postpartum.

Mothering a newborn is being involuntarily tethered to an endless game of hot potato where "cold" entails varying volumes and shrieks of distress. I'm telling you, this game goes on all night and day. All of you "pregnant for the first time" friends: Just wait. The first nine months were a comparative breeze. The mother of an 18 month old who I met on the subway said that the first couple of months were the hardest and that it all goes up from there. Just hold strong. My mom told me today that adult children are the hardest. I guess I have the rest of my life to look forward to.

Don't get me wrong, I'm obsessed with this kid. I'm posting these gifs just so they're easy to access from my desk at work.

mable is here: the hippies saved us.

It feels difficult to convince anyone of the virtues of a home birth experience spanning a full Monday-Friday workweek and lasting over 96 hours, but here I am and I'm going to try.

Contractions, for me, were a horizontal band of burning muscle centered across my back dimples combined with a dull ache in my lower torso; often punctuated with a sharp ice-pick jabs where my ovaries are. People say they're like bad period cramps, but period cramps don't come in any sort of rhythm or cycle. You just can't turn these things off, they aren't sporadic, and you have a few seconds warning every time before they come. I wonder how many thousands of contractions I breathed through.

My first hint of them crept up and kept me awake for a few hours on Sunday night. I knew they were no big deal and went to bed when I could. Monday morning, I headed to work along with Wayne, just to pick up a hard drive to help me potentially work from home. We walked all around Manhattan for the rest of the afternoon, running errands and stopping for lunch, my uterus contracting here and there. In the early evening at an appointment with our midwife, she noticed how tired I seemed.

"I guess you'll be sleeping well tonight!"

Of course I woke up two hours after bedtime with contractions coming every 7 to 8 minutes.

Prodromal labor, like mine, that dipped and escalated and dipped and dipped and dipped again is often blamed on emotional hangups, on the baby's lack of active engagement in the labor process, or that they're not quite positioned to descend into the pelvis correctly.

I called the midwife finally on Wednesday morning after being up for two nights. We'd been timing the contractions, watching "My Neighbor Totoro" and "The March of the Penguins" from the birth pool, singing Neil Young and Lee Hazelwood songs, just hoping things would pick up to the steady, consistent 511 pace that everyone talks about and escalate from there.

"Why didn't you call me earlier?!" was her first response.

I cried after we hung up feeling failed and exhausted.

The first hippie she sent by our apartment, a doula with wavy graying hair and a giant, confident smile, demonstrated how to make my contractions more effective and showed me positions to help move the baby into a more active spot. She begged me to go outside and get a pedicure, but contracting in one of those big bacteria-infested reclining chairs while some scared esthetician massaged my feet sounded stressful at best.

Not long after, the midwife came over. I was dilated to only 3 cm after all of that laboring. She stripped my membranes and recommended that I take 3 Benadryl and try to nap.  After a torturous toss in bed, breathing through contractions for about 2 hours and trying to doze in the interim, I was instructed to take some castor oil along with some pulpy orange juice to see if it'd speed things up. Castor oil and contractions! What a combo. I'll spare you all the details, but castor oil is serious business and there's a reason we never hear about people using it as a laxative much these days. It lasted til Friday and took its toll all Wednesday night.

Thursday morning we hired a doula, Emma, with short hair and two nose piercings, sent over from the reception desk at the midwife's office. She was shy at first, but not when it came to putting pressure on my back in the right spots during contractions.

The acupuncturist arrived next with a bag full of chinese medicine. She wore long hair parted down the middle, a nose ring, and tattoos in tibetan writing down her arms. Her dress looked comfortable and her presence calmed me. She administered cohosh and little sugar pills. She used big glass suction cups on my lower back, lit tiny sticks of incense on my legs that she warned smelled of "bad weed", and delicately stuck gold-plated needles in my ear, back, hand, feet, and toes. Its magic worked. When she left, Emma made me lie down on my side and breathe through contractions as she applied pressure to my hip. Things never ached worse and were probably never more productive. My water began leaking after a while and she called the midwife again. The midwife I'd planned to deliver with was out at another delivery, so her partner showed up in her place.

I was finally dilated to 8 cm but because my leak was slow, the backup midwife pierced my bag of waters more thoroughly and told me to hop into the birth pool. I bent into the least comfortable positions possible to make the most of every contraction. I whimpered and breathed and groaned. When I asked the midwife if this was ever going to actually happen, she told me to reach up and try to feel the head and it was there! All soft and and little slimy! I couldn't believe it. She also told me that my contractions had slowed and urged me to try sleeping again before the final pushing phase. No! It killed me; I was just so excited to wrap things up. But I took the 3 benadryl again and obeyed. And this time, I actually managed to rest for a full two hours. I can't even remember feeling a contraction the whole nap until the really mean one that finally woke me up. Emma rushed into the room, declaring that I sounded a little "pushy"and soon I was pushing in a semi-reclining position on the bed with the whole team in place.

I had no idea what pushing would be like. I didn't know I'd see stars or feel worried about hemrroids. I didn't know that it sapped every drop of juice from your system. I didn't know it'd make my vision blurry and that everyone would just tell me to go even harder and longer. Wayne was worried and kept telling me to breathe. After an hour of this the midwife said, "Seriously, I think she'll be out in just 2 or 3 more." An hour later, with sweat dripping everywhere, she explained that there was one really tight spot where the baby was stuck. 

"I can't believe I'm saying this, but I think if I just gave you one cut, she'd be out."

"Yes. DO it. I trust you. If you think I need it, just do it." I didn't realize my midwife had never cut an episiotomy in all of her years of practice.

"Just push one more time and we'll think about it."

I hurt my eyes and lungs and saw so many stars and my sweet baby arrived in a sudden burst with that push. Emma and Wayne both cried, but I was too excited. I kept saying things like, "Hi baby!" "We did it!", "Oh, my baby; Hello my baby!" Mable Jane Leavitt was born on July 26, 2013, 12 days past her "due date", weighing 8 lbs. exactly, and measuring 22 inches tall (which is a little funny, because both Wayne and I are a little on the short side.)

