A Plea for Art in Public Schools

    Creating has always been a therapeutic experience for me, a coping mechanism. For as long as I can remember, I've been drawing, making, cutting, pasting--creating. Art allows me to take my energy and emotion and channel it into something beyond myself.  

    I have been creating as an "artist," since middle school. When I was about twelve, I did all of my art in black and white or plain gray pencil. I was afraid to express myself in color. I was afraid to mess up my work. I was afraid to live vibrantly. I was also in a deep state of depression which can account for my choice of medium.

    Now, I am at a better place in my life. My art is full of color and whimsy. It is full of quotes, flowers, metallics, and happiness. It's a different time. A new type of art for me. A different stage if you will. Picasso had his "blue period," and I had a gray period. And I still have my gray days.

One of my most recent hand lettering projects

    Art is so beautiful, messy, weird, and fascinating, and it is dying in our public schools. How are kids supposed to express themselves in ways that they never expected? How are they supposed to dream and wonder? We must keep art in our public schools to give young people an outlet to communicate without saying a word. Art is powerful and has the ability to change lives. Children need to be exposed and immersed in it during their education experience in order to learn and grow as humans.

A page from my high school Narrative Project

    For me, art class was an escape. An escape from the chaos around me. A place where I could just focus and learn. I could listen to Nora Jones and the Red Hot Chili Peppers while I cut and pasted magazine pieces into the negative space of my still life. It was my favorite part of my day. However, the quality of art education that I received beyond middle school is not what I would call education. The classrooms were messy, unorganized, and the teachers didn't teach technique, style, or even art history. They didn't teach at all. The supplies were few and far between or ruined due to lack of care. Once I was in college, I was given the opportunity to take an Art Appreciation class taught by a teacher with so much passion. She talked about art in a way that allowed me to devour it, and I was utterly amazed. I will never forget her giving me that experience. 

A page from my Narrative dedicated to
Warhol

    Art has helped me through the bad, it has allowed me to shine through the good, and it has given me a voice when I was too afraid to speak. Art is so important. I will never stop, and we must make sure that the next generation is exposed to it. Without art, the world is lackluster. Without art, the world's beauty and future voices are stifled.

    My first love in the art world was Claude Monet with his water lilies and Paris landscapes in middle school. Then, came Andy Warhol with his bold use of color and line in high school. After that, I discovered the likes of Yasumadsa Morimura and his self protraits and Maria Abramovic in The Artist is Present in college. Now, I'm in love with the typography of Kimothy Joy.  I will always be a viewer, appreciator, and creator. 

    Art has influenced my way of thinking and my view of the world. It has shaped me as a person. I hope my children and their peers can say the same. Do what you can to save the fine arts in our public schools by writing your local school board a letter, by donating to Americans for the Arts, or by directly donating to your school's art program.

Here are a few pieces of my art--a now and then if you will.

Two of my latest hand lettered pieces

Three of my paintings from 2016

Two of my very first collages created at least 12 years ago

Thanks for reading! Don't stop creating!

Stacy

I Remember

    You can't hate yourself into loving yourself. I wish someone would have emphasized this to me when I started having body image issues at the age of 8. This one goes out to all the mean girls--especially to the biggest mean girl of them all, myself.

    I remember being 8 years old with long brown hair in a blue floral bikini at the Chandler Park pool on a scorching summer day. I remember going up to my mom asking for a quarter for the pop machine, so I could get a can of Dr. Pepper. And I remember the lady she was talking with saying, "Oh, this is your daughter! She's so skinny and tan. She could be a little model." I was a normal, 8 year old girl in a bathing suit who had never given much thought to her weight or appearance and didn't quite know how to receive this "compliment." This moment. This exchange is what I feel all of the issues with my body image come back to. Where they're rooted. It's weird how one second the world is innocent. Then, all of a sudden you become self aware, hyper aware, critical, and insecure. It's funny; I don't even remember this woman--really remember her.  I can't even picture her face, but I remember her words. Words stick with you. Words have power and weight. As Maya Angelou once said, "Some day I think we will be able to measure the power of words. I think they are things. They get on the walls. They get in your wallpaper. They get in your rugs, in your upholstery, and your clothes, and finally in to you." The words got to me.

