Power to the Book Lovers

I’m presently reading “What We Talk About When We Talk About Books” by Leah Price. I’m only half way through the second chapter and feeling very much optimistic about the future of reading, literature, and print. What I’ve learned thus far, is that the reading of books is at a all time high. More accessibility and a “worship” of printed work has made literature an increasing pleasure to own, more people are reading physical books that ebooks now than ever, and the increase in quality of printed works has become a greater demand.

All of this is great news for book lovers and collectors alike, but one other thing has struck me as interesting: books are good for selling things other than books. Makeup companies such as https://storybookcosmetics.com and https://www.litographs.com/ prove that literature sells more than just literature, but other products too. How is this accomplished, and why are they so successful?

Most printed literature, especially the classics, are very accessible and often read by youngsters in school as required reading. While we often hemmed and hawed through those books we didn’t appreciate as much, some were nuggets of gold that stuck with us as a refuge from our own realities. They provided us with experiences outside of our own, or experiences much like our own that we can’t help but feel ourselves in the story. These stories make us feel something that makes us connect to them, and therefore a fandom is born.

Tribe mentality takes over. We find books we love, then we find authors we love, then we find people who love the same books and authors that we start to love, and the tribe grows and grows…and so does the market. Suddenly, we’re buying merchandise that helps us to affiliate with our tribe on a deeper level. Clothing, makeup, action figures, even movies all take on the names and stories of literature, but not necessarily in the name of literature, but rather in the name of commerce first, and the fandom second.

How do we feel about that?

I find it interesting that only some literature makes it into the arrest in multimedia platforms. You don’t often find t-shirts with entire erotic literature printed on it. Nor do you see cook book’s or self help book’s titles on makeup pallets. Even though both cook books and self help books tend to have impressively high sales rates. So why do we pick and choose which books make it onto other merchandise?

It’s the power of the people.

Some fandoms have a higher passion, therefore, more merchandise to affiliate with their tribe is in demand. Lovecraft, Wells, Rowling, and Doyle, just to name a few, included objects of notoriety that are easily marketed…and easy to covet. So we want Sherlock’s pipe, we want relic mementos of the Elder Gods, the Elder Wand, we want Huffle Puff t-shirts, we want to touch the ragged edges of the Maps of Middle Earth. We want the story to live in the real world. We want it to translate from imagination to reality, even if it means looking ridiculous and owning a lot of things.

We just want it all to be real.

That’s ultimately what makes it so marketable. The increased desire to make the fiction part of our reality. To build the tribe. To be affirmed by the tribe. To do life with the tribe. To recognize the tribe when we see them, and in turn to be seen. We want what speaks to us to speak to the rest of the world. So we ask for more, because those authors knew us and spoke to us so well, that just having the story end leaves us wanting. Wanting so much more.

My Dear Husband: A Critique

Phone in hand, I hear my husband come into the room.

“Oh you’re up! May I kiss you?”

“No.” I say as I’m watching a spoken word artists describe her life as an overweight woman and trying to figure out why the world hasn’t figured out she’s sexy.

He looks hurt for a moment and then proceeds to crawl on top of me and continue watching the video with me. Laying his hands on my body and being distracting. I sigh and start the video over so he can hear the full experience in context. He is finally engrossed by this act and allows me to finish the work in a semi peaceful state and catch the moments I missed when he was attempting to use me as a means of gratifying himself in some affectionate manner.

When we are done he asks “May I hug you?” And again I say no. He nearly begins to fret for a moment before I stop him.

“Don’t act like you didn’t just come up in here like I was’t already busy and start taking my attention from me.”

What he doesn’t realize is that things like this are important to me. Hearing my sisters speak truth about the daily struggle of being a woman is relatable. Not only that, but he wasn’t even awake next to me to enjoy my morning with, so I took an opportunity to enjoy it for myself. I knew that I probably looked like I wasn’t doing anything important. I knew to him I was just on my phone and probably looked mighty fine in my lavender spaghetti strap satin nightly. All thighs and hips and legs.

