Jennifer Harrison's Blog
March 29, 2015
Poetry: Anyone Can Do It
Writing poetry has never been even a remote goal of mine, but recently I was asked to contribute a poem online, and instead of stating the truth—that I have NEVER written a poem—I decided to give it a go. A friend told me a while back that one of my blog posts "felt like French Impressionist poetry" and after I stopped laughing at the ridiculousness of that... I considered I might be entirely out of touch with the younger generation. French Impressionist poetry?! Kids will love it at the sock hop. Even so, I took the obscure compliment and went back to my Everyone Has An Origin Story to rework it for my first attempt at what I will loosely, irresponsibly call poetry.
The Poem
by Jennifer Harrison
I am from a white brick mansion in the city
surrounded by magnolia trees,
tadpoles, and lions carved into the wall.
Yet I am also from a tiny shack in the country
with creaky floors
and the stink of poverty.
I am from servants and slaves,
beauty queens, teachers, and farmers,
women before their time
and men who died too young.
I am from great wealth, white privilege,
and the eviction notice at the door.
I am defiance and manners,
hope and conviction,
love and despair.
I am from a musician
and the murder suicide,
Scottish poetry
and the Civil War bride.
I am from French rebel outcasts,
the house of bees.
I am from good girls and femme fatales,
from men both gentle and heartless.
I am from champagne,
homemade Bloody Marys,
Delta music,
and endless parades.
From a diversion off the traveled road
with no chance of returning.
I am from fancy dinner parties,
and kept appearances
drowning in rules of etiquette.
I am from the religion of men
and the submissive wife,
upholstered walls,
and celebrities in the halls.
I am from the queen of Volunteers,
and her king whose titles she took.
I am from tragedy
and desolate suburban ideals.
I am from extravagance and thrift
madness and responsibility
adventures and isolation.
I am from relentless honesty
and acute individualism.
Most directly, I am from her
from the best and worst parts of her
from one of a kind.
I am from dynastic remarkability
and hillbilly irrelevance.
#TrueStory https://twitter.com/webmistressJH
The Poem
by Jennifer Harrison
I am from a white brick mansion in the city
surrounded by magnolia trees,
tadpoles, and lions carved into the wall.
Yet I am also from a tiny shack in the country
with creaky floors
and the stink of poverty.
I am from servants and slaves,
beauty queens, teachers, and farmers,
women before their time
and men who died too young.
I am from great wealth, white privilege,
and the eviction notice at the door.
I am defiance and manners,
hope and conviction,
love and despair.
I am from a musician
and the murder suicide,
Scottish poetry
and the Civil War bride.
I am from French rebel outcasts,
the house of bees.
I am from good girls and femme fatales,
from men both gentle and heartless.
I am from champagne,
homemade Bloody Marys,
Delta music,
and endless parades.
From a diversion off the traveled road
with no chance of returning.
I am from fancy dinner parties,
and kept appearances
drowning in rules of etiquette.
I am from the religion of men
and the submissive wife,
upholstered walls,
and celebrities in the halls.
I am from the queen of Volunteers,
and her king whose titles she took.
I am from tragedy
and desolate suburban ideals.
I am from extravagance and thrift
madness and responsibility
adventures and isolation.
I am from relentless honesty
and acute individualism.
Most directly, I am from her
from the best and worst parts of her
from one of a kind.
I am from dynastic remarkability
and hillbilly irrelevance.
#TrueStory https://twitter.com/webmistressJH
February 9, 2015
This Is The Way To Save The World
The “novel” portion of my graphic novel is written, but writing is only a tiny part of the overall project. Repeated cutting of words is the gruesome task always at hand when inclusion of illustrations and dialogue bubbles dictate limits. My graphic artist would prefer the novel to fly past novella to haiku brief. (He is not the first guy to be right about my wordiness.) And yet, I continue to insist that we have a story. A story that matters.
This adventure tale will include danger, friendship, love, honor, and betrayal, all in the midst of a dedication to a cause greater than the hero, Professor John Stearns. And certainly greater than my psychotic villains, Miss Harshe and Hawks. The Professor unwittingly drags his former love Madden into a secret Oxford world related to British Intelligence, Defiant Samaritans, warlords, and child refugees. Meant to honor the oldest traditions in comics, the central questions focus on what choices we make when all legal and "reasonable" options have been exhausted. Do we accept what we know to be wrong in the world, or do we create fictional heroes to kick all of the “arse” that would get the rest of us thrown into jail?
With a nod to 1940s Wonder Woman, created to fight Nazis on behalf of millions of readers who could not, the characters in my story go rogue in the face of our perpetual war state that relies on disregarding innocent human life and strips (primarily) women and children of basic dignity, while it strips the rest of us of compassion. As I research the current needs of refugees and asylum seekers all over the world, two facts stand out:
In 2014, $19 billion was requested in humanitarian aid worldwide. (UNHCR)
In just four days in 2014, $95 billion was spent in the United States and Europe from Black Friday to Cyber Monday. (NRF)
Talk of saving the world seems grandiose, but there are people, ideas, and unrelenting work that can accomplish this. When I look at $19 billion vs. $95 billion, I start to think we actually could save the freakin’ world, or at least those who have officially requested help. How? By diverting a certain percentage of our shopping budgets to assist those who are struggling. I cannot be the only one who, when faced with these figures, would be willing to do my part to help ensure the safety of over 50 million people a year (the current number of displaced persons worldwide). I have not yet figured out exactly how to channel that kind of international willingness to care, but you can be sure when I do, no one will be able to shut me up.
National Retail Federation and U.S. and European trade associations, this is me, batting my eyelashes. Call me.
Please check out my #RefugeInWonderland characters ~ http://bit.ly/1F2tmj6
This adventure tale will include danger, friendship, love, honor, and betrayal, all in the midst of a dedication to a cause greater than the hero, Professor John Stearns. And certainly greater than my psychotic villains, Miss Harshe and Hawks. The Professor unwittingly drags his former love Madden into a secret Oxford world related to British Intelligence, Defiant Samaritans, warlords, and child refugees. Meant to honor the oldest traditions in comics, the central questions focus on what choices we make when all legal and "reasonable" options have been exhausted. Do we accept what we know to be wrong in the world, or do we create fictional heroes to kick all of the “arse” that would get the rest of us thrown into jail?
