Ladies Celebrating Ladies

Courtesy of the official Parks and Rec Twitter account.

Courtesy of the official Parks and Rec Twitter account

Happy Galentine’s Day, everyone! This wonderful fictional holiday was created by my personal hero Leslie Knope as a day to honor all of the beautiful and talented women who make our lives special. Valentine’s Day may be traditionally about romance, but Galentine’s Day is all about female friendships.

The idea behind Galentine’s Day—ladies celebrating ladies—is still such a rare thing in the media. I was looking back through my Top 3 Female Friendships on TV that I compiled last year, and I was saddened to see that two of those three are no longer really a part of their respective shows due to cast departures. And there aren’t very many friendships I would add to that list, either, despite the huge increase in the number of shows I watch nowadays.

For most of the mainstream media, it’s still common practice to feature one woman who’s friends with a group of men (see The Mindy Project or the Harry Potter series) or a female friendship that exists solely for exposition purposes in terms of the show’s romantic relationships (see Donna and Rachel on Suits or Lanie and Beckett on Castle). There aren’t too many examples of women forming deep, lasting relationships with other women based on factors other than needing a sounding board for their romantic problems. And that needs to change.

Women are often seen as superficial, backstabbing, petty, and prone to jealousy towards members of their own gender. If you were to make assumptions based solely on the media (a horrible way to form opinions, if I’m being honest), female friendships are mostly a series of interactions between “frenemies” instead of the supportive, inclusive, and warm relationships they usually are in the real world. Female friendships are all-too-often portrayed as being far less meaningful than the ultimate relationship goal: romance. Having friends is great, but what would a woman talk about with her friends if there were no romantic prospects to discuss?

The answer: Quite a lot, actually. You see, women can and do actually have conversations about things other than their romantic relationships (or lack thereof). We can form meaningful relationships with people of our own gender that often last longer and fulfill us on more levels than romantic relationships at any given point in our lives. As I said in my review of Parks and Recreation’s ode to friendship, “Ann and Chris,” our first soul mates are often our best friends. Women (especially young women) don’t have to be catty, petty, and suspicious of other women just because the media says that’s how we often are. Instead, let’s change the narrative and celebrate the fact that women are often incredibly generous, affectionate, and supportive towards other women. We don’t have to be each other’s biggest rivals and enemies; we can be each other’s biggest cheerleaders and most trusted confidants.

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This Could Be Our Year: What Football Taught Me About Fandom

Bills

Are you ready for some football?

I know Thursday was technically the beginning of the NFL season (Thanks, Peyton Manning for those fantasy football points!), but tomorrow my beloved Buffalo Bills take the field for the first time this year. The first day of any season—football season, hockey season, Oscar movie season, a new season of one of my favorite TV shows—always fills me with the same feeling: hope.

I like to compare the start of a sports season to Christmas morning. You have no idea what exactly is going to be waiting for you under the tree; this could be the year you get the gift you’ve always wanted, or it could be another year of getting sweaters that don’t fit. But most of us race to the tree on Christmas morning and open that first gift with hearts beating a little bit faster because it’s way more fun to hope for something good than to expect something bad.

It’s the same feeling I got before the midnight screening of The Hunger Games. It’s the same feeling I got watching Harvey walk towards Donna at the end of this week’s episode of Suits, knowing she was the one he wanted to celebrate his big win with. And it’s the same feeling I know I’m going to have right before each season premiere begins in a couple of weeks.

It’s hope—pure and simple. It’s a belief that a movie, TV show, fictional couple, or sports team has the power to make us happy, and it’s a belief that this kind of happiness isn’t all that far away. Even when things don’t turn out perfectly—when your team ends up missing the playoffs again or your favorite show has a subpar season or Harvey doesn’t get into the car with Donna—what matters most is the reminder that we can still find reasons to hope.

I’m pretty sure sports are what taught me to hope. The Bills went to four consecutive Super Bowls when I was a little kid (I’ll omit all the stuff about them losing all four), and my formative years were spent among fans who—even when we faced heartbreak year after year—never lost their sense of hope. I grew up with family members (especially my dad and grandpa) who always believed that this year could be the year—our year. I grew up around passionate football fans (and passionate hockey fans—but I’ll talk more about that next month when that season starts), and I think that taught me so much about fandom from the earliest of ages.

It taught me that there’s nothing better than talking about the things you’re passionate about with other nerds (because sports fans are our own special kind of nerds). It taught me that it’s okay to overreact sometimes because it means you care. It taught me that shared interests can bring people, families, and whole cities together in ways nothing else can. And it taught me that it’s always more fun to choose hope than it is to choose pessimism.

