No, PETA, You Are Not the Heroes

[Note: this was my term paper for my Environmental Problem Solving course. It got a 100%, so I thought I would share it here as a make-up for not posting for so long. Finals will be over soon and then I'll actually get something new posted.]

PETA: Radicals for the Neglecting of Endangered Animals

The infamous People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals (PETA) are known for the radical measures they will take to “protect the rights” of animals. Not animal welfare, the humanity with which the animals are treated when used in education, experimentation, or entertainment, but animal rights, or the fringe position based on their specious doctrine, which they have labeled “speciesism.” Speciesism “holds that all animals are the moral equivalents of humans and that any use of animals by humans is a breach of morality.” (McInerney 1992) PETA, given their way, would not only have the whole world become vegan, as indicated by their fervent efforts to promote veganism on both their website and in mainstream media, but would also have us stop using animals in medical and scientific experiments, stop wearing any animal product including leather shoes, stop dissecting frogs and rats in science classes, close all the zoos and marine life interaction parks like SeaWorld, and stop using animals on film and TV sets. PETA spends roughly $31,845,963 per year to achieve their goals of total animal liberation. (PETA.org) They put countless hours into ensuring that their message is reached everywhere from adult TV commercials to children’s games—they even revamped the classic Pokemon video game to reflect their message of animal freedom. However, with all of their concentrated focus on liberating the domestic animals, PETA has overlooked a far more important issue: endangered wildlife.

According to their website, PETA spends $7,181,756 per year on international grassroots campaigns, $8,505,813 on public outreach and education, $10,096,613 on research, investigations, and rescue, $787,681 on the cruelty-free merchandise program, $240,502 on general expenses, and $5,033,598 on membership development. (PETA.org) What is not included anywhere on their website is how much they spend on saving domestic animals vs. saving wild endangered animals. There is no reliable way to discover that budget, unless you believe every outlandish rumor you hear about PETA, such as their rumor that they actually eat the dogs and cats that they rescue (which has never been confirmed or even supported by substantial evidence). If you do a little more in-depth searching of PETA’s website, it’s clear by their layout that wildlife is the last issue on their minds. On their “learn the issues” page, their key issues are, in order: animals used for food, animals used for clothing, animals used for experimentation, animals used for entertainment, companion animals, and finally, wildlife. It gets worse when you click through to their wildlife page, and you see their idea of wildlife: geese, rabbits, insects, raccoons, mice, chipmunks, and pigeons. They helpfully provide links directing the user to humane mousetraps, and a guide for humanely removing insects and other pests from your home.

But where is the section about protecting endangered species like manatees, white tigers, giant pandas, and polar bears? PETA does not address these animals directly, unless they are used on a film set or harvested for skin and fur. PETA’s underlying philosophy seems to be that animals are not in true danger unless they are being used for products or entertainment, killed by pest-control traps, or hunted for sport. PETA worries about the treatment of domestic animals and even has a whole section on their site dedicated to the “correct” way to adopt, raise, and treat a pet. There is nothing wrong with wishing to see pets treated humanely, but according to the American Pet Products Manufacturers Association (APPMA)’s 2005-2006 National Pet Owners Survey, Americans own approximately 73 million dogs and 90 million cats. (Netscape 2013) Meanwhile, “severe threats from humans have left fewer than 1,600 pandas in the wild.” (worldwildlife.org 2013)

According to PETA’s theory, if humans leave animals alone, animals are safe. They do not seem to fully take into account the environmental dangers, except for those caused by humans, and even then environmental concern is an afterthought. The way PETA presents it, if you ever wear leather shoes or wool clothes, eat a burger, or go to SeaWorld, you’re a cruel person who delights in the murder of animals. However, many of their “cruelty-free” products are not necessarily environmentally friendly, as they are produced in waste-causing factories and thus contribute to the pollution factors that harm animals as well as humans. PETA insists that an animal-friendly lifestyle is “healthy for you and easy on the environment,” but they don’t seem to take into account the concept of pollution issues from the factories that make the products that they support, or the human labor required to make those products.