The amazing thing is that despite all the being stuck during pushing, my sweet midwife worked enough magic with her olive oil that I only tore slightly in one spot and required no stitching.

Morals of the story:

Hire a doula. Seriously. I mean it. There is no birth education class or amount of reading that can make up for experience. You won't regret it and you might regret not doing it. Plus, you'll have made a friend.

There is no industrialized system or business model that can benefit from prodromal labor without turning it into an operation or emergency procedure. I am so grateful to all of the talented, patient hippies who helped me birth in peace.

I don't know how midwives have time and energy to care the way ours did. My midwife was amazing and I only wish I did my job for as many of the right reasons as she does hers. I am grateful and inspired and astounded.

I am so grateful for Wayne, who never left my side even to catch up on a few minutes of sleep. He cooked throughout the whole thing, fed me water and gatorade through a straw, and applied so much pressure to my lower back during those five days that his own back and hands and arms started to hurt. I never felt like I carried the weight of birth alone.

Mable is the best. I just can't get over her.

nursery tour!

The nursery is ready! It's complete with Montessori floor bed, mobile, and wall paintings.

 Props to Jess Smiley for the cool framed print on the wall.

 Baby bonsais! Yes, we'll move them when she gets mobile.

 Here's the floor bed, mobile, and paintings of lilac-breasted rollers.

 The panorama view:

the secret of childbirth.

Sometimes I look around on a subway car and think to myself, "Everyone on this train was born!" And then I think about all of the subway cars on the train that are swarming with people and about how each one of those people was born too. Then I think about how the world population is currently 7 billion. And all of those people were born. They didn't die. They all have mothers. And then I think about all of the people in the history of the world who were born and just aren't alive anymore.

Why is childbirth something so secret? It wasn't until my second trimester, when my belly really started showing and I forced myself to watch childbirth videos on youtube that I began reading and reading and reading about all of these secrets of childbirth. I've learned so much that I just had no clue about before. But it strikes me as odd that this fundamental act of life that's happening all day everyday is something that you've got to take some real initiative to decode. We pay money for classes, band in our special interest groups, join discussion boards, and read, read, read. All for this primal knowledge that's only ever existed; it's a force that will continue regardless of what we know about it.

One of the books I loved reading best about childbirth has a ton of naked birth pictures in it. I just had to pass it around the office to get some reactions. Someone started talking about how weird all of the new mother's boobs look. Guys, it's true. When you're pregnant, your areolas get bigger and bigger and bigger. But the fact that this was weird to this girl at work really struck me as sad. She knows exactly what crazy-supermodel-airbrushed-tinynippled-womens'-boobs don't even really look like, but she has no clue about the reality of how her body might change if she carries a child someday. I didn't really either. Not before it actually happened. And I thought it was weird too.

We're just so pasty-white-sterile-medicated. It makes me think of the book "A Brave New World" where sex is encouraged, but babies are grown in bottles.

It's an old rant, but it resonates more and more with me: We don't know what our meat looks like before or during the slaughter, we don't know how our grains are grown, how our clothes are manufactured, how our plastic gets molded, where our energy comes from, how our babies are born. It can start to feel like all of this specialization and technology has left us in the dark, even to our own bodies and their functioning.

The great news is that learning about childbirth and being pregnant has made me feel more connected to the natural world and more grateful for my body than ever before. My sense of self is so much less tied to some unrealistic idea about the perfect fake supermodel boobs that I should have. My body is capable of bringing new life to the world. That thought leaves me awestruck.

I am a Mormon.

My name is Laura Barlow Leavitt and I am a Mormon, who willfully and joyfully married an ex-Mormon atheist. We were both orthodox and rebellious about the way we did it. After two months of virtuous dating (and 13 years of friendship), we eloped to the Manhattan courthouse, til death do us part. We called our parents and friends and families to let them know the next day. (The pic is of him with my nieces and nephew a few weeks after we got married.)

I think many have wondered how dedicated I could possibly be to my faith after such a drastic move toward a lifetime of seeking middle ground. Some of the most outspoken criticism I've heard was from a good friend who's a non-denominational Christian. He couldn't imagine waking up to someone who didn't believe in God everyday. Maybe my reasons for marrying Wayne sound like excuses to some, but I'd like to emphasize that I in no way intend to leave or even slowly slink away from the church. I make efforts to attend church weekly, the temple monthly, and read the Book of Mormon daily. I am grateful for the gospel in my life and try to live in a way that demonstrates that gratitude. Wayne knows how I feel and offers support. He's willing to give feedback on the flyers I'm designing for the upcoming primary activity, holds my hand in a moment of silence before each meal while I bow my head and silently pray, holds me while I'm kneeling to say bedtime prayers, and never complains about the 10% of each of my paychecks that goes straight to tithing even when we're short in other areas. He listens carefully and empathetically when I'm bawling over spiritual experiences and even once hugged me and let me cry on his shoulder when I discovered that a dear Mormon friend had become an atheist. When I stopped to laugh at the irony he said, "Laura, it's ok. I get it."

The most difficult part of being married to an atheist, is that I believe he's my one and only, my soulmate, that we were meant to be, that God has somehow stamped our civil marriage certificate with his seal of divine approval although that makes no sense to some. And Wayne, conversely, by default of his atheist belief system, cannot believe in such a romantic idea...sigh. But I should also clarify that his expressions of love never feel cold or limited and that our affections feel quite balanced.

