Well-Decorated Dining Room

Dinners at my house are chaotic beyond belief. More often than not, we eat leftovers or get takeout rather than preparing an actual meal. We don't eat until 9 or 10 at night, after my brother's baseball game or my sister's dance class or my rehearsal. We eat at the dining room table, which is seldom clean. The table manners of my brother, sister and I are probably atrocious, and when my dad eats with us, he always tells me to stop holding the fork by the neck. Sometimes, everyone in my family forgets about dinner altogether, and we go to bed perfectly content with two out of three daily meals consumed.

Reading the above paragraph may shock you. When I told a friend of mine what time I eat, she couldn't believe it. But living like that comes in handy. For example, when I was in the musical, rehearsal would often go to 6, when most people eat dinner. Therefore, at the end of the day, the cast would be hungry and tired. I, on the other hand, was just tired.

While I don't eat dinner with other people besides my family often, it can be a little bit of a shock to experience someone else's habits. When I went over a friend's house to study, I was amazed to find that the dining room was what she would call "organized" and what I call "completely and totally sterile." It was so weird for me to see that her family's dining room was just the dining room, not the dining room/homework station/crafts area/place where bills are kept/place where failed art projects are kept. We keep our dining table adjacent to the kitchen counter, the TV, the couch, and the piano, (all of which clash terribly) whereas she kept her dining table separate from everything and you could tell that someone put a lot of time and thought into the decoration.

We ate the same thing that I usually eat with my family, leftover pizza, but it was pizza that her dad had brought from his trip to Chicago, a place I haven't been to in years. Over dinner, he regaled us with stories about Chicago, and everyone respectfully listened (also doesn't happen in my family.) Nobody started yelling. Nobody interrupted him. Nobody turned his stories into symbols of the decline of America. When the conversation turned to school, her parents just asked us what we were studying, instead of having us come up with elaborate plans for the future, as my family might have done. While it was nice to have a quiet, pleasant dinner, I don't think I would ever be able to sustain that kind of lifestyle. Dinner at my house is a lot easier, and it comes with a lot less pressure.

My Name Is Better Than A Princess's

My name was once something I was ashamed of. I was raised on Disney princesses with names that were more exciting and more interesting and prettier than mine. Names like Jasmine, Tiana, Esmeralda, Belle. My mother used to say that they almost named me Natasha, and I would get so upset because I absolutely adore the name Natasha and I wanted it to be my name. When I was younger, I wanted to go by my middle name, Angelina (mostly because I watched Angelina Ballerina RELIGIOUSLY. Even back then, I was such a fangirl.) But for some reason, I never did. I was introduced as Taylor and it stuck. For some reason, I always disliked other people who shared my name (which I believe still contributes to my hating Taylor Lautner). It just seemed unfair that I had to end up with a name that was so boring.

Furthermore, it was my mother's surname, which she never changed. The whole thing made no sense to me. Like Gogol, I had a last name for a first name, and I wasn't sure why. All I knew was that when my mother and I were together, besides the differences in skin color that made people's heads spin, there was the added confusion of my mother's last name being my first name and our last names being different.

To my knowledge, there is no one single meaning for Taylor, because it's supposed to be a last name. Unlike my siblings, whose names originated in far off countries and seemed to tie them to destiny and freedom and wisdom (my brother's name means "gift of God"in Hebrew and my sister's name means "dark" in Hindi and "light" in Gaelic), my name didn't really mean anything special. Did my name mean I was destined to become a tailor, something I didn't think would be meaningful or interesting to me?

However, my attitude toward the name changed as I slowly learned the story of what my name meant to my parents, what it meant for who I was. Names don't always have the significance that Jhumpa Lahiri would like us to believe that they do, but in my case, my name is such an important part of my story and of who I am. My mother named me Taylor because my parents were expecting a baby that, at the very least, wouldn't look white. When I was born, I had strawberry blond hair and blue eyes, very different from my mother's dark curly hair and warm brown eyes. They had already decided on my middle name, a gift from my great-grandmother, and it was my father's last name that was going to go on my birth certificate. My mom wanted me to have a piece of her, given that she couldn't find any of her features reflected in mine, or the features of her family, of the kinds of people she had grown up with and embraced all her life. Taylor was how she imparted that piece of my heritage onto me. All of the missing physical features I never had as a baby are wrapped up in that name, a name that symbolizes to me this space that I exist in that's not quite anything.

