Life. And stuff.

I want to write about how much I like my new job, but I'm not sure if I can. So instead, a story:

When I was 16, I went to visit my dad in Beijing. A visit meant to last one month somehow stretched into six. For reasons I don't fully remember, comprehend, or wish to think about, I didn't want to go back to North Carolina.

I applied for an internship with a humanitarian organization in Beijing. As part of my application, I sent in an essay I had written for school entitled "Sexism in Paradise Lost" (It started early, folks). Somehow, I got the internship and started translating articles from English to Chinese.

This humanitarian organization also happened to have a media department. Cue life-changing event: I learned how to edit video using Final Cut Pro.

I started editing a camp video. I had dreams about cuts. I couldn't stop thinking about it. I was hooked. For the first time in my life, I was truly passionate about something.

I remember editing late, late at night in the empty office. I remember how I felt going in after a weekend away, the mixture of trepidation and elation as I pushed in the door--would they be happy to see me? Would I still feel at home? Did they think I was a nuisance? I remember the huge crush I had on a guy who worked there. He was at least 14 years older than me, and I tried really hard not to have a crush on him, so of course I did anyway. But most especially, I remember Ivy, the director of the media department, and how her enthusiasm, kindness, and dedication to teaching made me feel.

Interning there changed my life. And ever since then, I've wanted to be that same kind of person for someone else.

Because I know that if it weren't for the people who have mentored me and encouraged me, I wouldn't be pursuing filmmaking. I would have given up before even starting.

Maybe this helps explain how strongly I feel about church, production, and mentorship.

I feel very, very grateful, because I know the real world so very rarely bears any resemblance to the experience I had when I was 16.

I've mentioned this to some of my friends, but there have been times and places and people that have made me feel like some of my strongest character traits are a liability. I'm independent to a fault. I'm passionate and a bit obsessive when I really care about something. I'm extremely focused and driven. And sometimes that hasn't gone over well, and I've paid the price for falling outside of the gender norm or otherwise stepping on people's toes (egos).

None of this is true in my current job. I can be independent, driven, and a little bit obsessive, and it's not only okay, it's encouraged (not that I have nothing to learn about being more interdependent and sensitive to other people).

I can breathe. And for that, I am extremely grateful.

How to Make Me Happy

In Anna Karenina, Tolstoy famously wrote that "Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way."

My happiness depends more than I would like to admit on external factors that I usually have very little control over. Which is to say, all the environments I've been happy in tend to share certain characteristics.

The title actually doesn't make sense, of course, as no one can actually make me happy. But, you know what I mean. If someone needed a user's guide to me, it might include some of the following points. 99% of the time, I am super easy to please. Really. And now for a few items:

1. Food.

This one should go without saying. Food is important. I like it. I may not be particularly great at feeding myself, but I am really great at exploiting--I mean, finding--events with free food. I am all over that.

My sister is really good at feeding people. Seriously. She owns her own dumpling truck, and you should check it out. I always eat well when she's around.

2. Junk food.

Junk food goes into its own special category. I like it. Particularly if it's free. I'm the only one in my family who still thinks junk food is cool. The rest of the lot have all embraced something scary called "healthy eating"--and yet my brother still steals my skittles. Who's the hypocrite here, hmm?

3. Freedom to work independently.

I'm crazy independent. I like figuring things out on my own, but I also want to be able to ask questions. Sometimes, I just do stuff. I can't help it! It's the way I am.

4. People.

People make me happy. I like being around them and bugging them. You know how you just like people sometimes for no reason? You see them and you just want to smile.

5. Writing (and the freedom to write whatever I want to write).

If I'm not writing, something is wrong. Or I'm just being lazy. Or I'm afraid that people are actually reading what I write. It's complicated--but the freedom to write the truth the best that I know how feels a bit like God's intention for my life.

6. Talking through ideas.

If I couldn't do this, I think I would die.

7. People making fun of me (teasing me?).

I'm not sure why I love this, but I do. I myself can't pull it off without sounding like a jerk.

