Kaelyn MacIver > Recent Status Updates

While it is true that there is a freedom in forgetting-and this country has made great use of that freedom—there is a tremendous power in remem brance. Indeed, it is memory that teaches us, and reminds us, again and again, who we truly are and who we have always been.

You have brought me here, gentlemen, in hopes of conquest in an attempt to rein in this feminine largeness, to shrink it down and force it to acquiesce to your paternal control, to allow our culture to forget that any of this dragon business ever happened.
This, my friends, is an impossibility.

“There's very little we can control in this life. All we can do is accept whatever comes, learn what we can, and hang on to what we love. And that's it.
In the end, the only thing you can hope to control is yourself. In this moment. Which is both a relief and a huge responsi-bility, both at the same time?"

“Anger is a funny thing. And it does funny things to us if we keep it inside. I encourage you to consider a question: Who benefits, my dear, when you force yourself to not feel angry?"
She tilted her head and looked at me so hard I thought she could see right into my bones. She raised her eye-brows.
"Clearly not you."

And now I realize, there is a freedom in forgetting.
Or at least it is something that feels like freedom.
There is a freedom in not asking questions.
There is a freedom in being unburdened by unpleasant
information.
And sometimes, a person has to hang on to whatever freedoms she can get.

And maybe this is the same with all of us—our best selves and our worst selves and our myriad iterations of mediocre selves are all extant simultaneously within a soul containing multitudes.

“There is a limit to how much we can hold, and how much we can keep in this world. It's not a good idea to cling to the things you cant bear to lose. That's how we break, you see?"

We've had to stop posting the exam scores, because the boys see her loafing in class, and yet still claiming that top score, with no thought at all to their teelings. I ask you, what does one do with a girl with so little regard for others?

Embarrassment, as it turns out, is more powertul than information. And shame is the enemy of truth.

It was too shocking.
It was too embarrassing.
It was too, well, feminine. Words stumbled and cheeks went red and the subject became impolite. And so the world looked the other way. It was, for almost everyone, like any other taboo subject—cancer, or miscarriages, or menstruation— spoken of in tight whispers and vague innuendos before changing the subject.