With a nod to 1940s Wonder Woman, created to fight Nazis on behalf of millions of readers who could not, the characters in my story go rogue in the face of our perpetual war state that relies on disregarding innocent human life and strips (primarily) women and children of basic dignity, while it strips the rest of us of compassion. As I research the current needs of refugees and asylum seekers all over the world, two facts stand out:
In 2014, $19 billion was requested in humanitarian aid worldwide. (UNHCR)
In just four days in 2014, $95 billion was spent in the United States and Europe from Black Friday to Cyber Monday. (NRF)
Talk of saving the world seems grandiose, but there are people, ideas, and unrelenting work that can accomplish this. When I look at $19 billion vs. $95 billion, I start to think we actually could save the freakin’ world, or at least those who have officially requested help. How? By diverting a certain percentage of our shopping budgets to assist those who are struggling. I cannot be the only one who, when faced with these figures, would be willing to do my part to help ensure the safety of over 50 million people a year (the current number of displaced persons worldwide). I have not yet figured out exactly how to channel that kind of international willingness to care, but you can be sure when I do, no one will be able to shut me up.
National Retail Federation and U.S. and European trade associations, this is me, batting my eyelashes. Call me.
Please check out my #RefugeInWonderland characters ~ http://bit.ly/1F2tmj6
December 28, 2014
What Is The One Thing You Never Want To Happen On A First Date?
I had only three or four bites of the curry. The Red Bull vodkas coveted by those Brits were a disgusting hell and at least figuratively sickening, but since I had participated in raunchier alcohol adventures, I knew those questionable concoctions could not have taken me down.
On that first evening with my Englishman, had anyone in his Welsh flat known what was going on, they would have referred to my condition as “having a poo”—a delicate phrase which did not properly account for the violent nature of the events on that night. Nerves might have played a role. My heart was, just hours earlier, uncharacteristically emphatic that the practical stranger was my guy. And by the end of the night, with all of the drinks, and not to discount intense kissing fog, I was not in my right mind. (Assuming there ever was such a thing.) I considered that maybe my nervous system had finally taken the last train back to the English countryside while giving me the finger and screaming, “Screw you, Wales. Feck the fog.”
Whatever the reason, my reality over several non-coital hours involved three horrible trips down three narrow flights of stairs. Each time, I tore myself away from the Englishman’s warm cuddle to... regretfully violate his downstairs bathroom. I mentioned the three times? The three flights of stairs? And the horror at the transgressions involving the toilet?
Doubled over in excruciating pain, I sneaked my way down those cold stairs, barely clothed, at the risk of forced interaction with his flatmates. The dreadful, heroin sickness toilet scenes in Trainspotting played over and over as I shivered in that freezing bathroom. But luckily, I spied a can of citrus scent odor neutralizer above the sink. I stood up, bent over, and sprayed it right at my backside. Four times.
As you do.
I prayed that it was as effective as the advertising indicated. In fact, the Englishman didn’t notice any of the half-naked trips down his stairs, nor the evidence of excremental activity in his flat. If he smelled fruit, he kept it to himself. Every time I crawled back into bed with him, he woke up still thinking I was pin-up sexy, and thus, I was also obliged to believe the delusion. No matter how much my ass hurt.
Self-consciousness is to be avoided at all costs in a circumstance that calls for the woman who is not going to have sex on a first date but has agreed to spend the night. Don't forget that passion may indeed be blind. And despite all of the talk of pheromones, it can’t smell worth a shit either.
Perverse Wonderland
On that first evening with my Englishman, had anyone in his Welsh flat known what was going on, they would have referred to my condition as “having a poo”—a delicate phrase which did not properly account for the violent nature of the events on that night. Nerves might have played a role. My heart was, just hours earlier, uncharacteristically emphatic that the practical stranger was my guy. And by the end of the night, with all of the drinks, and not to discount intense kissing fog, I was not in my right mind. (Assuming there ever was such a thing.) I considered that maybe my nervous system had finally taken the last train back to the English countryside while giving me the finger and screaming, “Screw you, Wales. Feck the fog.”
Whatever the reason, my reality over several non-coital hours involved three horrible trips down three narrow flights of stairs. Each time, I tore myself away from the Englishman’s warm cuddle to... regretfully violate his downstairs bathroom. I mentioned the three times? The three flights of stairs? And the horror at the transgressions involving the toilet?
Doubled over in excruciating pain, I sneaked my way down those cold stairs, barely clothed, at the risk of forced interaction with his flatmates. The dreadful, heroin sickness toilet scenes in Trainspotting played over and over as I shivered in that freezing bathroom. But luckily, I spied a can of citrus scent odor neutralizer above the sink. I stood up, bent over, and sprayed it right at my backside. Four times.
As you do.
I prayed that it was as effective as the advertising indicated. In fact, the Englishman didn’t notice any of the half-naked trips down his stairs, nor the evidence of excremental activity in his flat. If he smelled fruit, he kept it to himself. Every time I crawled back into bed with him, he woke up still thinking I was pin-up sexy, and thus, I was also obliged to believe the delusion. No matter how much my ass hurt.
Self-consciousness is to be avoided at all costs in a circumstance that calls for the woman who is not going to have sex on a first date but has agreed to spend the night. Don't forget that passion may indeed be blind. And despite all of the talk of pheromones, it can’t smell worth a shit either.
Perverse Wonderland
November 30, 2014
Los Angeles: Top 8 Places To Shack Up Safely
“Shack up” ~ To engage with a partner, at least overnight—ideally on repeat occasions—for any and all variations of what could be considered sexual activity, innocent and/or... not, in which case safe sex advocacy should be presumed.
Laurel Canyon – Ideally, find a house on top of the mountain, where you will be lulled to sleep by the howling of coyotes and the traffic along the boulevard. Awake to the hummingbirds, deer, and the ghosts of rock stars shacked up in those very hills.
Silver Lake – There IS a lake (sort of) that insists on going by the name Reservoir. The watery setting for shacking isn’t silver, but sleeping over in this artsy part of town will make you feel like one of the cool kids.
Hollywood Hills – The many celebrities who shack up in these breathtaking hills certainly know what they're doing. Spend the night in a precariously perched mansion surrounded by wildlife and stars.
Historic West Adams – Lovely, old Victorian homes with beautiful gardens and only one small caveat: gang members... with children playing in the front yards. Which feels much less threatening than, say, Compton after dark. Still, please do stay behind locked doors as much as possible and make sure thegorgeous, talented artist shacking partner is worth it.
Malibu – With the sounds of waves crashing, and the ocean at the doorstep, you will feel like you are hours away from civilization. Because with traffic on Pacific Coast Highway, YOU ARE.
Pacific Palisades – In one of the most gorgeous neighborhoods on the planet, experience ocean views in the distance and giant forest displays. Ideally, looking downhill from an infinity pool. With a bottle of champagne.
Van Nuys – Yeah, even I don’t necessarily buy this one. And to be fair, the quality of the shacking could have had more to do with the man in question than this Valley city. Although many of the women here were part of L.A.’s notorious gang culture, they will forever have my gratitude for... you know... letting me live.