8. Learning new things.

9. Good writing.

10. Sleep deprivation. Stress. Challenging circumstances. Being on set. Filmmaking.

11. Teaching/training

I used to work as a master control operator at a small TV station and I was so excited to get to train new employees (three people, singly, to be exact) to do the job. My favorite part had been the training, and so I was looking forward to training other people. There's something about seeing someone put into practice something you've taught them. There's definitely a sense of pride.

So what you're saying is...

So I read this great article about boundaries the other day by Bob Hamp, entitled "Understanding What People Are REALLY Trying to Say."

The best part of the article (in my opinion), was the section on "Boundary Setting Communication." Hamp states:

"Boundaries are almost always violated at the level of covert communication. An overt statement is made, but it is accompanied by a covert boundary 'bomb.' One example of this occurs when someone makes a crude joke or a sexual innuendo, in a relationship where such talk would normally be off-limits."

People do this in order to test your limits--will you laugh it off as a joke? Go silent? Avoid eye contact?

The way that you deal with such boundary violations is to "[m]ake the covert message overt, and pose it in the form of a question."

Now, I have to say--I think this is awesome, and kinda sorta hilarious when you really think about it. Can you imagine ACTUALLY doing this and seeing the looks on people's faces? 

Well, I'm the kind of person who thinks of the perfect comeback after the fact. I'm also the kind of person who doesn't even realize she is angry or bothered by something until a couple of hours after it happens. I have my own built-in time buffer for strong emotions.

So just for fun (and because I think it's hilarious), I'm going to make the covert overt, and ask a few questions of my own: 

"So, you just jokingly asked which of our other co-workers I contracted a sexually transmitted disease from--it seems to me that you are trying to determine whether or not I am promiscuous. Is that the case?"

"I just told you about an academic honor I received, and you responded by pointing out that I attend an inferior institution of high education. It seems like you're saying that I have not, in fact, measured up to your standards. Is that true? If I were attending Harvard, would you be proud of me then?" 

"You just pointed out that I would be so pretty if I...[fill in the blank]. So what you're saying is I'm not pretty now, but I would be if only I followed your advice and changed my appearance?"

"You just told me about your yearly vacations to Thailand, half-seriously indicated I sit in your lap, and are now playfully cornering me in the aisle of a bus. I could be wrong, but you seem to be saying that you are attracted to Asian women, and I could totally have sex with you if so inclined. True?"

Girls, Guns, and Beer

When I was a kid, I was in Girl Scouts and my brother was in Boy Scouts. I remember being jealous about the cool things my brother's troop got to do. Why were their activities so much more fun than ours?

Now that I've graduated into adulthood, life is rarely divided into gender specific activities--with the exception of the women's ministry at church.

If you hadn't noticed, churches approach men and women's ministries differently. Take this hypothetical announcement:

"Men, it's time for the [monthly men's ministry event]! This month we will [do something stereotypically female by sharing our feelings and having a good cry] ... Not! We will actually be [doing something extremely manly like shooting guns or lassoing cattle.]"

Wait a minute. Just because I'm female doesn't mean I don't want to shoot guns or lasso cattle. Why are their activities so much more fun than ours?

Well, from the previous non-quotation, I can make the following gross generalizations about men:

Men don't actually want to hang out with each other. They need an incentive (beer, poker, guns). Men do not like to share their emotions. In fact, they are terrified by the thought. Men are afraid of being perceived as overly feminine, thus they define themselves in opposition to the feminine qualities of vulnerability, sensitivity, and empathy.

Women, on the other hand, love to talk about their feelings. Put a bunch of women in a room together, and they will bond [paraphrased from a friend].

I took the opportunity to brainstorm words/things I associate with men's/women's ministry. The results are below.

MEN	WOMEN
Fun	Food
Bros	Bonding
Play	Crafts
Football	Tears
Accountability	Affirmation

These items are pretty funny in juxtaposition. Which would you prefer, football...or tears?

[As an aside, women's ministry events have the BEST FOOD EVER and/or I have cried into some pretty quality mini quiche bites while making hand-painted ornaments that say "Jesus is the BOMB!"]

