Having Kids: a (mostly) irreversible (and entirely irresponsible) decision Stuck Keysss……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………26

Having Kids: a (mostly) irreversible (and entirely irresponsible) decision Inspired by “ stove ”

I don ’t know if you have a ranking of different types of stoves, but here ’ s mine: 1. Gas stove: This is what I grew up with. You can see the flame, and you can make it go as big or as little as you want pretty immediately. Good for making s ’ mores, too. Easy, fairly beginner friendly, and it works wonders when your power goes out as long as you have a lighter. 2. Wood burning stove: personally, I have never used one, but I like bonfires, which is basically the wood burning part without the stove. Right? Also the aesthetic (and smell) is very nice. 3. Electric stoves: Fairly easy to clean (I think?) but also how are you supposed to know how hot it is? Like yes the dials will tell you, but still… how? You ’ re telling me that I’ m just going to have to trust what the dial says and trust that, even though I can ’t really see a physical representation of the heat (i.e. the size or color of the flames like on a gas stove), that my food will cook and not burn? Don ’t like it. Don ’t like it one bit.

If my opinion on electric stoves tells you anything, it may tell you this: I don ’t trust many people or things. This is something that I’ ve been working on. While doing some mediocre selfpsychoanalyzing is something I don ’t seek to do, I will say this: I am a firm believer that, at the end of the day, there is nobody you can truly trust to have your best interest in mind besides you. Not even your parents, not even your significant other, and not even any person whom you hold in high regard. I am a triplet, and I will be the first person to tell you that I’d trust my triplet siblings with my life and most decisions that matter. But I will also be the first to disclaim that statement and say that at the end of the day, I can only truly trust myself.

This perspective is a really strange one. At least a strange one for me to have, at least. For someone who can often be (and used to be 100% of the time) very self- loathing, trusting myself is a fairly novel concept. It’ s kinda funny though. I only truly trust one person in this world–me– but it’ s also someone whom I hate 99% of the time. It’ s an irony and and truly cognitively dissonant. I have no explanation for it, besides the analogy of, “Only I can have something bad to say about myself. Only I can say that I’ m loud, annoying, selectively confrontational, and anxious. Nobody else can say that. ” The self awareness I have about myself can only be expressed by me. Is this censorship? Probably. Is it a measure to protect my feelings and my feelings only? Most definitely. Is it healthy? Debatable.

Trust truly is a one of a kind thing. With it, so much is possible. Community. Relationships. Accomplishing goals. Dividing and distributing responsibilities. Without it, or once it’ s broken; nothing.

Trust, in all of its forms, is the bridge that connects us as people. Some of these bridges are much older and stronger and carry the weight of personal, life- changing responsibilities: money, caretaking, meeting basic needs, emotional support, etc. Others are not as strong but still carry the weight of professional or acquaintance- level responsibilities: getting tasks done for a group

project, meeting a deadline for work, carpooling and being on time, or fulfilling the Venmo request when someone covered the entire dinner bill.

In my not very scientifically verified opinion, our most fundamental understanding of trust comes from our relationship with our parents. They were the ones who made the (mostly) irreversible (and entirely irresponsible) decision to bring us into this world. Some of us have the blessing of a great relationship with our parents, and some of us have the back- breaking burden of an impeccable sense of humor. A not so great relationship with our parents is the price we pay.

Growing up, my parents put an emphasis on trust– more specifically, their hatred of lying, and their staunch belief in a few things: 1. If you lie to someone, you will break the trust they had in you. 2. Omitting the truth is still lying. 3. Once trust is broken, it is incredibly difficult to rebuild.

While I do make an effort to explore gray areas and reinforce the idea that nothing is black and white, I agree with these two things very strongly. Now, would I say that all lies are bad? No. Omitting truth and white lies are still lies, but I definitely agree that there are times and places for it. But is it still lying? Absolutely. And if someone to whom you omit the truth or tell a white lie wants to call you out for lying, or wants to say that your lie broke their trust, they would be entirely within their right. Granted, is lying about how bad a bad haircut actually is as bad as, say, cheating on a partner? Objectively, that’ s not a hard call, but I believe most people are reasonable.

All my point is, is that we operate in gray areas every day, and by doing so, we take risks. We take these risks while hoping– trusting– people to see where we ’ re coming from and trusting them to understand what we mean. Whenever you tell a joke– I like how comedian Hasan Minhaj put it– you ’ re trusting that your audience can differentiate between satire and sincerity. Context is everything, and that is what gives us the flexibility to be in gray areas without boxing everything into “ right” or “ wrong.

Assessing the context is what makes it easier to interpret what is actually malicious, but at the end of the day, none of us can read anybody else ’ s mind, and all we have to work with is the information we have at hand and trust, defined as the “firm belief in the reliability, truth, ability, or strength of someone or something. ” Trust is what allows us to be vulnerable with people, but it is also what we fall back on when we make mistakes. When we make mistakes or go out on a limb, we trust that another person believes that we are well- intentioned.

We only have the words spoken, the actions acted, the things we ’ ve heard, our biases that stem from our experiences, and trust. And some things are easy to recover from- bad jokes, white lies, small omissions of truth. Others are not.

One thing that really pisses me off is my generation ’ s (or the present world’ s) gross misuse of the word “ gaslighting.

The term comes from the 1944 film, Gaslight, which features Paula, an opera singer who moves in with her husband, Gregory, after a whirlwind romance. (Major spoiler alert) Paula is unaware of two things: 1) that Gregory is the man who murdered her aunt, and 2) Gregory ’ s real name is Sergis. And so starts the manipulation. Gregory starts to isolate his wife from the outside world, claiming that it’ s good for her anxiety surrounding the trauma of her aunt’ s death when she was a teenager. He ’ s incredibly possessive and controlling, and accuses her of being a kleptomaniac, even stooping so low as to plant “ stolen ” possessions of his in her things and making a big show of “discovering ” that she had stolen them. One of the more subtle points of manipulation, though, is when Paula notices that the gaslight is dimming for no apparent reason. Gregory insists that it is just her imagination, while concealing the fact that it had been him changing the brightness of the light. Gregory ’ s goal is this: convince Paula that she ’ s going mad, get her institutionalized, gain power of attorney as her husband, and get rich.

While the ending is outside the scope of this essay, I will quell your fears, dear reader, that, even though Paula was really questioning her perception of reality and her sanity, Gregory ’ s plan did not eventually succeed.

The term gaslighting is defined as to “ manipulate (someone) into questioning their own sanity. ”

The important part- the part that gets forgotten- is “questioning their own sanity.

If someone lies to you and you know they ’ re lying, that’ s not gaslighting. That’ s them being an asshole, for sure, but it’ s still only lying. Because you know it’ s a lie. You know the truth. And you aren ’t questioning whether or not you are accurately perceiving reality for what it truly is. You aren ’t questioning your sanity. Maybe you ’ re questioning the liar ’ s sanity or morality, but the point is, you know what is true, what is not, and you aren ’t being made to believe otherwise.

Gaslighting is a repetitive behavior. You don ’t start questioning your reality after one lie (typically… I don ’t want to make too many blanket statements because I don ’t know all of the possible lies that could do that.). This is not me saying that people who get gaslit have some sort of weak resolve- I am here as someone who was gaslit for a good part of their lives, and I can say for certain that the way that “ gaslighting ” has become a synonym for assholery is just getting more and more tiring. To say someone gaslit you is a big statement to make, and I don ’t think people realize the gravity of it: what it means to really question your reality; to look at your life and the way you perceive it and genuinely think to yourself, “Am I the crazy one?”

Two months before my 18th birthday and three months before I was to go away to college, my parents revealed to me and my triplet siblings that we had been conceived via egg donor. That

revelation unraveled a long, long narrative of what I had understood to be truths of my life. A lot of things started to make more sense.

For one, the weird looks I would get from people when I told them that I was fully Filipino made a lot more sense. Cultural nuance and sample size aside, growing up, I always thought it was strange that people would look at me weirdly. I was very confident in my Filipino heritage, but I would look at myself in the mirror and affirm that yes, this is what a full Filipino looks like. I would look at myself in the mirror and see the combination of my mother and father ’ s features. (I’d like to add that my obsession with being “full blooded” is no longer and I have written a lot more exploring the problem with quantifying culture and associating looks with lived experience, but that is outside the scope of this essay.) I looked at the people who looked at me weird, and wrote them off as being stupid or incredibly ignorant. When my parents revealed to me that the person who contributed to half of my DNA was white, I felt like a liar. I felt like an asshole. Of course I looked like a “ mutt. ” I was one. Yes, it didn ’t necessarily excuse the weird looks I got or the cultural invalidation I experienced (and continue to experience), but it felt like when you make the mistake of going up to fight someone, and then half way through, you realize you weren ’t given all of the information and you are, in fact, the asshole in the situation.

Secondly, my sister ’ s punnett squares assignment from high school. My triplet brother, sister, and I all went to different high schools, and my sister took a genetics class at hers. The assignment was to fill out punnett squares using your parents ’ traits to figure out what combinations possibly gave you your traits. For instance, curly hair is a dominant trait. Combined with someone who has straight hair (a recessive trait), their children should have wavy hair. My mom has curly hair and my dad has straight hair. Even if my mom had wavy hair, according to punnett squares (which, to be fair, have their limitations), there would be a 50/50 shot as to whether or not their children had straight or wavy hair. My triplet siblings and I all have stick- straight hair. When my sister brought up this quandary with my mother- why the punnett squares weren ’t matching up, my mom just told her that there must be something wrong with my sister ’ s work. That she might just be a special case. My mom knew exactly why the math wasn ’t math-ing, and she instead made my sister question her intellect and told her to just fudge with the punnett squares until they were right so she could get a good grade.

Thirdly, my mother ’ s favoritism of our older sister and the red hair in my brother ’ s beard weren ’t just unexplainable idiosyncrasies anymore.

The amount of times that I had been told that something was “in my blood” as justification for why I should do something or be good at something made that same blood boil. The mental anguish I had experienced- beating myself up for not fulfilling a familial, blood- based legacy had been baseless. I felt like I was in a nature versus nurture experiment, and there were people watching and analyzing my every move, waiting until I was 18 to reveal the truth.

These things, among other stories concerning my parents and their dedication to the story they told us for almost 18 years, thrust me into an existential crisis of a lifetime. I remembered watching The Truman Show in my 8th grade class, and all I could think as I felt my brain

chemistry changing was that I had never sympathized with a movie character more than I was currently sympathizing with Jim Carrey ’ s Truman Burbank.

I was looking at everything I had ever been told in my life, and I was overtaken by a debilitating paranoia that I was hopelessly unaware of the reality I was actually living. That everyone around me knew something I didn ’t and were refusing to tell me all the ways that I was actually inaccurately perceiving myself and the world around me. I didn ’t trust myself or anything I saw or believed in. I felt like the foundation of my identity and beliefs had been completely demolished, and it took me a while to realize that such distrust in myself was actually ridiculously unfounded. I had done the best I could with the information that I was presented with, and now, I just had new information. Granted, it was life altering information that I credit with radicalizing me, but that’ s beside the point.

When I asked my parents why they had hid the information from us for so long, they gave me a few different answers ranging from “We didn ’t want to negatively affect your high school experience ” , to “You weren ’t mature enough” , to “We were going to tell you all when you were 10, but we just got so busy. ” None of these answers ever satisfied me. Regardless, I felt that there was no explanation that could repair my broken sense of trust. It was that experience that, while incredibly isolating, also forced me in a position to really take on responsibility for who I was as a person. Self- sufficiency was the name of the game when I felt like I couldn ’t trust the people around me.

I found a new sense of empowerment in the aftermath. My triplet siblings left for college one month before I did, and while we gave each other support, they, too, were wrestling with their own demons and striving to make something for themselves at their colleges. It took me three months to gain a semblance of an appetite, and it took years before I could get the quality of sleep that I used to have, but when I moved 2,000 miles away to college still feeling like I was sinking, I forced myself to swim. I simply had no other option. I would find a way to breathe even when I felt like I was drowning.

I realized that even though I felt like I was struggling to hold onto a foundation that no longer existed, I was still here. Amidst the rubble of a life I couldn ’t recognize as mine, I was still standing. Sure, I was struggling to breathe and my posture wasn ’t great, but I was still here. And I realized that I couldn ’t trust anybody else to pull myself out of it. There were definitely people that helped along the way, but I knew that, at the end of the day, I was the only one who I could trust to redefine my identity and understanding of the world, ever-changing as they are.

I didn ’t know much, but I knew that I had to get to a place of stability. A place where I knew that, no matter what came my way, I could trust myself to come out on the other side in one piece. A place where new information wouldn ’t threaten the integrity of the structure that was my life. I grew a sense of humility that I hadn ’t had before, and grew a novel commitment to introspection. I resolved myself to get to a place where I could trust that I would make the best decision I could. Trust that I would keep myself together. Trust that I would adapt. Trust that I was not defined by my mistakes. Trust that I had the ability to correct them. Trust that failures now meant growth later.

And 4 years later, I can say that I do.

Stuck Keysss Inspired by “trash”

So here I sit, in the middle of the Detroit airport at 6:09 in the morning, waiting for my father to pick me up, and attempting to write something on this Chromebook loan from the UCLA library while my laptop is in for repairs. The keyboard sticks, which, if that doesn ’t mean anything to you, means that when I try to write my name, instead of “Natalie Albaran ” , I get “Naaataaalaaie AAalbaaaraanaa. ” I don ’t know if my laptop ’ s obsession with the letter A has anything to do with my younger self’ s obsession with getting A’ s, but I gotta admire its dedication.

My only prompt is today ’ s Wordle, which I completed as I waited to deplane. Today ’ s wordlewhich is trash. Literally. “Trash.

For aesthetics ’ sake, I considered getting coffee. But for finances ’ sake, I decided against it. Unfortunate, considering that it would’ ve completed the aesthetic of sitting at an empty table in the airport, feet propped up on an ottoman (my suitcase), sipping coffee at 6 in the morning as people bound for various destinations bustle around. Some are meandering to their gate, and others are walking as fast as is socially acceptable. Others disregard any semblance of social acceptability and sprint, and others disregard such social standards with their un-socked feet. I’ ve never understood why someone would go to the airport in sandals without socks. Rawdogging the filth of the airport (Most airports are very aesthetically pleasing and “ clean ” , but really. Think about it. How clean do you really trust airports to be?) A rather meta opening to an essay, but that’ s what gets the gears turning, I guess.

Trash is technically a verb and a noun. Its adjective form is technically “trashy ” . But I think it’ s a Gen Z invention of using “trash” as an adjective (or at least, outside the dictionary definition usage) as well.

“How was your day?” “My day was trash. ” Translation: “I had a bad day that felt like a series of unfortunate events ”

“How ’ s your apartment doing?” “Well, aside from my trash roommate, it’ s going pretty ok.

” Possible Translation: “Well, aside from the fact that my roommate is as unpleasant as she is disrespectful and impolite, it’ s going pretty ok.

All of this to say that if something is “trash” , it could be a reference to a lack of cleanliness, but it could also be a reference to something or someone for which one has general distaste. I also think it demonstrates my generation ’ s tendency for hyperbole, but that’ s in my non-linguist opinion.

Speaking of things that are trash, I will say that not having a functional keyboard for over a year is an annoyance that I think I will only truly recognize when I get my working laptop back and realize how much easier my life could’ ve been for my last two years of college. I know that’ s kind

of getting ahead of myself, but even on this Chromebook, which has a completely different user experience than a MacBook, I’ ve been ten times more productive because I’ m not editing spelling mistakes that aren ’t mine. Where I can truly trace my frustrations back, though, is January 3, 2021.

Actually, now that I think about it, there were several trash occurrences in my life around that time. For one, my laptop screen broke the night before the new academic quarter started. And, of course, everything was online at that time, and I was in Michigan, so I was already physically disconnected from my California- based college. Now, I was virtually disconnected. I still have no explanation for why my laptop broke. But nonetheless, after calling customer service several times and trying to see if it was a software problem, it was unfortunately looking like a hardware problem, which required that I take it into an Apple store.

Quick note about the Apple Stores that showed up in my search: there were a few Apple Stores in Michigan and only a few more registered dealers in Michigan: but all of them were booked for the next week. There were 4 Apple stores in my vicinity (I use that term generously) that had any availability within the coming week, but the first available appointment was the following day, Monday, in OHIO. (Toledo, which is objectively more accessible than Cincinnati from my Southeast Michigan positionality, but still). The next available appointment in Michigan that didn ’t require a 5 hour drive was for Tuesday, January 5 at 6:05pm. A two hour, 81 mile drive, but doable. I called up my sister and my cousin, both who were still on break from their respective schools: my sister, so I could crash at her place, and my cousin because I needed a car.

When you make an appointment with an Apple store, or at least, in my experience, they call ahead the day before to confirm and also to get a pulse on what the situation is. I got my call when I was sitting on the toilet. Naturally, I answered. I was not about to jeopardize my spot in line. Especially during a pandemic when going in- store, while anxiety inducing, was often an anxiety that was bearable because the alternative was not going in store and therefore not getting help. I talked to a very polite man who asked me about my [computer ’ s] issues, and I told him. I told him about my screen, but then I also added what I had added to my initial complaint: that I had several keys that were sticking. He told me my laptop would likely be gone for a week (much to my dismay), but as long as the damage wasn ’t found to be my fault, the repairs would be free (much to my delight).

The following day, my cousin dropped me off at the dentist for my semi-annual check up while she took care of some car- related errands. Replacing the windshield wipers, I think. After my appointment, we picked up some Starbucks (driving beverages, if you will), and I hopped in the driver ’ s seat to embark on our 2 hour long journey to East Lansing.

Before long, we were pulling into East Lansing ’ s Ding Tea for our second round of beverages (and also to get some for my sister and her roommate), with plans to stop by Meijer very quickly to cook some Filipino chicken adobo for them as well. Whether I liked it or not, my laptop was out of commission, and while I had this feeling that I was falling behind on everything, I wasn ’t

about to address those feelings and do anything about it. I was in a different city and hanging out with my sister and my cousin. Fun was inevitable and unstoppable.

After delivering the boba to their proper recipients and making my sister ’ s kitchen smell of soy sauce and vinegar, I took a quick nap then woke up 20 minutes before my Apple Store Appointment and rounded up my sister and cousin to accompany me. As we walked outside to get in the car, I noticed a piece of paper underneath the newly replaced windshield wipers; a ticket. In case you ever had the question of whether or not there is a “ wrong way ” to park on a residential street, let me give you an answer: in Michigan, apparently, this is a $32 offense.

Putting that out of my mind, we drove up to the Apple store and I made my way in while my sister and cousin went shopping. For what, I don ’t really know, but neither are the type to pass that opportunity up. When I was able to meet with an employee, the man I spoke to seemed to think that the screen was the most pressing issue- which, I mean, wasn ’t incorrect- but it made me anxious that it didn't seem that he was taking my keyboard issue seriously. He made the promise, though, that he would see what he could do to improve the condition of my keyboard.

