FOMO

When I was an adolescent, I was desperately uncool. (I like how I'm saying this as though I've become super-hip and popular in the intervening years. EL OH EL NOPE.) As a result, I always came to fads late. My Tamagotchi was probably one of the last ever sold. I skipped the Furby altogether, and I'm glad I did, because those things are scary. One particularly bitchy classmate made fun of me in the third grade because I still played with Barbies. This is how it went back then.

Today, I'm no better at keeping up with trends, but in a different, more adult way. Gone are the times when I was late to the party; instead, I'm skeptical of the party itself. The hyper-manicured eyebrow? I don't get it at all and refuse to participate. "Festival style" baffles me, both because of its appropriative aspects and because I don't see the appeal of things like Bonnaroo and Burning Man. Reality television in the vein of the Real Housewives franchise holds no interest for me.

This might sound surprising coming from someone who claims to be a devotée of popular culture, and in a way, it is. When it comes to pop culture, I lean more nerdy, more literature-centric, more critical (in the evaluative sense), so I walk a different path, ignoring the things that don't speak to me in favor of topics that spark my curiosity.

As a child, I wanted to fit in badly enough that even something as inane as pogs seemed essential to my life; unfortunately, by the time I arrived at the station, the train had departed and I was left trying to catch the caboose. Now, I'm less susceptible to that impulse, although I do still occasionally seek opportunities to be accepted into the so-called "cool kids" group. That's only human, I think.

Perhaps as I continue to age, I'll worry less and less about that cutting edge. It usually turns out to be ineffectual, anyway, or lacks historical or philosophical resonance. The exception to this may prove to be something like the Kardashian family; if that turns out to be the case, I'll eat my words. For now, though, I'll continue to wonder what I might be missing when I don't consume a given type of media. 

Here's hoping I'm not missing anything at all.

-Cate-

Images via here and here.

Chester Bennington, Depression, and You

Like so many people in their youth, my brother didn't always have the best taste in music. But every once in awhile, he pulled something great out of his hat, and sometime late in 2000, he showed up with a copy of Hybrid Theory, Linkin Park's debut album.

I know that nü-metal is a controversial genre among music lovers, and I understand why. For my part, I was never a huge fan of any one band from that world, and even Linkin Park wasn't part of my pantheon beyond Hybrid Theory. But that one album is one to which I can still return, 17 years later, and enjoy, and part of that has to do with Chester Bennington's lyrics and vocals.

At the time, I was 14 years old and a freshman in high school. My peers and I were at that awkward stage where we were growing up but not grown up, and that was even more obvious for us underclassmen, not the least because some of us were shedding our middle-school identities and trying to form new--or at least cooler--personas. This was a time when I was getting into rock music rather than the prevailing pop of that era. It was also a time when I'd already had my first run-in with psychology, though many years before I received the diagnoses I have now. 

Something about the way Bennington delivered his words got to me. He could move from angry to vulnerable to sad to enraged in seconds, which spoke to every outcast kid in the country. No song embodied this better than Linkin Park's monster hit "In the End."

Although it's been memed and the chorus provides a nice bit of dry humor when you've messed up some task or other (example: you tried so hard to run a mile and got so far, but in the end, it didn't even matter because it was high school phys ed), "In the End" is quite powerful. It's an anthem about failed friendships and intimate relationships, about letting out your emotions when you want to quit trying, and it's comforting to know that someone else really, truly understands your pain.

What many people didn't know, but surely could have inferred from most of the songs on Hybrid Theory, was that Chester Bennington had walked a difficult road up to that point in his life. Even though he spoke about his challenges and his depression on many occasions afterward, this was the beginning of his career, and he was a newly-minted rock star, which made him cooler than cool.

Now that he's passed away, everyone knows that Bennington had depression. A vocal minority of people out there have been saying the same things they've said about countless celebrities before: how can you be depressed when you have it all? They fail to understand that it's a real illness; you can't wish it away or ignore it into nonexistence, and you can throw all the money you like at it, but it won't bow to capitalism. 

Even if you do all the right things--go to the appointments, take the meds, read the books, do the cognitive behavioral therapy--you might still not feel better. And it's an exhausting experience, both physically and emotionally: depression literally makes you tired, and discussing your inner thoughts can be difficult, especially when you already feel inadequate and stressed. For those diagnosed with chronic depression, this turns into a lifelong battle. You never know when your medication might start to fail you, or when something may happen to send you into a spiral. 

When you're living in such a black hole, it is sometimes difficult to see a way back to the light, let alone drag yourself onto that path. No matter how many people you love or how much money you have, if depression is that pervasive, it can drive you to extremes. So no, I'm not surprised that Bennington chose to end his own life. And I'm not disappointed in him, either. Rather, I feel for him and his family, for his fans, for his friends. They've lost someone dear to them, and he lost his battle.

But I don't condone what he's done. Having been touched by suicide multiple times in my life--sometimes directly, sometimes peripherally--I can tell you that it's a horrible experience for everyone. Because I've been depressed, I completely understand where people are coming from when they consider suicide, and I'll never judge anyone who feels that way. However, know this: the world will not, cannot be the same without you.

And so, as always, I encourage anyone who's feeling suicidal to reach out and speak with someone. There are numerous hotlines and websites with good resources, and if those fail, you can always e-mail me: cateismilesaway@gmail.com. Please stick around. We want you here with us.

-Cate-

Seminal Albums

When I was putting together last week's "New Year, New Playlist," I started thinking about not only the songs but also the albums that influence me the most. Some of them are, undoubtedly, unsurprising, but there are others that may make even those of you who know me best do a double-take. 

Although the list is much longer than what I'm presenting here, I've decided to choose the eleven that are most important to me (at this moment in time, at least)--you know, the ones I would take into exile with me. How did I end up with eleven instead of ten, you ask? Well, for one thing, these guys told me it's okay to turn it up to 11. For another, I started to panic and couldn't stand the thought of cutting one more from my list (although part of me suspects it would be Sheryl Crow, if I'm being honest).

Rather than do a write-up of each album, I'm simply going to list my favorite track and let you do your own exploring from there. These come to you in alphabetical order by artist, because any sort of ranking is impossible after the first three (No. 4, Confessions on a Dance Floor, and White Blood Cells). Enjoy!

- The Sign, Ace of Base (Favorite song: "Happy Nation")

- The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars, David Bowie (Favorite song: "Soul Love")

- C'mon C'mon, Sheryl Crow (Favorite song: "Diamond Road")

- The Ghost Who Walks, Karen Elson (Favorite song: "Pretty Babies," and be aware that the album cut is much better than what you'll hear in the video)

- Always Got Tonight, Chris Isaak (Favorite song: "One Day")

- Songs from the West Coast, Elton John (Favorite song: "Original Sin")

- The Fame Monster, Lady Gaga (Favorite song: "Dance in the Dark")

- Confessions on a Dance Floor, Madonna (Favorite song: "Push," but some days I think it might actually be "Let It Will Be")

- Haunted, POE (Favorite song: "5 1/2 Minute Hallway")

- No. 4, Stone Temple Pilots (Favorite song: "Sour Girl," forever and ever)

- White Blood Cells, White Stripes (Favorite song: "This Protector")

-Cate-

PS I am aware that this list consists of only white musicians, all of whom are Western. It's not that I don't want to be more diverse in my listening--and reading, and watching--habits; it's more that these are such strong touchstones for me that I feel they're important to include on this list. But, as always, suggestions for broader listening are more than welcome!

On Perfection

Am I perfect? Hell, no. 

If this unfiltered picture of my feet with flip-flop lines and cracked nail polish isn't evidence enough, here's another example: I ate pineapple with a knife last night because I haven't gone out to buy plastic forks (real flatware requiring too much effort for my life). And yet another example: I called AAA awhile back to ask for help with a flat, as I could never be bothered to learn how to change a tire myself. And those are only two instances. Extrapolate out and feel your brain melt from the sheer amount of failure.

However, no one feels my shortcomings more keenly than I do, and I know when I have done wrong. Because I have an anxiety disorder, my brain quite literally will not allow me to stop thinking about anything I have done to fuck up. But also know this: what may seem like a character flaw to some--my chronic inability to keep my mouth shut on occasions when something is really, truly problematic--is an asset, in my view. 