Downtown – Sometimes it’s fun to imagine what living in NYC might be like, but see previous note about locking your doors. Especially do not (obliviously) make out for extended periods of time in full display of these often sketchy, urban Angeleno streets. Ah, youth... And now I can only think of the remaining 500 square miles of L.A. that I might have missed.
Do you have any favorite places to safely shack up?
Perverse Wonderland
Laurel Canyon – Ideally, find a house on top of the mountain, where you will be lulled to sleep by the howling of coyotes and the traffic along the boulevard. Awake to the hummingbirds, deer, and the ghosts of rock stars shacked up in those very hills.
Silver Lake – There IS a lake (sort of) that insists on going by the name Reservoir. The watery setting for shacking isn’t silver, but sleeping over in this artsy part of town will make you feel like one of the cool kids.
Hollywood Hills – The many celebrities who shack up in these breathtaking hills certainly know what they're doing. Spend the night in a precariously perched mansion surrounded by wildlife and stars.
Historic West Adams – Lovely, old Victorian homes with beautiful gardens and only one small caveat: gang members... with children playing in the front yards. Which feels much less threatening than, say, Compton after dark. Still, please do stay behind locked doors as much as possible and make sure the
Malibu – With the sounds of waves crashing, and the ocean at the doorstep, you will feel like you are hours away from civilization. Because with traffic on Pacific Coast Highway, YOU ARE.
Pacific Palisades – In one of the most gorgeous neighborhoods on the planet, experience ocean views in the distance and giant forest displays. Ideally, looking downhill from an infinity pool. With a bottle of champagne.
Van Nuys – Yeah, even I don’t necessarily buy this one. And to be fair, the quality of the shacking could have had more to do with the man in question than this Valley city. Although many of the women here were part of L.A.’s notorious gang culture, they will forever have my gratitude for... you know... letting me live.
Downtown – Sometimes it’s fun to imagine what living in NYC might be like, but see previous note about locking your doors. Especially do not (obliviously) make out for extended periods of time in full display of these often sketchy, urban Angeleno streets. Ah, youth... And now I can only think of the remaining 500 square miles of L.A. that I might have missed.
Do you have any favorite places to safely shack up?
Perverse Wonderland
November 24, 2014
Bystanders & Kindness
I sat in my car at a painfully long red light, waiting to turn left. To the far right of the lanes of cars beside me, I noticed an older man stumble off the curb. He fell to the ground, and his walker crashed on top of him as he tried in vain to get himself out of the street. Like a desperate game of Frogger.
The signals turned green. The vehicles dodged around and sped past the fallen man. I considered jumping out of my car and into the traffic fray, but similar impulses in the past had not gone well. After multiple honked horns, I reluctantly turned left and made an ill-advised u-turn before another red light interfered. I finally pulled into the parking lot behind the intersection, and by then, I was sure someone had already helped the struggling man in the street.
I was wrong.
I ran over and asked him if I could help. When he agreed, I crouched behind him, put my arms under his, and tried to lift him to his feet. He was heavy and fell back onto me, spraining my wrist. (Which I deserved, due to my extreme lack of weight-bearing exercises.) At that moment, two young men rushed to help ME, the woman having a difficult time with the dirty, homeless man.
I thanked them for helping the man to safety, wished the older man well, and went on with my day sporting a permanent sigh. Previous to this incident, I would have sworn most people would stop and help anyone who had fallen from a walker into the heavily trafficked street. And then I watched at least two dozen carloads of people, and more standing on the curb, do NOTHING.
Reading about bystanders thinking someone else will help, so no one helps, is not the same as experiencing this disheartening phenomenon. The Internet claims nonintervention is an ordinary reaction. In Sweden, 53 people watched a man abusing his girlfriend in an elevator, and exactly 1 person spoke up to stop the man. ONE. Out of 53. http://mic.com/articles/104366/this-m...
And still, we can find a way to believe this is not, in fact, ordinary... until we see it ourselves. Shortly after the homeless man fell on me in the street, I was checking out at the grocery store. The Tidy Cat was overpriced and since I didn’t actually need litter, I decided not to buy it. A lady behind me in line asked if I wanted to follow her home because she no longer had a cat, was a widow with a bad back, couldn't remove the buckets of litter by herself... So I agreed to take the litter.
The litter I didn’t need.
On the short drive, scenes from murder porn on the Investigation Discovery Network played in my head. Particularly, a recent trial convicting an elderly woman who lured young girls to her house at the behest of a murderous boyfriend. I wondered if extraneous cat litter was worth the risk but then remembered "young" didn't necessarily apply to me.
Seventy-six pounds of litter later, sprained wrist significantly worse, I drove away from the nice widow’s neighborhood. I stopped by a friend’s house and when her son worried their cat was out of litter, Christmas came early courtesy of my sudden status as Miss Kitty Litter Kringle. In one hour, my day had gone from heartless bystanders to grateful friends.
Perfect days are filled with love and kindness. Average days are when we are fortunate to find the balance between kind and unkind. The worst days are when the scales tip toward an abundance of behavior lacking entirely in compassion. Today was an average day.
https://twitter.com/webmistressJH
The signals turned green. The vehicles dodged around and sped past the fallen man. I considered jumping out of my car and into the traffic fray, but similar impulses in the past had not gone well. After multiple honked horns, I reluctantly turned left and made an ill-advised u-turn before another red light interfered. I finally pulled into the parking lot behind the intersection, and by then, I was sure someone had already helped the struggling man in the street.
I was wrong.
I ran over and asked him if I could help. When he agreed, I crouched behind him, put my arms under his, and tried to lift him to his feet. He was heavy and fell back onto me, spraining my wrist. (Which I deserved, due to my extreme lack of weight-bearing exercises.) At that moment, two young men rushed to help ME, the woman having a difficult time with the dirty, homeless man.
I thanked them for helping the man to safety, wished the older man well, and went on with my day sporting a permanent sigh. Previous to this incident, I would have sworn most people would stop and help anyone who had fallen from a walker into the heavily trafficked street. And then I watched at least two dozen carloads of people, and more standing on the curb, do NOTHING.
Reading about bystanders thinking someone else will help, so no one helps, is not the same as experiencing this disheartening phenomenon. The Internet claims nonintervention is an ordinary reaction. In Sweden, 53 people watched a man abusing his girlfriend in an elevator, and exactly 1 person spoke up to stop the man. ONE. Out of 53. http://mic.com/articles/104366/this-m...