I think it's important to view things from his angle too, to acknowledge the sacrifices of what it means to be married to someone who's a believing Mormon. I cannot describe or explain the reasons why he opted to leave the church; I'd never want to force words in his mouth about something so personal; but I know that it came sincerely for him and that it was very difficult. He's been met not only with disapproval from many close around him, but is now viewed as an outsider by the culture that brought him up. And unlike many who take such departures from their native cultures and beliefs, he's made efforts to continue relationships with those still on the inside loop. Our marriage solidifies that familiar role as outsider and sinner when he comes in contact with the community through me. Every time the home teachers or visiting teachers come over, every time I invite the missionaries over for a meal, every time someone in the ward invites us over for Sunday dinner, every time we attend a ward party together. I watch in admiration as he handles these individual scenarios with grace, friendliness, and respect.

I just don't see how I could have shut him out of my life. He makes me breakfast, lunch, and dinner almost every day. He tells me he loves me in his sleep. When I couldn't go to an art museum with him, he texted me the titles of the paintings so I could google them. He gets teary-eyed just reading about the steps of childbirth because he's so excited about the family we're going to start.

Is this not the point of the gospel of Jesus Christ? To love others as he has loved us? To overcome difference? I don't believe in a God who would simply shun someone who brings so many blessings and so much love to my life. I believe that through the atonement, all are granted mercy and that everyone will have a chance to return to live with Him. To those who would dismiss Wayne as having already blown his chance, I say, "We believe in being honest, true, chaste, benevolent, virtuous, and in doing good to all men; indeed, we may say that we follow the admonition of Paul—We believe all things, we hope all things, we have endured many things, and hope to be able to endure all things. If there is anything virtuous, lovely, or of good report or praiseworthy, we seek after these things."

I don't think it will always be so easy because nothing ever is. But I feel no dichotomy that the two things I am most grateful for in my life are Wayne and the gospel of Jesus Christ. 

pregnancy brain.

Guys, I keep having nothing to write cuz I am in pre-baby bliss. Sometimes I think about writing something on this blog and all I can think of is how Wayne is so funny and wonderful and how work is ok and I'm so glad to be healthy and have a healthy little fetus (knock on wood) and a cute little apartment in a cute neighborhood with funny old Italian people downstairs and how I'm seriously so blessed.

Not much fun to read.

So, I thought it might be more fun to document my various pregnancy obsessions because for me, pregnancy hormones create obsessions.

1. ERASERHEAD

It was over this trippy film depicting the most horrifying parenting story ever that I first realized I was pregnant. Before I knew what it was about at all (because it takes a while to get what's going on) I turned to Wayne and said, "Hun. I seriously think I'm pregnant. For reals."
"Babe, at one point you were convinced you had a brain tumor." (This is not really true.)
Of course I was RIGHT (about the pregnancy). And this film with all of its grotesque imagery stuck with me forever since the hormones were already flowing. And some parts are so quotable: (Who doesn't love David Lynch?):
"Just cut it up like a regular chicken?"
"Yup. Just like a regular chicken."

2. TWIN PEAKS (Phase 2)

I'll probably never get over Twin Peaks. It's the best TV show ever. Wayne and I first kissed over an episode of TP when I was dressed like Audrey and that sealed it in my heart forever. It was during my first trimester that we rewatched most of seasons 1 and 2.

3. THE PIRATES OF PENZANCE

I know that musicals aren't for everyone, but I'm willing to argue the timelessness here. Did you know that this premiered in 1879? If you think that something like an old musical about pirates is lame, then you won't be surprised. But the humor is fresh.

It is either a funny fact or pure destiny that both Wayne and I grew up on the genius movie version of this play. We celebrate it by sometimes singing passages in the morning over breakfast. (Yes, we allow singing at our table.) Wayne's family still celebrates Frederick's birthday when it pops up every leap year.

4. DIVORCE ITALIAN STYLE

So, we watch a lot of Italian shiz in our house, but this one is my favorite so far. So freaking funny. Better than What about Bob (which i think is pretty amazing). I even learned some Italian so I could quote it. I don't know how to spell what learned how to say, so you'll just have to hear me in person if you want proof.

5. ORPHEUS AND EURYDICE

Gregory Orr wrote the most beautiful poem by this title. It makes poetry feel easy and Greek myth seem valid. Please read it.

6. BLACK SWAN GREEN

Jason Taylor is the best friend I've ever had during my subway commute. I still miss him all of the time. I can't remember the last time I enjoyed reading fiction so thoroughly.

7. THE SHINING

Our baby wouldn't stop kicking when we watched this because of all of the pumping adrenaline. Scary stuff. I got really into all of the conspiracy theories about what Stanley Kubrick is trying to say through subtle symbols throughout the film and we even went to see Room 237 for our last NYC dinner/date. I check under the bed every night to make sure Wayne hasn't got an axe.

The End.

riot for life!

Here's the news: I want to give birth at home with a midwife. After months of not even feeling sure how I felt about medicated v. unmedicated child birth, I want to take the most granola/hippie/new age option that anyone in my family has ever taken. It's a new development. I just received a letter in the mail from my insurance company stating that my future care at Mt. Sinai Hospital is all approved and ready to go. Pushed, by Jennifer Block is the culprit. It's not a book about how to give birth and the author has never had a child. It's basically just an investigative report about how in the US, women's desires and preferences in birthing circumstances are routinely undermined for a series of complex bureaucratic, industrialized reasons. Very seriously, I'm convinced that the reproductive rights of women should be focused on childbirth options much more than abortion. Did you guys know that midwifery is prohibited in 10 states and unrecognized in many others? I didn't.

Here's just one lovely passage from the book:

"[Dr. De Angelis], a solo practitioner, to maintain his standard of living in suburban Jew Jersey...and pay out an annual $90,000 in malpractice insurance, [has] had to double his case load. Which means halving the time he spends with patients in an office visit. And he's irate about it. "You tell me what other profession has to pay $300 just to go to work every day! The bottom, line, the bottom line is the care for the patients. And as a consumer...[she] gets 5 minutes in the office. And when the consumer is in labor? It's a vicious cycle. I can't sit with that patient. I have to go back to the office... This is not a way to practice medicine...Why do women put up with this? I have no idea. You know, back in the 80's when I was in residency, there was a feminist movement. The women back then wouldn't have tolerated this."