We’re all nerds about something; we’re all fans. So from this football fan to all of you, it’s my wish that these next few weeks of new fandom beginnings give you plenty of reasons to cheer—and plenty of reasons to hope.

It’s Okay to Cry: The Emotional Power of Television

“It’s just a TV show.”

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been told that in my life—usually while I’m crying into my sweatshirt sleeve or just letting the tears fall to the point where they end up going all the way down my neck. (I often judge the emotional resonance of something by its ability to produce these “neck tears.”)

TV shows make me cry often and they make me cry hard, but I don’t think that’s a phenomenon reserved for me alone. Even those skeptics who’d roll their eyes at my sobbing over the same episode of Alias I’ve seen 50 times (“The Telling” for anyone wondering) have almost certainly found themselves choked up over one television moment or another.

Ned Stark. Charlie Pace. Dr. Mark Green. Mrs. Landingham. Omar Little. The mere mention of those names is enough to put a lump in the throat of even the most cynical TV viewer. I don’t know a person who hasn’t been moved to tears at least once in their lives over “just a TV show.”

What is it about television that produces such a strong emotional response from its audience? Why is it that no book or film—not even The Fault in Our Stars or Toy Story 3—has been able to move me as strongly as the Boy Meets World series finale continues to move me to this day?

Television is a personal medium, an intimate medium. We let its characters into our lives and our homes for weeks that often turn into years. Books are finished within a few days (or weeks/months if it’s one of the A Song of Ice and Fire books); films end after a few hours. But television shows keep coming back. Because of this, we watch characters develop with a complexity no other medium can replicate. Those characters become a part of our lives, a part of our routines, a part of our families.

When I think of what makes television so emotionally resonant, it always comes back to the characters and the amount of time we get to spend with them. We are able to watch them grow, and we’re able to grow with them. Their journeys often inspire our own. We all have television characters we “met” at just the right time in our lives to feel like their path mirrored our own. Their successes feel like our successes, and their struggles feel painfully relatable.

Sometimes, an entire show mirrors an arc in our lives. When Alias ended, I was about to graduate from high school, and I began watching the show when I was 13. So when the final scene concluded, I cried not because of what had happened to Sydney Bristow but because the show that had been with me through the entirety of my high school years ended—just like those high school years were about to end. The Lost series finale aired the day after I graduated from college. Just as Jack Shephard had to accept that one part of his life was over and another one needed to begin, I also had to accept the end of my life as I knew it and the start of something unknown. In both of those cases, I was so thankful for the kind of catharsis only television can provide—a way to work through my emotions with characters I’d come to love over the course of many years.

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Love What You Love: Some Thoughts on Guilty Pleasures

We all have our guilty pleasures.

For some people, it’s Nicholas Sparks novels. For others, it’s romantic comedies. From the high school melodramas of ABC Family to the sexiest scenes on Scandal, everyone has a secret indulgence programmed on their DVRs, sitting on their bookshelves, or waiting for them on Netflix. We can claim to have the most discerning taste when it comes to media. But each of us—no matter how astute we pretend to be—has a guilty pleasure.

What’s my guilty pleasure? Reality TV.

Yes, I love the competitive reality shows that actually do earn some critical acclaim. I obsess over So You Think You Can Dance every summer. I thoroughly enjoy The Voice and used to thoroughly enjoy American Idol as well back when it was in its heyday (which has long since passed). Top Chef is one of my favorite shows on television.

But I also love the “trashy” stuff. I will watch any Real Housewives series (except Atlanta and Miami), including the marathons Bravo is so fond of airing. I will also watch basically anything else Bravo throws at me—from Most Eligible Dallas to Don’t Be Tardy. I religiously watch Dancing with the Stars every season for reasons beyond the sparkly costumes and shirtless male dancers; I actually like the performances. And I adore The Bachelorette.

Yes, you heard that correctly: I adore The Bachelorette. I watched and re-watched Meredith’s season back when I could only do that on a VHS tape. I cried when Ashley married J.P. last year. I fell in love with Jef probably even more than Emily did. And I watched the season premiere last night ready to spend my summer Mondays with Desiree and her suitors. Monday nights are one of my favorite nights of the week in the summer. I curl up on the couch, open some Starbucks ice cream (preferably Java Chip Frappuccino), and watch one lucky girl be romanced by a bevy of beautiful gentlemen.

I don’t want you to think that I believe I’m watching great television. I know The Bachelorette and The Real Housewives of New Jersey aren’t exactly comparable with Game of Thrones or Parks and Recreation. But that doesn’t mean I have to look at everything on TV the same way. I like some shows because they make me think; I like others because they allow me to turn my brain off for a little while.