And still, we can find a way to believe this is not, in fact, ordinary... until we see it ourselves. Shortly after the homeless man fell on me in the street, I was checking out at the grocery store. The Tidy Cat was overpriced and since I didn’t actually need litter, I decided not to buy it. A lady behind me in line asked if I wanted to follow her home because she no longer had a cat, was a widow with a bad back, couldn't remove the buckets of litter by herself... So I agreed to take the litter.
The litter I didn’t need.
On the short drive, scenes from murder porn on the Investigation Discovery Network played in my head. Particularly, a recent trial convicting an elderly woman who lured young girls to her house at the behest of a murderous boyfriend. I wondered if extraneous cat litter was worth the risk but then remembered "young" didn't necessarily apply to me.
Seventy-six pounds of litter later, sprained wrist significantly worse, I drove away from the nice widow’s neighborhood. I stopped by a friend’s house and when her son worried their cat was out of litter, Christmas came early courtesy of my sudden status as Miss Kitty Litter Kringle. In one hour, my day had gone from heartless bystanders to grateful friends.
Perfect days are filled with love and kindness. Average days are when we are fortunate to find the balance between kind and unkind. The worst days are when the scales tip toward an abundance of behavior lacking entirely in compassion. Today was an average day.
https://twitter.com/webmistressJH
November 17, 2014
Random Questions
1. Is the ability to increase the size of the text in iPhone settings the greatest technological gift ever? My eyes feel like frisky youngsters again.
2. Are you concerned your numerous passwords might gang up all at once to attack your failing memory? Sure, I jotted them down, but where? And who has time to compile all of those effing post-it notes? I began typing passwords directly into my phone (with heavily asterisked mystery codes I hope are daily dementia-prevention exercises)... but which phone?
3. Does the idea of lube, on any part of the body, when publicly displayed, utterly gross you out?
4. Is it clearly acceptable to ring up organic fruit at the grocery store self-check-out as merely cut-rate fruit? All due respect goes to the organic farmers, while the gigantic supermarket chain receives a small reduction in mark-up. Wait... Never mind. Forget I said anything. Never stop trusting us, Safeway.
5. Do you still give your curling iron time to heat up when you know full well the warming process takes roughly thirty seconds?
6. Is the chronic “slacker” label stuck to Generation X extremely annoying? Now that we’re hitting middle age and have given the naysayers everything entrepreneurial — including most of the ways the Internet has changed all of our lives — can we lay the lazy stereotypes to rest?
7. Are the rumors of the mastery of wireless Internet service providers infuriatingly overblown? On a friend’s recent home visit, the technician proudly displayed the network strength of the wired computer (hello, 1990), nonchalantly stated that a wireless signal could not be guaranteed at all (despite the company's neighborhood monopoly), and callously declared wireless service on the back deck “has never been included." Which prompted a defeating debate over whether the deck is part of the “house” the homeowner owns...
In Silicon Valley. In 2014. Is this the best we can do, America?
https://twitter.com/webmistressJH
2. Are you concerned your numerous passwords might gang up all at once to attack your failing memory? Sure, I jotted them down, but where? And who has time to compile all of those effing post-it notes? I began typing passwords directly into my phone (with heavily asterisked mystery codes I hope are daily dementia-prevention exercises)... but which phone?
3. Does the idea of lube, on any part of the body, when publicly displayed, utterly gross you out?
4. Is it clearly acceptable to ring up organic fruit at the grocery store self-check-out as merely cut-rate fruit? All due respect goes to the organic farmers, while the gigantic supermarket chain receives a small reduction in mark-up. Wait... Never mind. Forget I said anything. Never stop trusting us, Safeway.
5. Do you still give your curling iron time to heat up when you know full well the warming process takes roughly thirty seconds?
6. Is the chronic “slacker” label stuck to Generation X extremely annoying? Now that we’re hitting middle age and have given the naysayers everything entrepreneurial — including most of the ways the Internet has changed all of our lives — can we lay the lazy stereotypes to rest?
7. Are the rumors of the mastery of wireless Internet service providers infuriatingly overblown? On a friend’s recent home visit, the technician proudly displayed the network strength of the wired computer (hello, 1990), nonchalantly stated that a wireless signal could not be guaranteed at all (despite the company's neighborhood monopoly), and callously declared wireless service on the back deck “has never been included." Which prompted a defeating debate over whether the deck is part of the “house” the homeowner owns...
In Silicon Valley. In 2014. Is this the best we can do, America?
https://twitter.com/webmistressJH
November 3, 2014
Facebook’s Existential Crisis: To “Like” Or Not To “Like”
April, 2015 Update:
Much as I try, I just can’t “like” Facebook. The topic seems entirely outdated – as in, why is she even (still, no less) debating a social media fact of life in 21st century America? Well I’m done wrestling with the virtues of Facebook. They are few, and they are rarely satisfying.
Every person I know has accepted the utility of Facebook, and while I want to discover how to transform it from a prevalence of wasted time, I would settle for reduced dread at sign-on. To avoid massive time-suckage, I’m encouraged to treat Facebook not exactly like a series of one-night-stands, but closer to… passing flings with familiar faces. Repetitive drive-bys.
Maybe I want Facebook to be something it isn’t, whereas over here, on the still-surprisingly-fringe edges, I can accept (and therefore love) Twitter for exactly what it is. *Special appreciation shout out to the lowered personal expectations.
See Facebook, I'm going to give you the unearned benefit of the doubt and take all of the responsibility: it’s not you, it’s me.
Last week, I furiously scribbled three pages of notes for this blog update, but they were harsh. Too harsh. Unnecessarily scathing for a woman who sincerely appreciates the art of a well-worded scathing. My notes on Facebook did not resemble a rational or fair pro vs. con list (as I had intended) but rather all of the reasons Twitter and I get along better.
Facebook is like that successful guy you’re supposed to want to date, but you just can’t keep your mind off the beautiful freak in the corner. Twitter is my freak. And I can’t have the Facebook father of social media marginalizing (with its mere presence) the mangled beauty of the Twittersphere. Thus, because my loyalties are entrenched elsewhere, I reject your pressures, Facebook.
While I want to care about you, and even more pronounced, everyone else wants me to care about you, my affections are firmly on Twitter’s side. My first social media crush was Twitter. Add to that my crush’s sustained ability to not get all touchy when I forget to “favorite”, and Twitter had me at the first entirely inappropriate tweet flung my way.
I would even push the polluted “like” button for Twitter, especially since I know it would never ask that of me. #soulmates
November, 2014
Brand new to the world of social media, I have many concerns, but the Facebook fact of life that freaks me out most of all is this: What the hell is up with the “like” button?