Let's start a revolution guys. Let's take to the streets.

I've still got to find a midwife. Wish me luck.

natural woman.

In a dream three weeks ago, I was urgent to get from California from Utah. I didn't know why I had to go, but I did, and I had to get there fast. It was a big, life/death/family situation and I was panicked because I didn't have any money to buy a plane ticket, (I remember checking my account balance online and it literally said "$0") but driving was going to take too long and of course I don't own a car anyway. Luckily, my parents had just bought a crop-duster style biplane from a garage sale loaded with gasoline! (Problem solved, right?)

 There was only one seat in the plane, so all I could do was get advice about how to fly it from people who'd done it before. My mom kept saying "Laura, it comes more natural than you think. You'll know what to do." For a minute, I felt pretty excited. I was like,"Wow. I'm gonna see this whole western stretch of the country from a bird's eye view. That's gonna be amazing." And then those feelings would oscillate with other things like, "Wait. Up is down and down is up? Like on a video game? What about air traffic?"

 "Yeah hun. That's it. You've got it. And don't worry about traffic, it's not busy that low in the sky." "But how do I take off? How do I land? Couldn't I die?"

Yup. Childbirth has been freakin' me out lately. Every female in my family who's ever given birth told me independently and only when asked that they'd all done it medication-free (or at least made desperate attempts to). I knew the women in my family were really hearty and cool, but I felt just a tiny surprised that they were all independently united in this without banding together to put pressure on me to follow suit. So I've been talking and reading and watching birth videos online(!!!) and everyone, I AM SOLD. Seriously. If I can get away with it, I might wanna catch the kid myself. Although I have not yet run a marathon, one time I headed out on a Saturday and ran 20 miles just myself. I can give birth like any old farm cow, right? That's what I'm tellin' myself for now.

In other news, please read the book, "Black Swan Green" by my new favorite author, David Mitchell. Don't worry, the title is not representative of its genius. I miss it all of the time since I finished it last week because it's the best subway commuting companion I've ever had.

21 weeks.

My mother is the most fantastic belcher in the world. She can really rip one if she thinks she's alone. I used to think it was at best, unlady-like, and at the very least, authentic, but now I get it because I'm pregnant. Those who haven't and never will house a human parasite won't get it, but burping (especially in the first trimester) saves you from throwing up. It's just mandatory. You feel sick until you do it right. I used to walk around in the crowded streets during my lunch break, trying to burp with all my might, hoping all the honking successfully sheltered passers-by from possible disgust.

Seriously though, get this: MY MOM WAS PREGNANT FOR ALMOST SEVEN YEARS OF HER LIFE. How can you blame her for burping? How can you blame anyone for anything at all who, without medication successfully squeezed seven solid bodies out of her uterus and into the sterile hospital air? And that's only the birth part, which is probably the easiest. My appreciation has certainly expanded as I gauge the details and complications of her achievement, divided by seven (.1428571). I say all of our moms get a free pass because this is all way harder than they made it seem.

Truth is, it makes me feel a pregnancy wimp.

I now require:

8-10 hrs. of sleep every night and naps every Saturday/Sunday

Endless supplies of yogurt, milk, mandarin oranges, and cereal
(don't make me eat or cook anything else, please.)

11 minutes to run just one mile

Hundreds of yards of fabric for my nesting plans that ever so slowly come to actual fruition

Daily chocolate

At least one whining session per day

Thank my lucky stars for Wayne, who takes responsibility for his part in this by facilitating all of my pregnancy needs in the midst of his horrific qualifying exam prep (and for putting up with the unlady-like burping).

back with a vengeance.

Life changed enough that the path to repurposing my blog is now clear: Marriage to the atheist of my high school dreams provides endless supplies of new content if I can just spend some of my free time typing things out instead of cuddling him over episodes of Twin Peaks. Yes. Life is wonderful excepting for the stomach flu I contracted last night. But even then, I've successfully managed to keep down the following items: 1 glass of EmergenC, a bowl of cereal, 1 cup of Melograno special Italian tea, and an entire glass of water. I'll be better just in time to do some last minute Christmas shopping tomorrow, hop on a plane to Salt Lake the following day, lounge with the fam at a ski resort for Christmas, and make it to my own retrospective wedding reception a few days before New Year's. I'm not sure it gets much better than this.

moving forward.

Ok friends and family,

It's official: This blog is through. All of my writing efforts will now be poured into a graphic novel style memoir that I'm taking way seriously. We'll see how it goes; I'm excited.

The good news is that I have a new blog as equally egocentric and revealing as this one and possibly even more immature: I will be joining thousands of high school students across the world by posting a picture of myself daily. You will find my visual diary here: socialexplosion.tmblr.com.
I hope to expose weather conditions, love affairs, scenery, events, haircuts, and weight variations throughout the years.

It's been fun guys. Thanks to everyone who's ever bothered reading.

just a boring blog entry.

I cut my hair again. Big fat surprise.

People who've known me for years didn't even notice. My fresher Brooklynite friends were so excited to see my real self that they stopped singing momentarily to blurt their approval during branch choir practice when I walked in early for church the following day. It's great to have such overwhelming approval about peeling a layer back.

I don't know what to say. New York is a weird place. Brooklyn is a weird place. Everything in my apartment has been carried in by my arms. Except the stuff my roommate carried in. And the couch. I paid a long-haired smoker with an old van like the one my mom used to drive us around in $60 to move my lovely craig'slist purchase over the threshold and into my tiny abode. He was nice.

This hands-on lifestyle and obligation to forge my own sanctuary forces me to grow up. It juices out my maternal instincts. I've started cooking again. It's become my biggest hobby. I bake only for birthdays and work/church functions. Otherwise, I'm freezing soup, packing home-made granola bars, and pecking at the spinach salad I stuff into the same ikea tupperware I bring to work for lunch everyday. Oh, and oats. I'm obsessed with eating them raw and with jam and cinnamon and milk and honey and yogurt. I don't know why.