And I’m not so sure I should feel guilty about that.

Why should we feel the need to add “guilty” to some of our pleasures? Does everything that makes us feel happy, relaxed, or emotionally invested have to be critically-acclaimed? Can’t we just like something because we like it, because it’s fun?

Yes, I consider The Great Gatsby my favorite book, but Bridget Jones’s Diary is also high on my list. Yes, I love watching Casablanca and The Empire Strikes Back, but I also love The Wedding Planner and Tangled. My iPod has Mumford and Sons on it, but it also has One Direction. And I don’t feel particularly guilty about loving any of those things.

The media we enjoy—whether it’s reality TV, romantic comedies, sappy county songs, or anything else—should be celebrated, not hidden away in case someone judges us for loving what we love. If something makes you happy, it shouldn’t be a guilty pleasure; it should just be a pleasure.

Grab your ice cream, your wine, or your chocolate. Open your romance novel, turn on E!, or grab your DVD of Dirty Dancing. Let’s all take some time this summer to enjoy media that makes us happy—critics be damned.

A Girl and Her Gatsby: A Love Story

Gatsby_1925_jacket (1)

The Great Gatsby is my favorite book.

I don’t have a lot of definitive favorites. I have a favorite movie for every genre, time period, and situation. I have a different favorite song every year. I don’t even have one favorite color. (For the record: hot pink and black.) But I have a favorite book. Only one. Only Gatsby.

Today, Baz Luhrmann’s film version of The Great Gatsby opens in theaters. Today, the world is introduced to Leonardo DiCaprio’s Jay Gatsby. I actually have no doubt that DiCaprio will make a compelling Gatsby, but he won’t be my Gatsby.

No, my Gatsby lives only in the pages of my dog-eared paperback copy of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s masterpiece. I met my Gatsby during a rainy Easter vacation week when I was 13, and it was love at first read. Gatsby turned out all right in the end, and I turned out all right because of the myriad of things he taught me and continues to teach me 11 years after I first discovered his story.

My Gatsby taught a 13-year-old little girl about the importance of dreaming and doing everything you can to achieve that dream. My Gatsby taught a 17-year-old high school senior to remember to pick a goal worthy of being chased with your whole heart. My Gatsby and his fate taught a 21-year-old college student to balance romanticism with pragmatism. My Gatsby continues to teach me today, at 24 years old, about the true meaning of greatness and the way one life can significantly alter the course of another.

As I grew up, I realized that The Great Gatsby isn’t really Gatsby’s story at all. It’s Nick Carraway’s. And, in being Nick’s story, it’s our story. We’re all Nicks each time we encounter Gatsby on the page, trying to figure out what to make of this mysterious man, judging his actions against our own values, and ultimately being changed in whatever small way we allow ourselves to be changed by having encountered his innocence and fervent belief in a singular dream.

That’s the true greatness of Gatsby—he’s whoever you want him to be. For some, he’s an empty, naive fraud chasing after a horrible woman who deserves the fate he gets. For others, Gatsby is a dreamer whose ability to dream in a world that has no place for such innocent belief any longer makes him a hero. For me, my Gatsby is a tragic hero—a man whose spirit couldn’t survive in such a careless world but was strong enough to change at least one person for the better.

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There’s Something About Nick

Alternate Title: Help—I’m in Love with a Fictional Man and Don’t Know What to Do About It

Nick Miller, am I right?

Confession Time: I’ve loved New Girl since the pilot, but I didn’t like Nick for the longest time. In fact, for months during the first season, I was vehemently and vocally opposed to the idea of him ending up with Jess. Nick was everything I found unattractive in the real world: He was unnecessarily angry, pessimistic, apathetic, and unambitious.

It’s amazing how time (and great character development) can change things.

Somewhere around last season’s finale, I began to warm up to Nick Miller, and I’ve been slowly falling head-over-heels in love with him ever since. As each layer of Nick’s personality has been peeled back, I’ve become more and more of a fan of this character who is so much more than he appears to be at first glance.

Nick Miller is surprisingly complex for a sitcom character. He’s a realistic picture of a man so terrified of making the wrong choice that he’s unable to move forward. He’s man who’s reluctant to take charge because he had to be responsible for too many things when he was too young. (If you don’t think “Chicago” was one of the most revelatory episodes of New Girl ever, then you need to go back and re-watch it ASAP.) He’s a man who’s scared to make himself vulnerable but still loves with his whole heart.

