The Bubble of Ignorance – Part 2

Okay, firstly, I hadn’t intended on publishing something twice in a row. This is my 100th post, and it’s not what I envisioned sharing. But this is the world we live in now, and I can’t make happy, woo, cutesy posts when our world is continuing to face terrible acts of injustice, murder, and hatred.

Over two years ago, I wrote and later published a post about my feelings on the so-called Islamic State.

In those two years, my knowledge and understanding about how they work has grown.

I’ve started speaking out more about them, as well as many other injustices happening around the world. Since publishing that post, I have made an effort to not live in my bubble of ignorance. I’ve started protesting and educating myself and people around me about what’s going on. I’ve become particularly passionate about what’s going on in Syria.

Okay, enough intro. Here’s my follow up on The Bubble of Ignorance, especially in the wake of the attack on the Ariana Grande concert in Manchester. Once again, it’s unedited because I just wrote it.


Here you sit, in your bubble of ignorance.

I suppose it’s better than indifference and apathy.

But you laugh at me

When I call you out.

“What more can I do?” You say, as you scroll through Facebook endlessly.

Your thoughts and prayers are with them, you say,

When in actuality,

You’re hoping that I just go away

And let you return

To your bubble of ignorance.

Because you can’t be blamed for not acting

When you simply didn’t know

About the killing

Or the drilling

Or the missing

Or the chilling scenes of death, despair, and destruction

That flood my Facebook feed, but somehow you’ve tailored your feed

To only show you things you want to see.

That’s fair,

But you know what isn’t?

That you get to sit happily in your bubble of ignorance

While PEOPLE in Syria

And around the world

Are crying

Are DYING

Are trying to get to safety.

Are risking everything for their family.

When all you risk is your “image.”

“Facebook should be about happy things,” you say.

Fine, and by the way,

Your privilege says, “Hey.”

You can’t rush away from this injustice.

Now, trust us,

You’ll be asking for trouble

If you’re caught

Sitting in your bubble

Of ignorance.

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The Open Mic

Ten feet away, an idol stands at a microphone in front of her.

The idol announces that her turn is up in 3, and she isn’t sure

whether she’s ready.

She’s never been one to be so real

in front of strangers, and she doesn’t want to steal

the spotlight from people

whose stories matter more than hers.

Not that she thinks she’s any good.

It’s the opposite. She supposes she could

decide to leave or withdraw, but she sticks it out.

She practically blacks out during the next two sets,

but she tries to focus.

The man before her is powerful

with a message that empowers.

Will her message empower?

No.

But it’s her turn.

The idol returns and announces that she’s up.

Is that really her name? It sounds unnatural, and she wants to throw up.

But she stands up

and faces the open mic.

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I did my very first open mic the other night. I read Stubborn and Enough. I think it went well, but it was terrifying. Thanks to everyone who supported me that night, and special thanks to Kristine for taking me.

A Journey to Tiny Hands

A lone bag slouches on a shelf.A bunny bag sits on a shelf. Others sit below it.

Filled with books, all ready for tiny hands.

It sits.

And sits.

And waits.

A lone being approaches the bag, smiling.

It lifts the bag and brings it to a cart.

It’s filled with other, bigger bags.

A day passes.

The bags wait.

The being returns and moves the cart to a vehicle

Where it loads the bags and cart.

The vehicle moves for what seems like ages.

It stops.

The being is back, and it lifts the bag and carries it into a house.

After some time, the tiny hands appear.

Two, four, six, eight, ten, twelve, too many to count.

They empty the bag.

Waiting to be refilled, it sits on the floor, satisfied that it has brought the books to the tiny hands.

A month passes.

The being returns.

The bag is refilled,

Reset in the vehicle,

Transported home,

Cleaned, and set on the shelf

Where it will wait for the next being who will transport it to new sets of tiny hands.

Success

What is success?

Is it a grade? A number? A pay check?

Is it measured with happiness? Education? A piece of paper?

Is it a big house, with a nice car, 2.5 kids, a dog, and a white picket fence?

In school, is it what you learn in a class, the grade you get, or both?

At work, is it the money, the praise, the patrons, or something else entirely?

At home, is it a safe place, a welcoming family, a cat?

What makes someone successful?

Is it a legacy, a memory, or what you experience while alive?

What is success?

On Youth

via Daily Prompt: Youth

Youth is a strange topic for me.

I am currently considered to be young, youthful, a “youth.” However, I’m also not young enough anymore.

The other day, I was out with a friend and I realized that the store “Forever 21” no longer applies to me.

For years, as a college student who was much younger than her peers, I struggled with being too young. I waited years in agony, wishing I was eighteen. Then, once I’d turned eighteen, the wait to turn twenty-one was agonizing.

