Default White Privilege: On White Skin and Hispanic Roots

I had reached the third date.

I was at a cafe with a wonderful wine, talking to a cute boy about three years ago. We had initially met at NYU as we both took the same English Lit classes. We barely talked, although I would check him out surreptitiously while my TA was lecturing. We graduated and we did different things. However, as luck would have it, he had showed up at the improv theater that I was working at. He remembered me, and even remembered that T.S. Eliot was one of my favorite poets (I ramble in class apparently). When I got off work, we went to a show together, and I went home with him that night.

We had reached the third date, and we were enjoying each other’s company. We talked politics (similar) literature (mostly similar) and the horrors of gentrification. We talked about how people from different areas pronounced things- he was originally from upstate New York, I lived in Queens for pretty much all my life. We were outside at a table, enjoying a beautiful night, and I was wearing the tank top that made my boobs look good. I was wondering what would happen next.

What happened next was that we talked about our nationalities. On our first date, he had looked at my very Eastern European face and assumed I was Jewish. I had to correct him, and I mentioned in passing that I was part Mexican as well as German and Slovak. That day we were talking about it in more detail.

He was studying my appearance a bit as he talked. I'm used to it. Apparently I received every single recessive gene possible when created, so I have blonde hair, green eyes, and paper white skin. Often, people wonder how I am Hispanic if I look so gringa. My own (Mexican) grandmother would make fun of me for it. However, my appearance didn't seem so strange to him, as he mentioned knowing another girl with a similar complexion to me who was also mixed white and Hispanic.

"Do you ever get that white guilt thing?" he asked me. He, by the way, was white, with blond hair and blue eyes.

"Huh?"

"Well, that girl I was telling you about always got so apologetic about being white. She would even go on about how she wasn't fully white and her skin base was more olive unlike mine. But it's like, you're white!"

I blinked. White guilt thing?

I chose my words carefully. "Well, I don't feel guilty per say about being white. But it can be quite awkward when you're with your Hispanic looking mother or grandmother and you get different treatment than them because you look 'whiter'."

"Oh, well---does that happen a lot?" he asked.

"It does at times, yes."

I told him a story about going upstate to a barbecue hosted by the neighbors that lived up there. People spoke to my very white Dad easily, asked about my knitting at the picnic table. There were games being played, swimming in the pond, and other summer fun. We were invited to join.

However, my grandparents were there, and they didn't quite know how to talk to my grandmother. The Indian couple who also came mostly were alone at their table. And when my mother went to play volleyball with some of the other women, they would play, but wouldn't really talk to her. The darker skin had struck again.

He seemed to listen with interest, but changed the subject after I was done with my story. I luckily didn't have to wonder if this was a deal breaker though, because he decided he wasn't available enough for a relationship. Oh well.

____

I'm sure white people get really bloody tired about hearing about our "white privilege." After all, a lot of us aren't racist. We have friends and/or lovers who are people of color. We acknowledge that slavery is a bad thing, and shouldn't have happened. We wouldn't really discriminate against a person of color. And it's not like people of color are perfect angels who never make a joke or say a dirty thing about those gringos and honkies. When I mentioned to a white friend that I was working on this piece, his initial reaction was "Do Mexicans make jokes about gringos when they're not around?" Yes, people are assholes to people. I don't think white people are as a whole evil or wrong. I don't think my date from a year ago was racist or a bad person. But I hear this reaction a lot. Let it go. Leave it in the past. Lighten up. We didn't enslave you/make you lower class/invent the stereotypes, so why do you constantly have to bring the damn thing up all the time?

White privilege, for those who don't know, is the belief that a white person receives advantages from society because of their whiteness. It is more covert than overt racism, and does not necessarily mean that a de jure racist system is in place either. Rather, it is in place because the system is borked enough that it inherently favors whiteness over people of color. It does not help that in our American history, we certainly had de jure racist systems in place, and I see this white privilege as the remainders of this system. I, and others, believe white privilege is a real thing. Many may not agree.