Running, on the other hand, makes me feel like a gangster. I own this place. Ask anyone who witnesses white puffs escape my mouth at 7 o'clock every morning. The numbers are few. I've pounded the gray gum sidewalk spots in every direction. I've battled the hills in jewish, chinese, and russian neighborhoods. The cold can't keep me in.

hip-hop?

A recent paper for my English class:

There is no question about the ubiquitous infiltration of hip-hop in American culture. We've all felt it bang at our car windows during stoplights, seen boxer shorts protruding from low-hanging, oversized jeans, watched graffiti tags creep onto local train cars and bridges, and witnessed grade school girls imitate sexy, Beyonce-style dance moves.

However, despite its undeniable popularity, many latter-day saints seek to shut it out. It is no secret that many popular hip-hop genres are steeped in the glorification of sex, violence, drugs, and misogyny. Two of hip-hop's legendary stars, Tupac and Biggie, were both gunned down in the 1990's. It is rare to find a top-selling hip-hop album devoid of words like “ho” or unaccompanied by a parental advisory sticker for the use of far cruder language. The New York Times op-ed writer, Brent Staples wrote in response to Lil’ Kim’s plans to release an album while serving prison time: “When it comes to rap music, what's poisonous for the culture - and dangerous for minority youth - tends to be great for album sales (par.15)”.

Despite the fact that hip-hop culture seems diametrically opposed to LDS values, why are so many of our faithful youth drawn to it? While some are surely seduced by its rugged sense of invincible carnality, peeling back a layer to examine its origins reveals something of greater interest.

Hip-hop was born in the Bronx in the shadows of the 1970's economic bust. Automobile manufacturing and steel mill jobs moved overseas for cheaper foreign labor; social services were cut with waning budgets. Public spaces in black communities became governed by lethal drug economies. It was in the face of this that hip-hop emerged, piece-by-piece, from the economical social event known as the block party. DJs competed in percussion break battles, cleverly employing the only instrument they had easy access to: existing vinyl records. Dancers judged the competitions, and MCs eventually started rhyming to the beats. In many cases, hip-hop became an alternative to gang violence as battle rapping substituted guns and knives. But above all, the greatest victory of hip-hop ingenuity lies in the fact that it provided a voice for a destitute and marginalized population (Dyson 180-182).

“When hip hop began in the South Bronx, it was the voice of the voiceless. Hip Hop artists spoke to the despair and pain of urban youth and the poor who were often without a voice...It was legendary hip hop pioneer Chuck D of Public Enemy who famously called hip hop the 'CNN of the ghetto' (Muhammad par. 1).”

As Mormons, we know that almost anything can be uttered over a pulpit. Alongside the dark and hedonistic, many hip-hop artists' work brims with positive messages from sources of great authenticity and sincerity, often offering advice about how to overcome difficult circumstances. They pay homage to their hometown, friends, family, and ancestors, often boasting of their self-determination, ingenuity, and luck in surviving along the way.

Grandmaster Flash's “White Lines (Don't Do it)” released in 1983, warned its underprivileged Bronx audience of the dangers of cocaine, addiction, and drug smuggling. The Gift of Gab cautions against average contemporary idleness in his 2001 album, Blazing Arrow: “No more of that sittin' in a slump/ No more of that coulda-woulda-shoulda junk/No more of that waiting for the inspiration, innovation or a green light--now begin/No more of that lettin' all your time pass/No more petty illusions of the mindless/It's time to expand, power from within, you're takin' over this dominion/Green light, now begin”

While hip-hop is often used to promote filth, can it also be utilized to instill personal integrity?

It is an unfortunate phenomenon that sensationalism sells. It is even more unfortunate that the white record executives who eventually marketed hip-hop to the American public knew that fact, pushing the most lewd and sexually charged hip-hop genre--gangsta rap--to a pop stature that has shadowed socially conscious hip-hop from the public view. The scholar Michael Eric Dyson wrote, “Much of gangsta rap makes voyeuristic whites and naïve blacks think they're getting a slice of authentic ghetto life when in reality they're being served a colorful exaggeration...[and] many critics argue that since gansta rap is often the only means by which many white Americans come into contact with black life, its pornographic representations and brutal stereotypes of black culture are especially harmful (180-181).”

Although fully loaded with a unique history and culture of its own, hip-hop is a medium for expressing thoughts and emotions. Our familiarity with mediums like paint, books, rock n' roll, country music, and the internet all demonstrate that mediums can become vehicles for the good or bad, depending on what the author intends.

Roger Ebert wrote: “Rap has a bad reputation in white circles, where many people believe it consists of obscene and violent anti-white and anti-female guttural. Some of it does. Most does not. Most white listeners don't care; they hear black voices in a litany of discontent, and tune out (par. 8).”

Of course hip-hop music doesn't appeal to everyone. We certainly don't need to login to iTunes and hurriedly purchase the latest socially conscious hip-hop album to display our support. But as latter-day saints, we view ourselves as culturally open and diverse. We teach our missionaries to speak numerous foreign languages in an attempt to provide the greatest amount of respect and fluidity within numerous cultures covering the earth. We seek to reach out in love to people of all backgrounds whether inside or outside of our faith for the cause of a greater good. As much as our efforts for diversity extend overseas, a quick dismissal of hip-hop culture could cause us to overlook our immediate neighbors. It's a lose-lose situation. Like most marginalized groups—early American colonizers, concentration camp survivors, and our very own pioneers—hip-hop's survivors of urban devastation reveal inspiring stories of principled persistence and hope.

I think we can all agree with Mos Def in his song, “Sunshine”: “[I don't care] what type of brand you are/I'm concerned what type of man you are/What your principles and standards are.”

never enough.

Somehow I became obsessed with running. It's so weird. After 27 years of sedentary art creation/appreciation seated comfortably at desks and cushions, I suddenly decided to run so much that I injured my Achilles tendons. And every day during the three weeks that I swam or biked as I waited for my tendons to man up, I missed it.