On the PETA website you’ll find a wealth of information about how to protect domestic animals, avoid wearing fur, and avoid eating meat. On the World Wildlife Fund (WWF) website, you will find detailed information about endangered species and how to protect them. Go back to the giant pandas (remember, only 1,600 left in the wild, and that was the estimate in 2004). According to WWF’s website, “Pandas play a crucial role in the bamboo forests where they roam by spreading seeds and facilitating growth of vegetation. In the Yangtze Basin where pandas live, the forests are home to a stunning array of wildlife such as dwarf blue sheep, multi-colored pheasants and other endangered species, including the golden monkey, takin and crested ibis.” (WWF, 2013) Scroll down the page, and you will learn exactly what WWF is doing to protect this species. They were the first international conservation organization to be invited by the Chinese government to work in China, where they worked to assist and influence policy-level conservation decisions by collecting information and communicating their findings, and by demonstrating various conservation approaches. (WWF, 2013) WWF is extremely open about this information, making it very clear that not only do they want to protect endangered wildlife, but they want the public to know exactly what steps they are taking and how the public can help, usually through donations—and when you donate to WWF, they want you to know where your money is going and whom it will help.

PETA, by contrast, does not tell you where your donations are going, but they show you. They show manipulated Pokemon computer games that present benevolent pet owners as vicious animal trainers, done without the creators’ consent and completely misinterpreting the theme of the original games, causing David Ewalt of Forbes to remark, “PETA seems to have missed the single biggest theme of the Pokemon series: That Pokemon should be treated humanely and live as our equals.” (Thalken 2012) Another controversial move of PETA was to release a commercial about veganism that shows a woman walking along in a neck brace, while a voiceover reports that since her boyfriend went vegan, their sex has been incredible—and, judging by her limping and her neck brace, incredibly violent. About-Face, a feminist-friendly website that analyzes mainstream media for both harmful and positive messages, called the advertisement “animal-friendly, human-hating” and said that the commercial does not in any way further PETA’s cause or show people how to safely and effectively switch to a vegan diet. Instead, the commercial sexualizes veganism and puts sexual violence in a friendly light by calling it a “condition” of veganism, known as “My Boyfriend Went Vegan And Knocked The Bottom Out Of Me,” or BWVAKTBOOM. (Mariona 2012)

By being safe and respectful, WWF is doing more good with their minimalist campaigns than PETA could ever do with their exaggerated, intentionally-controversial methods. PETA’s controversial campaigns may get them attention, but by putting the focus on their wild antics, they are taking away from what they insist they truly care about: the animals. If WWF is labeled as “controversial,” it’s only because someone doesn’t like their message—that endangered wildlife should be rescued, period—not the way that message is presented. By continuing their outrageous, no-holds-barred campaigns, PETA will continue to alienate potential supporters. In his article “The Extremist,” which focused on PETA founded Ingrid Newkirk, Michael Specter rhetorically questioned if PETA’s harsh tactics were “so unsavory that they offend many of the very people the group wishes to attract.” (Specter 2003) Specter also went on to point out that most special interest groups won’t change their views just because of the actions of one extremist group, giving the example of hunters refusing to quit hunting just because the National Rifle Association is in favor of assault weapons. But here’s the thing: most animal-rights activists already support groups like PETA; it’s the civilians that PETA wants to attract, and if they alienate those people by “attacking the ninety-nine per cent of humanity that sees the world differently” (Specter, 2003), their campaign won’t stand a chance no matter how many celebrities are willing to smile for their cause.

In his book The Longest Struggle: Animal Rights from Pythagoras to PETA, writer Norman Phelps interviewed an activist who told him, “It’s hard enough getting people to take animal rights seriously without PETA out there acting like a bunch of jerks.” (Phelps 2007) That may be an oversimplification of the situation, but it rings true: the more people are alienated by PETA’s campaigns, the harder it will be to draw attention to animals and other environmental issues. People who engage in animal welfare or animal rights activism are called derogatory names, as are people who are known to care about environmental issues. The term “tree hugger” is frequently tossed around, and I have heard people scornfully call others “animal lovers” as though the phrase itself were a curse word. With PETA giving animal-related activists a bad name, organizations that legitimately help animals like WWF find it harder to get their message out.

The key difference is their approach: while PETA relies on shock tactics and aggression, WWF attempts to educate people and give them pure fact, rather than rely on opinion. The difference is easy to spot. Opinion: eating meat is wrong even if the animal has been killed humanely. Fact: giant pandas are endangered, there are only 1,600 left in the wild. People who are seriously interested in saving animals who need to be saved (as in, actually endangered animals) go to WWF and find out what they can do to help save species like the giant panda. People who are either vainly attempting to be politically correct, or who think they are morally superior because they care more about the welfare of cats, dogs, and insects than their fellow humans, go to PETA and brag about their veganism. Not to mention the issue of what is done with the animals once they’re saved. WWF actually concentrates on keeping species alive so that they don’t become extinct. PETA, however, opposes the no kill movement and favors euthanasia of animals in shelters. (Interlandi 2008)