In the wake of the deaths of Michael Brown and Eric Garner, a lot of ink and websites have been taken up by the racism that possibly motivated their killings and the fact that the police officers responsible for their deaths got off without being indicted by their grand juries. Also taking up a lot of ink and websites are pieces detailing the experiences that people of color are used to, whether having police officers and white folks assuming that they stole the nice looking things they actually owned or being called ethnic slurs. An article in the Washington Post by Lawrence Otis Graham (http://www.washingtonpost.com/posteverything/wp/2014/11/06/i-taught-my-black-kids-that-their-elite-upbringing-would-protect-them-from-discrimination-i-was-wrong/) describes how Graham raised his children by many rules to protect them from violence or trouble based on their race. These rules include:

•  Never run while in the view of a police officer or security person unless it is apparent that you are jogging for exercise, because a cynical observer might think you are fleeing a crime or about to assault someone.
•  Carry a small tape recorder in the car, and when you are the driver or passenger (even in the back seat) and the vehicle has been stopped by the police, keep your hands high where they can be seen, and maintain a friendly and non-questioning demeanor.
• Always zip your backpack firmly closed or leave it in the car or with the cashier so that you will not be suspected of shoplifting.
•  Never leave a shop without a receipt, no matter how small the purchase, so that you can’t be accused unfairly of theft.
• If going separate ways after a get-together with friends and you are using taxis, ask your white friends to hail your cab first, so that you will not be left stranded without transportation.
• When unsure about the proper attire for a play date or party, err on the side of being more formal in your clothing selection.
• Do not go for pleasure walks in any residential neighborhood after sundown, and never carry any dark-colored or metallic object that could be mistaken as a weapon, even a non-illuminated flashlight.
• If you must wear a t-shirt to an outdoor play event or on a public street, it should have the name of a respected and recognizable school emblazoned on its front.
• When entering a small store of any type, immediately make friendly eye contact with the shopkeeper or cashier, smile, and say “good morning” or “good afternoon.”

These rules, along with careful observance of good diction, and clothing that was restricted to “pastel-colored non-hooded sweatshirts; cleanly pressed, belted, non-baggy khaki pants; tightly laced white tennis sneakers; Top-Sider shoes; rep ties; closely cropped hair; and no sunglasses. Never any sunglasses” were maintained by Graham and while his children initially protested, he reported that they eventually saw the wisdom of it, especially when he and his 12 year old daughter were stopped when a police officer noticed Graham driving a fancy car. It also didn't save his son from being called the N-word by some people driving by his New England boarding school.

I will say this right now: I can’t imagine having to live like that.

As a white skinned woman, if a police officer approaches me, I assume it’s because they need to fulfill their quota for a bag check in the subway or that my shoelaces are untied. If a police officer approaches my group at a protest, I am confident I can defuse the situation if necessary because a small, white, polite woman is never read as a threat or problem—I have managed to talk my way out of several sticky situations in the past and while I’m sure my calmness and willingness to follow directions is important, the fact that I read as an educated white woman certainly helped our cause.

In shops I often never have to check my bag even if it is stated policy; my silly long black coat, combat boots and partially shaved head are regarded as amusing oddities; and the only thing to be aware of when going for walks in residential neighborhoods after sundown is of my surroundings because I’m an easy target for attackers rather than law enforcement.

I grew up middle class, in a house in the borough of Queens in New York City and my family has a vacation house in upstate New York. I attended one of the top high schools in New York City, a top university in the United States for undergrad, received my masters from an excellent library school, and now work in my field at an Ivy League university. I have never wanted for anything material.

In my 26 years on this planet, I have never received a racist slur in my life; never had it assumed that I did not speak English; never had it assumed that I can’t read; never had it assumed that I steal things; never had it assumed that I was in this country illegally; or never had it assumed that I was a troublemaker of any sort. The worst that has happened in terms of appearance-based judgment to me was that one person thought I was creepy when I wore black lipstick, and that woman had only changed her seat on the bus after she noticed it.

This is all kind of hilarious when you consider the fact that my grandmother is as Mexican-American as they come.

She was born in Texas, around the Corpus Christi area. Her family had lived in Texas since it was part of Mexico. She was one of seven children (I think; she never talked about her family much, probably because she was eager to forget it. I do know it was a large family). She grew up only speaking Spanish and did not learn English until she started elementary school, where she learned that Mexico started the Mexican-American War.  