Yes, I am aware, 2004 called, and Facebook wants its business model back, but that doesn’t stop me from wondering if the inference is to either “like” or shut up. I could possibly be on the side of an argument for an equally timid “dislike” button to keep us honest.
What am I supposed to be doing here? Distinguishing posts I “like” from those... about which I am ambivalent... or didn’t catch in the torrent of posts... or actively dislike? To what end? Help!
Facebook makes affirmation easy, but I worry about the reverse... what it means if I fail to give a virtual pat on the back. (Hard to imagine anyone noticing.) If pressing “like” is something we do for others, maybe we should interpret this incessant peer pressure as a reminder to compliment others more in our offline lives.
I tested out the “like” function face-to-face with a friend’s twelve-year-old son I will call David, to protect him from the various ways I embarrass him by, you know, being a crazy grown up.
“Hey, I really LIKE your shirt.”
(Silence.)
“Oh, and I LIKE your shoes a lot too.
(Silence coupled with confused look.)
“I LIKE your hair in your new class photos.
“Have you gone crazy, Jen?”
“Possibly, with all of this relentless pressure to like everything on Facebook. What if I LOVE a post? There isn’t a button for that, is there?”
“Well, you could just comment about whatever you love, and tell them why.”
“Oh, you mean actually communicate... THAT does not appear to be the point! Seriously, is Facebook’s ‘like’ button trying to break up my love affair with the English language?”
He rolled his eyes at me and left the room. And then I dramatically shouted “I SHALL RESIST!” as if resistance was crucial and meaningful, leaving the impression that I am even stranger than he thought I was before the interaction.
What exactly makes this behavior any less odd when it takes place online? Clearly, I am overthinking this, however until I hear otherwise, I will assume everyone who is brave enough to suffer through my early stages of Facebook participation will be kind enough to pre-agree to the following:
➢ I “like” adorable child photos, because, I mean, what kind of monster doesn’t like an image of a happy kid?
➢ I “like” good news, including the aforementioned, heart-warming kid pics... but not so much if I don’t know you, in which case I am neutral.
➢ I ”like” bad news, if in furtherance of awareness and is important to share.
➢ I clearly “like” whatever I post.
Cool?
And, oh hell no, Facebook, why is there even an option to “like” your own posts? Do people actively share posts they don’t “like”?!
Please understand that if I do not manage to make it to the “like” button, chances are this has nothing to do with my feelings about, the level of attention to, nor the likeability of the post. And shouldn’t we all assume “like” until we are told differently?
Ha, and they say I’m a cynic...
https://twitter.com/webmistressJH
Much as I try, I just can’t “like” Facebook. The topic seems entirely outdated – as in, why is she even (still, no less) debating a social media fact of life in 21st century America? Well I’m done wrestling with the virtues of Facebook. They are few, and they are rarely satisfying.
Every person I know has accepted the utility of Facebook, and while I want to discover how to transform it from a prevalence of wasted time, I would settle for reduced dread at sign-on. To avoid massive time-suckage, I’m encouraged to treat Facebook not exactly like a series of one-night-stands, but closer to… passing flings with familiar faces. Repetitive drive-bys.
Maybe I want Facebook to be something it isn’t, whereas over here, on the still-surprisingly-fringe edges, I can accept (and therefore love) Twitter for exactly what it is. *Special appreciation shout out to the lowered personal expectations.
See Facebook, I'm going to give you the unearned benefit of the doubt and take all of the responsibility: it’s not you, it’s me.
Last week, I furiously scribbled three pages of notes for this blog update, but they were harsh. Too harsh. Unnecessarily scathing for a woman who sincerely appreciates the art of a well-worded scathing. My notes on Facebook did not resemble a rational or fair pro vs. con list (as I had intended) but rather all of the reasons Twitter and I get along better.
Facebook is like that successful guy you’re supposed to want to date, but you just can’t keep your mind off the beautiful freak in the corner. Twitter is my freak. And I can’t have the Facebook father of social media marginalizing (with its mere presence) the mangled beauty of the Twittersphere. Thus, because my loyalties are entrenched elsewhere, I reject your pressures, Facebook.
While I want to care about you, and even more pronounced, everyone else wants me to care about you, my affections are firmly on Twitter’s side. My first social media crush was Twitter. Add to that my crush’s sustained ability to not get all touchy when I forget to “favorite”, and Twitter had me at the first entirely inappropriate tweet flung my way.
I would even push the polluted “like” button for Twitter, especially since I know it would never ask that of me. #soulmates
November, 2014
Brand new to the world of social media, I have many concerns, but the Facebook fact of life that freaks me out most of all is this: What the hell is up with the “like” button?
Yes, I am aware, 2004 called, and Facebook wants its business model back, but that doesn’t stop me from wondering if the inference is to either “like” or shut up. I could possibly be on the side of an argument for an equally timid “dislike” button to keep us honest.
What am I supposed to be doing here? Distinguishing posts I “like” from those... about which I am ambivalent... or didn’t catch in the torrent of posts... or actively dislike? To what end? Help!
Facebook makes affirmation easy, but I worry about the reverse... what it means if I fail to give a virtual pat on the back. (Hard to imagine anyone noticing.) If pressing “like” is something we do for others, maybe we should interpret this incessant peer pressure as a reminder to compliment others more in our offline lives.
I tested out the “like” function face-to-face with a friend’s twelve-year-old son I will call David, to protect him from the various ways I embarrass him by, you know, being a crazy grown up.
“Hey, I really LIKE your shirt.”
(Silence.)
“Oh, and I LIKE your shoes a lot too.
(Silence coupled with confused look.)
“I LIKE your hair in your new class photos.
“Have you gone crazy, Jen?”
“Possibly, with all of this relentless pressure to like everything on Facebook. What if I LOVE a post? There isn’t a button for that, is there?”
“Well, you could just comment about whatever you love, and tell them why.”
“Oh, you mean actually communicate... THAT does not appear to be the point! Seriously, is Facebook’s ‘like’ button trying to break up my love affair with the English language?”
He rolled his eyes at me and left the room. And then I dramatically shouted “I SHALL RESIST!” as if resistance was crucial and meaningful, leaving the impression that I am even stranger than he thought I was before the interaction.
What exactly makes this behavior any less odd when it takes place online? Clearly, I am overthinking this, however until I hear otherwise, I will assume everyone who is brave enough to suffer through my early stages of Facebook participation will be kind enough to pre-agree to the following:
➢ I “like” adorable child photos, because, I mean, what kind of monster doesn’t like an image of a happy kid?
➢ I “like” good news, including the aforementioned, heart-warming kid pics... but not so much if I don’t know you, in which case I am neutral.
➢ I ”like” bad news, if in furtherance of awareness and is important to share.