My husband is almost four years older than me, but we match each other intellectually. When he got a job at a 21+ restaurant,  I couldn’t go and support him by eating there.

Sometimes friends would forget my age, and they would invite me out places that I wasn’t able to get into. I would appreciate the invites, but it was always awkward having to remind them I’m so young.

Recently, I was out at that same restaurant when a friend came in with a group. As their group was leaving, we caught up while walking back to my car. He remarked that he frequently forgot how young I was. He’s about seven years older than me.

To counter that, I often forget how “old” he is.

In other areas of my life, I am often the youngest person around. Square dancing has very few members in our area who are under the age of forty. Clogging has more younger members, but we’re still a minority.

In my sorority’s local alumnae chapter, I am one of a few young women who participate.

My hobbies and interests draw me to older folk. Even my profession is full of people who are typically more than ten years my senior.

While working at my university recently, I realized that most of the people there are now younger than me. For years, they were all older than me, and I saw them as way more smart and capable.

Now (for the most part), I see them as younger than me and find myself trying to take on a mentor role for them.

All of that considered, I can’t seem to find my “home.” People my age don’t often have the same interests that I do, but people who are older but who have the same interests seem to not want to include me because I’m so young and inexperienced compared to them.

I have a few close friends (who are close to my age) who I see typically once a week on non-busy weeks. Other than that, I don’t have a “squad.”

I suppose I will be stuck in this stage until my peers catch up to me in interests. I will forever be the awkward, weird one with strange hobbies, but I suppose I will be the master of those by the time the rest catch up 😉

Stubborn

via Daily Prompt: Stubborn

Stubborn. Not moving. Won’t budge.

Not open.

Closed minded.

Closed.

Open up.

To a viewpoint.

An idea.

Latching onto an idea.

Now stubborn with conviction.

Won’t give up a viewpoint.

Standing your ground.

Holding on.

Stubborn.

Being forced to let go.

Tightening grip.

Can’t let go.

Can’t give in.

Must stand ground.

Must stay stubborn.

Tug of war.

Ideas flying.

Whips made out of words.

Stubborn.

Enough

It’s been a long while since I’ve posted anything on here. I’m so sorry. It’s been a busy several months, but once again I find myself horrified and nearly speechless at the actions of others.

I just don’t know what to think.

I’m not going to talk about guns (though something needs to change) or religion (though it really shouldn’t be blamed for this). I’m going to talk about people. Specifically, the people, most of whom were likely part of the LGBTQ+ community, who were murdered and injured on Sunday.

There have been enough mass shootings. One is enough too many, but there have been way more than just one. There are now enough people I know, myself and my boss included whose birthdays have been marked by a horrible mass shooting event.

There are now enough people who won’t get to celebrate another birthday because they’ve been murdered in a mass shooting. There are now enough parents and family members who won’t get to celebrate a birthday of a loved one because they were torn away from this world too early.

One is enough too many.

Enough.

Enough judging others for who they are.

Enough telling others they aren’t good enough or are going to go to hell because of who they are or for this choice or that. Enough making yourself the judge of other people’s bodies, religion, sexual orientation, gender identity, and anything else other people do.

Just enough.

Now is the time for action.

Now is the time to reconsider our policies.

Now is the time to stop judging others.

Now is the time to create a culture and society where everyone is welcome to be who they are.

Now is the time to be kind to others.

Now is the time to be the change.

Donate. Give back. Vote. Run for office. Call out others for hate. Stand up for people. Stop using language that perpetuates a view that others are less than you. Just do something good.

I’ve had enough of prayers, silence, inaction, false promises, hate, injustice, death, murder, and judgement.


I want you to know that you are loved and cared for and that you matter.

You are beautiful. Your soul is beautiful.

You are intelligent.

You are supported.

You are enough.


I want you to know that:

We lived through times when hate and fear seemed stronger;

We rise and fall and light from dying embers, remembrances that hope and love last longer

And love is love is love is love is love is love is love is love cannot be killed or swept aside.” – Lin-Manuel Miranda


Additionally, I recently saw the play, Hand to God. This was a quote from the producer, which I felt was extremely relevant. How do we share the blame?

Hand to God was a surprise hit in New York, but, more than that, it is a reflection of a dark and disturbing time in America. Random violence is at an all-time high. Presidential politics are reduced to schoolyard behavior. A loss of faith and civility dominate the social landscape. More often than not, fear causes us to lash out in our grief instead of seeking out the help needed for healing. Pressure leads us to bad behavior and unhealthy habits. The constant hate and violence that we witness causes us to search for a scapegoat. Hand to God asks the question: