Hair/Story

Before I cut my hair off about a month ago, a lot of my friends at law school already knew I was planning to do it. I got asked a lot why I wanted to get a pixie cut. No one asked in a rude way, just with curiosity – like, if my hair looked good at the length it was, why would I want to have short hair? I explained time and time again that I just wanted to.

I felt claustrophobic because my thick, fluffy hair around my face and neck. I missed the freedom of not having to style my hair in some form. I just didn’t feel like myself with my longer hair. I’ve had short hair more often than long in the past five or so years, so it wasn’t a scary decision.

Short hair just seems natural on me. It’s sassy, it’s fearless, it’s low-maintenance, and it’s unapologetic: everything I strive to be.

After I got my hair cut, most reactions were positive. But one guy asked me if my boyfriend supported me cutting my hair off so that guys wouldn’t hit on me as much. I laughed, then I calmly tried to explain that my boyfriend happens to think I have a pretty face, and that it’s easier to see my pretty face when I don’t have so much hair in the way… And that I feel confident that he’s not trying to purposely make me uglier.

This conversation bothered me in the same way that all those articles online from douchey bros, who claim that short-haired women are ruining the fun for men, do - because they all assume one vital falsehood:

That I (and other women) are actively thinking about pleasing men and how all our actions fulfill that goal.

I did not cut my hair for men. I didn’t cut it for my boyfriend, or my father, or my male friends, or the men I pass on the street. I did not keep my hair long for men. I didn’t keep it long for my boyfriend, or my father, or my male friends, or the men I pass on the street.

I grew out my hair because I wanted to. And I cut it off because I really, really wanted to.

If cutting my hair off upsets sexist douchebags and makes me less appealing to random men on the street, that’s actually a plus in my book. It weeds out the kind of guys who will objectify me on first sight, or judge me without getting to know me, or assume that I care about their opinions on the sexual attractiveness of my body.

I wear high-waisted pants because they make me feel fabulous. I have a nose ring because it makes me happy. I have short hair because it makes me feel confident. I wear running leggings as pants sometimes because they’re comfortable and opaque. None of these actions are harmful to other people, and they are deeply and personally satisfying for me.

Women do a lot of things without thinking about the reactions or approval of other people – men and women included.

I want Jake to think I’m beautiful. I want my dad to approve of my choices. I want to make my grandpa proud. But if it comes down to making myself happy and making other people happy, I’m going to go with actions and decisions that make me happy and fulfilled.

Your decision for how to cut and style your hair, what clothes to wear, or how to decorate your body are all personal decisions that only you can make - and these decisions do not make you any less of a woman or deserving of respect.

If you want pink hair down to your waist or no hair at all - have 15 piercings on your face alone or just your ears - two full sleeve tattoos or a butterfly tattoo on your lower back - and those things will fulfill you deep in your soul (or maybe you just really want them), then let your freak flag fly.

No one should be making that decision for you – especially trolls on the internet. If a few less douchetools don’t think you’re sexy for being your most complete, confident, satisfied self, then I’m pretty sure you're the one who lucked out.

xo Madie

Running: A Love/Story

This piece is going to take two, count them two, disclaimers.

Disclaimer 1: This story was written prior to, but edited after, the Boston Marathon explosions. The timing was a coincidence, but I decided to publish the story anyway, hoping that it doesn't communicate any sort of insensitivity, but rather the incredible sense of community people can develop by doing the same thing at the same time. My thoughts and prayers are with those affected by yesterday's events.

Disclaimer 2: Unlike most pieces written on Her/Story, this one lacks a thesis statement, a conclusion, and maybe even an argument. I've taken the name of our blog seriously and told a story, modeled off of a couple of storytelling venues that I adore: The Moth and Modern Love. Check them out!

I was 19 and a month into training for my first marathon when my grandfather, one of the best men I have ever known, died suddenly. I spent the next several months running in the midst of my confusion, trying to process my devastation, attempting to grasp what to me felt like true injustice. When my training ended, I completed the marathon, patted myself on the back, mentally checked "Marathon" off my bucket list, and stopped running.

Marathon Finish, Des Moines, IA 2008

Four years later, I would move back to Iowa to take care of my grandmother who had just been diagnosed with terminal cancer.

There's this saying in life that you should live like you could die tomorrow. It took Grandma and I an entire month to get over the grief and realize that Grandma needed to stop thinking she was going to slip off any moment. She needed to die like she was going to live tomorrow. And me? I needed to get out of the house more.

So Grandma and I started talking walks and I started training for another marathon.