I also brainstormed words about assumptions men's and women's ministries tend to make about men and women:

The church assumes men are…	The church assumes women are…
Bored	Tired
Concerned with work	Concerned with family
Lazy	Insecure
Disengaged	Overwhelmed
Distracted	Stressed
Lustful	Wounded
Desire entertainment	Desire comfort
Need encouragement to “man up”	Need validation

The assumptions [I'm assuming] the church makes about men seem blatantly insulting. As for the assumptions the church makes about women--

A lot of books, talks, and events seem to revolve around the issue of worth. And that's great. But there's more to women than their need to feel loved.

For a purely hypothetical example, I might be insecure, but also kind of arrogant. I might need validation, but also a kick in the pants. Yes, it's great knowing that God loves me just the way I am, but I also want to do something about it.

In my experience, issues related to worth and self-esteem tend to manifest cyclically throughout the seasons of life. And what brings me out of myself is usually acting as if I am loved, not the feeling itself. 

As for whether guys bond better by doing things together rather than by having deep, heart-to-heart talks--

My brother is two years younger than me. When we were kids, he was always trying to get me to play with him (maybe other older siblings can relate). On one family roadtrip, my mom taught us how to play poker with toothpicks. My brother was so enamored with the game, that he kept the game going long into a night of sleeping in our Jeep Cherokee (it was an interesting trip). 

So yeah. Maybe there's something to it.

Sex, Text and My Other Body

I'm sure there's a literary/sociological/psychological theory* that addresses this, but I've been thinking about something I can best describe as "my other body."

This is not my actual, physical body, but my symbolic one--not how I experience the world as flesh and blood, but how the world chooses to experience me. Perhaps I can explain.

I might see someone I don't know and based on his appearance alone conclude that he is smart, dumb, nerdy, a douchebag, etc.

Another person might see me and based on appearance alone conclude that I am not American and must be from a different country.

Or a person might view my body as a sexual object, no matter that I am not (an object).

I'll put aside for the moment the question of whether our bodies do have any inherent value, worth, or beauty. Let it suffice for this blog that there are in fact two very different bodies in play. [I imagine someone who saw the two bodies as one and the same would have some kind of body dysmorphia.]

I find this concept extremely helpful as a writer. From the earliest days of literature, writers have identified their works with their own bodies--often as mother or father to an errant child. Anne Bradstreet famously wrote a poem titled "The Author to Her Book" in which she chides the "ill-formed offspring of my feeble brain." In this conception, the work is both intimately associated with the writer's body (as child) and dissociated and excused for its flaws and imperfections (the text as orphan).

Another Renaissance writer wrote of having undergone "pressing" to produce his book (don't you just love a good suggestive pun?). Both of these metaphors indicate the vulnerability (to criticism, etc.) of not only the author, but the author's body.

I'm sure every writer can relate to this in one way or another. You write something. You put a little (or a lot) of yourself into it, then the editor/publisher changes a word here, a phrase there and completely changes what you wished to say.

[I used to metaphorically hit the ceiling every time the school paper came out and the editors had once again marred my flawless copy with one or more grammatical, typographical, or idiomatic errors. Did I mention I was a joy to work with?]

Or someone reads something you've written and takes it completely out of context, interpreting it to mean something it doesn't mean or imputing to you a belief you hate.

And for whatever reason, women's symbolic bodies have always been more vulnerable then the symbolic bodies of men: witness online (or in print) attacks on a woman's looks or sexual history or anatomy, all because she wrote about, I dunno, anything. I can understand why authors like Charlotte Bronte wrote under a male pseudonym. Protection. Safety. No one drawing attention to the vulnerability of your body as female.

I feel this vulnerability--as much as I have tried to protect this other body so intimately associated with my own. I've tried to protect it in the way that I dress (that doesn't really work, by the way). I've stopped writing because a man read my words and thought that he knew me, thought that he could read me, thought that he could take liberties because hadn't I put myself (my body) out there for everyone to read?

I've despaired to think that in the career path I wish to pursue, my male coworkers will see me primarily as the cute girl (with "deep, dark, and soulful eyes," direct quote from one confessional email) and not as competent, smart, or talented.

I know I've been stressing the disconnect between my actual, physical body and this other body, but truthfully, they're not always so disconnected. It's this other body, I think, that causes men to casually touch my leg, my waist, my butt (without, as one friend so memorably put it, even bothering to buy me a happy meal first). It can't be me, right?