While I had apprehensively accepted that I would be in for a laptop- less week, I was not aware that I would have to bid adieu to the stickers on my laptop. The employee gave me a moment to take off the stickers that I could, so I stood in that Apple store, trying to preserve a semblance of dignity, but failing miserably, as I scratched off as many stickers as I could. I had not expected to have my emotional investment in these stickers challenged- I didn ’t even realize such an emotional investment existed. So as I scratched off stickers pertaining to BTS, some dance competitions I’d been in, and Harry Potter, I felt the same anxiety that you feel when you ’ re at a cashier and even though you know they ’ re not gonna berate you for taking to long, you feel like you ’ re taking forever to get put your change in your wallet, and then you wallet in your purse, and then gathering all of the bags to go. In a panic to quell that anxiety, I looked up at the Apple store representative and said “I think I’ m good now, ” though I have doubts about how convincing my tone actually was.

So, with about 5 half- stickers barely sticking onto my laptop case (that I had to take off my laptop), I left the Apple Store laptop-less and soon-to-be-$32-poorer. I’d definitely seen better days.

The rest of the night, thankfully, ended without further incident.

The next morning, I was still laptop-less and, again, while I could’ ve done something to fix that problem, I opted to think to myself, “It’ s still only week 1 of the quarter and fuck it. I’ll catch up on work later. ” So instead of tending to any pressing obligations, my sister, cousin, and I continued our movie marathon from the night before and watched Now You See Me. Personally, I don ’t really remember the plot of the movie- just that Dave Franco was there and so was Daniel Radcliffe. Or maybe it was the Now You See Me 2. As you ’ll see, there were more pressing matters that took up my brain waves that day.

As I lazed around and alternated my attention between Tik Tok and my sister ’ s projector, suddenly I got a text from my mom in my family group chat: “Turn on the news right now ” . I initially ignored the text- not because it was personal, just because, well, the 24- hour news cycle and the overuse of “ unprecedented times ” was a headache I didn't feel like reigniting.

It wasn ’t until a couple more texts saying things along the lines of “ omg ” ,

“holy shit that’ s crazy ” , and “ what the fuck” started streaming in to all of us individually did we pause the movie and ask my sister how to get the news up on her projector. Like most people of the Tik Tok/ Social Media generation, cable news was not an option (one- because watching it was nauseating and twowho has cable nowadays?), so we went to YouTube to try to find a livestream. The YouTube discover page did not disappoint. There were several live streams available for our viewing pleasure. All I remember seeing was the thumbnail of what appeared to be a dystopian depiction of the United States Capitol. My sister, cousin, and I sat in that room, staring, mouths agape, at the projection on my sister ’ s ceiling of angry insurrectionists storming the Capitol, and suddenly, my laptop ’ s issues were not issues.

Needless to say, I got my laptop back a few days later and the keyboard, while broken, was not nearly as concerning as the fact that my father ’ s “Trump | Pence ” flag was still waving in front of his house.

When my cousin and I returned from my sister ’ s house to my aunt’ s house (where my father was to pick me up), homeowner ’ s associations came up. Something about my aunt needing to get approval to paint her house a certain color. I, for one, wholeheartedly believe that homeowners associations shouldn ’t be regulating the color of the neighborhood’ s houses. You bought that damn house, so you get to say what happens to it! Sounds pretty cut and dry to me. Nonetheless, my aunt described some of their benefits to me and at best, you could say that I was halfconvinced.

My father came by to pick me up and caught the tail end of the conversation, and that was that. When we got back to his house, though, he walked towards his office, but before he left earshot, he said, “ speaking of homeowner ’ s associations ” , and looked at the counter, where there was a letter. He walked away and I walked to the kitchen counter, where the unfolded letter read,

“Purchasing a home in a community association offers many advantages to the homeowner, but at the same time imposes some restrictions. These restrictions are not meant as an inconvenience or invasion of your freedom, but rather as a means of maintaining harmony in your community. [...] Political signs may be placed on an owner ’ s property no more than sixty (60 days) prior to an election. All such political signs must be removed within twenty four (24) hours after an election. As the election was in November 2020, the political signs must be removed. Therefore, we kindly ask that you remove the signs immediately.