➢ I clearly “like” whatever I post.
Cool?
And, oh hell no, Facebook, why is there even an option to “like” your own posts? Do people actively share posts they don’t “like”?!
Please understand that if I do not manage to make it to the “like” button, chances are this has nothing to do with my feelings about, the level of attention to, nor the likeability of the post. And shouldn’t we all assume “like” until we are told differently?
Ha, and they say I’m a cynic...
https://twitter.com/webmistressJH
October 20, 2014
Escaping the Deep South
Part Two: Climbing Into Adulthood
I am from Los Angeles, California, where I attend law school, and where I know no one... After more than twenty years in the city, I have exactly two friends born and raised here, and the rumors that no one in Los Angeles is “from L.A.” are mostly true. Perhaps this is why the city is quick to adopt its most steadfast worshippers. I am from Silver Lake, Santa Monica, the Hollywood Hills, and parts of the San Fernando Valley. And all along the way, the city repeatedly kicks my ass. That’s the thing about Los Angeles: no matter how many wonderful people surround me, the City of Angels absolutely expects its long-termers to survive the inevitable, chronic ass-kickings alone.
I am from Tampa Bay, Florida, and except for the mangroves, the Gulf, and the cost of living, I am tempted to dismiss this short stretch as a bad dream. Defiantly standing in the chaos of the 2000 presidential election, I watch the travesty spawn endlessly destructive, global political nightmares. I suffer Governor Jeb Bush and gushing news stories written each time the man yawns, presumably still the case. The post-traumatic shock from my time in The Sunshine State never goes away, and yet because I leave behind loved ones, part of me is forever attached to that eccentric, heat-infested swamp. That’s the thing about Florida—the state can break my heart over and over again, and yet still, I don’t entirely want to see it fall into the Atlantic Ocean.
I am from Los Angeles, a city that drags me back in for another surreal bout. I am from defending the little guy against music and film industry giants, and I am from enormously successful bosses who smoke crack at their desks and snort cocaine in the back of limousines. I am from endlessly bizarre nightlife, and I am from shacking up in the ‘hood and unfinished art studios. I am from escaping on tour with musicians, and I am from my dreams of grand, romantic love in the Motherland.
I am from Oxford, England, and the life I didn’t know I was leaving there. The city isn’t ferociously hard like Los Angeles, but the feeling of being alone and the need for survival come just the same. Oxford never officially adopts me, and in some ways it closes its doors at the moment I know this is where I am supposed to be. I am from adventures overseas, incredibly high hopes, and lost love that haunts me to this day. That’s the thing about Oxford—the City of Dreaming Spires graciously welcomes redheaded American visitors only for a short time.
I am from Los Angeles, where I begin my third round in “Fight Club”. Tinseltown has an insidious way of tempting back its most devoted followers and can never be convinced to fight fair. I am from bicycling on the beach with my childhood crush, the rock star idol who is even cooler in person. I am from lifelong friends, dating the hottest guy in town, and being banned from a Sunset Strip rock club by the wife of a guitarist I never actually slept with. I am from my beloved haven on top of Laurel Canyon, and all of its famous ghosts, and I am from an addiction to a city I am told is bad for me.
Perhaps I have not yet found the place where I can finally say (peacefully, restfully, ‘once more with feeling’)... I Am From. And that kind of freedom is less comforting than it has ever been.
Lady Emma In Her Land of Wonder
https://twitter.com/webmistressJH
I am from Los Angeles, California, where I attend law school, and where I know no one... After more than twenty years in the city, I have exactly two friends born and raised here, and the rumors that no one in Los Angeles is “from L.A.” are mostly true. Perhaps this is why the city is quick to adopt its most steadfast worshippers. I am from Silver Lake, Santa Monica, the Hollywood Hills, and parts of the San Fernando Valley. And all along the way, the city repeatedly kicks my ass. That’s the thing about Los Angeles: no matter how many wonderful people surround me, the City of Angels absolutely expects its long-termers to survive the inevitable, chronic ass-kickings alone.
I am from Tampa Bay, Florida, and except for the mangroves, the Gulf, and the cost of living, I am tempted to dismiss this short stretch as a bad dream. Defiantly standing in the chaos of the 2000 presidential election, I watch the travesty spawn endlessly destructive, global political nightmares. I suffer Governor Jeb Bush and gushing news stories written each time the man yawns, presumably still the case. The post-traumatic shock from my time in The Sunshine State never goes away, and yet because I leave behind loved ones, part of me is forever attached to that eccentric, heat-infested swamp. That’s the thing about Florida—the state can break my heart over and over again, and yet still, I don’t entirely want to see it fall into the Atlantic Ocean.
I am from Los Angeles, a city that drags me back in for another surreal bout. I am from defending the little guy against music and film industry giants, and I am from enormously successful bosses who smoke crack at their desks and snort cocaine in the back of limousines. I am from endlessly bizarre nightlife, and I am from shacking up in the ‘hood and unfinished art studios. I am from escaping on tour with musicians, and I am from my dreams of grand, romantic love in the Motherland.
I am from Oxford, England, and the life I didn’t know I was leaving there. The city isn’t ferociously hard like Los Angeles, but the feeling of being alone and the need for survival come just the same. Oxford never officially adopts me, and in some ways it closes its doors at the moment I know this is where I am supposed to be. I am from adventures overseas, incredibly high hopes, and lost love that haunts me to this day. That’s the thing about Oxford—the City of Dreaming Spires graciously welcomes redheaded American visitors only for a short time.
I am from Los Angeles, where I begin my third round in “Fight Club”. Tinseltown has an insidious way of tempting back its most devoted followers and can never be convinced to fight fair. I am from bicycling on the beach with my childhood crush, the rock star idol who is even cooler in person. I am from lifelong friends, dating the hottest guy in town, and being banned from a Sunset Strip rock club by the wife of a guitarist I never actually slept with. I am from my beloved haven on top of Laurel Canyon, and all of its famous ghosts, and I am from an addiction to a city I am told is bad for me.
Perhaps I have not yet found the place where I can finally say (peacefully, restfully, ‘once more with feeling’)... I Am From. And that kind of freedom is less comforting than it has ever been.
Lady Emma In Her Land of Wonder
https://twitter.com/webmistressJH
September 24, 2014
Everyone Has An Origin Story...
My mother is a professor, and in her literature classes, she uses a writing exercise called "I Am From" to encourage kids to write their oral histories. I am currently writing my first "Origin Story" for a graphic novel character, and hey, I want one of those too!
Am I supposed to believe that only Doctor Manhattan and other comic superheroes are entitled to an Origin Story? I don't think so...
