The Champagne Soapbox

  • mirrorball

    I move apartments this week. Nothing too major of a move, only 15 minutes from where I spent three years and maybe 25 from where I started. I’m losing the comfort of a home I spent four years making in exchange for the person I’m evolving into. I grew out of this place and the deconstructed roads that my car bears scars from. I grew anxious waking up to the same painting I bought discounted and is way too colorful for my taste. An empty room holds a crowd of reflections of that girl who was just simply growing up. Through a pandemic, she sat alone staring at the TV watching the election that could bring chaos to her neighboring areas. Through a flood, she threw together a small box and a manila envelope labeled “important documents” with her fathers handwriting to her neighbors house- now also vacant. Through an ice hurricane, she ran her heating bill too high knowing someone else would be taking care of that charge. Through friends she grew out of, friends she grew up with, she’s a jagged tapestry of experiences and interactions she hopes someone new would want to lay down and get freckled in the sun. The thing that I’m stuck on the most is the newness of it all. The stark smell of packages don’t wear my pheromones, instead a smell of cardboard much like a teacher moving classrooms. Except, I have little to teach and a whole lot more to learn. It would be funny to compare myself to that wall I stared at every morning for the past few years, until all of those years become the final night. I guess now I’m blank and bearing the scratches and holes of the decorations I never assumed to become semantic or worthy of emoting for. Those pieces are in a new place, waiting to be hung in a different way. Carried from a home to a dorm to an apartment to a place those other places were meant to set me up for. Nothing is me, at least quite yet.

    I’ve been here for a month or so. In my bedtime monologue, I kept wondering if I’m stressed or not. The weekend gets closer and my mood changes, dreams more focused on having my plans together during free time rather than the bought time I sold myself to make a living for. Sometimes (only a few times), I find myself holding my head with my camera off seeing how full my lungs can get until I let out the most unsatisfactory blow of anxiety. I run out of breath, especially when stressed, and I hate the feeling of drowning from littered responses. I’m fresh out of the water, being perceived as the fresh out of college girl who is optimistic and excited and not bound to responsibility (her parents probably pay for everything still) (they don’t) when really it‘s the personality pack the corporation finds interesting to keep. I’m what they expect me to be, I’m glad I’m what they want me to be, I’m glad that I’m me throughout the whole thing. Actually, I am the most focused and inspired I have been, but I am scared to become blind through the layering drops of water that narrows between my eyes, blurred between outlook lines and meeting times. Stakeholders and goals and budgets and morning meditation meetings you never make because you’ll talk to them in an hour anyway for something more relative to your concerns. You never really outgrow the achievement complex the college institution created you with. I’m just scared that I’m becoming one with the institution now, just a stereotype and constantly proving myself to stakeholders that I am more than a bright eye and bushy tailed 22 year old, still trying to find the difference between us all. And maybe there isn’t, but I hope I’m able to retain this excitement and optimism and fear that I will lose those things. Maybe in a decade or so. In a funny way, this is the most me I’ve ever been. Blind to the recognition I already receive because it’s nothing special, just nice.

    I grew up in a town where people came home miserably rummaging the back of their fridge for a bud light. I went to a college where students find more validation in LinkedIn likes than good grades, because those are expected but social praise is an additional reward. I’ve always been a hard worker, but through successful advances to pursue career, I felt awkward. I pictured myself 45 and miserably reaching for whatever beer is left from my last gas station visit and scrolling through Facebook. Coming home to check the mail full of bills and complaining to my significant other that we need to do better. It’s a very masculine approach to take considering that if in fact I do have a family, my inability to maintain a work life balance would also affect my children’s care, or even worse- my sanity. I’m not sure how single girls my age fantasize about marriage, being given away by their father as if there’s a land contract involved in the marital transaction. Nowadays, it’s all I hear about. It’s all I’m asked about. It’s all that anyone ever mentions to me. It’s all anyone ever tries to get out of me. Between spilled drinks and slurred words, I revisit members of the past in my mind and consider plan b. In those moments, they are definitely plan a. In sobering moments, it’s me in a remote location with a rotating direct deposit. In an ultimate way, none of those are me.