She lived in poverty all of her childhood. By the time she was 12, she had already started working to support her family. She sold popcorn on the street and would cross the border into Mexico to buy things cheaply so she could sell it in the United States. She also started cleaning houses.

My grandmother told me several times about her turning point in life. She was cleaning a lady’s house one day when someone called for my grandmother. At first there was confusion about who was calling for Inez. Then, realization. “Oh, that’s for the maid.”

My grandmother, hearing that she was “the maid” was horrified and full of rage. She swore she would never be a maid. She went on to graduate high school, the only member of the family to do so. She then took some bookkeeping courses and began working for the Navy as a civilian secretary. That’s how she met my German-American grandfather. They married and moved to New York City, eventually winding up a few blocks from where my grandfather grew up.

My grandmother never liked to talk about what she experienced. She was happy talking about working for the church and how she loved her family in a strict manner. She didn't mention the fact that my great-grandmother didn't accept her until my mother was born or that some families on the block did not like her children to play with theirs since they were darker. It was just left unsaid that she didn't raise her children to speak Spanish like her. I speak more Spanish than my mother because I specifically studied it. But my mother and her brothers were to assimilate and be white.

It worked—sort of. My mother was treated white by enough of the neighborhood because she was light enough, spoke English like an “American,” and was nice to a fault. It was famous how strict my grandparents were with their children. Perhaps many of them felt that was enough to redeem their Hispanic roots.

As an adult, my mother met my German and Slovak father, fell in love, married, and had my brother and me. My brother has her dark hair and brown eyes, and while his skin is a tad olive, it’s still lighter than hers and much lighter than my grandmother’s. Then there’s me. The one that would cause people to delicately ask if I were adopted or if I was not conceived “naturally” because of my fairness.

My mother does not have it too difficult in New York City. She’s light enough and dresses and talks “white” enough that people will be accepting. Sometimes it gets odd. When my godfather’s racist wife complained about the Hispanic people whose kids played around her daughter, we had to remind her that my mother and, by extension, her children are Mexican. The assimilation worked. There are only little things she experiences that I won’t. She is asked to translate into Spanish every now and again because she “should” know Spanish. It is assumed that the students of color will want to talk to her, not her white students. People spend a great deal of time trying to figure out “what” she is before who she is. She is a token Hispanic in groups, a safe one because she is light enough and talks “white” enough.

In upstate New York, the prejudice is more pronounced. It’s more apparent that she’s not fully white and people tend to be unsure how to talk to her. The one time I talked to a neighbor’s child, she ranted about Mexicans stealing and stealing jobs, which gives you an idea of the environment. She mystifies them. She looks like one of those stealing, job stealing Mexicans, but she is a teacher at a Catholic high school. She is also married to a white man and they own a nice house with property. Therefore, they tend to be more silent towards her until they get to know her better. Then she becomes their token Hispanic and all is well, until one of them slips and says they have to keep their shotgun handy because of possible unrest in the Hispanic communities during the economic downturn, or how one of them looks so Mexican because he wore a sombrero and didn’t my mother agree?

I will never know firsthand what it’s like to be treated like my grandmother or mother. I can tell you that I am not treated like my mother or grandmother. So please don’t tell me how people of color need to let it go. White people haven’t either. 

Richter Scale Crushes

Note: I'm applying for my first solo show festival with an entry entitled "Christy Learns to Be Goth." I think it will be really fun and stuff. The festival has asked me to submit samples of my work. Unfortunately, there is only one recording of me performing, and it's the Most Depressing Story Ever. So I decided to submit a more comedic example in writing too. Here is a funny story about me in junior high school:

When I was in junior high school, I had a pretty rough time. I mean, junior high school is generally a difficult time. Your peers tend to be assholes that are so afraid of looking weak that they feast on your weaknesses. It was no different for me. It didn’t help that I was pretty obvious about my weaknesses. I knew everything in class, wore dresses my mother bought me instead of nice jeans, and climbed the fences around the schoolyard when bored at lunch, so they teased me mercilessly. It would range from calling me “Crazy Christy” to spitting in my backpack.