My simple secret is this:
1. Use a treadmill, it keeps you going like a cheerleader.
2. Listen to hip hop. It doesn't matter what kind; it doesn't matter how misogynistic it is. All that matters is that it has a beat.

I promise you'll be able to run endlessly. The only thing that that will stand in the way are your underdeveloped, art-appreciating tendons. I've had to cut back to only 3 miles a day and have resorted to lifting weights with the other half-hour of my scheduled workout.

My sister was recently promoted at a job where she'd been previously rock-solid certain that they hated her. They pay her in dirt, make her beg for vacation, guard her timecard like Natzis, and slap her with frequent verbal reprimands for harmless mistakes. But, surprise, surprise, she discovered she'd been performing as one of their best employees. When spreading the good news to my mother she explained, "I just can't help but to try to do well."

So maybe that explains it better than the hip hop and the endorphin rushes. Maybe I was bred into this pack of neurotic people who have no real hobbies except to do well at things; even painful things. Because the one way that design really doesn't enrich my life is by forcing my butt into an office chair all day and coaxing me into eating snacks to stay awake all night as I wrestle with my projects. I had to combat it somehow; conquer it before it conquered me. And you can't really do well at anything until you love it.

the cloth i'm cut from.

Dorothea Lange's photography currently on display in BYU's Museum of Art exhibition, "3 Mormon Towns" will not leave my mind although I first saw it first over two months ago. It was shot in 1953 in the towns of Gunlock, St. George, and Toquerville, Utah. She and Ansel Adams set out to create a photo essay to be published in Life Magazine (although they weren't on assignment.) Lange never informed her photographic subjects of the end goal of the photos, and they were subsequently shocked when it was published. Ansel Adams felt she'd betrayed and disrespected them; neither were satisfied with the end result.

Although commentary on this exhibition includes thoughts on a culture defined by hard work, religion, and small numbers, there are also statements about its documentation of post-war industrialization as the highways gradually encroached on these settlements.

Here are some images from the exhibit:











Lange's skillful command of composition and light powerfully invites you in, but collectively, the exhibition initially left me feeling a little like a stranger stooping to peer through a peephole onto a portion of my own history. Although I don't descend directly from any one of these communities, my own grandparents lived in a nearby and equally rural Escalante, Utah sometime not long after these photographs were taken.

I remembered a quote I'd seen on Luke's blog over 6 months ago:

"If you’re fifteen or so, today, I suspect that you inhabit a sort of endless digital Now, a state of atemporality enabled by our increasingly efficient communal prosthetic memory. I also suspect that you don’t know it, because, as anthropologists tell us, one cannot know one’s own culture."
BEA talk, William Gibson. 2010.

Fascinating as this quote is, it wasn't the concept of the "digital Now", but the simple reminder that "one cannot know one's own culture" that resonated with me in relation to this exhibit. If I'd been viewing images of 1950's Mormon settlements photographed by Mormon photographers, it wouldn't have provided the same experience. I imagine I would've glossed over them with perhaps a few canned thoughts about their impressive work ethic and the ease of technology we enjoy today. I love that this exhibit provides Mormons the opportunity to gaze upon a piece of their own culture through the lens of a foreigner. It points at their startling strength of conviction through their conscious isolation and rugged lifestyle. It demonstrates their ignorance of cultures outside their own as well as their will to preserve that tiny, hallowed sphere in the face of industrialized growth. These are people living on the edge of the civilization because their religious leader instructed them to do so. I think these are all valuable points to consider.

But even still, and despite the accusatory tone Lange may have felt the very moment her shutter snapped open, there is an overwhelming humanity in the people that carries a familiar sense of comfort. Her skill in capturing portraits astounds me. And admittedly, upon examining the human appeal of these images, I wonder if my insider bias as a Mormon blocks that valuable outsider's view. I know the structure of these faces and bodies. (And maybe it's because Utah Mormons are often of scandinavian descent.) They could just as well be ward members I knew growing up. They remind me of the woman my mother visited for years, who lived in the farmhouse just down our road and lived to be 102. They remind me of the elders in the ward who raised horses for a living and rode them with their kids past our house. They remind me of collecting eggs in the cousin's goat shed next door, climbing trees in bare feet, jumping ditches, and how my mom can't stop canning chicken. They make me feel like a simultaneous stranger and friend, and cause me to wonder what part I have yet to carve out in this peculiar, enduring legacy.

why we're better than you.

Designers often carry a reputation of snobbery around with them whether they like it or not. (And how unfortunate that some really do like it.) I'm happy to announce that I've figured it out and that it's certainly not unjustified. I've had to think about it a lot though. I don't like being labeled as a snob, but, admittedly, my perspectives on design and how it fits in with other visually-based disciplines has served as a source of conflict in the past; namely in romantic relationships. I've dated two painters and a photographer in the past couple of years and in each of these cases, aesthetic philosophies ran deep. It wasn't so much that we squabbled over theoretical specifics; it came down to a matter of respect.

For those of you completely unfamiliar with art culture, I'll spell out the basics:

First, some definitions as I'll be using them:

studio artists- People who typically sell work in galleries, or show it in museums; the traditional role that you think of when you hear the word "artist." Painters, sculptors, performance artists, etc.

designers- people who plan and produce everyday objects for specific clients: shopping bags, cereal boxes, water bottles, magazines, wedding invitations, books, web sites, movie credits, brochures, annual reports, etc.

So here's the rub:

Studio artists think designers are snobby (because they are; I'll explain) and think of themselves as artistically superior (in many cases) because they have the courage to actually make the stuff they want. They are free to pursue the personal, the unconventional, the idealistic, the academic. They often hope to establish a gallery clientele large enough to sustain them so they don't have to teach. (Of course some of them want to teach too.)