As if to make sure that my dad and his girlfriend could not deny that they, in fact, had a sign on their property, there were two private- investigator- esque pictures of the flag printed on the bottom of the letter.

I was dying with laughter. Of course, my laughter was silent, but for someone who had trash-talked homeowner ’ s associations no more than 45 minutes prior to reading this letter, I was thoroughly entertained. I almost marched into the front yard myself to dispose of the flag. I was shocked that this homeowner ’ s association would have such a rule (especially because it was representing a demographic of what you ’d expect from a gated community in suburban Michigan), but I was more shocked at how quickly this PR move had materialized. The letter was dated and delivered on January 7. So, taking both of those shockers into consideration, I felt even more strongly that people on both sides of the political aisle could recognize the absolute abomination that January 6 was.

My intention is not to use words that are overused or inaccurate, but living in America and trying to make sense of the political landscape is very gaslighting- adjacent. When you get gaslit, that means that you have trouble trusting whether or not your perception of the world is actually reflective of reality. I don ’t think it’ s too far of a stretch to say that many people second guess their perception of American politics- trying to make sense of your own political views and decipher whether or not you ’ re being accurate in your perception of the political climate and current events is incredibly difficult.

What is the news showing? Can I make my opinions solely based on that? What news sources can be trusted? Why do some news sources show certain things and not others? What is it that I don ’t know? What information am I missing to inform my opinions? What information would change those opinions? Why is it that when I state my belief in something, there is always somebody else refuting it? While my intention is not to deny the value of different perspectives and constructive discussion, it really baffles me that some things that I would define as nonnegotiables can truly be so negotiable to other people. It’ s not that I expect other people to take on the same perspectives as I do- I wouldn ’t grow as a person if I didn ’t encounter differing opinions- but is the value of certain things- for example, an elementary schooler ’ s life– truly something that can be negotiated? Furthermore, it truly is incredulous that it feels like, for as much as the American public can disagree, on things that we do seem to agree, the government that seemingly represents us does nothing.

“The shooting at Sandy Hook Elementary was a devastating tragedy that should never happen again.

I believe that this statement is not controversial. It is 15 words that I would think (or rather, really, truly, hope) that the American public, all 330 million of us, can agree on.

But the way that school shootings, among other things, have become talking points up for negotiation is very gaslight-y. The shooting happened 10 years ago this December. The students who were murdered should be learning how to drive by now. They should be experiencing teen angst and the ups and downs of pre- adulthood. The fact that the conversation around guns (“ control” , “ safety ” , or “ rights ” - however you want to frame it- I really don ’t care to engage in the politics of wording when human lives are the true center of this conversation) has not moved forward (or at least, it has not felt like it, speaking as 21 year old who was only 5-6 years older

than student victims) could make someone think,

“Damn, is it really so unreasonable- is it really so much to ask- for safety surrounding things that were designed to kill?”

People talk about infringement on freedoms, but if the United States ’ devastating schoolshooting track record has any meaning, it is that something has to change. Virtually nothing has, and it’ s been 23 years since Columbine.

Yes, the United States prides itself on freedom, but there are many, many countries that boast a similar level of freedom that don ’t have the same track record. Why is it that the United States is the only place where this happens? Gun control is consistently criticized for its infringement on personal freedoms, but is it really a matter of freedom? Or is that just a buzzword used by politicians to ensure that their gun lobbies continue to line their pockets with money? I believe that most people are reasonable. We want life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. We want to be healthy. We want to be safe. We want to be happy and make a world for our children and communities that is better than the one we came into. Add whatever it is you want for yourself on this list, but politics aside, I truly believe that this is what we, as humans, want. We view different methods as acceptable means to achieve these things, but again, politics aside, I believe these things are our common ground.