Without it, I would be unable to determine which people are toxic and which are worth fighting for, and I would be unable to live with my own self for the shame of having stood idly by. Whether the situation is political, professional, or personal, I am--not proud, exactly, but certainly willing to face the consequences of this quirk of mine. Whether I inspire or infuriate you, I don't think I could ever be anyone else.

In My Room

In a previous life, I had an office that I loved. It was big and had incredible textured wallpaper. There was a conference table where I could spread my work out, and a desk in the corner when I was feeling anxious. It was quiet there.

Now, I still have an office, but it's much different: smaller, and meant for other uses than the one before.

From time to time, I have dreams about the office I lost. Every time, someone is trying take over that space, and watching that happen breaks my heart. Then I wake up, and I sigh. This should be out of my system after more than two years. Yet it remains.

The new one is good, though. It's easier to maintain, less likely to attract attention, and personalized in a way the other wasn't. Instead of wallpaper, I have putty-painted drywall. Instead of carpet, I have a rug from Target over cold tile. I also have Star Wars posters and board games, and a Halloween bucket that is only occasionally filled with candy. Crayons and markers abound. I have a drawer of nothing but different types of tape, and another filled with letters a group of us wrote to our future selves, waiting for the day when I'll redistribute them. 

This is an okay place. Truly. But it would be nice if I still had a portrait of Ezra Pound giving me disapproving looks whenever I slacked off. On the other hand, because I'm now on the second floor, no one tries to sneak up to the window to scare me.

You win some. You lose some. 

-Cate-

The Missing Piece

It started in April.

I had taken three puzzles to Louisiana, each a thousand pieces. At first, I thought I was just going to put a single one together to pass the time when I couldn't concentrate on reading or a movie and didn't have the motivation to go out.

By the time I wrote this post (on June 12th), I had completed twelve more. 

This isn't normal behavior for me. I tend to do puzzles only when I'm extra-anxious, because they allow me to focus on something other than the things rolling around in my head, with the added bonus of bringing order to a little corner of the world.

At the outset, I wasn't aware of how bad my anxiety had gotten. But subconsciously, I must have known, because I felt compelled to take pictures of each project, which were consequently date- and time-stamped by my camera roll, as if I was documenting the duration and frequency of the attacks.

Looking back, I think that the inevitability of reaching my *cough*sputter*cough*th birthday contributed to this, as well as some situations at work. So why, then, have I continued past my birthday and into my summer break?

Whatever the case, the thirteenth puzzle was an unlucky one. Mom and I worked diligently to finish it one afternoon only to discover that a solitary piece out of the thousand was missing. Appropriately, it had disappeared from an image of Sherlock Holmes. Maybe he's the only one who can solve this mystery.

-Cate-

That Moment When You Realize You're Home

Back in the winter, I decided one day that it was time to make one of my random pilgrimages to the Detroit Institute of Arts. This is, without a doubt, my favorite place in all of Michigan, and it was my first trip to the museum since both my move and the very, very dark days of Detroit's bankruptcy crisis (let's not even talk about it). 

Sometime in 2013, during a vacation, I was at this same museum, in the gift shop, where the cashier asked me if I was a member. I said no; living in a different state made such an extravagance unnecessary. But I said to him--and to myself--that if and when I moved back to Michigan, I would join. On 16 January 2015, I made good on that promise. 

The man at the membership desk asked if I was a resident of Wayne County, and for the first time in ten years, I could answer in the affirmative and mean it. Yes, my permanent address is in Wayne County. Yes, my mailing address is the same as my permanent. Yes, I live in Wayne County.

Later that night, after my excursion was over and I worked on this blog, all of this occurred to me in one of those weird moments that should have been earth-shaking but wasn't. Because it was the culmination of a day of being home: I'd (stupidly) made a wrong turn on the way to the museum but recovered by looping around streets I was beginning to internalize again, I'd spent time with my (imaginary) art boyfriend Vincent van Gogh's works, I'd committed to my city/county/state in a real way, and all while wrapped in my winter coat--which no longer got in my way. 

It hasn't been a perfect transition, by any means. But I'm working on it. Even as my plans continue to stall out, I'm figuring out what it means to be a Michigander and Detroiter again, and that--in and of itself--is a great accomplishment, simply because I'm no longer quite as adrift as I was a year ago today when I was laid off and the ground caved in under me. 