On top of that, I was in the incipient stages of my bipolar disorder. By the time I was 12, I would spend most days in my classes with my journal, writing poems with titles like “Schooltime Loneliness.” I would also comment on how much I hated myself and wondered if it was worth living. I would drag through the day exhausted and somewhat regularly having fits of crying that would last to close to an hour. Then at night I would try to go to bed, only to be unable to fall asleep. Instead I would be thinking about my day and how horrible it was. I would finally drift off around 2 in the morning. Then I had to get up at 6:30 and do it all over again.

My saving grace in all of this was a very kind drama teacher that we’ll call Ms. Anderson. I had wound up in one of her classes when I was in the seventh grade. She was the type of person who took pity on all the student outcasts and clowns and put them to work somehow in the drama department. As for me, she casted me in the school play, had me help build the sets for it, and when she saw me hanging out in the auditorium while she was working with the developmentally disabled kids, started making me come in on my lunch periods to help with that class. Being a needy, lonely tween who knew kindness when she saw it, I spent all my time around the drama department. If it weren’t for her, I probably would be far, far worse off.

One night though, not long after the school production of Damn Yankees, I was having trouble falling asleep as usual. I decided to think about a happy memory, something to soothe me to sleep. In this case, I was reliving the final bows on the last night of the show. However, I was editing the details slightly. I was remembered hugging Ms. Anderson on stage after I took my bow. While doing so, I had accidentally held the back of her head for a moment.

In real life, I had pulled my hand away immediately. I was being way too intimate and it was not something a student should do. But in the moment of remembrance, I realized I was adding a new scene, where I was not jerking away, but moving closer and making out with her, something that definitely did not happen on that stage that night.

That’s about when I shot up in my bed in a panic and realized, oh, I like women.

I didn’t sleep much that night or the next. I was horrified that I thought the way I did, that I was wondering what she felt like, and how she kissed, and how did women have sex anyway? It wasn’t like I had anything against not-straight people, but I was fully aware of the whole “my peers hate me and think I’m crazy” thing and here I was adding fuel to the fire. Deep down, I thought my only way out of being that crazy hated person was to go win a cute guy over and date and stuff. But no, I was going off and fucking that up too. Great job. My work here is done.

Making this even more agonizing was the fact that I had to be in close proximity to the woman I loved, but her being my teacher and me being complete jailbait made it kind of impossible to act on my feelings. Instead, I could only silently long as she taught us improv exercises and feel my heart flutter any time she spoke to me in process dramas based off of historical events. As it were, I was sure she could tell that I was giving off dyke attraction signals and panicked as a result. I was careful to not make eye contact with her any longer than necessary and kept anything said out of character as brief and monotone as possible. Thankfully, after cautious observation for a few weeks, she didn’t seem to be treating me any differently, so I just had to deal with wondering how she looked naked when she was sitting two feet away from me.

However, my attraction to Ms. Anderson was intriguing on another level. Even though I couldn’t make out with her, I could still like women in general. So when another girl at my junior high school, Marlene, expressed that she found me attractive and wanted to date me secretly, I decided to give it a try.
Unfortunately, the whole dating secretly thing didn’t work out as planned. One of Marlene’s friends had told some other kids at school that we were dating. It went through the schoolyard like fire. I found myself facing a boy who shoved a picture of a topless woman at me and asked me if I wanted to fuck that. I wound up grabbing him by the collar and shoving him into a wall hard. Then I went running into the girl’s bathroom screaming and crying. One of the social studies teachers went in there to get me out. I was curled up against the wall, and refused to leave.

She said, “Here, let me get you a guidance counselor.”

I said, “No. I want Ms. Anderson.”

Ms. Anderson then came into the bathroom. She brought me down to the hallway outside of the theater to talk.

“Christy, what’s wrong?”

I wanted to answer, “The fact that I want to fuck you! That’s what’s wrong!”

Instead, I told her, “My friend told people that I’m dating a girl and that I’m bisexual.”