But when politics is framed solely around how much citizens on different sides of the aisle are stepping on each other ’ s necks (which, to be fair, is a valid feeling to have and in conversations/ circumstances where politics/ harmful ideologies motivates violence and harm (verbal, physical, or otherwise), anger, vengeance, resentment, and exasperation, among other things are justifiable (dare I say, reasonable)), politics becomes exactly that: politics. These conversations about real issues become conversations about power and the means people will employ to keep it. I’ m not a Nobel Peace Prize nominee, and I don ’t think I’ m saying anything new, but it really comes back to losing humanity. When we discuss things like abortion, guns, and healthcare, it isn ’t about those explicit issues. It’ s about money, power, and corruption. I’ m not a political analyst, and I know there is a lot that I have to learn and read, but I know hypocrisy when I see it. I know intentional inaction and weaponized incompetence when I see it. When a person in a position of power shrugs their shoulders and says that there ’ s nothing that they can do, I really do wonder why and what they are doing there in the first place.

But when I hear my age and seeming inexperience used to justify ignoring or invalidating my opinion, it’ s incredibly infuriating. What standards do I have to meet in age, experience, demographic, etc. to be taken seriously? A large criticism of cancel culture is the idea that cancel culture ignores the possibility that people change, and it excludes the leniency to let people ’ s opinions and actions change and mold. Will the beliefs I have as a 21 year old change (or at the very least, grow different nuances)? Absolutely. I hope so. But also, my experience as a 20something in 2022 is vastly different from a 20-something ’ s in 1950. It’ s vastly different from a 20- something ’ s experience in 1776.

So am I really being “too progressive ” or is it that I’ m providing a perspective that politicians just don ’t want to listen to? Am I being unreasonable, or is what I believe just a basic standard for human dignity? Am I being irrational, or am I doing the best with the information that I have

and responding to changes in a world and society that no one ever anticipated? Am I uneducated, or am I an (almost) UCLA degree- holder that is making decisions and forming perspectives informed by a 4 year- college education? (Disclaimer: I am not claiming to know everything that I need to know- I am painfully aware that there is so much I do not know. But it is ironic that the same people who put an emphasis on getting a college education are the same who say “You ’ re a college student! What do you know?” or, my favorite, “College changed you ” –always said with distaste.)

Am I crazy or does it actually make sense that people should not be paying crazy prices just to make sure that they have enough insulin? That children shouldn ’t be going to school with the anxiety that they will not be able to go home? That people should be able to enjoy concerts without fearing for their safety? That the only person who should be concerned about a person ’ s uterus is the person with the uterus? I get called a crazy liberal when what I want is considered “ conservative ” by other countries ’ standards? Is it really about these questions or is it about the ways that addressing these issues would affect certain economic advantages and benefits to people who have an exorbitant amount of money to begin with?

The idea that an insurrection could happen and virtually nothing could come of it (i.e. Trump was acquitted of his second impeachment) suggests that the insurrection wasn ’t as big of a deal that a rational person might appear to find it. People still defend what they did and find little wrong with what they did. And these same people get plenty of coverage and the sheer amount of such coverage gives the implication that they deserve the time and coverage they get- that they have some level of legitimacy. I am one to defend the freedom of speech, but at the same time, why are we giving crazy people so much time of day? In any other country, if that shit happened, the American government (and some of its public) would’ ve grown some audacity to call it a “failed state ” among a slew of other antiquated and xenophobic terms including “third world” and “ uncivilized” . The United States is no better in terms of political unrest than the countries it seeks to assert dominance over and the fact that the insurrection has been normalized to some degree is sickening.

I truly believe that nothing is beyond repair, but some things need to change. While I love a good tangent, when conversations surrounding the stability of our nation and the safety of its constituents lose steam due to a 23 year (or longer) tangent surrounding political personalities and power struggles, we lose sight of what we were talking about in the first place. Our vision gets obstructed by pointed fingers and turned heads, when in reality those fingers need to lower, and those heads need to return to the matter at hand. Everything else has no place in these discussions. They belong in the trash.