-Cate-

Things I've Considered Studying Instead of Creative Writing

Although it was, ultimately, a foregone conclusion that I would study creative writing when I went to college, I had my doubts. If we're being completely honest, I still do. But here, presented with commentary, is the list of stuff that flitted through my mind in between frantic story-crafting sessions and which continues to keep me up at night.

1) History

Last year, my father was shocked to learn that I am a "closet historian." That's his phrase, not mine; I thought my interest in history was well-documented, but it would appear not. I have a particular interest in Am Rev and the European theater of World War II, which may seem pedestrian, but considering that I'm solidly an American lit and pop culture girl, it's not at all surprising. Besides, how cool would it be to hang around Colonial Williamsburg all day or watch Disney's wartime cartoon propaganda shorts and write about them?

2) Public Relations

Nowadays, I realize that I don't enjoy being around people. Even ordering pizza over the phone makes me so nervous that I refuse to do it. Ergo, studying public relations would have been a terrible career move. Yet the idea of shaping the perceptions of the masses continues to fascinate me. This is probably an offshoot of the storytelling impulse. 

3) Sociology

After taking a soc course in high school, I thought, "This is some interesting stuff." More broad than psychology, less demanding than social work. To this day, I wonder if I should have pursued this path. My mother has assured me that I would have been unhappy, but I think I could have done something along the lines of the sociology of popular culture and been satisfied.

4) Filmmaking

Technically, what I considered studying was screenwriting, but I was interested in the entire process. There are still days when I see something so wonderful in a movie that I almost cry over having skipped film school, but the more I learn about the industry, the more confident I am that I would have been blacklisted from the outset. This is due in large part to my attitude problem. Having a producer or studio executive hovering over me would set me off something fierce, I'm sure, and--as the saying goes--I would never work in that town again.

5) Art

I can't draw for shit, in spite of the fact that my parents paid for years of art lessons. I'm not entirely convinced my lack of talent would have mattered--hell, I can't write, yet I managed to graduate twice--but still, having a degree in art is even less useful than having a degree in creative writing. (Apologies to my art major friends, but they know it's true.)

Who knows? Maybe I'll still go down one of these avenues, albeit in a non-academic sense (the idea of going back to school literally gives me anxiety attacks). After all, the saying that you learn something new every day is both true and vital to good intellectual health. 

-Cate-

"Oh My God, I Can't Feel My Kneecaps," or, Surviving the Return Trip

I was lucky, in a way. Moving home in July allowed me some time to readjust to life in the North. And by "life in the North," I mostly mean the weather situation. I really did tell my BFF Kate that I couldn't feel my kneecaps one night when we were walking the two blocks from her apartment to a coffeehouse. Ten years of balmy Carolina weather didn't do me any favors. Seriously; I never even got a tan, and my blood thinned right the hell out. But there were other things, too. Cultural things.

Toward the end of my time in NC, I said to several people that the only thing I knew for sure was a decade in the South hadn't broken me of being a Northerner. Yet reentry wasn't easy. For starters, I no longer knew my hometown. The mall had changed. You could turn right on red at intersections where such a move was previously illegal. We didn't have a lady governor anymore. Only about three people I'd known in my previous life still lived in the area, and I'm lucky they're people I like. 

Being surrounded by Southerners for so long also gave me some weird verbal tics. I still say "y'all" on the reg, and my co-workers once stared at me for a full five seconds after I said to a customer, "Your change is two dollars and forty-five cent" (instead of "cents"). When people in the North say, "Bless your heart," I flinch, because I know it means the opposite in the South, and that's something you don't forget.

Having made a goodly number of trips home to MI from NC during my time away, I was at a bit of an advantage over anyone who may have just moved to the area with no prior experience. And having my parents down the hall was helpful when I had questions about which roads I was meant to take or where certain stores were located (or not, as the case sometimes is). 

Still, it's been a bit baffling to me, all of this snow and stuff. I'm honestly a little angry that most of my shoes now have salt stains on them--a consequence of cold-weather living about which I had forgotten. And nothing can replace making a run to Cook-Out, the mother of all fast-food restaurants, when I want a chicken sandwich. (I miss Cook-Out almost as much as I miss my blue bedroom, and that's saying something.) Time and space function differently in the suburbs than they do in the sticks. For example, there are days when I decide not to go somewhere because it's "too far away," even though it's only twenty miles down the road and I used to hop in the car to get dinner an hour and a half away in Fayetteville without a thought. Also, I never knew how good I had it when I was connected to our super-fast campus Internet; blogging, or even just cruising through Facebook, is now a far more fraught experience than it should be, given the spotty service in our house.