    The first person that I heard use negative language toward their own body, specifically, was my Momma. My Momma is tall and fair skinned. She has bouncy blonde hair that can often be found swept up out of her way. Nothing gets in my mom's way. Not even her hair. She is brown eyed and long nosed. She wears her jewelry like a badge of honor never going anywhere without it. She would look naked to me if I ever saw her without at least one set of earrings, a necklace, and two rings on. She likes jeans, white tennis shoes, hoodies, fuzzy socks, and flouncy blouses. She is my mother. She is strong and beautiful.

My beautiful Momma

    I idolized my mother growing up--I still do. For many girls, they learn self loathing from the women that raise them or just women in general. Whether it be consciously or unconsciously. My Momma is a beautiful strong woman who uses her body every day to work, move, and help people--to help herself, family, and customers. But, I can remember that strong woman being broken down in a dressing room staring at the number or letter(s) on the label of a piece of clothing. I remember. We have all been this woman.  Why do we, strong women, do this to ourselves? 

    I, of course, don't blame the women in my life for thinking of themselves negatively. I don't blame them for it rubbing off on me. I blame society's rigid ideals of women. I blame the magazines, tv shows, and movies. I blame the media. Now, don't get me wrong. I don't dislike all things to do with society and the media--though it may seem that way considering my constant outcry for change. But, the way women are discussed as fragile and delicate (which it is okay to be), and the way women's bodies are discussed and treated, particularly, are the issues that get me fired up. Females are strong as hell. We are so much more than our jean or shirt size. We are moms, teachers, helpers, doers, artists, coaches, lovers, fighters, and so much more. We are women. 

Art by me, Stacy Hall. Quote from the Unbreakable
Kimmy Schmidtt

    I can recall being about 10 or 11 sitting in my mom's beaten down maroon Nissan outside of the Dollar General gaping at the town's homecoming issue of the paper. Staring at the homecoming court and just crying. Crying my eyes out, and telling my mom, "I'll never be one of THOSE girls, will I Momma?" 

    I remember being in the bathroom in 8th grade and having a group of girls tell me, "I wish I could be as skinny as you, Stacy." While when I looked in the mirror, I saw a distorted image of myself.  What they didn't know was that I was too sad to eat. I could control my eating; I couldn't control my surroundings.  

    I can recall being in the 9th grade sitting by myself at lunch eating nothing, being a hundred pounds of skin and bones, writing in a journal while I tried to avoid the eye contact of everyone around me. I remember my Momma being so scared running into the bathroom when I choked on my toothbrush brushing my tongue thinking that I was throwing up what little food I ate. I never did throw up for the record. 

    I can remember sitting on the white and purple floral duvet cover of the extra long twin bed in my dorm room Sophomore year while two of my "friends" sat in the floor and discussed how they had both eaten two cookies today, and they couldn't believe how fat they felt. I also remember them making fun of the size XL shirts they found at Walmart that they said fit them like dresses. I was an XL.  They knew this.  I remember wanting to do nothing but eat a whole container of cookies after they left I was so angry. I remember eating the cookies.

    I have been thin. I have been fat. I remember under eating or eating nothing. I remember telling my parents I was practicing "portion control." I remember binge eating during finals week my Junior year of college, avoiding studying, watching Dawson's Creek, and crying about how messed up my idea of self was. How I didn't know who I was or how I'd ever be happy.

    I remember last summer at 24, having my husband take photos of me in my cute outfits, because I happened to one day come across a post of someone who looked like me with the hashtag "body positivity." I remember finally not being angry at my body anymore. I remember learning to stop hating myself. I remember my journey. It's important not to forget. I am so glad that I finally realized after more than half of my life that you can't hate yourself into loving yourself.