As I grew up, I began to look more and more like my mother, if in facial structure more than skin tone, and to be more and more like my family. I have my parents' bad eyes, my father's picky (or shall I say discerning) taste for Mexican food, food that isn't good enough in restaurants because it should be homemade, because it's always better homemade. My mom's side of the family tells me I have a gift for making peach cobbler, traditionally a Southern dish, an always important part of family holidays. I have my cousins' luck (that is to say, lack thereof) when it comes to cards. Even though I had no understanding of politics at the tender age of eight, I stayed up late to see whether or not Barack Obama was going to get elected, because somehow I knew it was important to my mother, and therefore it was important to me. I have my mother's laugh, unwelcome yet always, always welcome. My name was a symbol of everything I didn't have, but it was also a symbol of everything I did have, and everything I had yet to gain. Although it seems insignificant when I introduce myself, it is the symbol of so much power, and so much depth, that forms my destiny.

Three Cultures

My heritage is messy and complicated and often something I don't feel like I can own or be proud of. I identify Mexican and African American as my two cultures, but being perceived as white, I'm so often in situations with people who don't believe that I can own my culture. For example, when I try to make a joke about what it's like living in a black family, people will say that I can't make those kinds of jokes because I'm not really black. And in a sense, they're right. Being perceived as white means that I have white privilege. So no, I don't know what it's like to have people treat me differently because of my skin color. I can talk all I want about how they treat my mother in the yogurt shop or the grocery store, but at the end of the day, that's not my experience.

Another issue that I continue to struggle with is what to call my paternal grandmother when I'm talking to other people. Unlike most people who claim Mexican heritage, I don't speak Spanish. However, I call my paternal grandmother wela, a shortened form of abuela, when I'm with her. Referencing her as abuela in conversation immediately establishes my Mexican heritage, while merely saying grandmother avoids the issue entirely. I've tried using both. They both feel like a lie.

On top of all of this, I've spent most of my life in Irvine. It was really hard to feel like I fit in anywhere. It still is. When I'm at school, I don't feel like I fit in with predominately white/Asian classmates because of my family. When I'm with my family, I don't feel like I fit in because of my school. I carry a piece of my school life and my home life with me everywhere, and one keeps my from fully being with the other. I don't feel legitimately Mexican and African American, but I'm not white either. For a long time, I wished that I would wake up and have nappy hair like my mom, or darker skin like my dad's family, just so I could go places and feel like I belonged somewhere. Even among my closest friends, I recognize that I am different, that I have experiences that other people can't understand. I can't even begin to say how many times people have looked between me and my mother, between me and my sister, and said "But you're not biologically related, right?"

Pity Those Who Live Without Love

First of all, let me just say that a society where people's emotions didn't get in the way of their reason sounds, at times, like a paradise. On those days when we feel really bad even though we know it's completely illogical, it would be nice to throw those feelings aside and operate as normal. While maybe we think that it's better to feel something than to feel nothing when we're feeling good, when we're sad or angry or downright lachrymose (vocab alert!), it's normal to think that, just for a moment, it would be nice if the pain just went away.

But then, I like to think about the fifth Harry Potter book. It's my favorite, but a lot of people hate it because for the majority of the book, Harry whines about how terrible his life is. Those emotions that he's feeling aren't pretty, and most people don't want to confront those kinds of feelings in themselves. But the thing is, when you're being chased down by a power-hungry Dark wizard that no one else believes exists, those feelings are kind of justified. They make for compelling stories. For me, they made Harry seem less like some hero and more like a real person.

Part II of Notes shows us the completely irrational behavior of the Underground Man in narrative form. He knows that Simonov and the others don't like him, but he goes to dinner anyway, just to spite them. He knows that the officer won't even remember "the bump" and that he'll probably get the worst of it, but he does these things because they make him feel alive. Just like Harry Potter, the feelings that end up coming out of these decisions are ugly and frightening, but, at the very least, he has a soul as well as a mind. When we feel these awful things and persevere, it's a testimony to the power of the human spirit. When a robot hits a wall, it'll stop. When humans hit a wall, we complain about it being there until we find a better way.

