A Mother's Pain

"You can't keep dwelling."
"You have to get over it."
"He's in a better place."

These words like knives slice open my grieving, aching, screaming heart.

"How many kids do you have?"
"Don't your other two children make up for the loss?"

These questions like swift kicks to my empty, hollow, scarred womb attempt to erase the sweet, fading memory, to silence the suffering of a mother whose child never took his first breath.

"Why didn't you go to the hospital sooner?"
"Maybe he would still be alive if you would have just gone in."
"It should have been you."

These words like bees with stingers at the ready sworm every inch of my mind, creating a colony, expanding--ever expanding, their buzz at all consuming, inhumane decibels reverberates.

"What is wrong with you?"
"Why can't you be stronger?"
"Why aren't you better yet?"

These thoughts like a fatal cancer attack each of my cells making me violently sick, debilitating me entirely--till I give up.

Frida Lives On

    Before this past year, I wouldn't have seconded guessed my Halloween costume. If I am being honest, I probably wouldn't have even worn one, because of  my lack of self-confidence.  But this year, I went for it.  I transformed myself into the iconic Mexican artist, Frida Khalo.

    Scrolling through the Frida tag on Instagram proved to be conflicting for me on Halloween day.  As I swiped through the various pictures, I reflected on my own cultural identity. I also questioned whether or not just anyone should be able to dress up as Frida. Should ANYONE be able to apply fake bold eyebrows and don over-sized jewelry and floral crowns? OR  Does dressing as Frida with no personal connection to her culture turn her image into caricature?

    I think it does. It is important to ask yourself questions like these when deciding if you should dress up as a certain person or character. Cultural appropriation is an overt problem especially on Halloween. Don't try on someone else's culture as your own even if "it is just for fun." It's not fun or cute. It's demeaning. Celebrate someone from your own culture instead.

    Celebrating Frida on Tuesday was something that I have been talking about for years. I felt proud to step into her shoes for just one night. Though I will never truly know how her personal struggles affected her mentally and physically, I can say that she was a powerful woman and artist who overcame her inopportune circumstances.  For that, she is an inspiration.  Frida Khalo is the embodiment of the phrase "she believed she could, so she did." I hope to keep persevering through my life's struggles with a even just a shred of her grace and badassery.  Her work and memory inspire me to do so every day of the year.

The First Female Doctor

     If you're a Doctor Who or a sci-fi fan, then you have probably seen this video blowing up the 

nerdosphere over the past two days:

 If you haven't, then give it a watch before reading further!

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    There is insurmountable criticism and just really horrific displays of misogyny surrounding the above video's reveal of the 13th Doctor. Who knew a minute long video could incite so much hate and divide a fandom in the span of 48 hours?

    You may or may not be familiar with Doctor Who, so let me break it down for you. Doctor Who is a show that has been running for a little over a half a century on the BBC. The Doctor is a time traveling alien part of the "Time Lord" race from the planet Gallifray who travels around in a stolen time machine that appears to be a cobalt blue police box known as the T.A.R.D.I.S (Time and Relative Dimension in Space). The T.A.R.D.I.S. takes the wacky and lovable Time Lord where the Doctor wants and needs to go.  It wooshes it's way through the wibbly wobbly mess of space and time, and it is fantastic to watch! 

    During all this gallivanting, the viewers have seen the Doctor encounter many enemies such as: the Cybermen, the Master, the Daleks, the Silence, the Vashta Nerada, etc. With a countless stream of enemies, the Doctor is bound to get hurt. So to keep the show going (most likely when an actor tired of the role), the creators/writers gave the Doctor's race the ability to "regenerate." In other words, the Doctor takes on a new face, dress, and personality when gravely harmed by his enemies during the course of events that would typically cause a human to die.  But most recently, some Whovians have become  the Doctor's enemies.  For the first time in fifty years, the Doctor has regenerated into a woman, played by Jodie Whittaker.  Fans always knew this was a possibility, and for many it is a dream that has come to fruition. Personally, I am still waiting for the Doctor to be ginger. I wonder what River would say about this exciting change?

The Thirteenth Doctor

    All jokes aside, the issue is that the fandom is split. We have one side who is ecstatic to see a woman FINALLY take on the role. And we have the camp that is infuriated that the Doctor is now a woman. To recap, we are discussing a show about a regenerating space alien who travels around in a blue box through space and  time, and the thing that is driving away fans is the new GENDER of said space alien! If you can suspend your disbelief for the show's extraordinary cast of characters, events, and loopholes, but you can't accept the Doctor as woman, then you should probably tuck your misogyny back in. It's showing!

   I'm excited for my children to watch the first ever female Doctor explore space and time while having grand adventures. And I am so so happy for all of the young girls and female fans that love Doctor Who or look up to the Doctor that now have Whittaker's character to admire as a strong female lead. I hope the writers do her justice. I can promise all of you trolls or "loyal fans" out there who are upset about this that the true fandom will not miss you.

Here are just a few comments that I mentioned above for you to peruse:

Can't wait to see her shine despite the trolls!  Welcome, Jodie!  

Cheers!  

Stacy

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

Because They Can!

Let's talk about this video:

   To preface my critique of this video, let me first give you some background info. on the narrator. This is Mayim Bailik, and she is most widely known for playing Blossom. She also has a PhD in neuroscience and stars as Amy on the Big Bang Theory--one of old media's most problematic television shows.  Back in the early 00's, she appeared on TLC's What Not to Wear which is where I first encountered her. This show definitely contributed to my poor body image growing up as I am sure it did for many other young girls, but I digress.

