Nobody wanted me to let Summer Anne go.
I sat across from my then-therapist at the end of August, explaining the nuances of Summer Anne and how worried I was that September and colder weather and the inability to work outside would mean I’d have to kill her off. I was terrified of going back to the person I’d been, but more specifically, to the behaviors that had defined me. Summer has always been an excuse to cut work in favor of adventure; to laze around and to morph into cooler and more mature versions of who we were as kids. Autumn? It’s textbooks, homework, and the reminder that we’re all inching towards death.
“You know Summer Anne is just another aspect of yourself, right?” my therapist asked.
I sat, failing to absorb her words but pretending I absolutely had.
“You’ve always been this person, but you’ve just learned to tap into those characteristics.”
She told me I’d always been Summer Anne, as if I could’ve clicked my heels together at any point and evolved into a person who didn’t completely fall apart if she thought about meeting a friend for lunch. She made it seem like I didn’t need to hit the wall in June in order to change.
But autumn that year was still weird. Normally my favorite season, its traditions felt dated, tied to the past of somebody I’d grown apart from. And while I used the underlying stress as a gateway into The Great British Bake Off and learning to frost cake like a motherfucking queen, I still felt stuck between the person I’d been in the summer, the person I’d been in the spring, and the person I was trying to be going forward.
Enter Winter Anne.
Winter brought wins, losses, turbulence, and influenza: I was angry and tired and resentful. I condemned Summer Anne as having been too soft, too smiley, too receptive to feelings. I sneered at Summer Anne’s “adventures” and green juice and petty deadline worries. Now I was Winter Anne, the embodiment of the season: a cold, icy motherfucker who should be feared and respected in equal measure. She got shit done because there wasn’t a choice. She owned fur coats and had incredible eyebrows. She worked like her spring incarnation but refrained from hanging her worth on her work like her counterpart. She was her own advocate. She was a boss.
At first I thought Winter Anne had killed the others, that this was some kind of permanent evolution into my hardest, most unfuckwithable self, but I soon realized the other Annes were still lingering, ready to be evoked. Each Anne only ended the way books end — I could always return to them when needed. I could still set boundaries like I had in the summer. I could still be someone who baked her stress away. I could still be someone who could look a person in the eye and be cold and direct and terrifying. You favor the part of yourself you need to be at any one time, and you let the others hang back while you figure your shit out. None of us have just one facet.
Sometimes I still struggle to reconcile who I am now with the persons I was. But I also know not to worry, since whoever I am right now is exactly who I need to be.
Burn It Down
I am tired and I am angry. But I am not tired of being angry.
I don’t remember not being angry. I was angry when I became hyperaware that even walking outside as a girl could be risky. When I realized that guys could whip their dicks out at parties and women had to shut up and laugh or they’d risk not being invited to parties anymore. When friends told me about how scared or weirded out “beloved” boys at school made them feel. When I was asked about the status of my virginity every day by my 27-year-old male coworkers at my part-time job in 12th grade. When my coworker at the host stand whispered his sexual preferences into my ear. When a manager made me apologize to a group of men after I snapped back to their harassment. I was angry every time I was groped, catcalled, or told to relax.
But I didn’t think I was allowed to be angry. As a tween and teen I blamed myself and I blamed other women for being sexualized in all the usual ways: for “asking for it” with their outfits, attitudes, or how much they had to drink. I dismissed gropes and unwanted touches and “baby” and “hey slut” as a reflection of the way things have always been. This was the trade-off for getting to grow up: your body doesn’t belong to you anymore. It was my fault, because I chose the skirt, the shoes, the resting bitch face. I pushed my anger down to try to be a cool girl. I still wanted to be invited to the party.
Our society doesn’t like angry women. They get called things like bitch. Like shrew. Like feminist.
After a friend from university sat me down for an extracurricular Feminism 101 lecture in a coffee shop, I started to see the word as a badge of honor. I started to let my anger out. But I picked the wrong targets. I took my anger and hurled it at other women. I still blamed, shamed, and assumed my experiences were the norm. I didn’t bother embracing intersectionality because I was too blinded by my own selfish anger to figure out what it meant. I believed that friendship equaled girl power and that women didn’t need to show their bodies off to get attention, and I wrote that women in hip-hop needed to stop sexualizing themselves. (A piece I was deservedly dragged for — although at the time, nearly a decade back, I had absolutely no idea why.) I believed I could save the world with my #squad-centric brand of Basic Bitch vanilla feminism. And when I was called out, I was too proud and too willingly blind, convinced everybody else had it wrong because admitting that I’d made a mistake was too embarrassing. I wanted not to be objectified, to be recognized for my willingness to fight, but I still wanted men to want to fuck me and for any and all “cool girls” to applaud me.