Thanks for reading,

Stacy

What Body Positivity Means to Me

    Finding body positivity, for me, was like finding a best friend hiding around the corner who had been living in the house tucked down the street my whole life that I didn't even know existed.  Except, that friend was me in disguise. She was in plain sight the whole time. I just had to wake up from my dreamy daze and look her in the eyes. And I have finally accepted her, my body, as a beautiful part of myself. Body positivity and being at peace with one's self means something different for everyone. I have only come to realize recently --in the last day-- after speaking with a friend that body positivity can have two vastly different interpretations --and probably many more-- depending on the person.

    Last night, I was puzzled by a post online that I saw on a friend's Facebook. This friend is a woman that I respect, and I admire as a mother and as woman in general. She had posted something that was in favor of altering her body to appear thinner in order to feel better about herself  --I am avoiding specific details as not to single her out, because I respect her. This troubled me, as I am a body positivity advocate, and I turned to a trusted fellow female friend with a very pointed  --and I now see, judgmental-- question: Why are people so hell bent on changing their bodies instead of loving them?  She had the most eye opening and accepting response for me.

    She sent me this video to the song "Most Girls" by Hailee Steinfeld:

Art by me, Stacy Hall, lyrics from "Most Girls"

    This song hit me like a slap in the face. I came to the realization that body positivity is not just about accepting your body for how it is right now, but it is, more importantly, about loving yourself overall. If  you love yourself right now as you are, then that is awesome, and I am so glad that you have started your body positivity journey.  If you don't, then work toward that love in your own way. In your own time. A way that isn't destructive to your body or mental health, but rather in a way that makes you feel good. If that means changing or altering your body to make yourself feel better, then change away, girl! As long as you are doing it in a healthy way, then who am I to judge? Who is anyone to judge? This may seem like a simple revelation and a very obvious one to some, but as a feminist who is still developing and as an advocate, I am learning and trying to unlearn the ideals pushed on me by society every day. 

You can buy this awesome pin here

    Before last night, I saw body positivity as a one way street. The song "Scars to Your Beautiful" by Alessia Cara was a good interpretation of my views toward it previously. But, now I see body positivity as a two lane highway. You just have to pick your lane and drive down your own path paving the way as you go. Pick your lane, or your team if you will. Love yourself as you are now, or work toward it in your own way. Whichever team you pick, I am here to offer you support and hopefully learn from your experiences. That is what is so beautiful about life--if we open our ears, eyes, minds, and hearts, then we can continually learn from one another by educating each other. Thank you, kind friend for broadening my world view. You kick ass, and your girls supporting girls attitude is so powerful and influential! 

Thanks for reading,

Stacy 

The New Normal

    Many individuals, myself included, struggle with mental illness or some type of disorder. For me, depression accompanied by anxiety has been a part of my story, since I was 11 or 12 years old. Mental illness is overtly stigmatized in our society. People who live with a mental illness and are open about it are very often unfairly stereotyped at some point as "crazy," "insane," or "out of control." This type of language surrounding mental illness is harmful. When used, it can cause the individuals struggling to withdraw and can potentially reaffirm what they already feel about themselves which could lead to an episode or worse. Normalizing mental illness is my only solution to this problem. We should actively try to learn more about mental illness through research, we should discuss it often, and we should support one another to eliminate unnecessary shame. It's okay to have a mental illness. It's normal. 

Me, around the age of my first episode

    I had my first depressive episode during the 8th grade. This may sound hard to believe, especially of someone so young, but this is not as uncommon as you may think. The suicide rate for young people ages 15-24 as reported by the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention in 2015 was 12.5%. This number is alarming to say the least and only increases with age. As a teacher and a once depressed young person, --not saying that I am cured merely that I am no longer what I consider to be a young person--I worry. I worry about my past students so much. I want them to have resources, and I want their friends and parents to be able to recognize the warning signs and triggers and understand the coping mechanisms. I want normalization for that lonely, distraught, terrified 8th grade girl.