Leaving the house from time to time is a helpful way of coping. Most of our roads here go either straight east and west or straight north and south, so it's difficult to get truly lost. Eating local food unlocks a part of your brain that you maybe didn't realize was collecting dust. Tuning in to watch the nearby sports franchises brings a sense of belonging to your life, because millions of people are cheering along with you. 

Above all, taking a moment here and there to look around and realize that you're among your tribe again can make the difference between feeling lost and feeling found. 

-Cate-

Making Mistakes?

By this point, I've had quite a bit of time to think about my life and what I've done with it--the kind of soul-searching that comes with losing your job, apartment, and insurance all at once, or maybe just the kind that comes with living in your childhood bedroom against your will. (But thanks, Mom and Dad, for not turning it into a gym or some such nonsense. I appreciate having a place to crash.)

There's good news and there's bad news. First, the bad. Because I have an anxiety disorder, it's very easy for me to fall into a spiral of shame and despair: what if the things I've done in the past have completely negated my chances for future success why am I such a horrible human who is ever going to accept me now, et cetera and so on.

BUT! There are hours, and sometimes entire days, when I think, "Fuck it. I know what I did, I know why I did it, and I stand by (almost) all of it."

I'm not trying to get all self-righteous here and claim that I'm infallible. Clearly that's a crap notion. Should I have slacked off the way I did sometimes? Absolutely not. Should I have yelled at that table full of undergrads about their racial insensitivity? No; I should have taken a more rational approach.

On the other hand, should I have committed myself to publishing an anthology with my own money when my bosses refused to discuss the project with me? Shit yeah. Four very deserving young women saw their work in print as a result, and I couldn't be happier. And should I have written that letter telling administrators that what they were doing was detrimental to the well-being of our institution? You bet your ass. 

This is the ultimate thing I've concluded: it's okay. I won't say that I'm happy about the way things turned out, because being underemployed sucks. But I can't spend my time thinking that I made mistakes any bigger than anyone else in their 20s. I certainly didn't do anything I regret so much that I want to die or alter my memory Eternal Sunshine-style.

Besides, sometimes boxes of Pop-Tarts magically appear in the kitchen now, and that NEVER happened when I lived alone.

-Cate-

This Is Why We Need Feminism

At my former job, I had to face both sexism and gender discrimination at various points in my career. It was a difficult way to live and work, and at the very end of my time there, the worst of it happened. Without going into detail, I will say that there was much discussion about a co-worker's alleged, shall we say, exploits, and my name was brought into the conversation.

I was furious because it is no one's God-damned business what I do--or do not do--with my vagina. I am an adult and I refuse to apologize for operating while female. The whole incident pushed me over the edge, to the point where I was sobbing in my parents' living room (because I was lucky enough to catch wind of this while I was still on vacation rather than in my office). This is it, I thought. This is what it is to be a woman.

Having lived with and mentored college-age women for five and a half years, being an aunt/Godmother to a little girl, and coming from a family full of strong ladies, I am honestly outraged that we are still operating this way in 2015. And this is not just a first-world problem; conditions are much worse for women in some other regions, notably Africa and the Middle East. In China, sex-selective abortions are still performed on the regular. Women in India have worked to rise up against rapists who are not prosecuted.

In the United States, we are dealing with those who would curb our reproductive rights, the continued existence of the glass ceiling, and a literary culture that strongly favors men, among many other large and small indignities. I'd sum it up thusly: this is bullshit.

As a former Girl Scout, as the kind of person who does what she wants, as someone who eludes categorization, and as a female (both by birth and identification), I have to say that I am sick and tired of having my life prescribed for me and suffering consequences--however intangible or small they may seem--because I happen to have two X chromosomes. Unfortunately, I have no plan of action in mind; because I'm desperately trying to find a job and keep up with my writing submissions, I am unable to start, or even join, a group that advocates for women.

What I AM able to do is support my fellow women (including the trans* ones, for whom life is even more difficult). Need a sympathetic ear? Feel free to contact me. Want to rail against the patriarchy for awhile? I'd be happy to nod in agreement. Desire a chat about professional issues with a fellow female professional? I'm your girl.