Ms. Anderson immediately was upset, and went, “that’s horrible, Christy, I’m so sorry…”

I cut her off. “No! The problem is--I am bi!”

She went silent for a moment. “Oh,” she said.

I waited for the judgement. Instead, she asked in a friendly manner, “Who is your girlfriend?”

I was relieved. It would probably be okay.

Now here’s the thing. There’s this condition known as “being a bipolar tween with hormones and poor impulse control.” I couldn’t help but think at that moment of reassurance and friendliness on her part that “I could just tell her that I like her. It would be fine. I really like her. She should totally know. I could tell her. Why don’t I tell her…”

Thankfully my brain kicked in and I thought “NO! Not telling her! REALLY BAD IDEA!”

Over the next few weeks, I was back to watching her cautiously. After my big reveal about my sexuality, I was terrified that she would confirm to people that I wasn’t straight or that she would be mean to me. However, aside from even more schoolyard speculation and the abuse that came from that, I didn’t notice anything different from her. My feelings for her became more intense as I realized that I could trust her. Soon I was unloading on her on a regular basis about how shitty I felt all the time. I even would hide out backstage with her when I had my crying fits. Unfortunately, as my depressive episodes spiraled more and more out of control, I was coming by more and more often.

After one really bad crying jag, Ms. Anderson took me into a storage area off the theater so we could have more privacy to talk.

“Christy, is there anything that really makes you happy?”

She was standing in front of me while I sat on top of a student desk, looking between my feet.
It was really hard in that moment. All I wanted to tell her was, “well, yeah. You.” But I couldn’t.
However, the condition of “being a bipolar tween with hormones and poor impulse control” was yet again having an effect on me. Once again I was thinking, “I could tell her. I really could. I mean, I really should. Being honest is good…”

This time though, I thought, “ALL RIGHT. I need to tell her SOMETHING about how I feel.”

I looked up at her. She was waiting.

“Ms. Anderson...you...mean a lot to me. If...I had to measure it on the Richter scale...it would be a 10.0”

Keep in mind that the earthquake that destroyed San Francisco in 1906 was an 8.0, so I was really conveying strong feelings here.

She looked at me for a moment.

“The Richter scale, huh? That’s...pretty intense.”

That’s when it occurred to me that perhaps some things are better left unsaid.

I forget now how I managed to talk my way out of basically admitting that I had a crush on her. It didn’t seem to disrupt things. She continued to teach me and listen to me, and shepherded me through the rest of junior high school. However, I’m pretty sure neither of us look at the Richter scale in the same way.

New Year's Resolutions. Or Goals. Whatever.

I know that it's probably more proper to write this January 1st, but whatever.

I'm not a resolution person most of the time. I'm generally not into taking an arbitrary date to get better at things, and prefer to start immediately. However, there are a bunch of things I want to accomplish specifically this year, so the very beginning of it seems like the best place to start.

Here are my tangible resolutions:

1) Save up money/get better with my finances.

2) Learn to drive a car.

3) Get a proper job that's full time, with benefits, in my field.

4) Get a car.

5) Get my own place. Bonus points if it is my own apartment, but honestly, I will rent a room if it means getting out of my parents' house.

6) Publish my capstone research in a journal.

7) Get into shape, and find a place where I can take up kickboxing.

8) Find a nice LARP to join once I find a job, drive a car, and settle into my own place. 

9) Work on something approximating musical training. I am probably starting vocal lessons soon. I might also consider learning piano properly. 

10) Depending on job situation, finances, and state of physical fitness, go to the Kinetik Festival this year and/or hike the Presidential Range in New Hampshire. 

11) Finally develop my solo show.

12) Write. I want to work on some personal essays, and there's some more research style things I want to work on.

Here are my not-so-tangible resolutions:

1) Be a better friend/interact better with people. For example, I will learn to text people when I want to talk to them, instead of hoping they'll text me. Also, actually make plans with people. 

2) Manage my anxiety and depressive episodes better.

3) More decisively express my wants and needs, and do what is best for me, rather than basing it around possibly offending others.

Right. I can do this all in a year, no?