Part One: My Childhood
I am from a white brick mansion in the city, surrounded by magnolia trees, tadpoles and lions carved into the wall, yet I am also from a tiny shack in the country with creaky floors and the stink of poverty. I am from servants and slaves who built the status of my family, and I am from the civil rights leader who gave their music a public voice. I am from beauty queens and teachers, and lawyers and farmers, women before their time and men who died too young. I am from great wealth, white privilege, and the sheriff threatening eviction at the door.
I am from defiance and manners, and all along the way, love, hope and conviction.
I am from a musician and a murder suicide starring that harsh Gilded Age couple in the frame on the wall. I am from Scottish poetry and a determined Civil War bride. I am from French rebel outcasts, ignorance and poverty, and the house of bees. I am from Delta music, that wonderful old jukebox, and endless parades. I am from the baby grand piano, dancing on the pool table, and slot machines lining the wall. I am from blues and classical, rock and roll and the Grand Ole Opry, the out of tune organ and awful choral singing. I am from straight As and awards, with a detour through cursing in Bible class.
I am from a diversion off the traveled road from which I am unlikely to return.
I am from good girls with femme fatale moments, and I am from men both gentle and heartless. I am from champagne and homemade Bloody Marys, Xanax and marijuana. I am from fancy dinner parties, forced laughter, and kept appearances drowning in rules of etiquette. I am from the dirty spittoon, the uncomfortable religion of men, and the submissive wife. I am from prep school friendships, ‘tater tots and cheese, and trucks in the bowels of Mississippi. I am from the turn of the century wooden roller coaster and the peacock feathers laid waste by the electric golf cart at the zoo. I am from the soda machine nestled in orange shag carpet, and I am from upholstered walls and celebrities in the halls. I am from the queen of the Volunteers, and I am from her king who died with titles she demanded. I am from constant fawning and promises of greatness, but I am from tragedy and desolate suburban ideals.
I am from dynastic remarkability and hillbilly irrelevance.
I am from extravagance and thrift, madness and responsibility, adventures and isolation. I am from relentless honesty and occasional intolerance, acute individualism and complete acceptance. Most directly, I am from her, from the best and worst parts of her, from one of a kind. I am not any of these things in particular, but through my family, I am from all of them.
*What is your Origin Story?
Am I supposed to believe that only Doctor Manhattan and other comic superheroes are entitled to an Origin Story? I don't think so...
Part One: My Childhood
I am from a white brick mansion in the city, surrounded by magnolia trees, tadpoles and lions carved into the wall, yet I am also from a tiny shack in the country with creaky floors and the stink of poverty. I am from servants and slaves who built the status of my family, and I am from the civil rights leader who gave their music a public voice. I am from beauty queens and teachers, and lawyers and farmers, women before their time and men who died too young. I am from great wealth, white privilege, and the sheriff threatening eviction at the door.
I am from defiance and manners, and all along the way, love, hope and conviction.
I am from a musician and a murder suicide starring that harsh Gilded Age couple in the frame on the wall. I am from Scottish poetry and a determined Civil War bride. I am from French rebel outcasts, ignorance and poverty, and the house of bees. I am from Delta music, that wonderful old jukebox, and endless parades. I am from the baby grand piano, dancing on the pool table, and slot machines lining the wall. I am from blues and classical, rock and roll and the Grand Ole Opry, the out of tune organ and awful choral singing. I am from straight As and awards, with a detour through cursing in Bible class.
I am from a diversion off the traveled road from which I am unlikely to return.
I am from good girls with femme fatale moments, and I am from men both gentle and heartless. I am from champagne and homemade Bloody Marys, Xanax and marijuana. I am from fancy dinner parties, forced laughter, and kept appearances drowning in rules of etiquette. I am from the dirty spittoon, the uncomfortable religion of men, and the submissive wife. I am from prep school friendships, ‘tater tots and cheese, and trucks in the bowels of Mississippi. I am from the turn of the century wooden roller coaster and the peacock feathers laid waste by the electric golf cart at the zoo. I am from the soda machine nestled in orange shag carpet, and I am from upholstered walls and celebrities in the halls. I am from the queen of the Volunteers, and I am from her king who died with titles she demanded. I am from constant fawning and promises of greatness, but I am from tragedy and desolate suburban ideals.
I am from dynastic remarkability and hillbilly irrelevance.
I am from extravagance and thrift, madness and responsibility, adventures and isolation. I am from relentless honesty and occasional intolerance, acute individualism and complete acceptance. Most directly, I am from her, from the best and worst parts of her, from one of a kind. I am not any of these things in particular, but through my family, I am from all of them.
*What is your Origin Story?
August 20, 2014
When English Became a Foreign Language
“Will you write me a fairy tale?” This pointed question, from my five-year-old British neighbor in Oxford, England, had the worst timing. Exactly two heartbroken days after my inter-continental move from Los Angeles to Great Britain, after being abandoned in a strange country, I was giving off vibes that I was taking requests from a child. Apparently.
I tried to explain that despite Oxford’s illustrious past as the home of my beloved Lewis Carroll and THAT Alice in Wonderland, I was new to town. Fresh off the jet at Heathrow, and “sad because of a very mean English boy.” I grew up in America, and my freshly dumped status evidenced that I clearly knew too little about British men, much less kingdoms, princes, and chivalrous happily ever afters required in fairy tales. Little Emma wanted the mean boy to “live in another country, like Wales.” But honestly, I wasn’t even sure Wales was a country. Which confirmed my ignorance of kingdoms in general, the United Kingdom specifically, and one Englishman in particular.
I did once think Ireland, Scotland, Wales and England were wholly separate countries, but residents called the country “Great Britain” or “the UK.” And suddenly, where I lived became as confusing as the man for whom I had moved. I searched the recesses of my American education.
(1) The Republic of Ireland, an island off the west coast of the Great British Island, had its own army, civil war history, global rock star, and absolute sexiest man alive (Daniel Day-Lewis), all of which supported Ireland’s status as a country. But I also knew that Northern Ireland had detached itself in some way.
(2) My great-grandfather was a Scottish poet, and I was reasonably sure Scotland had its own parliament, or somehow shared one with England... which was confusing but outweighed by Scots unabashedly claiming their very own elves. As everyone knows, elves go a long way in officiating the status of any country.
(3) Wales had Sir David Attenborough and Dylan Thomas, and Prince William's last name was Wales. But he and his father the Prince of Wales lived in England and couldn't seem to be bothered with the Welsh as far as I could see, lending credence to my extreme disbelief that Wales was a country.