Stay strong, ladies. I know we've faced thousands of years of oppression, but if we haven't lost the battle yet, I have a feeling we never will.

-Cate-

The Tyrrany of Maternal Inquiry, or, Another Childless Woman Appeals to Your Sense of Decency

There are two small children in my life: Niece, who is three, and Nephew, who is one. I'm terribly fond of them, even if Nephew slobbers on me thanks to teething, and even if Niece is an egomaniacal shitshow right now. This is the kind of stuff that happens at those ages. It's part of childhood. It's also part of what keeps me from procreating.

I've known for years that I do not want children. During high school, I babysat for a family around the corner. Their kids were great but I had no maternal instinct whatsoever, and this often showed in my work. The second-oldest child once approached her mother about my inattentiveness to the youngest child, which showed maturity on her part and illuminated my lack of interest in being around kids for more than half an hour at a time. In my first semester of college, the topic of children arose during a casual conversation and I told my eight or so compatriots that no, I did not care to reproduce. Some of the girls looked at me askance, while one (now a mother herself) supported me. This track record of mine may not be well-documented on paper, but in my own mind, it is clear.

One of my best friends is also staunchly against having children of her own. Her brother and sister-in-law have five kids between them, and like me, Maria is attached to her nieces and nephews. But I can't tell you the number of times we've lamented her brother's insistence that she will have children of her own someday or how often we've exchanged articles about women who are childless by choice. We share the frustration of living in a world where, even at our ages (she's 31; I'm 28), people do not trust that we know ourselves well enough to commit to the decision we've made.

As far as those articles go, some of them are heartfelt and some are hilarious. All of them ultimately make the same point: for a subset of the population, children represent a lifestyle choice that is unfulfilling and/or impossible to sustain. Personally, I have several reasons to abstain from child-rearing, including my own mental health, which I neglected so long that it became very problematic for me a couple of years ago.

In America, we're supposed to be enlightened, freedom-loving types. Yet if a woman dares to discuss her lack of progeny, she is likely to be badgered, often by family members but also by friends, acquaintances, and even strangers. Last year, my grandmother wished me a happy Mother's Day; when I asked why, she said, "You'll be a mother someday." I didn't have it in me to tell her that day would come only in an alternate universe. On the other hand, my aunt, who was childless by choice, gave me a great deal of support on this matter. It was nice to know that someone else was on my side.

I will admit that I have wavered on two separate occasions. Both times, I was in love, and we all know love does funny things to people. In the first situation, I convinced myself that I could handle it and my partner was worth it, but I had also convinced myself that 19 was a reasonable age at which to commit myself to a life with someone I'd known less than a year, so obviously my judgment was impaired. In the second situation, I had to work to remind myself that I had good reasons for saying no to kids. When the possibility of being with that man was negated, I was heartbroken, but also relieved: my hormone-addled brain settled down and I was able to examine--and reconfirm--my feelings about pregnancy and parenthood.

I'm grateful to have Niece and Nephew nearby. They give me an opportunity to address any nurturing instincts I do possess, which sentiment echoes what my aunt told me about spending time caring for my mother when she was a baby (they were separated in age by over a decade). But I'm even more grateful that I don't have children of my own--and that I have some reproductive freedom, although that is often under attack, as you may have noticed over the past few years. Birth control is as freeing now as it was when it debuted, and I thank the people who developed it.

So please: next time you think it's okay to harass a woman--or even question her--about her childless state, try to remember that those of us who actively choose not to become parents do have good cause for saying no to reproduction, and that it's none of your business what we do--or do not do--with our uteri.

-Cate-

The Problem with Caitlins, Part 2: Caitlín Ní Uallacháin, or, William Butler Yeats Ruins Everything

Although I go by Cate, my given name is Caitlin. Throughout the years, this has been a problematic thing for several reasons. In this series of two posts, I'll take you through the challenges of being a Caitlin.

For part 1, click here.

***

Unintentional legacies. We all have them, whether it’s your uncle’s collection of worthless Confederate money or something less tangible like a deep and abiding fear of attics because you were once locked in your grandmother’s for five hours. Mine came from a most unexpected personage: William Butler Yeats.