My personal stance on so-called “animal rights” is pretty simple: I avoid certain types of meat, but it’s for taste preferences, not out of a desire to save those few animals. I don’t wear real fur or leather, but I’m not scrupulously obnoxious about only buying animal-free products (or products that haven’t been tested on animals for that matter). I would never purposefully pick up an animal and hurt it, nor would I do something if I knew the direct outcome would harm an animal. At the end of the day, though, I care far more about the animals in the wild who are endangered, than the lab rats who are used to test the medicines I may or may not buy. But at the heart of it, my opinion is just that: my opinion. I don’t often make a show of telling everyone my opinion, and when I do I back it up with as much evidence as I can. This is where PETA has failed: they haven’t provided enough hard evidence to support their claims. Until they do, they have no business telling the rest of the world how to live their lives under the guise of “saving animals” when, really, they cause more harm--however unintentionally or indirectly--to the animals that they claim to save.

Bibliography

APPMA. "How Many Pets Are in the US?" Petplace.com. American Pet Products Manufacturers Association, 1999-2013. Web. 02 Apr. 2013.

Interlandi, Jeneen. "PeTA and Euthanasia: Even among Animal Lovers, Killing Unwanted Pets Is a Divisive Issue." Thedailybeast.com. Newsweek, 27 Apr. 2007. Web. 2 Apr. 2013.

McInerney, Joseph D. "Oppose PETA School Campaign." The American Biology Teacher2nd ser. 54 (1992): 70. Print. 02 Apr. 2013.

Mariona, Nikole. "PETA: Animal-friendly, Human-hating." AboutFace.org. N.p., 6 Feb. 2012. Web. 02 Apr. 2013.

"Financial Reports." PETA.com. People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals, Aug. 2012. Web. 2 Apr.

2013.

Phelps, Norm. The Longest Struggle: Animal Advocacy from Pythagoras to PETA. New York: Lantern, 2007. Print. 02 Apr. 2013.

Specter, Michael. "The Extremist: The Woman Behind the Most Successful Radical Group in America." Michaelspecter.com. The New Yorker, 4 Apr. 2003. Web. 2 Apr. 2013.

Thalken, Claire. "PETA Releases Pokémon Parody Game 'Pokémon Black and Blue: Gotta Free 'em All' (Photos)." Examiner.com. The Examiner, 8 Oct. 2012. Web. 02 Apr. 2013.

"Giant Panda." Worldwidlife.org. World Wildlife Fund, 2013. Web. 02 Apr. 2013.

Of Gentlemen and their Swords

Okay, I'll say it: I'm a feminist.

There. I said the f-word.

But I'm not the kind of feminist who hates men--a lot of my friends are guys, actually--and I'm not the kind of feminist who vetoes every last tiny little mainstream thing because it might be offensive, or the kind who refuses to watch Disney because "princesses are sexist." I'm the kind of feminist who thinks it's just a little fucked-up that in the 21st century, we are still holding to the idea that the best men are the ones who treat women like they're made of glass.

I mean, really.

What really pisses me off is that it's supposed to be a guy-to-girl thing. Seriously? I don't know about the men in your life, but the ones in mine really appreciate it if I hold the door when they've got their hands full, or if I offer to help them carry stuff to their dorm, or if I ask if they want anything when I go to get more food in the cafeteria. And I know plenty of other girls who don't mind doing this for their boyfriends or guy friends. My general rule is that if anyone, male or female, looks like they need help, you offer it to them, because it's good manners. If they decline your help, you don't take it as an insult. You take it as, Thanks, but I've got this covered. And it's that bloody easy. No hard feelings or outdated gender roles necessary.

Now take that and apply it to sports. If someone's a bad sport, it doesn't matter if they're male or female, you don't want to play with them or even practice with them. If they're a good sport, you enjoy playing with them and practicing with them and everything's all good. And if they have skills you don't, you're best served watching and learning from them, and if you have skills they don't, you shouldn't object to them watching and learning from you. Again, it's that easy, right?

Ha. If only.

Now I'll admit, I don't like losing. I don't know anyone who enjoys losing, actually. I mean, why would you? Losing says, I didn't have the skills to win this game/fight/round. But what you have to do is turn that into  the mindset of, Okay, I lost, that means I need to work harder, or maybe I'm just having an off day. It's not the end of the world. That's the mindset I brought with me into my fencing class, and you know what? I had a great effing time in that class.