    For me, my depression coupled with anxiety are like two dancing shadows. They are dressed in a black darkness and glide up behind me while I am trying to stand in the light. They're inviting me to dance, and I have no say in whether or not I will accept their hands in invitation. 

    In this video posted by Button Poetry, the speaker describes what depression is like for her through spoken word poetry. The poem tells her story and fight to have her mental illness recognized as valid by her mother:

    This video is so powerful, because you can hear the cries of approval. You hear the speaker's voice and the voices of others overcome by affirmation of their like minded feelings.  I know I will always have bouts of depression, but videos like this give me hope. Hope that we are building a community of support.

    If things become too bad with my depression, I know that I can seek support in other ways. I can do this through counseling when needed, and I have through Multi-County Counseling of Oklahoma. Their services are amazing. I also know there are other resources out there like the Suicide Prevention Lifeline, the Trevor Project, and online support groups. Not everyone knows this or has access to these resources which is why we have to spread this information like our lives depend on it. Because the life of someone we know, very well could.

Tell people how you feel. Offer support. Be there.

    There is a popular show on Netflix right now called "13 Reasons Why" based off the young adult novel that demonstrates the need for access to resources and support systems.  It brings to light the fact that people with depression who are contemplating suicide rarely reach out on their own. The story that is depicted throughout the series is about a girl, Hannah Baker, who takes her life and the 13 reasons that lead her to the decision. If you notice someone withdrawing like Hannah, then you should go to them. Plead with them. Tell them of their value to this world. We have to try.  We have to communicate.

WE can't give up.

  

    

    In order to enact change, we have to offer support and as much understanding as we can to anyone suffering from a mental illness, so people know with assurance that they aren't in this dance alone. There are so many of us. Each defined by our unique experiences yet existing as parts of the same whole. We all make up the face of mental illness. We need to redefine how the world views us. We are here. We are people trying our best everyday. We want life, and we want a sense of normality. We may not always know how to get their by ourselves, so please offer any help you can to aide in the cause for normalization. We are the new normal; it's time we all accepted it.

    At times, mental illness can be so debilitating, but when we stand together there is hope for the future. Hope for the next generation. The more we talk, listen, research, and attempt understanding--the more we do-- the better things will become. Have hope. We can end the stigma together.  

Thanks for reading,

Stacy

I Feel Sad for You, Mike

    Have you ever been asked if you speak Spanish? Have you ever been asked, what are you? Where are you really from? Have you ever been made to feel less than because of the color of your skin? If you answered no to most of these, then you may look or be white. It's okay to not have experienced these injustices, but it is not okay and never will it be okay for you to allow them to continue to happen to persons of color (POC). The racial divide in the United States is increasing by the day, the hour, the second. I am a POC and someone who has faced racist, discriminatory, and bigoted comments from people my entire life.

     Let's talk about something that happened recently. The racist incident in this video. If you have not watched the video, then I ask that you do. Everyone needs to see this. It is disgusting and horrible, but it NEEDS to be seen. The irate man in the video, Mike, spouts racial slurs at Mr. Torres for talking in Spanish to his mom on the phone. His mother is a Puerto Rican American, and her first language is Spanish (it isn't revealed if she herself speaks English like her son). Throughout the video, Mr.Torres attempts to have conversation with Mike. He attempts to appeal to him and relate to him, befriend him if you will. Instances like these fill me with anger and rage. I can say for certain that I wouldn't have handled this situation with as much grace and composure as he did. It makes me sad like Mr. Torres stated in the video. I feel sad for Mike. And people like him. And for people who don't see how wrong Mike is. We can't let people like Mike speak to others this way. We can't tolerate this in America or any part of the world.

Try to not push people away if you don't agree.
I beg of you. Try to understand them instead.
If you cant, investigate.

