.

What I’m talking about is much worse: creative approval. Intellectual approval. Societal approval.

So here I am again, sitting in a luxury Brownstone worth millions and I find myself feeling sorry for myself. Because I feel lost.

And so we’re right back where we started.  

And i sink into my seat, thinking about my ancestors. And gefilte fish.

[moonpiemag-blog]

I am friends with a pro-social psychopath and it’s ruining my life.

[moonpiemag-blog]

Are Protests the new Brunch?

By Sedgwick Blaine

         On January 29th 2017, tens of thousands of protesters congregated in Boston’s Copley Square to stand in solidarity with those affected by President Trump’s executive order banning refugees. The event, which was shared on Facebook by CAIR Massachusetts, America's “largest Muslim civil liberties and advocacy organization”, began on Facebook; a quaint blurb sharing the protests motive ended “All are encouraged to attend - please spread widely!”. It is with the idea of rapid sharing on social media that such an abruptly planned event was able to amass a crowd of 20,000.

        Social media has become a way for attendees of political events to become organizers. One can sign onto Facebook, peruse through the Upcoming Events portion, and click “Interested” or “Going” if the political event intrigues them. In the case of the Copley Square Protest, 20,000 people showed up in person, but 27,000 people clicked they were going. Such political “events” are quick ways to show political solidarity, even if one does not end up going to the protest. Moreover, such event-sharing is likely the main way participants learn about events.  Facebook and twitter act as interactive carrier pigeons; notifying us of the times and place of protest. 

It is the age of online activism.

        *Shag, a second year Music student at Northeastern University, has intently kept up to date on the protest happenings around Boston. She went to both the Copley Protest and the Boston Common protest. She knows a thing about protests. That is why one may squirm in their seat a little when they hear her blunt declaration: “Protests are the new Brunch.” It is not said with disdain, although it could be interpreted that way. Shag expects whips of shock at such a statement, and she is not without a cannon-ready rebuttal to those that disagree with such a comparison. “Protesting has become a casual Sunday occurrence, just like Brunch is”, Shag said, “It's like rich dads with little girls on their shoulders making themselves feel good for the afternoon then spending $199 on being and going home to their brownstones. And not caring at all about the people who supposedly elected Trump- those who just want jobs and don't have disposable income. The same liberal elite that twisted the media so badly that nobody could even think Trump would win. That’s not what's gonna help. That's what's hurting us, the division between two schools of thought.” Serena, just like many self-proclaimed progressives, has found issue with the ways in which people nonchalantly submit themselves to protesting, “the problem is we still all go to brunch afterwards, while our 4th cousins in Indiana sit in the couch watching the Simpsons waiting for the jobs to return like Trump promised”.

        What keeps her going to protests? “My friends”. It’s a simple answer, but a valuable one. Although self-proclaimed progressives may find issue with the current state of the political process, they still find themselves going, time and time again. Mostly, this occurs because even cynics of protests know the weight they carry, the message they send.

          Facebook may be a way to allure a certain type of faux-activist that Shag speaks of, but even those “caught in their liberal bubble”, are showing up in unusually large numbers. These “Limousine Liberals”--(another phrase Shag knowingly throws out there) therefore raise an important question: If protestors are showing up purely out of self-flagellatiory adoration, is it unethical? And even if there are posers that nonchalantly attend protests, doesn’t it matter more, for the sake of Progressivism, that these slush puppies at least are attending?  To put it in child speak: Maybe, just in this political climate, with so much at stake, we should treat such faux protestors with open arms, even if it’s purely to juke the stats. The More The Merrier (?).

       Although Americans may be using Facebook or Twitter as a means to treat protesting as simply as they treat an Egg Benedict, it has shown that attendees of these marches, like the one in Copley Square, are attracting record numbers. Case and point: Senior senator from Massachusetts Elizabeth Warren and her Junior senator, Ed Markey were present at the Copley Square Protest, standing in solidarity. And on Twitter, Nancy Chen, an anchor and reporter for Sky 7 news, tweeted her pictorial view of the gargantuan crowd in Copley. It was retweeted 14,719 times; liked 27,228 times. 

 Rapid-fire postings are gaining momentum in allowing participants to share their personal thoughts about the protests’ successes and failures: 

        For example, on the Discussion portion of the Copley Square Protest Facebook page, many attendees shared gratitude over the quick nature of “Sunday Protesting”. “Thank you for organizing (especially so quickly!) and getting the word out!”, Amy Gagnon posted in a Facebook comment, “Great, electric atmosphere and amazing turn out. Together, we can and will resist! ” 

Additionally, Andrea Markarian, shared an especially personal anecdote:       “My first time protesting and most likely not my last. My 11 year old son came along and chanted with me. Felt so good to come together with like-minded, open-minded, positive, proud people. Thank you for organizing this event. You made it very memorable. Cried quite a few times yesterday, out of joy, pain, fear, and hope” 

       There may be beauty in this new type of “brunch” that is happening throughout countless cities, counties, states, countries, continents. Beauty in the way complete strangers are organizing in record time and numbers. People may be patting themselves on the back a little too hard for their automatic click of “Going” to a political event, but data proves, people are going. Simply enough, its seen in Boston, MA’s Copley Square Protest. 20,000 people were there that day in Copley Square, waving their signs in the sky. One could say that such a mass of people would likely cultivate quite the expensive Brunch tab.