It's been eight months and Grandma has officially outlived the time she was given by her doctor. And me? I'm still living in her house and I'm still running. I stay with her Sunday night through Friday afternoon, and other family members take care of her on the weekends. This means I get to spend my weekends visiting friends all over the Midwest.

Last weekend, I went to Kansas City to watch several friends run a half marathon. I was standing at mile 9, cheering like crazy for these random people that I didn't know, waiting for my friends to run by when I was absolutely struck by how amazing this whole thing was. Here was person after person running by me who had dedicated part of their life to doing exactly what I was dedicating part of my life to doing: running. Running a long freaking way.

Half Marathon Starting Line, Kansas City, MO 2013

There was a woman on the other side of the street cheering for the runners with her two kids, and I knew immediately she was a runner. There's this thing about runners that's just like with lesbians, they don't have to be running down the street or holding their girlfriends' hands (respectively), if you're one of them you tend to know who the other ones are.

So this lady and I are cheering loudly, and at some point the slower set of runners run by us and I'm watching them, yelling my guts out, and these people start looking at me, right in the eye, and saying "thank you." Thanking me. In the middle of their 13 mile runs. And I flash back to my 16 mile run the day before when I could have really used someone at mile 9 yelling for me, and I start yelling my guts out for these strangers, yelling because I get it, because I've literally been in their shoes, literally felt their blisters, literally wanted to quit just like they're looking like they want to quit right this very moment. And that's when the tears start flowing down my face, quite unexpectedly, and I'm surprised because, although I'm both a runner and a crier, they don't normally fit into the same section of my life.

But here's the truth about people like me who take at least 10 minutes to run a mile: we don't run long distance to beat the person running next to us. We don't run long distance for exercise either, because if we wanted to get that we'd just run 5ks. No, no, for people like us there's something much deeper at stake. There's something about identity, something about seeking ourselves going on. Maybe we're running from something, maybe we're running to something, or maybe we have something to prove. But the truth is you can't spend hour after hour hitting the pavement without having to confront yourself even if only just about, at bare minimum, how freaking tired your legs are. Maybe for these reasons, I have dated people who are runners almost exclusively over the years.

My very own cheering squad, Des Moines, IA 2008

I spend an hour cheering at mile 9 and then I move on. I head to the finish and I stand right next to the mile 13 marker, a tenth of a mile from the finish line. And I notice immediately that no one next to me is cheering. They're standing, watching quietly. And I make a quick decision to give the runners every bit of energy I can muster. Suddenly I'm screaming; I'm clapping so hard I have to take breaks because my arms get so tired. I'm saying things like "You're almost there." "The end is in sight!" "Power through!" But what I really want to be saying to these people is "Look! Do you see it? You accomplished your goal! You did the thing you wanted to do, the thing you spent hours training for, and even though you feel like total shit right now, you have conquered this run."

But the words won't come out of my mouth. They get stuck in my throat because by now I'm crying, full on crying, because I feel so proud of these perfect strangers. So I keep yelling the one-liners, praying they understand that I am mentally with them, one hundred and ten percent. And these people are looking up from the pavement at me, and I swear they are seeing my whole self. I swear they're seeing things in me I didn't even know existed. And a couple of them, even at the very end of this whole freaking race, tell me thank you as they run, sometimes stumbling, by.

My last friend finishes the race and still I can't pull myself away. These people have come too far, I keep telling myself, not to get cheered for in their last tenth of a mile. So I stand there, clapping, yelling, and crying, until I am totally exhausted (which is funny because I'm not even running). And finally I slowly walk away to meet my friends, the only three people at this race that I actually know. Leaving the race seems so strange though, because in this moment I'm feeling like I'm walking away from a crowd full of friends I've known my whole entire life.

Love Always,
Kelsey

Questioning Christianity

I call myself a questioning Christian.

I call myself a questioning Christian because I don’t know what else to call myself. I don’t have a label that fits. I’m not, “spiritual but not religious.” I’m not an atheist. I’m not agnostic. I believe in God most of the time. I think Jesus was a righteous dude (please hear this in the secretary’s voice from “Ferris Bueller’s Day Off”).

I don’t believe Christianity is the only way to what we call, “heaven.” I don’t know what happens to us when we die, though I am confident that it is good. I don’t believe in hell. I don’t believe that religion is what makes people good (or bad). I believe religion is imperfect because people are imperfect.

I love going to traditional services at church. I love going to Catholic and Lutheran services because they are grand and romantic and beautiful. I love that I will generally know what to say and when to say it. I love the repetition. I love being a part of something greater than myself. I love having a community.