How to Really Show Support: A Primer

Every so often, I see status updates on Facebook saying that one should show support for people who suffer from depression, bipolar disorder, PTSD, cancer, autism, etc. To do so, one should change their status to one currently being read. Occasionally there's even a "I know 98% of my friends won't do it, but 2% will and they are true friends," or something of that ilk. As a person who has bipolar disorder with strong depressive episodes, as well as the exciting element of anxiety, these statuses tend to irritate me. Not because I think they lack good intentions, but because, quite frankly, changing your status to "show solidarity" does not help me when I'm having trouble with the condition that you are mentioning.

I will grouse about it to people, but it also occurs to me that I'm being unfair. Often, people are just told about X condition, and they should "show support," but they have no idea what that really means. People want to help, but they don't know what they should do. I am not an expert in any condition per se, I just know my own. However, here are some good general rules for depression, mania, and anxiety. Anybody else with other conditions, feel free to comment about your rules, and I'll happily update this blog with them.

1) Depression, mania, and anxiety are not fake to the person with them. Yes, in many cases it looks that it is happening for no good reason, and you really want to smack the person and tell them to snap out of it. Trust me, when I'm like that, I WISH I could smack myself and snap out of it. I am aware that in nine times out of ten, my brain is making up this depression, mania, or anxiety and it doesn't warrant it. However, when I am in that moment, I cannot see that, I am disabled by it, and trying to pull out of it is problematic. Likewise, simply telling someone, "Cheer up, it's not that bad," "calm down, you're being hyper," or "Don't worry about it" is not helpful and is horribly invalidating. When I'm depressed, manic, or anxious, they are very real to me. Simply thinking "happy thoughts" or what not does not fix my problem. To an outsider, I am overreacting, but to me, I cannot see it any other way. Don't discount the realness of the situation, or you will be pushed away.

2) Emotions are always valid. What they may not be are justified. Very related to the above. If the person is feeling depressed, anxious, or manic (for those not up on the lingo, I mean REALLY REALLY HAPPY), they have a reason. Saying they are wrong for feeling that is invalidating and will not help them. If anything, you're encouraging the notion that they are "broken" or "defective," something they probably already feel like. That being said, the trigger or the thought process leading up to the emotion may be faulty. That's where you start exploring with the person, "is this justified?"

Say I'm anxious about meeting a person. It's making me not want to meet them. Asking why I'm anxious in a non-judgmental way is more useful than telling me not to worry. Perhaps they are writing a book I'm interested in, and I feel I need to make a good impression because I write or am interested in that subject matter. Perhaps I'm afraid that they will judge me because I can be shy, and awkward in conversation. Perhaps I drop kicked their cat and they know I did that, or I'm afraid they will find out (side note: I would NEVER drop kick a cat. I love cats). The first two are probably not justified. Taking them apart and giving evidence about myself or the other person will do more to calm my anxiety and make me likely to meet up with them.

Example: I once was supposed to go to a birthday party at a jazz club for my then boyfriend, who is an actor. The partygoers were his friends who were fellow actors and musicians, some with notoriety. Being a shy, goth library sciences student, I was really anxious about going. While shopping for a purse for the party, I called my mother in a panic. Rather than her telling me not to worry, she let me explain that I was worrying that I would be boring, that I am not up to their standards. Then she started listing reasons why I would be fine, including that I could talk to them about similar topics (I know my way around jazz standards, and have done theater in the past, as well as writing). I calmed down enough, went to the party, and I was fine. 

3) Depression and anxiety can be crippling. The other person will have to do the reaching out. Often I see people saying, "call me if you need someone" and putting the ball in the depressed person's court.  It's a combination of not wanting to intrude and to show your willingness to be there. I know. I do it myself. 

The problem is, depressed and anxious people often do not have the motivation to do the reaching out. Or, they are afraid of reaching out for fear of causing problems or taxing other people. They often stew in their own emotions, letting it drain them more and more. When they finally talk about it, it's overwhelming. 