When I was younger, I had one of the worst social circles in the whole school. By third grade, I had three whole friends, two of whom moved away. My "best friend" and I had an argument in fourth grade that completely shattered most of my elementary school relationships. On top of that, we had just started getting letter grades, and mine were pretty far down alphabetically. I would have never imagined then that I would get through all of this at the time. I certainly never imagined that I would look back at those days and see all of the ways I grew into who I am now. Most of the time I felt like a loser, but those memories give me strength now. I've got a really compelling story to tell, and fortunately for me, it's not ending yet.

"Do not pity the dead, Harry.

Pity the living.

And above all, pity those who live without love."

-in memory of Albus Dumbledore (1881-1997)

The Contradiction of Politics

Everybody will contradict themselves at some point in their lives. Sometimes it's a result of having learned something that makes you think twice about your opinions. Sometimes, it stems from being a dynamic, complicated human being that can live with some contradiction.

I contradict myself quite often in my political beliefs. I identify as democratic, but I also think that businesspeople should be able to trade freely. I justify this through saying that businesspeople should be able to trade freely to a degree. Just like the vegetarian who can justify wearing leather by saying it lasts longer, I believe that the free market is something that helps America more than it hurts. However, I also believe that the preservation of "the American Dream" comes from reforms that are democratic in nature. These two ideas are usually in direct conflict with each other, but I can't see any way that I would stop believing in these things, so I have to live with a little contradiction. (Having politicians who contradict themselves on the daily helps.)

The Doc is In!

Hello. My name is Dr. Garcia. How are you all doing today? Fine? That's good (although it doesn't seem like your wife agrees...) Now, let me see here... Ah, Petruchio and Katherine.

I'd like to start off with some goals for Petruchio. Throughout our session, I have seen you mistreat your wife in a number of ways that do not seem at all appropriate and healthy in a relationship. While I understand that you feel your preferences matter as much as Katherine's, it seems a bit extreme to deny reality as the rest of us see it altogether. Katherine tells me of a time when you told her that the moon was bright when it was in fact mid-afternoon. In the future, I would implore you to let Katherine discover the world as she sees it rather than telling her the difference between right and wrong and expecting her to obey.

Furthermore, your denial of food and sleep for Katherine is simply not how you treat a lady. A healthy relationship is built on the health, emotional and physical, of both partners individually, and you absolutely cannot have a successful marriage until you begin to value Katherine more than you value the relationship.

Lastly, I would advise you to be honest with Katherine. Somehow (it is beyond me), she has grown to love you, in such a way that any problems you may have with your financial standing and class will not affect how she feels about you. Rather than trying to distract her from your problems in various barbaric ways, try telling her what your situation is, and see how she feels about it.

Katherine, it's time for you. I recognize that you've felt unloved for quite some time. I think that this marriage has the potential to be very successful, but, as I said before, it cannot reach that potential until both you and Petruchio are comfortable with the aspects of yourself that you may not like. For him, it is his class. For you, it is how much you are affected emotionally by the title of 'shrew.' It's okay to feel, Katherine. And it is okay to have your own opinions and be at all times yourself. You and Petruchio must work together to bring out the best in each other. With this in mind, I know the two of you can succeed as a couple and show you father and the rest of your community how much potential you have both within the relationship, and outside of it.

It's All in the Choice

For me, I don't really care, as long as the woman gets a choice. I think the idea of ownership that we see play out in Taming of the Shrew and in real life comes from women not having a choice, of being forced to submit to a man. If the question were whether or not a woman should be forced to take her husband's last name, I would say "of course not!" But in the past few decades especially, a lot of American women (including my mother) have chosen not to take their husband's names. In the last few decades, a lot of women have chosen to take their husband's last name. A lot of husbands have chosen to take their wife's last name. There's hyphenation. It's all good, in my opinion, as long as everybody gets a choice and is happy with what they've chosen.

However, all that said, it's important to recognize that the practice of a woman taking on her husband's last name came from a culture of ownership and lack of choice. We have the privilege now of consideration. It does make one think about the oppression that women went through and continue to go through. Even something as simple as a name has oodles of controversy surrounding it. The common assumption is that in heterosexual couples, the woman takes on the husband's last name. Even still, we are controlled by the history behind this issue.

So while I don't think that it's healthy to say that a woman has to do one or the other, I also don't think, like with anything, it's healthy to assume. Some women want to change their names. Some women don't. Some women like hyphenation. So instead of saying "Oh, hello, Mrs.__________", perhaps, next time, you ask what she would prefer to be called. Give her the choice.