    I guess this is where I draw a line between 1. perception of self 2. desire of self to be 3. perceptions I’ve adopted from others and 4. desire to be something else. The problem is that I have no way to understand the difference. I think I’m someone who finds it easy to romanticize life. I spend a lot of time thinking, which is a consequence of having to rely on technology for communication without much effort. I think about how my body tossed around all night for me to wake up increasingly more comfortable in the morning, how I have such an affiliation for writing when it takes an academic requirement or insecure attachment for me to read a few lines of text, or even how one ingredient can change the taste of a meal and I know I screwed it up with the salt this time. By default- this makes me a hopeless romantic for anything. it’s just a thing that impacts the self-reflections of myself that make purpose out of novel tasks. I’ve always said that I hate being perceived and limited, but really I just love being perceived as unlimited. Secretive, mysterious, sometimes way too open and revealing. Casual, urgent, sarcastic but serious. I like to think all of those things are me.

    I think my hope is that I’m everything they want me to be, just so I can go to sleep at night without pre-meditating my dreams with a decade of experiences ahead of me. I see it very clearly, on the front porch scratching my heels into the chipped paint of the floorboard. I want to be the girl being chased in the field of flowers. He wants me to be that girl too, but I get too tired chasing after a sun that’s already set- barely energized to make it but comparatively more enthusiastic about waiting for it to rise again. I want to be the girl at the bar who orders the same vodka cranberry as the next girl, but when she does it- it’s cool. At that point, I’ve already committed to an all night investment of creating the most chaotic storyline for memory purposes (if memory can handle it) and rummaging through potential plan a’s. I want to be the leader with glasses and free-styled speech, casually mentioning clauses just like they’re written in business textbooks. They know me as someone who is learning to be that girl, coupled with the reality of stuttered pauses and a very gen z way of literally, actually, maybe, like. It’s hard to be truthful to reality when all you are focused on is desire and dreams. Feeling grounded but still reaching above reality- it’s all very me.

    Working with people who have the majority of it figured out gives me the impression that I too have it figured out. In a very deep way, the struggles I have are evolutionary bindings between me and the versions they once knew themselves as. I’ll show them every version of themselves between 9-5, being that shiny mirrorball of a fresh face. After hours, I am simply the daydream of a girl I imagine myself to be instead of the physical representation of every bright eyed and bushy tailed 22 year-old fresh out of college corporate female. So there it is. Finally, I am different- at least in my head and on the other side of the coin. The difference between me and the rest of my simulated corporate entanglement: resisting numbness. Allowing myself to be painted as colorful, excited, decorative with many labels similar to those that were gifted to me in much more societal-binding contents like college. Those pieces are in a new place, now hung in a different way. A jagged tapestry carried from a home to a dorm to an apartment to a place those other places were meant to set me up for. For now, it’s placed in an weirdly lighted cubicle made comfortable again by my daydreams during day shifts. A trapeze artist balancing growing maturity and accepted immaturity. It takes a bit for me catch my balance sometimes that’s all, but the performance itself is still beautiful, it’s still me, and once the meeting ends it all goes still.

    This was written in a span of a month, between new places and a new job, a very exciting job. It’s a very pivotal time in my life, and it was a response to feeling different from the majority of the very impressive people I work with. And if you get anything out of this, I hope you find this short essay entertaining and at best relatable. Short note: I love my job, but all simulation shifts can be stressful to manage. Also, sorry for not writing sooner. It’s funny how when I only write when I feel awkward with myself. It’s a very me thing to do.

  • purgatory is closed

    this sunday is yet another annual return on sacrifices made during lenten season. usually, people give things up on ash wednesday and continue to omit those things and number of other things from their lives until easter. this season, i decided to journal everyday about how i identify religion. i have held many relationships with god, or the holy trinity, or the universe. at one time or another, i was/am in a religious relationship with three things, one thing, and everything.

    three things.

    i grew up insanely catholic, alike most of the people who developed back home. i guess we could say that it started at my baptism, the moment where the sin we were born with was reset, and i was granted the key to heaven if i were to meet death earlier than expected. i really enjoyed the chaos of being catholic, at least the community aspect of it. repeating prayers back to your parents so they could be recited during the weekly test at CCD. coming to class after school hours and hearing people talk so deeply about their concept of afterlife at a very young age. going back to school the next day as if you didn’t contemplate creation together the night before. looking forward to vacation bible school and water balloon fights and desserts your almond parents probably would not approve of.

    i think my opinion of religion changed when i began to question the routine of it. i remember distinctly a teacher saying that if you were to question if he was even real, or a possibility and this effort was met with nothing, then you were already damned. if you were lucky, you can spend time in purgatory reflecting on your mortal sins for permission to enter heaven. i remember that i walked out of class feeling absolutely nauseated, scared to talk to the person next to me in fear of judgment about the way i contemplated how life was written. was the catholic ego was just an attempt to collect tithes and dismiss culture? now that curiosity was an option, i had to hide the intrusive thought behind many ideas of tradition and teachings. i’m not even sure what the person meant when saying it, but it was the first time i allowed myself to interpret religious teachings.

    however, scared shitless through tradition, i had to fall way deeper into my faith. trauma dumping at confirmation retreats directly to the guys who sexually exploited my friends. confessing widely uncomfortable things to a man you have known since birth behind a partition. listening to women of faith describe celibacy while most girls in my class have already failed the task. being taught to desire marriage over love. crying to shrine of penance bread because you feel so guilty for things teenagers fall into naturally. sitting first pew hoping that everyone in your hometown recognizes your dedication to your faith. screaming into a pillow at night hoping that maybe if you asked loud enough, he will hear you. thinking about the afterlife so much that the present becomes an afterthought.

    i moved to austin, and i learned very quickly that you need to be curious in order to make friends, succeed in classes, and to form real opinions instead of relying on other people’s stated facts of life. i met people of different religions. i met people of different cultures. i met people of different languages. i still felt faithful, to a very robust nature, until i went to a younglife event out of curiosity. it seemed like a very safe place: people were talking about their weekend plans openly, they played loud music i heard on the radio and not in a gospel book, and they wore whatever they wanted. that was the only time i went, only because i felt ten times more confused about what i was taught when my only intention was to gain more clarity.

    in college, my favorite thing to learn was cognitive psychology and development. i thought it was convenient how the most intensive religious education begins directly after our brains are drawn toward individualism, free-thought, and experimentation. right when are more inclined to explore creatively.

    now i’m sitting in a pew sophomore year for ash wednesday. i went alone, right down the street from the UT tower. in the middle of the service, i had to go to the bathroom and chug water from the sink because it became really hard to breathe when the priest looked directly at me. it was like he knew that i was lost, or that i didn’t want to be there, or that this was just a fulfillment of a parent’s holy assignment- take a picture of my ashes to convince them my mind was right, my faith was still there, and that i was still that god-fearing girl who never questioned him much like she did society. the blood tasted like wine, the body tasted like a cracker, and the girl left for one of the last times.

    one thing.

    junior year, i decided to take a writing credit course called “the bible and it’s interpreters.” i thought this would be my salvation, discussing christianity in a multi-cultural context with a teacher who speaks with a thick norwegian accent and was as kind as jesus himself. a few people in that class always introduced ideas by saying “as a catholic,” though i never felt comfortable to admit that i was one. not only did i feel that it was not necessary to announce every other minute, i did not feel comfortable talking to others about my awkward experience of what i knew church to be. the class was only intended to discuss historical context and not spiritual philosophy, and at one point i began to debate with the catholics using a hard bias of religious trauma. this peaked interest from those who joined the class for the historical context, varying religions and only present to learn about the origin of this huge religion. i finally felt comfortable talking to others about their religion. subsequently, i healed a lot of the shame i carried from my strictly catholic childhood by asking questions and considering that my idea of god was separate from religion and practices. maybe god had more than three names. if he has an abstract presence, how am i to assume that no one else experiences him.

    everything.

    i had to read a lot of scripture for this class, way more than i ever did in catholic school. now that i was held boundless for interpretation (compared to “this is what he meant by this, learn it and live it”), i began to form a beautiful understanding of what those words meant regardless if they were from god himself, by proxy, or some random dead dude in the middle east. god made everything in his own image, so he is the sky and the beaches and the dirt between your toes and the air that you breathe and the water you drink when you become nervous matching eyes with a priest who is guessing your motivations for appearing in church after so long. i didn’t want to associate myself with a god who punished curiosity, especially if he made our minds so free thinking. i didn’t want to associate myself with a god who restricted connection, because our mouths were made to speak to others with open ears. i didn’t want a god who shamed people for accepting the way in which they were created. i didn’t want a god who favored creations and allowed society to create a false narrative of supremacy.

    people don’t write books to dictate opinions. they write them to inspire.