Designers think of themselves as superior to studio artists because often the artistic, political or social statements made by studio artists are seen only by a tiny crowd composed of peers, critics, or the extremely wealthy who may be in the market for a painting. Designers believe that because we have access to such a large audiences with budgets to back us up, we have the power to change the world.

The best example of this justification for design snobbery lives in the example of Alexandr Rodchenko, a Russian artist born in 1891. Rodchenko was making it on the Moscow art scene as a painter. He was palling around with Malevich and all of these famous artists who were producing some deeply philosophical and groundbreaking work. But when the October Revolution broke in 1917 with a peasant uprising and the Bolsheviks took power, Rodchenko vowed to harness his artwork to promote their cause. By 1921, he'd tossed away his brushes and palette altogether and created this manifesto:

“Construction is the demand of our age for organization and the utilitarian use of materials. Constructive life is the art of the future. Art that fails to become part of life will be catalogued in the museum of archeological antiquities. It is time for art to organize itself and become a part of life…Away with art that is a form of escape from a life that is not worth living. Contemporary art is a conscious and organized life that is able to see and build. Any person who has organized his life, his work, and himself is a genuine artist. Work for life, and not for palaces, churches, graveyards, and museums. Work amongst all, for all, and with all, away with monasteries, institutes, studios, studies, and islands. Awareness, experience, purpose, construction, technology, and mathematics-these are the brothers of contemporary art.”

I feel like a crazy Bolshevik saying this, but I find myself agreeing with him. I love that he touches on sustainability (a big topic for designers, as the bulk of our work meets its end in the trashcan.) To me, this concept expands the idea of art to something certainly more design-centric, but also toward a greater awareness of regular people living out their regular lives.

Viewing Rodchenko's work speaks even more loudly to this idea. The beautiful composition and typography of the poster at the top of this entry imbues a timeless quality to this simple piece. It has been reinvented to advertise for Franz Ferdinand and hand bags; there is even a cute rendition involving a cat. But this poster serves a functional purpose equally well as it's aesthetic one. It translates: "BOOKS: FOR ALL INDUSTRIES OF KNOWLEDGE." It advertises reading in a simple, exciting way for a largely illiterate audience comprised of Russian peasants.

What I love about design is that we share in a responsibility to make access to information easier, directions simpler, usability of regular objects more enjoyable, all the while (hopefully) making beauty more common for the everyday person.

Rodchenko spoke of commodities as comrades in building up their new nation: meaning that the intent and purpose of every object could be designed to lift society upward, hand-in hand with the efforts of the people.

Maybe I'm a snob; maybe I'm a crazy Bolshevik. Regardless of the labels that come attached, I am so happy to be a designer.

hakuna matata.

All there is to do on a ParTy Bus that's broken down with a bad alternator is drink the free beer. Sorry Annie.

The bus battery light came on in front of the Taco Time in Nephi, or at least that's what we were told. We were headed down to see Greg Caldwell's art show at the Central Utah Art Center Friday night and never made it. Thank goodness for that Taco Time.

"We were the only ones tacky enough to actually run across the street and get it! ...I feel bad about smelling up the bus."

"Don't worry Annie, we're fine. I have no regrets anyway."

While we shared a veggie burrito and empanada, the bus driver decided to continue on and try for Ephraim anyway. Our ascent up Nephi Canyon lasted about 15 minutes and ended in a lurch that left us on side of the snowy highway. We stopped right in front of a large stone and mortar memorial honoring two men and a married couple who were murdered by native americans as they attempted to settle Sanpete County in the 1800's. Far worse luck was sitting directly behind Stacey.

The minute the bus came to a complete hault she broke out the show tunes. And somehow the gay guy sitting across the aisle from her knew all the words to every song she chose. They started out with "OOOOOOOOOOOk-la-homa!" At first, it seemed fun. Me and Annie even joined it. We sang along with "Doe, a deer, a female deer", "Don't cry for me Argentina", and "Eidelweiss". There were some 80's pop and country songs in between that we weren't as familiar with; but by the time they got to "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" it was a bellowing drunken mess.

"Ok Stacey! That's enough! I think that's all we can take!", shouted some people at the back of the bus. And they were 20 rows away.

As the general state of these fellow passengers graduated from tipsy to inebriated, I couldn't help but think of my mom once when we were stranded on the side of the road. We were headed to Disneyland: a real family vacation long before any of us were married or divorced or disenfranchised. We held enthusiasm, anticipation; surety that the long drive would prove well worth it. But the white hippie van with floral olive green and teal print curtains, (that smelled like a combination of cat hair and febreeze) died just as we passed Beaver. Devastation. It was really dead. The engine had blown. We didn't own another car.

While dad got a ride into Beaver and the rest of us stayed stranded, my mom pulled a lemon & lime shasta out of the cooler. I think it started out with all of us making fun of the hippie van.
"How did we think this thing could ever get us to California? Check out the plaid upholstery on these seats!"
"Hahahaha!"
"Of course it couldn't make it past the black hole of I-15! I know at least five different people who've been stranded or pulled over here."
"Really?! Hahahaha!"

Universally, i guess the best thing to do on the sides of roads is get ridiculously happy with what you've got. As my mom laughed, she crushed her now empty pop can in her hands and gave it a final smash against the top of her head. She then starts passing out cans of pop to each of us and repeating the phrase, "HAKUNA MATATA! Drink a can of POP and SMASH it on your head!" As her children, we were mystified. A seemingly coordinated pause preceded our individual fits of laughter that erupted into crying spells of joy.

bookends.

I finally realized why I stopped blogging. It took a lot longer than I thought it would. I used to reward myself with it, taking homework breaks to type, sometimes in text edit if no internet, and paper and pen if no computer. The funny thing is that I laid it all out before myself from the beginning and still couldn't figure it out.