.....

The reason I call myself a questioning Christian is because other Christians drive me crazy.

It drives me crazy when Christians spout hate in the name of, “loving the sinner, hating the sin.” It drives me crazy when Christians ban people from coming to church or when they make people feel unwelcome. It drives me crazy when Christians claim homosexuality is a sin, but fail to acknowledge that Leviticus 20:9 says that whoever cusses at their parents deserves death; that these Christians decide that one line in the Old Testament is enough proof to discriminate, but the rest of that chapter doesn’t apply.

It drives me crazy that Christians claim anti-Islamic hate, but conveniently forget about all the damage and death we have caused over the years. It drives me crazy when Christians are manipulative; when they pretend to be nice to get you to come to church with them, or to give them enough “bonus points” to get into heaven. It drives me crazy that even though the Bible tells us not to be judgmental, Christians are - without a doubt - the most judgmental people I know.

It drives me crazy when I hear about churches who brainwash their congregants; who tell them that the answers to their difficult life questions are easy, who give answers out like candy on Halloween and get angry or dismissive when students in Sunday school ask questions. When churches tell their members who to vote for, or what “issues” are important or not. When churches spread fear instead of love, or say that a neighbor church is too liberal or conservative.

When Christians pressure their friends to come to church with them and ostracize them if they chose not to. When Christians claim to be pro-life while ignoring everyone suffering outside of the womb, starving or unwanted. When Christians judge their own brothers and sisters in Christ for who they date, how they date, or how modest their clothes are. 

When Christians claim that their particular way is the only way. When Christians claim that Jesus said condoms are bad. When Christians cite Bible verses like rain drops in a storm, yet haven’t learned about the social context of the text and have no desire to. When I’m told that I am sinful for being educated on religious matters instead of rejoicing in ignorance.

I’ve been told that I’m not a Christian because I don’t believe the Bible is the literal Word of God, but a book written by human men who were inspired by God. I’ve been told I’m not a Christian because I don’t believe in Hell.

I have never told anyone that they were not a Christian.

Sometimes it seems like I agree with atheists and agnostics more than other Christians. Sometimes when Jake and I have religious discussions, he will say something negative about the Christian church, look over at me, and apologize. I tell him there’s no need to apologize. Whatever he’s said, I’ve thought about or said myself.

Through all of this, I don’t want to stop calling myself a Christian.

It’s not that I care what people will say or think if I said I was agnostic. My mom would be upset, but I have already forever disappointed her for loving pixie cuts better than long hair, so I’m sure she would get over it. I have a lot of Christian friends, but I also have a lot of friends who don’t believe in God at all.. I just really, really love The Church.

I love what The Church does for the poor. I love that The Church advocates for people who have nothing, who go hungry, who feel alone. I love reading the Old and New Testaments and finding something new each time I pick up the pages. I loved being a religion major and thinking critically about these things, not just accepting them as Truth and moving on. I love that the core of Christianity is radical love!

I love that the ELCA church embraces doubt and questioning, because without them, faith would be flimsy and weak. This church is the reason that I don’t worry about questioning my faith, because I know that every time I come back to it and say, “Yes, I am a Christian after all!” my faith has just become that must stronger than someone who has never doubted.

I love my friends who are Christians, because they remind me every day that although Christians (aka people) are imperfect, there are many Christians out in the world who do their best to be understanding and loving. I love that Erin Broich wrote about why she loves the Catholic church even when she doesn’t always agree with its practices or teachings. I love that when Erin Guzman was trying to decide on a denomination, she made a giant pro-con list on our wall. I love that Hannah is joyful about her faith, but is okay with questioning it. I love that Kelsey is thoughtful and curious about her faith and doesn’t judge me when I’m confused. I love everyone who went to RLC Worship last year on Wednesday nights and made me feel at home when I was fully prepared not to. I love that we hugged during the passing of the peace. I love that people of all backgrounds and faiths came to worship, and that I didn’t always agree with them.

I call myself a questioning Christian because I don’t know what else to call myself.

Maybe what fits me better is a hopeful Christian; someone who sees how imperfect and awful Christians can be, but also sees a light at the end of a tunnel. Even while I see Christians who are judgmental, ignorant and cruel, I similarly see Christians who are gentle, kind and loving and give me hope for the future of Our Church. I have hope that I will want to associate myself, unapologetically and without shame, with Christians again.

For now, I’m holding on by faith.

xo Madie