I'm not saying you shouldn't say "call me if you need someone." That IS important. I do keep that in mind and have been known to take people up on it. However, do not be afraid to call or text first if you know the person is having a hard time lately. It doesn't have to be on the hour. But a friendly, "how are you doing?" on a regular basis is invaluable. It shows the depressed or anxious person that you care. And if the depressed or anxious person answers negatively, DO NOT just say, "I'm sorry." Offer to call them, or arrange a time that you can call them if you texted them if either party was at work or otherwise occupied. Which leads to the next piece...

4) Venting is good. But don't leave it at that. Letting the person talk out their problems, angers, fears, depressions, anxieties, etc. is awesome. Letting it get bottled up will end badly. However, after a certain amount of time, simply talking about it is not going to help either. Chances are, the depressed, anxious, or manic person is going through it in their head, stewing about it, and has looked at it from every angle possible for them. Check for justified feelings, like in point 2, is a start. But also, try engaging them in something that is not them being trapped in their heads, like an activity.

Does the person like to do a craft? Suggest that you guys get together and do crafting together. Are they in school? Suggest time to do homework. Do they like a sport? Suggest you get together to work on the sport. Museums are their thing? Go to a museum. You guys can very well talk about what's weighing on the person's mind, and it should be done. But something else to do, especially if the other person goes, "let's do this, it's fun!" may help the depressed, manic, or anxious person feel better.

5) You may have to draw them out. Insist on it. Depressed and anxious people often refuse to get out of bed, leave the house, etc. They know they should get out, but they don't. Make plans when you can to do stuff. Make plans for a weekly lunch, a trip to the movies, etc. And if they say that they are too depressed or anxious to get out, try to get them to come out anyway. DO NOT tell them that they're being bad, or stupid, or anything like that. Also, no "you're disappointing me!" Remember, their emotions are valid. Again, either try to prove justified or not justified if you can, and tell them things that you two can do that are enjoyable. If they are really upset, or really insistent, let them be, but I would call later to check in on them. Furthermore, keep making plans. It's not you they're refusing to see, it's about their condition. Your persistence will help them know that you care.

6) Mental health days are okay. But keep them active. Occasionally, I am not functioning enough to go to work or school. I will then take off. It's okay to aid and abet this, BUT, do not let the person just lay in bed all day! Take them to a movie, go for a hike, window shop, make them move and be active! Inactive days tend to beget more inactive days. 

Also, push them to go to work if these mental health days are more than once a month or so. They will feel better if working and doing something. 

7) If they are not in therapy, it's okay to point them to therapy. Obviously not everyone has insurance or the time to go to therapy (I'm currently on hiatus because of my class and work schedule). And not everyone likes therapy. That being said, it's not a bad thing to be in therapy, and that is one of the bigger stumbling blocks for people--thinking it means you're crazy if you go to therapy. If the depressed, manic, or anxious person is not in therapy, suggest it! Tell them that it's no different from going to a doctor for a heart condition or strep throat, if necessary. Offer to help them research doctors with them. If necessary, offer to take them to them. Insurances keep a list of psychologists, social workers, and the like that you can consult. A psychiatrist may also be useful as well.

8) If they are on medication, respect their choice. I get well meaning people telling me that they have problems too, but learned to cope without medication, and I can too.

My response is, "I can cope as well, but when I take my medication properly, I don't have to talk myself out of killing myself nearly as much." 

Some people don't want medication. That is valid. Some people really function a lot better on medication. That is also valid. Don't be the asshole that tells them what they should be doing, if THEY ARE FUNCTIONING in the main. HOWEVER, if things are problematic, from either not taking, or because they are taking, suggest that they talk to a psychiatrist. Do NOT tell someone to stop or take because you are not an authority. 

I hope all of this helps. If people have additional suggestions, feel free to add them in the comments. Let's help people out, not just pay lip service to a concept. 

Update

Hello.

If you stumbled on this blog, you might read the first post and go, "my, that was a while ago." You may also see it involves MySpace, DeviantART, and Xanga, which dates me quite a bit. 

I was going to blog on the regular, but life intervened, because life is good at that. Fast forward to 2013, however, and a decent idea never dies. So, I'm going to try again. There will be three blog posts coming up this week, at the very least. 