I’d like to say there was an aha moment, but there wasn’t. I don’t remember when I paused to begin looking inward and to do my own homework and to learn to shut up and listen. But by my thirties, I began to feel comfortable with what felt like a new form of anger: a simmering anger that largely kept to itself lest anyone dare seek it out. And that anger wasn’t directed at my fellow women, but at the systems and the people that keep the oppressed down. I was angry about what I’d believed as a teen, as a twentysomething, as a grown-ass woman. Angry about my own complicity in rape culture, in white feminism, in the exclusion of nonbinary, trans, and queer voices. Angry about being grabbed and prodded and privy to so many dicks I had never asked to see. I was angry about not enough people believing women — and angry that, at one point, I hadn’t either. I was angry that I had defended shitty boys and men because I wanted to be in their favor, and angry that I’d eventually been disappointed and scared and saddened by those same men.
I was the person I’d been so afraid of as a teen. And I really fucking liked her.
When the Harvey Weinstein story broke, I read the accounts of his harassment, abuse, and sexual assault. And I was angry but not surprised. Because we’ve all known a Harvey — someone who wields power and keeps those below them afraid. I met mine as a teen. His name was Rick, he was a DJ, and he used his seniority to get away with a steady stream of harassment for months.
“When did you meet your Harvey Weinstein?” I asked Twitter. “I’ll go first: I was a 17-year-old co-op student and he insisted on massaging my shoulders as I typed.” I didn’t think any more of it. And then came the responses. Dozens, then hundreds, and eventually thousands. Everybody had a Weinstein. Many people still do. My mentions became a tiny window into a massive fucked-up reality — but the silver lining is how this growing army of courageous, pissed-off people is connecting and together refusing to accept the status quo. One of the things that 2017 made crystal clear to me was that anger gets shit done.
So, I’ve come to relish that anger. It is the only thing I trust to fuel the work we need to do. I use it to defend myself (because heaven help the fool who sends an “actually” my way), but more importantly, to fuel my offense. It keeps me sharp and unfuckwithable. It pushes me to keep going, to keep speaking and sharing and helping reclaim space. But I haven’t forgotten my misplaced anger either, so I also have to remember to shut the fuck up and listen sometimes. Because if
I’m this angry as a white, hetero, cis, thin, able-bodied woman (Polly Pocket: Privilege), I can only imagine how angry women at the intersections of other forms of oppression are. Which means I need to connect to a larger community and movement, to let my voice be one of many, to be a voice that sometimes just amplifies other people’s. Turns out this is great, though — because the only thing better than one angry woman is an army of them.
This world was created to make those who are marginalized and oppressed feel helpless. But helplessness is a waste of energy. What you choose to do with your anger is your choice, but don’t ignore it, don’t be afraid of it. It is not enough to simply seethe. You can implode the toxic patriarchal, racist, colonialist, heteronormative status quo through protests, petitions, or running for office. You can write, you can share your experiences or your art. You can take the time to learn: to listen, to read, to educate yourself. You can invest your time through volunteering or your money into an organization you believe in. You can create space in which real discussions are had, or engage in conversations that obliterate myths and shine light on truths. You can use your gifts, drawing on your anger to help you toil and dismantle a system that’s been in place for centuries.
You and your anger are needed. You and your anger are valuable. You and your anger will be the fire that burns it all down.
Get to Work
I’m a terrible diarist. I’ll journal for about two days, realize how emotional I’m being over something that doesn’t really matter, and then throw everything I wrote out and use the notebook for list-making instead because feelings are embarrassing, and I hate having them. Journals and diaries are where our most negative emotions go to die. And as comfortable as I’ve become (under protest) with being flawed and human, I would still rather be consumed by a plague of locusts than look back on April 2008 and my in-depth analysis of the way a guy named Steven said “hey” to me on MSN.
But over the last few years, I’ve realized a newsletter could be a journal that’s not a disaster — that it could be a place to work through my stuff by zooming out instead of zooming in Rear Window–style. I write essays and lists that help me work through my stresses (without having to dwell on a particular person’s tone on Twitter), and I vent about petty grievances so that I don’t scream them out of my car window at innocent passersby. My newsletter has become my therapy — in addition to actual therapy — and the people who read it have become like pals. Which has been especially helpful as I’ve slowly realized that I won’t die if I admit that I have feelings or slip into being vulnerable (sometimes). Over time, my newsletter has morphed into a place where I can be entirely myself — and where I hope readers feel like they can be themselves too.
Ultimately, it’s the place I seek solace and remind myself that I’m not alone. And here’s the other thing: neither are you.
For longer than I lasted at university, I’ve used my newsletter to write about writing, work, death, friendship, and the things I hate. But my favorite newsletters have been pep talks in the spirit of “Fuck you, let’s do this.” So here are the sayings (or yell mantras) I return to time and again, when I need some pep the most.
1. Get to work
Right now. Get up and do the shit you need to do. I’m very flattered that you bought and are reading my book, but you need to put it down and do the thing you’ve been putting off all day. These words aren’t going anywhere.