I like to think I fell in love with Nick the way Jess did. At first, he was funny and kind of cute. Then, he got annoying—especially because you could see the potential he had to make better life choices. But then he built Jess a dresser, told her he believed in her, and said she was a girl a guy would come back for (which he proved in the Season One finale). And suddenly this character became one of the most realistically romantic men on television.

But everything changed when Nick kissed Jess. All of a sudden, Nick was no longer a goofy guy working through a suspended adolescence. He was a man—a passionate, strong, confident, attractive MAN. It was a kiss that changed everything for these two characters, and it was a kiss that changed everything about how I saw Nick Miller.

So what do I see when I look at Nick Miller now that I didn’t see before?

I see his passion and his fearlessness when he has something—or someone—worth taking a risk for. I see his ability to love and his honesty when it comes to expressing that love. I see his good heart and his desire to do the right thing for all the people he cares about. I see his fragile sense of hope being awakened again. And I see it all in probably the most expressive pair of eyes on TV right now.

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A Thousand Lives (or Why Reading is Awesome)

“A reader lives a thousand lives before he dies…The man who never reads lives only one.” – George R.R. Martin (A Dance with Dragons)

I’m a reader.

I’ve never been a particularly adventurous woman. But I’ve gone on a thousand lifetimes’ worth of adventures within the pages of my favorite books. I’ve traveled across dangerous landscapes, fought terrifying foes, cried tears of mourning over things lost and tears of joy over things gained, and learned enough to fill a book of my own about myself in the process.

I’ve danced with Angelina Ballerina, solved mysteries with Nancy Drew, and reached for the green light with Jay Gatsby. I’ve taken the road less traveled with Robert Frost, I’ve seen the Eden in America with Walt Whitman, and I’ve broken all the rules with e.e. cummings.

Atticus Finch taught me about human decency, and Daisy Buchanan taught me about human carelessness. The March sisters taught me about the bonds of family, and Ron Weasley taught me about the importance of a best friend. Romeo and Juliet taught me that love can sometimes burn too hot too fast, and Darcy and Elizabeth taught me that love can sometimes be a slow-burning flame that eventually warms your soul. Huck Finn taught me to stand up for what I believe is right, and Jane Eyre taught me to stand up for myself.

I’ve traveled to the Island of the Blue Dolphins, the Shire, and Hogwarts. I’ve grown up on Mango Street, in District 12, and along a post-apocalyptic road with a nameless father and son. I’ve journeyed through Westeros, lived at Thornfield Hall, and even spent a little time in Forks, Washington.

I’ve been to heaven and back with Susie Salmon. I’ve been inspired by Dr. Seuss. I’ve been scared by Stephen King. I’ve been on a lonely raft with a boy named Pi. I’ve been up way past my bedtime with Harry Potter. I’ve been onstage with the words of William Shakespeare, Tennessee Williams, and Arthur Miller.

I’ve fallen in love with Jaime Lannister and Peeta Mellark and a hundred others. I’ve admired Jo March and Janie Crawford and a thousand more. I’ve had nightmares about Professor Umbridge, and I’ve dreamt of becoming as strong as Professor McGonagall. I’ve played and learned and grown with Molly, Samantha, and so many other American Girls.

Hermione Granger showed me that it’s okay to smarter than the boys. Katniss Everdeen showed me that we all have power, strength, and fire inside us. Ennis Del Mar and Jack Twist showed me that all people deserve the right to love who they love.

I’ve laughed over the misadventures of Bridget Jones. I’ve cried over the love story of Hazel Grace and Augustus. I’ve gone mad with Ophelia, too.

I learned about stories and authors from Tim O’Brien and Ian McEwan. I learned about the strength of the human spirit from a young girl named Anne Frank.

When I read, I’m brave and beautiful and bold; I’m free and fearless and formidable. When I read, I get to be things I don’t always feel I am in reality, but sometimes—on very rare and wonderful occasions—I take a little bit of those characters, those lives, and those adventures with me after I close the book. When I read, I learn, I laugh, I cry, and I grow. When I read, I live a new and different life with each crack of a book’s spine, with each turn of the page.

I’m a reader. My story is intertwined with a thousand other stories. I’ve lived a thousand lives already, and I’m excited to live a thousand more. I wouldn’t want it any other way.

A Distressing Damsel: An Open Letter to Princess Leia

“I was not a damsel in distress. I was a distressing damsel.” – Carrie Fisher, on playing Princess Leia

Dear Princess Leia,

For as long as I can remember, you’ve been a part of my life. I was introduced to you when I was around five or six years old (definitely before I was seven because I have memories of watching A New Hope in the first house I lived in), and it was love at first sight. You had brown hair like I did, you were small like I was, and—most importantly—you were a girl like me. When I played Star Wars with my cousins on the playground near our grandparents’ house, I didn’t have to just watch while they played heroes like Luke and Han. Thanks to you, I got to play a hero, too, every time I pretended to be you (which was often).