    This video discusses some hot button issues for me: plus sized representation, sexuality, and female empowerment. Her opinions greatly differ from mine, and everyone is entitled to their views even if they are conservative like Mayim's. However, where my issue lies with this particular video is the way she contradicts herself. When we are talking about smashing the patriarchy through feminism and how we educate our young girls, then we should actually aim to let young girls and women make their own decisions about their bodies and their sexuality and support them in their choices. In this video, she definitely misses the mark by saying that empowering yourself through showing skin is wrong. People can choose to empower themselves ANY way that they want.

  There is nothing wrong with being plus sized.  There is also nothing wrong with being skinny.  And for the love of all things holy, THERE IS NOTHING WRONG WITH SHOWING YOUR SKIN if it is your choice to do so.  It is your body, and you can do whatever you want with it. If you choose to be modest, then that is your choice, and I applaud you for taking claim of your body. However, if you have arrived at this choice because this is what you have been taught, but you have never truly questioned why you choose this for yourself, then self reflection is needed.  Some days, I choose to show more skin, and other days I wear a cardigan because my old demons are whispering in my ears. It has taken me years to quiet these demons, and I will not let someone tell me what I can and cannot do with my body. Someone who judges others based on their personal body choices is not a role model that I want for my future students or my children.  

   We should be educating girls and boys on consent, body image, representation, and empowerment, but by no means should we be attempting to control their thoughts.  We need to leave room open for discussion around these issues, point them toward well researched resources, and let them arrive at their own conclusions. My conclusion here is that Mayim is extremely misguided when it comes to what makes a good role model for young girls and boys. For me, a role model should be inclusive, supportive, and empathetic. This video lacks these qualities and isolates those with differing opinions with the mocking segment at the beginning. As much as I respect her as a female leader in the STEM community, this video is problematic at best.  As Kimothyjoy communicates in this image, "We fight patriarchy not each other." We need to respect each other's choices if we are going to enact change.

To answer Mayim's initial question, why is everyone getting naked? BECAUSE THEY CAN, MAYIM.  Because they can!

What are your thoughts on this video? Please share in the comments.

Thanks for reading,

Stacy

Unsolicited Pregnancy Comments

    Being pregnant is hard!  Your body is making a tiny human(s) for goodness' sake! It is hard on your mind, your relationships, and your body especially. I have spent the better part of the last two years as a pregnant woman. Pregnancy has had its ups and downs in my book. One of the biggest annoyances were all of the unsolicited comments hurled in MY direction by strangers and acquaintances. The same can definitely be said of being a mom too-- the comments and advice never stop! Make someone's pregnancy a little easier, and think before you speak.

    When I was pregnant with my first son, I got the run of the mill comments. "When are you due?" or "What are you having?" But with my second pregnancy, the comments became much more intrusive and outlandish the bigger my twin belly grew. 

    From the time I was about three months pregnant with my twins, I actually looked about six months pregnant. I was carrying two babies, so this was to be expected. Once, my husband and I were at a Starbucks in a Target, and the barista asked me when my due date was. She said, "I bet it's coming up pretty soon, and you're ready to be done!" This was November of 2016, and my boys were not technically due till the coming May. No, random barista! I am not giving birth soon. But thanks for reminding me how big my belly looks, and how I am in fact not giving birth anytime soon. Not that it was any of your business anyway. Now, if you don't mind, I need to go pee like a race horse, so I can browse the Target Dollar Spot in peace before I get too tired to walk, my ankles swell, I have to pee yet AGAIN, or I get hungry.

    Another time my husband and I were at Target, --look, I know I go to Target a lot-- we had made it to the check out with no comments! Whoo hoo! Well, this was obviously too good to be true. The checker asked "What are you having?" I responded with, "Twins." Then another lady in the next lane pipes up and says, "Twins! I keep running into people having twins. Is this your first pregnancy?"  My husband and I lost our first son to stillbirth, so this question is particularly painful for us. I of course told her that it was not, because I am not in the business of denying that my other son, Finnley, did in fact exist. She replied, "That's so great that means you will have a little helper at home!" This comment cut me straight to the bone. I nodded politely, because I was flooded with emotion. My husband quickly shuffled me away. Then, we went back to our white Ford Escape that we bought as a family car for our first son and cried. He never got to ride in that car.

    Another instance happened at a baby shower for a good friend. I got the usual, "What are you having?" from my friend's grandmother. I told her, "Twin boys." She said, "Oh my gosh, I am so sorry!" Sorry? You're sorry? I'm not. I am so thrilled and happy that I could burst to be having two beautiful rainbow babies is what I thought to myself. I politely told her that we were very excited for our boys, but it hurt nonetheless. 

    What I am getting at here is that you NEVER know what a stranger or acquaintance is going through as a pregnant person. It's probably better to avoid intrusive questions and comments altogether. The woman you're intruding on could be suffering or healing from a loss, like myself. She could have body dysmorphia and be having negative thoughts about her appearance. She could have spent years trying to conceive and does not want to hear how much you think she can't wait to be done with her pregnancy. She could have been raped by her boyfriend or a complete stranger and doesn't know how she feels about being pregnant. You don't know! So, please I beg of you think before you speak to a pregnant woman. We are emotional and hormonal, and we could use compassion over intrusion.

   To end this on a lighter note, I will leave you with some tweets from comedian  Chelsea Peretti that inspired this post.

My personal favorite. 

Thanks for reading, 

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