2. Nobody cares
Drink (or not, because Lord knows I can’t) whenever I say this because honestly nobody does. No one is sitting around dissecting that thing that you did or said unless you were grossly out of bounds and committed a crime. No one is combing through your Twitter feed or your Facebook photos or regaling their friends with the time you said “Hi!” really weirdly at the grocery store. Free yourself of the burden of thinking someone has made you the shitty supporting character in their life. They haven’t. They’re figuring out what to eat for dinner and freaking out about a typo in a tweet because, like you and me, they are also selfish disasters.
3. It won’t matter in two days
After the 2016 election, a tweet of mine got picked up by an alt-right blog and was shared a few thousand times between some names in that terrible scene. So, for the entirety of November 9, I was spammed with photos of myself along with comments as to whether or not I was worth raping. It was terrible, it upset me, and I hated it. But when I talked to my friend Scaachi, she gave me the rule I’ve passed on to whoever will listen: “It won’t matter in two days.”
And she was right. The next day the tweets dwindled, and the cold reality of Donald Trump being president eclipsed anything personal. It sucked at the time, but now it’s fine. Also, the photo they chose of me was incredibly flattering, so silver: meet lining.
4. What’s the worst that can happen?
The worst of all uninvited guests who insist on crashing your best-laid plans is second-guessing. So when the “what if” squad inevitably shows up, consider every avenue, every possibility. Pick up a pen and write down every single “what if” and then come back at it with a battle plan.
Like this:
“My friends will laugh at me.”
Then they’re shitty friends.
“I’ve never acted before, so what if I’m bad?”
You probably will be because no one is good at anything at the start. That’s why you practice and take classes and join communities and practice some more.
“What if I’m fired?”
I don’t know what you’re about to do that merits getting fired, but here’s what I figure you can be fired for: stealing, harassment, threats, assault, murder, racism, homophobia, transphobia, showing up drunk or high, setting fire to your work. Are you going to do any of those things? If not, go forth.
If you want to write, make art, start a band, bake? Things that don’t seem like a big deal until you sit down and suddenly feel intimidated? You’ll be fine. The only person putting pressure on you is you. Why would starting a newsletter or baking a cake or learning “Wonderwall” on guitar be anything other than a thing you tried? Last year, I tried to make something I saw on The Great British Baking Show, and I used too much butter and the oven caught on fire and smoke was pouring out of the stove and I had to call my dad, who put baking soda in the oven. And now I’m telling you about it here, so look: it’s okay. Pick up the guitar and learn the fucking chords. Just don’t bust it out in the middle of a party, or I will call the police.
5. You already know what to do
Most of the time you don’t need advice. You know what you want to do, and you know what you’re going to do, and, if you’re me, you just want people to validate the choice you’ve already made.
Give your gut feelings more credit. You’re not an idiot, and if you are being an idiot, rest assured we have all been idiots, in that we have all gone against our instincts at certain points. Whenever I have done something terrible, I’ve always known I was doing something terrible. It has never been a surprise that an act of self-sabotage or recklessness has ended in complete disaster. And whenever I’ve gone against a good gut feeling to make a choice that was safe or boring or a waste of everybody’s time, I’ve known that too.
6. Self-doubt is poisonous to your work
Back in January 2011, I was very new to music journalism when I was assigned to interview a terrible band who made me feel worthless after sexually harassing me during an interview. Fun! Then, after that, a male journalist threw Nice Guy rhetoric my way, saying girls “like me” didn’t like “nice guys” like him before insisting that, despite me arguing otherwise, I would want to have children someday.
At home, I panicked: why was I writing in the first place? How I could possibly learn to fit into a scene rife with misogynist Nice Guys quick to mansplain the politics of having a uterus? So I looked for proof that you could build a career amongst men who didn’t give a shit about women. I found Jessica Hopp
er. And, after reading as much of her work as I could without getting behind on my own deadlines, I emailed her about what had happened the night before and thanked her for helping pave the way for the rest of us.
She wrote back, “Self-doubt is poisonous to your work.”
If my pain tolerance were higher, I’d have that tattooed on my every arm and leg. And while I never did learn to fit into that specific music scene, I did end up carving out a career that I’m proud of. Plus, Jessica not only became an editor of mine, but a good friend.
Even in those dark moments of thinking “Jesus Christ, why should I even bother?” you’re wiser and smarter and stronger than your self-doubt and the place where it thrives.
7. Failing is fine
I don’t trust a person who hasn’t failed. Failing makes you strong and resilient and wise and interesting. Perfect people don’t exist, and the ones who aspire to be perfect are boring. Failing is how you grow. It’s how you change and learn that you can resurrect yourself, how you learn to apologize, reconsider, and reject a life of self-pity. I have failed at retail work, school, finances, family, friendships, relationships, fashion, and driving my car. Today I failed at wearing an appropriate shirt to a blood test and had to sit in the clinic with my top half off while making conversation about the snow. I have learned that I don’t know anything, and that I will never know everything, and that I will likely keep on failing.
Nobody Cares Page 12