You were the first female hero I met through the media, the first in a long line that took me past Sydney Bristow and Hermione Granger on the way to Zoe Washburne, Katniss Everdeen, and Kate Beckett. I may have had many fictional role models along the way as I grew up, but you never forget your first.

I was born at a time when Disney princesses were experiencing a renaissance, when Ariel, Belle, and Jasmine started showing some smarts and spark that were missing from their earlier counterparts. I loved and still love Belle with the fervor of a three-year-old watching her sing about the “great, wide somewhere” for the first time, but pretending to be Belle was never as much fun as pretending to be you.

When I pretended to be you, I got to run and climb and boss people around. I got to play a game with higher stakes than just finding a prince; I got to fight Darth Vader for the freedom of an entire galaxy.

I learned so much from you without even realizing it until much later. I learned about passion, courage, and fighting for what you believe in. I learned that women can be political leaders and military strategists. I learned that smart women are the ones who get to do all of the cool stuff, like leading attacks on the Death Star (and capturing the heart of Han Solo). I learned that there are times when even strong women need rescuing, but then there are times when they get to do the rescuing, too.

I’ve always been a tiny girl with a big mouth, and with the memory of you etched in my brain from early childhood, I’ve always felt like those things are a pretty great combination. You spoke your mind, so I grew up believing it was okay to do the same. You never let the men around you keep you from voicing your opinions; being a woman never meant you had to be silent. You were just as good a leader and a shot as the men around you, so I grew up believing I could do anything boys could do. That’s a belief that fades for a lot of girls as they grow up, but I’m so thankful that I had a fictional role model like you (in addition to the great role models I’ve had in my everyday life) to show me that women are in no way “the weaker sex.”

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Perfectly Imperfect

Unrealistic expectations are a fact of life. From the fairytales we were told as kids to the TV shows (and commercials) we watch as adults, we are more than familiar with media-perpetuated standards that don’t quite exist in the real world.

I can’t speak to the experiences of the male half of the population, but I know that, as a woman in today’s media-saturated society, I’m constantly bombarded with images of what a “perfect woman” is supposed to be. From Victoria’s Secret ads featuring models with bodies I’ll never have to movies featuring action heroines with courage I’ll never possess, it’s enough to make a girl feel like she should just throw in the towel in terms of finding relatable images in the media.

In a (well-intentioned) effort to give young women positive media role models, there has been an influx of “strong” female characters in the last few decades: women who can beat up bad guys (while wearing heels!), outsmart the craftiest villains, and play the lead role in their own stories—all without showing a shred of weakness. These characters don’t make mistakes; they don’t have anxieties or insecurities or character flaws. They are—for all intents and purposes—perfect.

I don’t know about anyone else, but I find perfect characters a little depressing. How are we as women supposed to learn to love and accept ourselves as we are if we are constantly reminded of the things we should be but can never be, simply because we’re beautifully fallible human beings? And how are we supposed to gain respect for ourselves through all of our messy growing, living, and learning when it seems like the media likes to depict women as one of two things:

1.) Emotionally unstable, overly dramatic weaklings who need a good man in their lives to complete them
2.) Flawless automatons with beauty, brains, and none of those pesky emotions that are often signs of “weakness”

I like to think that I exist closer to some kind of middle ground between these two extremes, and in my experience I think most women exist there as well. We’re all a little flawed; we’re all a little messed-up, but that’s what makes us human. And that’s what I want my heroes and heroines to be—human.

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What We Stay Alive For: In Defense of the English Major

 

I was an English major.

Ever since I can remember, I’ve loved books. From Angelina Ballerina to Nancy Drew, my childhood was filled with page after page of adventures that I eagerly took part in. As I got older, I discovered that I loved writing, too. From entries in my elementary school journals to notebooks filled with the poetry of my high school years, writing became an activity I adored rather than a school assignment I dreaded. Each reading assignment, each research paper was met with an enthusiasm that I didn’t have for any other subject in school.

So I chose the only path that made sense to me, the only path that felt right. I became an English major. Sure, I also added a major in Communication Studies, but that was simply another outlet for my love of writing. In my heart, I was always first and foremost an English major.

I wanted to read. I wanted to write. I wanted to be surrounded for four years by the words that I loved so deeply and the tools to help me understand and appreciate those words to the best of my ability. So I became an English major.

I was impractical. Being an English major wouldn’t make me rich or famous. I wasn’t training to be a stereotypically “valuable” member of the working world.

But I was happy.

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