    last week in a conversation about religion, someone told me that purgatory is closed (it was a joke… maybe). i think in this whole religious journey, which is a contemplation for many my age, i began to accept the universally unknown. i know everything happens for a reason, whether fate or god or being written in Bailey’s Chronological Life Plan according to Age dictates that (it’s probably all the same). i know that there is something that made us so individual and similar, despite whatever name we give to it (god is a good word for it).

    i know that belief makes life purposeful, even if that belief is contrary to those around you. i believe in energy and understanding motivations. in growing opportunities rather than constricting paths. in people and their psychological desire to find solutions to their curiosities. in guidance opposed to teaching. how experiences shape beliefs. how age boosts position and how those can be manipulated through ego. whatever you believe is yours, and thank god we have that freedom forever.

    now that purgatory is closed, i guess it’s finally time to start being good people! this concludes my lenten season contemplations. all that really matters is that you have your own relationship with whoever built you. if anything comes out of this, i hope you take your time to think about what you believe in. i’m glad i allow myself the space to do so, and speaking about it to my friends, myself, and the virtual abyss is more healing than intended.

  • champagne-filled fountain

    i wouldn’t necessarily call myself a productive person, maybe a distracted one at that who can distract herself with social events or impulsive thoughts concerning my fate by becoming completely engulfed by the desire to achieve better outcomes- for herself, for her friends, for her parents, and for the little girl she once was.

    when i applied to college, i assumed the role out of necessity. the whole matter was completely written out for me given the expectations of my family and myself. over time, it formed to be a goal of mine, graduation and all, though it was certain that the pursuit would be more of a social formality rather than a wavering expedition. it’s a very privileged perspective, and i almost despise myself for it. being the first born of a small family, i assumed any goal to be my responsibility to set the tone of achievement- whether not those were extrinsically motivated was not my distinction to make. in some easy way, i also never considered the life of a housewife. even though i watched my mom play the role effortlessly for some time, i quickly understood that my father would want me to wear the pants and the skirt. i agreed, and i collected a sum of scholarships and made a grand move four hours away from the refineries.

    in the good “arguing over politics, embracing differences, introducing feminism” way, i appreciated my parents pushing me to join only a few other extended family members in their collegiate status. in a bad way, i felt captive to institution, expense, and expectations of the world outside of my family. it was always what if i don’t, but not in a serious way, just in a “i bet i could do without” kind of way knowing that wasn’t an option.

    every moment was an attempt to satisfy the rebellious teenager that felt too loud in a quiet town. it’s hard to not think about the dramatic nature of my first year away from the house i felt was home. riding a lime scooter in the pouring rain only to spin out and miss class because the health clinic needed you to get a tetanus shot. studying on campus with people whose last names you don’t know and romanticizing the whole thing. hoping that the bartenders assume your vodka whatever is just water. this was the typical college experience, sort of sneaky and relatable if you’re reading.

    sophomore year was a glimpse of that very whimsical spirit, though covid took away a chunk of that experience. i remember the moment we found out school would be canceled, amused with my friends that our break was extended and hoping that my boss wouldn’t expect me to come in that week. it soon developed into many under-stimulating nights that would introduce me to the extent of what most of my classes discussed- mental health. although that experience taught me loneliness, to be frank, i soon learned how to enjoy it. it was somehow bartering a bottle of wine and finishing a book about self improvement. redecorating your apartment for people to understand, just a little bit, how colorful i understand myself to be. it was trying to figure out how to keep yourself entertained alone in a 2×1 living space while wondering how much time you would have to steal back from a crisis of political turmoil, violence, and pain before internalizing all those negative projections into your own.

    before i knew it, my favorite professor for a class i anticipated during the entirety of my college career was announcing that she was glad to have had us experience what she had to offer. i walked home, and realized it would be the last time i would exit that building. for being a notoriously fast walker, always looking to the next task, my feet dragged behind me like a lost puppy who felt abandoned by herself. that’s it? i was almost driven by anger, wanting to steal back that lost time before i had to defend my experience behind a desk of a future employer. even for the next few days after that, i made excuses to visit campus and sit in that very library cubicle where freshman year, i silently carved my initials. it’s hard to not contemplate where you left your mark, if you even left one at all, so i sat there and hoped that another confused freshman may ponder who those initials may belong to, ignorantly unaware to the fact that i too am just as confused.