Y’all know WBY, right? Lived well into his 70s at a time when that was unusual, had a great deal to say about Ireland, wrote like a grillion poems? Well, Yeatsy had a soft spot for his home country, and by soft spot, I mean he was kind of the U2 of his era, writing about all of the oppression and war and political messiness. (I’m talking U2 circa War here, not How to Dismantle an Atomic Bomb.)

As a consequence of this nationalistic bent, Yeats spent some time discussing Caitlín Ní Uallacháin (pronounced Kathleen Ni Houlihan--no relation to Hot Lips, as far as I know), who is not an actual person but a personification of the spirit of Ireland. She’s like Uncle Sam, only less bombastic and more homeless.

Not Caitlín.

Yeats had some other obsessions, among them Maud Gonne, but she was flesh and blood, not his beloved homeland in (fictional) human form. In 1902, he teamed with Lady Augusta Gregory to write a play called Cathleen ni Houlihan, which was first performed in Dublin. It's possible that Yeats is responsible for making Caitlín known internationally, insomuch as she IS known; after all, he is one of the foundational writers for those of us who study English-language poetry. James Joyce, that other famous Irish scribe, also referenced her in some of his work, but I would argue that Yeats had the bigger influence.

The thing about Caitlín is that she requires young men to sacrifice themselves for her. It's not an awesome legacy to live up to. In fact, sharing a name with the symbol of Irish nationalism--which, to tell you the truth, I know nothing about--is a daunting task. Here is someone, however imaginary, who holds a great deal of power over some of the more patriotic writers of Ireland.

The very foxy Sargent portrait of Yeats.

The upshot of all this is that, in America, my name is not freighted with so much meaning. Still, I can't forget what I learned the fateful day in 2005 when a college professor first introduced me to Caitlín, my literary doppelgänger. Should I ever be lucky enough to visit Ireland, I intend to pay her--and Yeats--homage to the extent that I am able. But I'll stick to being plain old Caitlin for the most part.


-Cate-

Image of Loretta Swit as Major Margaret "Hot Lips" Houlihan via IMDb.
Sargent's Yeats portrait via Wikipedia.

The Problem with Caitlins, Part 1: This Is How You Spell My Name

Although I go by Cate, my given name is Caitlin. Throughout the years, this has been a problematic thing for several reasons. In this series of two posts, I'll take you through the challenges of being a Caitlin.

For part 2, come back on Friday!

***

The sole famous Caitlin I can name readily is Ms. Macnamara, Dylan Thomas' wife, and she isn't famous in a wide arena; when her name comes up, it is usually in connection with his, so even literary types struggle to fill in any details of her life. And while I adore Caitlin Moran, she doesn't count, as--by her own admission--she has been mispronouncing the name as Cat-lin since she adopted it as a teenager, shedding her given name of Catherine.

Macnamara and Thomas.

As Moran demonstrates, it is easy for people to mispronounce and misspell Caitlin. This stems from two things, I think. The first is that, like other Irish names (Ciarán, Cillian, Siobhan, Sinéad), the combination of letters and sounds doesn't make immediate sense to American eyes, ears, and mouths. I have firsthand experience with this; for 28 years, I've listened to people struggle through my name.

When it comes to spelling, I’ll share with you some anecdata about the myriad ways people find it acceptable to spell Caitlin, regardless of the fact that Caitlin is the correct Irish spelling (though bereft of its accent mark over the second I):

Caitlin

Caitlyn

Catelin

Catelyn(n)

Catlin

Kaitlin

Kaitlyn

Katelin

Katelyn(n)

Katlin

(Sidebar: God bless my BFF Kate, whose full name is Kaitlin, for putting up with my Caitlin ranting.)

For good measure, when picking up prescriptions or other orders, I make sure to tell the cashier that my name is Caitlin "with a C," and I've learned to spell my name over the phone when dealing with banks, insurance companies, and so on, because no one seems to expect me to spell it the way I do.

 I feel the same way, Moran.

The misspellings have another facet; not only have people personalized the spelling of this name, but it is closely related to a slew of other female names, the most obvious of them being:

Catalina

Catherine

Catriona

Ekaterina

Karen

Kathleen

Katrina

and their alternate spellings, as well as the most closely-related diminutives (things like Trina and Lina aside):

Kate

Kathy

Katia

Katie

Katrin

You'll notice that Karen appears on that first list. Although it's an anomaly, visually and sonically, the name is related to the others through the language to which so many of us Westerners return: Greek.