(4) Obviously England was a country. One with a queen, prime minister, and rowdy parliamentary get-togethers. Except technically, “Great Britain” was the imperial power, not England. And if the country was consistently referred to as “the UK”, where did that leave the parts that made up the Kingdom? If the telephone country code was the same for the entirety of the UK, how did it follow that each of the four purported countries within the country were in and of themselves countries?
How?!
And so I remained unsure of the strange Wonderland in a kingdom (on an island) in which I lived, which was a problem if I was going to write a fairy tale for a British child. At least we all spoke English, right? Only on the surface. Turns out, English was no longer the abiding friend it had always been in America.
According to the British dictionary rabbit-hole at my new Oxford rental, each of the four (alleged) countries in Great Britain had its own language. Several were spoken, and sometimes they were different. Welsh was defined as a Celtic language, and Celtic was a “subfamily of languages” subdivided into Welsh, on the one hand, and Scottish Gaelic and Irish Gaelic on the other. And since the English language existed long before anyone settled England, that had to mean... I had no idea.
My handy new dictionary confirmed my suspicions about Wales, which was not a country but instead a “principality” said to be merely ruled by a prince. Ireland was confirmed as a country, but not until the 1920s, before which it was part of the “Commonwealth of England” which was also called the “British Commonwealth.” Stated as a republic, I was taking Ireland’s word for it. Scotland was a country, although part of the United Kingdom, and occupying part of Great Britain. Formed by Irish immigrants, how exactly did the “Irish” become “Scottish” when immediately previous to it being true, it was not true? In the early 17th century, the Irish (who by then insisted on being called Scottish) joined their royal crown with England, but Scotland refused to become a part of England, and might still detach from the United Kingdom. If so, would Scotland still be part of Great Britain?
Yes, despite my long-held certainty and the indisputable reality of England’s status as a country, its description was the most bizarre of all... “the largest political division” of the United Kingdom. Clearly. How else would one describe England? There was, in the official word on England, no talk of countries, cities or islands.
An American friend in London said I should stop questioning the inconsistencies because I would inevitably compare Britain to America and thus could never really “get it.” So, I admitted defeat. I didn’t “get” the Englishman who never bothered to break up with me, and I didn’t “get” fairy tales. A monarchy was so foreign to this American girl, what could I know about island kingdoms, princes or princesses? But that precious five-year-old British child wanted a story, and I wasn’t going to let her down. Surely, if living in Los Angeles and working in Hollywood had taught me anything, it was how to fake a fecking fairy tale.
Adapted from “Perverse Wonderland” by Jennifer Harrison published by Incanto Press ©2014. Perverse Wonderland
I tried to explain that despite Oxford’s illustrious past as the home of my beloved Lewis Carroll and THAT Alice in Wonderland, I was new to town. Fresh off the jet at Heathrow, and “sad because of a very mean English boy.” I grew up in America, and my freshly dumped status evidenced that I clearly knew too little about British men, much less kingdoms, princes, and chivalrous happily ever afters required in fairy tales. Little Emma wanted the mean boy to “live in another country, like Wales.” But honestly, I wasn’t even sure Wales was a country. Which confirmed my ignorance of kingdoms in general, the United Kingdom specifically, and one Englishman in particular.
I did once think Ireland, Scotland, Wales and England were wholly separate countries, but residents called the country “Great Britain” or “the UK.” And suddenly, where I lived became as confusing as the man for whom I had moved. I searched the recesses of my American education.
(1) The Republic of Ireland, an island off the west coast of the Great British Island, had its own army, civil war history, global rock star, and absolute sexiest man alive (Daniel Day-Lewis), all of which supported Ireland’s status as a country. But I also knew that Northern Ireland had detached itself in some way.
(2) My great-grandfather was a Scottish poet, and I was reasonably sure Scotland had its own parliament, or somehow shared one with England... which was confusing but outweighed by Scots unabashedly claiming their very own elves. As everyone knows, elves go a long way in officiating the status of any country.
(3) Wales had Sir David Attenborough and Dylan Thomas, and Prince William's last name was Wales. But he and his father the Prince of Wales lived in England and couldn't seem to be bothered with the Welsh as far as I could see, lending credence to my extreme disbelief that Wales was a country.
(4) Obviously England was a country. One with a queen, prime minister, and rowdy parliamentary get-togethers. Except technically, “Great Britain” was the imperial power, not England. And if the country was consistently referred to as “the UK”, where did that leave the parts that made up the Kingdom? If the telephone country code was the same for the entirety of the UK, how did it follow that each of the four purported countries within the country were in and of themselves countries?
How?!
And so I remained unsure of the strange Wonderland in a kingdom (on an island) in which I lived, which was a problem if I was going to write a fairy tale for a British child. At least we all spoke English, right? Only on the surface. Turns out, English was no longer the abiding friend it had always been in America.
According to the British dictionary rabbit-hole at my new Oxford rental, each of the four (alleged) countries in Great Britain had its own language. Several were spoken, and sometimes they were different. Welsh was defined as a Celtic language, and Celtic was a “subfamily of languages” subdivided into Welsh, on the one hand, and Scottish Gaelic and Irish Gaelic on the other. And since the English language existed long before anyone settled England, that had to mean... I had no idea.
My handy new dictionary confirmed my suspicions about Wales, which was not a country but instead a “principality” said to be merely ruled by a prince. Ireland was confirmed as a country, but not until the 1920s, before which it was part of the “Commonwealth of England” which was also called the “British Commonwealth.” Stated as a republic, I was taking Ireland’s word for it. Scotland was a country, although part of the United Kingdom, and occupying part of Great Britain. Formed by Irish immigrants, how exactly did the “Irish” become “Scottish” when immediately previous to it being true, it was not true? In the early 17th century, the Irish (who by then insisted on being called Scottish) joined their royal crown with England, but Scotland refused to become a part of England, and might still detach from the United Kingdom. If so, would Scotland still be part of Great Britain?
Yes, despite my long-held certainty and the indisputable reality of England’s status as a country, its description was the most bizarre of all... “the largest political division” of the United Kingdom. Clearly. How else would one describe England? There was, in the official word on England, no talk of countries, cities or islands.
An American friend in London said I should stop questioning the inconsistencies because I would inevitably compare Britain to America and thus could never really “get it.” So, I admitted defeat. I didn’t “get” the Englishman who never bothered to break up with me, and I didn’t “get” fairy tales. A monarchy was so foreign to this American girl, what could I know about island kingdoms, princes or princesses? But that precious five-year-old British child wanted a story, and I wasn’t going to let her down. Surely, if living in Los Angeles and working in Hollywood had taught me anything, it was how to fake a fecking fairy tale.
Adapted from “Perverse Wonderland” by Jennifer Harrison published by Incanto Press ©2014. Perverse Wonderland