I don't know what it's like to be white, male, and heterosexual (a girl can dream), but I imagine there's less of a gap between the way other people perceive you and the way you perceive yourself. I imagine there are fewer moments of disconnect. I could try to primarily see myself as a sexual object, but I think that would get in the way of my writing.


[Based on this, one of the major feats that women in our culture are expected to achieve to become adults is internalizing the male gaze, or viewing themselves as primarily sexually attractive or not. Thus, being sexy is a culturally conditioned behavior that requires seeing a reverse image of yourself (as sexy) and then projecting it back to the world.]


*This might be Lacan and the mirror stage. Or Marx and alienation (alienated from work, from your body, from other people's bodies which then become instruments of production?). Or feminism and the male gaze.

Are you experienced? : Excellence, Exclusion, and the Hollywoodization of Church

“Well, we’re really looking for someone with experience.”

My heart sank. These were the words I dreaded with all the dread of a combined $30,000 in student loan debt. Experience was exactly what I did not have as a recent grad.

What I did have were Hollywood dreams, a resume replete with low-level production jobs, and a working knowledge of literary theory.

Now, here I was, rejected from a volunteer, assistant position on a film that would never make money. I reacted the way most mature adults do when faced with rejection. I raged. I sulked. I griped to my friends. I half-heartedly contemplated quitting my dreams.

But most of all, that word “experience” hit me like a punch to the gut. I thought I was over it. I had mentally shrugged it off as no big deal.

I had tried once, unsuccessfully, to volunteer at a church I was attending. I wanted to get involved. I chose production arts because it seemed like the best fit for a wannabe filmmaker who happens to be an introvert and doesn’t particularly like directing cars or working with children.

I was emailing back and forth with a church staff member. He asked me what I wanted to do. I said I wanted to work behind-the-scenes. He asked about my experience. I described my involvement in making movies. Radio silence on his end.

I finally approached him at church and introduced myself.

“Oh. I had confused you with another girl named ‘M___’ who is definitely not qualified to volunteer for the production arts team.”

In the next 30 seconds, he must have used the word “experience” at least five times: everyone who volunteers for production arts needs to have experience, all the people who’ve signed up during the volunteer drive are supposed to have experience, the other girl doesn’t have experience, etc.

I froze. I dug around in the back of my mind. How could someone be so completely unqualified to run PowerPoint slides or wrangle microphones? I quickly surmised that she must have been born without thumbs. How tragic.

Everything hit me at once—my name in the emails (announcing my gender, my non-white racial status), my perceived lack of knowledge, my dubious credentials, and my strange kinship with this girl with missing digits. I felt naked and exposed, as if the letters of my name had shouted from the rooftops the deep unworthiness I had tried so hard to hide.

How had he perceived the truth about me? How had my name betrayed me so brutally?

I did what all writers do under these circumstances. I wrote what I knew was a reasoned, well-thought-out email explaining why what he said had bothered me. I was handling this in a grownup, rational fashion. I joked to myself, “Well, at least he didn’t tell me to go volunteer for the children’s ministry or the welcome team instead.” But at night my mind wouldn’t let go of that girl, that other girl, the one without thumbs. I kept thinking about her. I felt bad for her.

I knew it was nothing personal. What is church after all, amateur hour? You can’t just let anyone push buttons or run PowerPoint slides. These things take finesse, experience, maybe even some degree of talent.

God forbid a bad sound mix or a missed slide distract the churchgoer from the message of the gospel. It’s about excellence. And experience is the necessary precursor.

Excellence is hard to define, but I think we all know mediocrity when we see it. Rachel Held Evans calls out painfully amateur special music as one hallmark of the awkward church. As Christians, mediocrity embarrasses us. If it’s not good enough for the world, it shouldn’t be good enough for Sunday service. Mediocrity hurts us and makes us cringe, like watching your friend perform bad standup at a club with no guest list and a two drink minimum.

And so we are urged to give God our best: Quality. Excellence. Good production values. I don’t believe that God has a problem with any of these things. I don’t think your worship is any more pleasing to God because you have a crappy sound system or sing Keith Green songs off key.