   
    I referred to the world as a collage in my last post, and the U.S. is commonly referred to as a melting pot. We are a diverse group of people made up of different skin tones, backgrounds, cultures, etc. When did we lose this identity? Why is our country so afraid to discuss race? Why do people say they don't see race or that it doesn't matter? Race matters. It is part of our identity as individuals, as a country. When you say it doesn't matter, you are stripping the identity of people away--of your country away.

    We have to keep talking, keep learning, keep striving for understanding, keep educating each other. We must practice tolerance, but we must meet intolerance with resistance. We MUST keep resisting racist and discriminatory ideals. We must unite as country.

    On a related note, my husband sent me a link to this page last night:

The homepage of a Neo-Nazi group on Facebook.

    This page spreads hate.  It is egregious. It is run by racist white people for white people. Their mission is to keep the white race alive. They believe that if white people have children with people outside of their race that they are infecting the purity of the white race. According to this page, my children would be considered "mud." How are we still allowing this type of hate speech to exist? If you feel so inclined, report this page as it violates Facebook's community guidelines (I have embedded the link into the caption). I hope that you would report it for its message and pure hatred first and foremost. 

    This video and this page have prompted reflection of my personal experiences. As I have stated before, I have benefited from white privilege, because I am a white person. But, I am also Hispanic. I have experienced several instances of discrimination because of my maiden name, Espinosa, and my appearance.

    Once during an interview, the principal of a school asked me if I spoke Spanish fluently. Not only is it illegal to ask this during an interview, but it is downright ignorant and discriminatory to assume so. I insisted to this man that I did not speak Spanish fluently and neither does anyone in my family. --I have taken many classes as I do wish to speak it fluently one day, but I digress.-- This principal kept insisting that someone in my family must speak it. He wouldn't give it up. Needless to say when he offered me the job three times over the course of the next week, I declined each time.

    Another instance that comes to mind happened on a typical morning drive to my first teaching job. I was driving through a tiny town that is notorious for being a speed trap in Oklahoma right as the sun started to peek over the horizon of the purply pink sky.

    As I was driving my tiny blue green Chevy Cobalt out of this speed trap of a town, I started to apply pressure to the gas peddle to get up to 50 mph. The speed was supposed to change from 40 mph to 50 mph in less than half of a mile. --Something you should know about me is that I always wear a seat belt, I never text and drive, and if I need to make a phone call I will pull over. In other words, I am typically very cautious while driving.-- As you have probably already guessed, I was soon pulled over by one of the town's officers for speeding.

    As the officer approached my window, my heart started to thump with ferocity. I had never been stopped before, and I was unsure of what was about to happen. What happened next was uncomfortable to say the least. The officer asked for my license and insurance verification which I promptly gave him. Then, he said he would run my plates back in his vehicle. Once he came back, he said, "So, your last name's Espinosa, huh?" I replied with, "Yes, sir." He then asked where I was from, and I told him the name of my hometown and where I currently lived at the time. He then said, "No, where are you REALLY from?" This made my skin shiver. What did he mean? I had never been asked this before. I was shocked. So, I repeated again the name of my hometown and added that I had lived there my entire life until college. He looked at me with a puzzled expression like he didn't quite believe me. He asked me where I was headed, and I told him that I was headed to my job in the next town at the high school to teach my 10th and 11th grade students. He said he would have to write me a ticket for speeding which was completely justified. However, the ticket ended up costing me $300. Why? Why was it so much when I had never had any other traffic violations, and I was only going 10 mph over the speed limit? You tell me.

If you are a POC, speak and give yourself a voice. If you are
not, then I urge you to be an ally and offer support in any
way you can.  

    Now, I know that these experiences are not the worst instances of prejudice and discrimination--not that this is a competition. The last one is debatable. You could read through my encounter and think that it's not completely prejudice if at all, and that I was in the wrong. I was in the wrong. I should not have been speeding and should have received a ticket for doing so. The officer was also in the wrong. The way that the question about my place of origin was inflected and insisted upon as if I was lying about where I am from leads me to believe there was more to his question. That he was insinuating something else.