    in that particular class, i was taught that happiness is not achieved through the satisfaction of reward, but it is more so achieved momentarily through a byproduct of your input in regard to the personal and cognitive effort you may apply to your health, relationships, and overall well-being. This concept of application explains that goals are the precursors of happiness and your commitment to the goal is the rewarding output. in turn, it is much more difficult to identify your goals rather than achieving them. in the same way, it is much more satisfying to succeed in an effortful pursuit rather than to contemplate their outcomes, even if the pursuit is defining your short-term and long-term goals. even if those goals are socially constrained. even if they are not really yours.

    i’m at the difficult point of identifying my goals, like… legit goals that i now have time to execute and have the freedom to pursue regardless of their underlying cultural value.

    for the next few weeks, and even now, people ask me how it feels to be graduated. simply, it’s lonely. it’s realizing that your friends are stilling working for the grade while you practice interview responses in the mirror. sometimes even facial expressions in fear that your worry is easily translated. it’s midnight scrolling through linkedin and saving potential job offers considering “am i ready to move away from the city i made my own home at?” it’s debating with your parents on how much responsibility you will take on the following months. it’s realizing that you knew less at 22 than you did at 18 and that all you have worked for, technically, depends on the next step you take. a wide-eyed, abnormally pessimistic, fresh out the pond college graduate who has the world in her hands but doesn’t know what to do with it.

    i embody a completely different woman from who i thought i was freshman year of college. my accent is now thin and only introduced after a glass of wine. country music resembles Christmas music through nostalgia and only tolerated at a specific times. the high-school knock-off amazon boots now replaced by a nicer pair of leather skins that bear the cracks of endless steps made through the medians between campus roads. the same girl drives the same backroads home, and every time, realizes how small her room is and how big the world is- especially now.

    in this way, graduation was like grieving the deaths of those previous versions of me all while giving birth to a more mature, socially expected, and classically conditioned woman. the best way i can explain my position is that she is still at the funeral and please expect her to be late to the birthday party.

    i could tell you so much about the value of negative emotions, the cognitive process behind attention and how to optimize performance, how polarization is the death to community, and other psychological phenomenon. i could also describe to you how write grant proposals for issues you somewhat understand the necessity for, how to care for your apartment after it floods in snowing weather, and how to nurture the damaged ego of an abandoned cat.

    however, just because i can tell you what it’s like to survive doesn’t mean i can tell you how to live. i think that’s what i’m racing to do now, which notes the exciting part of graduation. although it feels like i’ve reached the finish line and my reward is another marathon, i realize it’s because our culture is oriented around doing. it’s silly to admit into the electrical abyss that now i just want to focus on living now that i have the option to do so.

    and, the real world is scary. how crazy of a feeling is it to feel like you have more time to make money to buy more time. being bred under a roof of expected achievement makes me contemplate the roof i spent 4 years building for myself, troubled by a disillusionment of teenage rituals and now disoriented with responsibility for my own livelihood. i want my name to exist beyond a printed name on a paycheck, a degree, and a blog. i hope that desire is understandable.

    i’ve never been interested in exploratory hallucinogenic drugs that enhance one’s definition of being part of the earth, though i have heard stories and developed an interest in understanding psychedelics and the refractory period of induced euphoria. in every anecdote i pondered, i realized that users achieve something i naturally experience: a sense of belonging to a higher purpose of existence and appreciation of surrounding presentations of life. in turn, i naturally experience an ignorance to the moment. i can tell you what i want in about ten years, just because i understand that we all feel secure in the adaptability of the future. i can tell you what i want six months from now even, but now? like this second? how about some water or a breath before the starting line ribbon hits my waist. even better, can i retire from surviving and simply live instead?

    a little heavy for an exciting post about graduating? sure. in a way, i discount the positive outcomes of this moment for me. lonely, yes, but the solitude of the pandemic taught me how to be still in the storm of chaos. in a funny (haha, really funny) way, those nights spent journaling about my cognitive dissonance or spiraling staring at the same damn ceiling prepared me for the loneliness of graduation. they taught me to appreciate this abstract concept of unknowing, labeling your reality, and to understand that it begins again (and again and again) until i reach the final finish line.

    i would like to thank my parents for tirelessly pushing me to get the job done. my friends for keeping me sane or introducing me to my insanity, either or. all the people i connect with on LinkedIn for showing me what true jealousy is. myself too, for finding stability in the unknown but also being determined to refuse offers that don’t correspond with my experience and accept those that project growth. and my cat, for no particular reason.

    i know i’m late for the birthday party, but i will be there in a minute. I’m leaving the funeral as we speak.

    cheers bailey!