So I ask why I must give up what I was actively doing, for the sake of what he merely wanted to do? And why is it at his convenience, but when I want sex, he’s too tired?

This is not the first time my husband has done things like this. I’ll be walking to the bathroom and he’ll stand in my way in the hall and pull me into an embrace, paying no mind to the direction I’m heading. His need to satisfy his desire for a hug seemingly more important than my very normal biological need to empty my bladder. Or I’ll be trying to make dinner and he will do the same. Or I’ll be laying on the couch in conversation with a friend on my phone via text and he’ll lay on me like I’m not doing anything. Or worse, I’ll be reading and he’ll do the same, as if he has a greater right to my attentions than I do. Than he has the audacity to make jokes, such as when he takes me out to eat and makes a shocked face when he gets the bill. It was funny the first time…now it just makes me wonder if 10% of it is how he feels. As if I’m really not worth the cost of an evening of togetherness.

If my time is so important that you act as if you own it, the why am I not worthy of a nice dinner out or some kind of return?

That’s what these actions tell me. That he feels he has a greater right to my time than I do, and I’m not worthy of any sort of return. That because we signed a marriage license that suddenly, he owns me, and disregards any ownership I may have to himself or even myself. That he gets to take whenever he wants, and acts hurt when I choose to say no. Making me feel like saying no is a privilege he bestows upon me, and that I really don’t have a right to say it. Of course he obeys, but how much of that is obligatory to the law, and not what he feels he stakes claim to?

I love him no matter what, but I refuse to be put into a position where I always have to take the hit. Am I over reacting? Maybe. Do I care? No.

I had him read this. He told me I was being heard. I asked him why I had to get angry to be heard? No response. When I asked him how it made him feel after reading it his response was “Like I had my balls put on a chopping block.” I asked why. He said the very word I thought he might “Ego.”

Is my husband a closeted misogynist?

We live in a society where people don’t know the difference between justice and ego. Autonomy and dignity have gone out the window, and they wonder why I feel like I still need feminism. I once had to describe “white privilege” to my husband because he thought it was just for rich people and “he wasn’t privileged” because he’s “not rich.” I told him simply being white and a male gave him a upper hand in our society and he was shocked and confused. As if the whole world was turned upside down. I still don’t think he believes me. I’m not sure of much. But this is what the toxic masculinity of our culture has taught him, and as a 30 something year-old man, he’s having a bit of a rude awakening. It’s culture shock. It’s making him think harder and more carefully about how he behaves…and he doesn’t like it.

I told him he needs to get more uncomfortable, and stay that way. Nothing is a guarantee in life and their ain’t no friends here.

In a Wake of Whiteness

I always debate about reading this sort of thing, mainly because I don’t want to see insensitive or self righteous. I always see interesting titles during Black History Month that I want to read, but I find that I’m always afraid to pick it up, because most of it is about empowering the African American culture…and I’m not Black.

(Interestingly enough I don’t even know if Black and White are supposed to be capitalized or not…so I’m going to feel it out awkwardly through this whole thing. Bear with me and enjoy the inconsistency.)

I’m quite the opposite in fact. I’m very White. So Anglo Saxon I practically glow under black lights. Ghostly even to some. So picking up a book about “Blackness” seems like a moot point. What could I glean from it? What could I learn? I was so afraid of being considered insensitive for wanting to read or being curious about a life outside of my own I often refused to even look at those kinds of things.

Until one day I decided I wasn’t afraid anymore.

It started with a conversation I had with some friends at Wayzgoose, a letterpress convention for designers, printers, and typographers. As we spoke we we found ourselves often trying to figure out how to make art more accessible to people who could be harder to reach, such as the blind, the deaf, the poor, and of course, minorities who saw so little res presentation in the art world. As a female, I appreciated every woman I had to look up to in the design world. How would it feel to be a black young man never having seen another black young man in the letterpress community? How much more approachable would it be if there were more?