"Socialexplosion." Duh. I started writing after 3 years of working in a factory, isolated in that little box where my married life kept me away from my family and friends and school and normalcy. I had so much to say when I was finally free. Vomiting my thoughts out to everyone, to cyberspace, to friends as well as strangers provided me a beautiful liberation that I basked in so eagerly. I wanted to write everything; personal things, edgy things; to show that I could get away with it and that I didn't care who got offended or thought it was inappropriate. I aimed to prove myself; to the people who'd only seen me as a trapped girl with a sad demeanor, to those who'd ever shut me down and made me feel small. Something about the public nature of it all made it more real, more concrete, more healing. It reminded me over and over again that I have nothing to hide, not really.

Tonight I attended the wedding reception of an old coworker from my factory days at Beehive Clothing. (I am so happy for her!) I saw a few more of the old Beehive girls there. We gave one another strong hugs and caught up and reminisced. They all seemed a little shocked by me, by my demeanor, by my face and hair and shoes. It took them a second to recognize me at first glance. I left the gathering feeling a certain warm nostalgia coupled with an understanding that I must look younger now at 27 than I did at 23. I think I feel younger now too.

I went straight from the wedding reception to an art reception at the HFAC on campus. It was an epic collision of past v. future. Four of the kids from my class had their BFA shows tonight in the main gallery. They're all graduating in April. Can you believe it? I AM GRADUATING. Soon. I was accepted to BYU and to the graphic design program and we've all worked so hard and it's almost over. The internship in New York, the publication design and motion graphics classes, Kenji's BFA show; they're all over.

I don't write here anymore because I have nothing to prove anymore. Not to anyone but myself. I think I've done it all. I can swim and snowboard and think and write and work my brains out and not sleep for days and look at myself straight in the eyes standing naked in front of a mirror and design magazines and comics and use complicated software and date tons of guys and opt to be alone and love my friends and my life and family and religion and value it and respect it and try to be a better person against all kinds of odds and situations. This chapter of my life is quickly coming to a close and I cannot fully express the nervous anticipation that accompanies that fact.

For this blog to survive, I have to repurpose it: recycle it and put it to better use. We'll see how it goes. I can't just retire it because I constantly yearn to be a writer.

I'll try to come up with something.

my life will not end in a corner.

I'll admit it seems very inconsiderate and disrespectful to even an anonymous person to post their personal correspondence with me so publicly.

But when I first read his email over, a sick feeling of tumult chilled my bones. It is shocking, of course, that such a near stranger would rise to so many conclusions regarding my life and faith and then seek to offer criticism and guidance on such matters. But even more than that, there is something repulsive in the tone; one part inflated, another manipulative, another blind.

I first considered not responding at all, so that he couldn't enjoy even a spiteful reply. But that tumultuous feeling did not diminish. It resonated with all the times I'd been backed into corners by controlling men, both literally and emotionally, and it amplified them in my memory throughout the day.

The way to take back my own ground was so simple, no mud-slinging required. I decided to let it speak for itself.
I wish I would've taken such measures in the past.

Far worse than being lonely and single is living your life in a corner; I think I may know that better than most.

got to leave provo.

I received this email today after going out with a guy on one date, whom I met at stake conference:
Laura,

I looked over your blog again Sunday to try and figure out what to do with you:) I read an entry that I had skipped over the first time. It was the results of your dating quiz.
I found it astonishing. I don't think I or anyone else could have come up with a more accurate description of me, so I saved a copy for future reference.

1. Shy
2. Religious
3. Practical
4. Intellectual
5. Traditional
6. Adventurous
7. Big-Hearted
8. Athletic
9. Wealthy/Ambitious
10. Stylish

What makes it more significant and not random in my mind at least is the latest entry in social explosions. Your entry ended with a beautiful heartfelt prayer. The next day God sent me to you.

I never go to stake conference at my ward. I do things with my BYU ward( With permission. It's a long story). But that morning I had the clear impression to go to that building. When I sat down I had the unmistakable impression to talk to you.
There is a little more to the story but I think that will suffice in reminding you that Heavenly Father answers your prayers and cares for you. I was moved by your writing about God's answers being the most valuable and penetrating. You are an excellent writer.

My other purpose in writing is to explain to you my concerns. This is definitely not something I would do if it weren't for the circumstances already mentioned. And if I weren't interested in you. Maybe my perspective can help you. I hope you won't be offended or find it pretentious.

When your friends say that they can't understand why you're still Mormon, doesn't that send chills down your spine? From the other side, I have the same confusion that they do. I don't see how you can still be Mormon either. With all the gravity of the world pulling at you, you will not be able to stay in two worlds. NPR is not a problem, it is a symptom. My NPR roommate was torn apart for the same reasons. He was also a perfect 'What White People Like' fit. That book is funny for a reason, and that is because it is an honest description of people puffed up in pride and self absorption and who delight in being different for the sake of being superior. He talked about how he struggled with his testimony and how he wanted to start living as a secular Mormon, but in reality he was just a coward for clinging to his religion . He just moved to Seattle, and I have very little hope that he'll stay true to his covenants. Oh and he loved hip hop and rap. He said he wasn't liberal, just more moderate than the typical Utahan. He passionately supported minorities in their victimization paradigm. Hip hop culture is corrupt. Just look at the cover of the KWest's albumn. I think looking for artistry there like looking for diamonds in the sewer. Your ex liked hip hop. What did it do for him?

Why am I saying this? Because I want to be with someone who flees the darkness and seeks the light. Who is willing to sacrifice things that have merit if they chase away the Spirit. Who listens to conference talks as regularly as NPR podcasts. And partly because I have my own weaknesses toward the things of the world and I need all the support I can get. At this point I can't get myself to pursue something with you. I felt our date was fun but it seemed like it was all about you.

So there it is, if nothing else this may help you to empathize with those judgmental guys. If you are blaming them I hope it will encourage you to look inward. I think you are a giving person, intelligent and beautiful. I wouldn't presume that you would even want to pursue something with me but if you still thought after reading this that we could be compatible, I would be open to going snowboarding.

Your friend,
xxxxxxxxxx