    Whether people are outright discriminatory, racist, or prejudice, are one of these without meaning to be, or they idly stand by when someone else is acting in one of these ways, it's wrong. This must stop. We have to keep actively pursuing justice by writing, by talking, by protesting, by reaching out to one another --by taking action.

Thanks for reading,

Stacy

My Truth: An Examination of Perception

    I have always struggled with my perception of myself and the way I fit into this collage of a world. Am I a torn tattered piece ripped from a ratty and weathered magazine? Sloppy. Careless. Or am I a  piece snipped with the utmost precision? The lines and edges smooth and straight. Am I both?  Growing up an overweight female, an ethnically diverse one at that, in a predominantly white town in a country that capitalizes on the sexualization of women hasn't helped me grapple with my struggling perception of myself. I can tell you with assurance that after 25 internally warring years that I perceive myself as a body positive Hispanic woman.

Body positivity in a nutshell.

A collage I created in middle school. This was an attempt to define myself through my art. I was trying to give myself a voice when I  felt I didn't have one at all. I worked on this for years if that tells you anything. 

    The world tells me that many things are wrong with this idea of myself that I have crafted, molded, shaped and reshaped in my mind. I have only come to realize in the past few years that it is not me that is wrong, but the world and society in general. Why can we not be human with flaws and individual distinctions? And why is there this underlying pressure and system that exists and is forced upon women to adhere to? To be thin. To be quiet. To wear a smile always. To love a man. To be light skinned. To be dark skinned.

    In this world and the U.S. in particular, women are told who to be, how to be, and what to be from the day that they are born. I have been told by the women in my life--my entire life--to be "thin" or "curvy" but not "fat." I have been told to speak my mind and that I "can be anything," but as soon as I speak with conviction, power, passion, then I have been told that I am being too loud and that I need to reign it in. I am sorry if my truth--the truth I so desperately need to speak-- that has been welling up inside for my entire life beating its fists against my insides trying to break free just one hushed whisper is too loud for you. Not. Sorry. I am not going to be told who I should be so that I fit into society's idealized and outdated perception of a woman. I. Am. Not. I am a size 18 woman with belly overhang, cellulite, jiggly arms, and stretch marks. And I am beautiful. I love my body and everything that it does for me.

I am sure if you look at these photos long enough your implicit biases will start to activate, and you will be able to decide which photos show a picture of a white woman and which show a Hispanic one.   

What about these selfies?

    As I have made peace with my body, I have had to examine where my features originate from. They come from my mom who is white and my father who is white and Hispanic. This is who I am, and I can't change it. To say that I have not benefited from white privilege in my lifetime would be ignorant at best. And to say that I have never been discriminated against for looking Mexican and having a Hispanic last name would be even more so. No, I don't  think your jokes about my ethnicity are funny. They aren't cute or harmless. And neither are you. I might smile through them or even muster a small laugh, but I promise you that in my mind I am calling you an idiot. The interesting thing about my appearance is that I can look very white which I am. Or I can look Hispanic which I also am. It depends. My skin stays much much lighter in the winter and darker in the summer. If reading this, you do not think that this has impacted the way I am perceived and treated by others, then you're lying to yourself about how biased and discriminatory the world can be. How biased and unknowingly discriminatory you, yourself, can be. Lucky for me, I now have what would be considered a white last name through marriage. Or is it lucky? Or does it just make everything that much more complicated?

Does one of these images de-
pict a Mexican woman and one a Cau-
casion woman? Or do you just per-
ceive it to be that way? Why? They
are the SAME person.

    Take it from me, speak your truth as loud or as soft as you wish. By doing this, you can shape the perception of yourself. You can be a voice that advocates for yourself. You can be you--wholeheartedly you--and not what the world perceives you to be. Speak it now and release it from its internal cage. 

      

Thanks for reading,

Stacy