So one day, while I was looking through the religious literature section, I saw the book “I’m Still Here: Black Dignity in a World Made For Whiteness” by Austin Channing Brown. It sounded interesting, and so I decided to put my anxiety aside, and I bought the book.

It was a struggle to read, being a white person. Not because it was a bad book or the Ebonics were hard to understand. It was well written, but also honestly written, and that was hard to read. It meant hearing a perspective on whiteness that I knew was all too real, and had no idea how to help with. The exclusion. The subtle racism. The prejudices. All of it washed over me in heartbreaking reality that even my heartbreak knew I’d never understand. Story after story revealed how distant the worlds of white Americans and black Americans had become. Especially in Christian spaces as this book describes.

The more I knew, the less I knew.

One phrase really struck me personally. I was almost half way through the book when Austin says “When my body stands out and I am tempted to forget my own beauty…”

While I could not feel it from her perspective as an African American woman, I could feel it as a woman in general. How years of cat calls and male friends mistreating me because of my femininity came rushing back. How much I needed my fellow females in my life to help be bear the burden of femininity just to feel normal and remember that I too was useful and beautiful and powerful outside of the physical attributes of my being. I got a glimpse of it. To my very soul it struck. How much worse is it to be female and black? I shuddered to wonder at the deep breaths she has to take daily. The constant forgiveness her faith asks of her in a world that can’t seem to figure out if they want her in it or not. The isolation. The fear. I cannot imagine it.

My only sadness is knowing that I will not fully know. Knowing that this is the perspective of my destructive whiteness to people of color. My culture has raped a landscape of ruin in the name of innovation over a world that holds so much more than whiteness within. I cannot be free of the wake it leaves behind me. A wake of death, exploitation, and cruelty. I know I did not make this wake, but it still follows me. A long shadow of horrors that cannot be erased.

Is this white guilt? Possibly. But what is so wrong with wishing things were different? Wishing cultures hadn’t clashed and warred for so long and built this tragic tale? Then I ask myself what good it does to wish? I cannot be undone. Not in this lifetime.

My wishes echo into nothing.

Crying

I had probably cried about the short story for almost an hour. My hormonal ass was all over that heart string pulling shit. I knew I was PMSing hard. There was no stopping it. At work I had been depressed as ever and struggling to stay on top of my projects. At home I was a weepy mess over everything from how cute the cat was to the short story I had just finished reading. It had a dog it in. Of course I cried.

I wasn’t looking forward to my doctor appointment the next day with how weepy I felt. I knew I was going to get yelled at. I was always getting yelled at. Nothing new. Just didn’t know how to take care of myself. The bad habits started and I didn’t know how to stop them. So now I have no idea how to proceed. I don’t even know what taking care of my health looks like, especially when struggling with money and depression. How do people do it? Do they even do it? What does “controlled diabetes” even look like? Fuck if I know. I recall at one point in my past I had an A1C I thought was good, but got scolded for how dangerously low it was. Now I can’t seem to get it below 11. Much less the ideal 7 or lower.

I’m trying Herbalife meal replacement shakes to see if they help me. It’ll be easier to to manage cab control when It’s the same for 2 meals every day. I know I’ll need to start exercising. Struggling to find an exercise I’ll actually enjoy, plus with depression the motivation to start is going to be the hardest part. Just start. Just walk. Just run. It’ll help. I know it will, but just thinking about it is overwhelming.

Everything feels overwhelming these days. I hardly feel functional. Mostly I’m just floating. Existing. Not really doing much else. My creativity for work requires energy I don’t have. I already know people at work aren’t a huge fan of me. My boss hardly speaks to me, but gives a lot of attention to my coworker because her mom help him build the company and still works there. I’m ignored more often than not.

I’m always ignored.