The root word for all of these names, you see, is the Greek καθαρός (katharos). It means pure, and it's the same root for catharsis, that wonderful process of spiritual purification through art. This is ironic, as there is no pure form of Caitlin--or Catherine, or Kathleen, and so on. But if we think of it a different way, perhaps the proliferation of katharos-related names indicates that one can be pure in many regards, via many methods. 

  

Catharsis!

I'm probably overreaching when I say that; more likely than not, the variety of spellings has to do with changing times and tastes, and perhaps bad record-keeping, as well (for example, historians have, by and large, standardized Catherine of Aragon's name, in spite of the fact that she is identified by several spellings in official and unofficial documents of her time and regardless of her Spanish name, Catalina). But as someone who has been called Catherine, Kathleen, and, once, Colleen (I don’t know what that woman’s problem was), I have to hold out for a better, or at least more interesting, explanation.

In the meantime, I will continue to suffer through the indignity of having my name mangled or, on occasion, listening again to the story of Caitlín Ní Uallacháin, which you'll get to read on Friday.

-Cate-

Image of Thomas and Macnamara via Wikipedia.

Image of Caitlin Moran via The Times.

Catharsis cartoon via the Literary Terms wiki.

In Defense of Domestic Vacations

When my brother and I were growing up, our parents were adamant about taking us places both in Michigan and the US as a whole. In this way, I've been able to visit 22 states (although my goal, of course, is 50) and see a great deal of both peninsulas of my home state. It was, truly, an invaluable experience.

Some of you are going to disagree, I'm sure, emphasizing the wonders of traveling abroad. I've been to Canada, Mexico, the Netherlands, and Belgium, and I value those trips for many reasons. However, being an American writing in America about Americans, I find it essential to my fiction that I know America.

I used to write almost exclusively about suburban Detroit, because that was what I knew. Now I also write about rural, small-town North Carolina, having spent almost a decade living there. Boston/Cambridge will no doubt make appearances in the future, as well as other places I've seen and loved. It is unspeakably important that I am able to write clearly and accurately about these places; in choosing them as settings, I have made a commitment to the cities, their people, and potential readers to be as truthful as possible. Rendering a city incorrectly can alienate or even misinform your readers, and that wouldn't be cool.

Repeat excursions are, I think, equally important as the initial trips. For example, back in May, Mom, Dad, and I spent a long weekend in Harbor Springs, Michigan (across the Little Traverse Bay from Petoskey) and made a foray into Mackinaw City. I grew up visiting Mackinaw on a pretty regular basis, but it had been so long since I'd been that I couldn't have fleshed out certain details from memory if I'd been given a pop quiz. Now that I've had a refresher, though, I can consider using the place--and its landmarks that appeal to me most, such as Scalawags--in a story in the near future.

Ultimately, my point is this: I don't consider it to be isolationist when a person chooses to explore the beauty and offerings of our own backyard, which for you might mean your immediate geographic area but for someone else might mean our entire swath of North America. There's so much history to learn and so many really, truly awesome sights to see that it would be a shame not to do so, and an even bigger shame not to include them in your writing so that you might share them with others.

-Cate-

The Competition

Here's a thing I try not to do: underestimate the competition.

People (some people more than others) will sometimes ask me why I'm so, shall we say, anxious about the quality of my work and/or why I'm so convinced I will soon face yet another rejection letter. The fact is, I have seen the face of my competition. I sat across from them in workshops, heard them give readings, read their work in literary magazines. And I can never forget them.

See, one of the worst things you can get is an ego. It makes you overconfident in your own abilities. It can hinder your creative process, should you decide you don't need to follow anyone's advice about your story/poem/essay. It might render you insufferable to others. 

And this is why I always keep my competition at the back of my mind. They make me work harder at this thing called writing. They fortify me when the pile of NOs is larger than the pile of YESes. They push me not to give up. Because, as selfish as this sounds, I want to be better than them. Do I believe I AM better than them? Of course not. But they act as a brass ring, in a way: something I need to visualize so I continue reaching for the best.

-Cate-