Similarly, just because a movie has positive Christian values, spells out the gospel, or is produced by a mega church does not make it good. Au contraire says every “Left Behind” movie ever made.

I currently go to church on Hollywood Boulevard. We get our share of the homeless, the strung-out, and the downright crazy. Last Sunday, a relatively normal looking man rushed the stage in an attempt to join in as a backup singer for the worship team. He never made it that far. Security escorted him out, his hands still outstretched for a microphone.

I feel like I’m that guy sometimes—the grossly unqualified gatecrasher violating the sacred order of the liturgy with my flaws, my brokenness. It’s not that I’m not experienced. It’s that I know that no matter how much experience I have at living this life I will never be perfect.

If only you could see my heart—the hatred, the bitterness, the jealousy, and the pride—you would rightfully conclude that I should be forcibly removed as well. In the face of perfection, I am unworthy. We all are. We are all missing a few fingers, or in my case, probably a major limb.

To weave the connection between church and Hollywood a little bit tighter, consider this Hollywood value: The product is more important than the people.

If it is the quality of the end product that matters, the church too can justify exclusion on the basis of excellence. Are you experienced? Are you worthy? Will you make us look bad?

In the midst of my disappointment at my rejection from the film job I didn’t have the experience for, what hurt the most was realizing that a church was ready to reject me for the same reason—this ethic of excellence that expels and excludes.

Ironically, I HAD the right experience. But my name, my face, my body told a different story.

The church is not transforming Hollywood. Hollywood is transforming the church and making it after its own image.

Feminist resolves to give up getting angry as primary free-time activity

After much thought, consideration, and eye rolling from friends, Laurie Merten, 33, has decided to give up getting angry as her primary free-time activity.

"It was getting out of control," said Merten's best friend, Lindsey Seville. "We couldn't go out for a quiet dinner at the Olive Garden without Laurie bursting into a tirade about the portrayal of women as thought objects in the post 90s cinema of Wong Kar-wai."

Merten, also affectionately known to her family as "Ragey McRagerson," used to spend the majority of her free time penning feminist screeds or lecturing strangers on the metro about the differences between second and third wave feminism.

"Cultivating rage really took a lot out of me," Merten admits. "I spent so much of my time working myself into a state of righteous indignation that I really missed out on a lot that life has to offer."

Initially at a loss about what to do with her newfound free time, she has quickly turned to other forms of less violent entertainment, including yoga, knitting, and posting videos of cute animals to her friends' facebook walls.

"It seems to calm her," said David Li, Merten's live-in boyfriend. "She's already knitted five beanies and three scarfs for her nephew, Jason. He lives in Miami."

"It's really quiet around here," he added.

Merten, a marketing executive for a local company, first took up fury as a sophomore in college.

"The professor asked everyone who considered themselves a feminist to raise their hand. No one did. That's when I knew that becoming an angry bitch was my true calling."

"I was so naive."

Fourteen years later, Merten has relinquished her wrath. "I used to let every little thing bug me. Now, when a strange man gropes me on the street, I just shrug it off as a compliment."

Instead of burning her bra on the street corner every Sunday at 6am sharp, she has been spending an increasing number of hours on Pinterest.

"People don't tend to pin things that they're angry about," she explained. "I never see anyone pinning about child slavery or the the concussion her husband gave her for burning the cornbread."

Through Pinterest, she has already pinned over 30 popsicle stick crafts that she will never get around to actually making.

"It's amazing what you can accomplish when you're not spending your free hours haranguing against the patriarchy."

The road hasn't been easy. Merten admits that giving up rage has severely restricted her internet habits. She has stopped watching the news. When a co-worker starts talking about the republican primary, she puts her hands over her ears and starts singing loudly.

Recently, she found herself meditating vehemently in a bathroom stall after a male colleague was promoted after only six months in the same position.

"No, I don't think it has anything to do with gender. Men and women are basically equal in this day and age. They wouldn't have promoted him if they didn't think he was good at what he does. Would you like me to knit you a scarf?"

"I kind of miss the old Laurie," admitted Li.

"At least she would raise her voice when something was bothering her. Now I have to tiptoe around all the time."