Things that have changed from the last post: I am now 25. I graduated from NYU in 2010, with a degree in English Literature and Creative Writing. Somewhere in there, I decided that teaching was not my ideal, and I started my Masters in Library Sciences at Queens College, specifically to become an archivist. I now have approximately 9 credits left before I finish that degree (if you are interested in more librarian/archival things, I keep a second blog [in theory; I have yet to properly start it] here). I still write, but mainly essays these days rather than the poetry I started out with. I also perform as a storyteller. I am no longer seeing the "M" of the first post, I am single at the moment, and I hesitate to identify as polyamorous these days, although I feel all relationship models are valid.

Things that are the same: I still read those authors, still listen to those bands, and still journal. And I still want to write about things for people in a more formal approach.

This blog does not have a specific point, to be honest, aside from talking about things that interest me at the moment. It will draw from culture, literature, news items, feminism, queerness, mental health issues, and my own narcissism in believing that my life will interest you.

And now, to begin. For real. No, really. 

That first post

I am a journal addict.

I collect notebooks, ballpoint pens, fountain pens, nibs, ink, and other accoutrements of writing. I have many half finished notebooks, where I write rough drafts of poem or rant about whatever drama has recently entered my life. I probably have at least 11 of these things floating around, ranging from the marble composition books you get at the drug store to the hardcover black Moleskines to my elegant Leonardo's women journal with the snapped binding (this has made its way into one of my poems. It's a nice non sequitor, I think). If something happens to me, I feel bad for the poor schmuck who has to clean out my drawers and bookshelves and haul those books to M, the current boyfriend who will receive these things because nobody else should read the dirty bits of my life, least of all my parents. I always feel so eager to start something new, afresh. I like the clean sheets, and trying to see how long I can write something without having to cross out because I wrote an e instead of an a.

I guess I have gotten there electronically too. I started out with a dilapidated Xanga, then a second one because I didn't like the username (those are long defunct now). I also started a LiveJournal when I was 14 on the insistance of some of my friends, so they could keep tabs on me. I keep a running journal on my DeviantART page (yes, I have a DeviantART account for my writing. Yes, I know this probably means that I'm stuck with the label of "emo wrist-slasher"). I even tried blogging occasionally on MySpace. Now I suddenly want to move away from it all and start fresh again. I opened this blog awhile ago for a possible cartooning project I was going to work on (except I don't draw well), but now I'm feeling the urge to write again, something more coherent than the ramblings on my LiveJournal or my dA journal. I think I want to try blogging as a formal approach, as something to think about, and not as "OH EM GEE, MY LIFE IS SO INSAAAAANE."

So, what is there to know about me? I am 19 years old and I live in New York City. I will be 20 in three days. I go to New York University, where I study English Literature and English Education. I write, mostly poetry, occasionally essays and stories, and I'll wind up teaching one day because that is what writers do. I live in an dorm down in Chinatown with four other women, all very nice (I'm getting to that age where we are women now, and not girls). When I don't live there, I live in Queens with my family, all very...interesting. I prefer reading to television and I fall passionately in love with music. I like reading Neil Gaiman, Mina Loy, Denise Levertov, Federico García Lorca, Pablo Neruda, and Marjane Satrapi. I like listening to Interpol, Dead Can Dance, Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds, the Dresden Dolls and Faith and the Muse among others. I compulsively read The Sandman and my favorite of the Endless is probably Delirium right now, although Death is pretty cool too. I am bisexual and polyamorous, which is just a fancy way of saying that I like boys and girls, and I date/love more than one person at a time with everyone's knowledge, although I'm only with one person now. I'm more for Obama than Clinton, and tend to have a liberal swing on politics. I prefer using literary analysis to channel emotional catharsis than actually rambling unless it's too much (my best work on some poems comes from when I'm in the depths of despair and doom, and I choose to interpret a piece from that). I am mildly insane, but in a good way if you like to think of it in that way. I like sushi and caramels (not together) and plum wine and mead are tasty. I also only dress in black, with boots and trenchcoats a lot. For convenience, I call myself a goth chick, but I'm probably not really goth.

And now I will put on my bowler hat and bid you all a good evening...
Happy journaling all.