Well. Except for one day.

It was near the end of our class--last week of it, I think. And we'd started our tournament, which was kind of like our final exam, except it wasn't a graded final, it was more of a "Okay, let's see how far you personally have come since you've started this class" kind of final. We held to what I think is a pretty normal standard for fencing tournaments: men fight men; women fight women. I still don't necessarily like that women and men are in separate divisions in most sports, but I understand why, and it actually does make sense, to some degree. But it was one of the things I loved about martial arts when I was still practicing--it didn't matter what your gender was; it mattered if you could kick ass.

And I'll tell you, right now, the girls in my fencing class sure as hell kicked ass. I loved fighting them and I didn't mind being beaten; the only time I got mad at myself was when I basically wimped out on a fight with one of the best fencers in the class. She deserved a much better fight than I gave her. That was literally the only time I was truly disappointed with myself in that class. I was disappointed because I didn't do the best I possibly could have done--not because I lost the fight.

Apparently, one of the male fighters in my class did not feel the same.

Like I said, we were at the beginning of our tournament. Second day, if I recall correctly. And because I was required to fight the women in the tournament, for the warmup rounds I'd usually choose to spar with a guy, because I wanted to have as many different opponents as I could, and by that point most of the separate divisions had already had either a scored fight or a warmup fight with every other person in their division. So I chose a guy I'd never fenced with before, thinking it would be a good experience.

I learned from my martial arts lessons that it's best to let your opponent strike first, to gauge his or her speed, accuracy, and so forth. I also knew from judging this guy's rounds that he liked to fake out his opponents about fifteen times (oh, how I wish I were exaggerating) before making the final strike. So, I  let him hit first. I  didn't bother blocking 90% of his hits, which never landed anyway. I'd riposte (basically, I'd rebut his attacks) and managed to score a couple of points on him; what hits he managed to get on me were invalid touches, meaning they were out of attack range--no score. TL;DR: I was winning the fight, but to an outsider it basically looked like he was beating the crap out of me.

After a few moments of this, he graciously offered, "You can attack me now. It's okay."

...

You can attack me now.

You can ATTACK ME NOW?

You CAN?

As in, he was giving me permission to attack him, in the middle of a fight?

"Thank you for your permission," I said sarcastically, and continued exactly what I was doing. (No, in case you're wondering, he never did land a direct hit on me.)

There were two things that bothered me about this. First of all, he was so arrogant, almost to the point of stupidity, that he possessed the mentality that hey, he was being more aggressive--so regardless of the points, he assumed he was winning the fight. The idea that I, with my non-aggressive, energy-conserving fighting style, could ever beat him, the macho man, just did not cross his mind.

Second--and far more important--he didn't view me as an opponent. Not in the least. It was clear that he didn't view me as any kind of competition whatsoever, or he wouldn't have condescended like that. And I assure you, he hadn't said that to a male opponent--not in the fights of his that I'd seen, anyway, and I'd seen at least two or three by then.

So yeah. I wasn't happy about that.

But it got even worse. After class, when we were  putting away our fencing gear, I heard him bragging to one of his male friends (who, to my knowledge, hadn't even known my name before this class--yes, this is important to keep in mind). "Yeah, man, I was being totally chivalrous, I let her get hits on me, but she wasn't impressed at all."

(My immediate mental response: Well, at least you admit I got points on you...that's a start.)

His friend, laughing, replied that he knew me, and that I went for the more "gentlemanly" type of guys. My class partner immediately crowed, "Well, I've got that locked up then! You saw her, right? She won't admit it, but she was flirting back."

At this point, furious, I interrupted the conversation and pointed out that 1) I could hear them, 2) they were being jackasses, and 3) even if they were the nice guys they pretended to be, I was taken, thankyouverymuch, and had absolutely no interest in leaving my significant other for either of them. I practically threw my stuff into my cabinet and walked away. As I left, though, I heard one of them say in a singsong voice, "Temper, temper!" while the other one said something under his breath about "yeah, she wants it."

Shoot me now.

Why, males of the world? Why do you have to fool yourself that every girl in the world wants you, in order to validate your existence? Believe me when I say I'm a minor target for male attention and have been that way for a long time...so it takes me a while to figure out when someone is flirting with me (ask Ella...it took me all summer to figure out that she was not, in fact, straight), but I can tell when they're actually flirting. In fact I'm more likely to err on the side of caution: if they're treating me exactly the same way they treat every other girl they interact with, then they probably aren't flirting.

Hey, guy from fencing class, did you hear that?

If I'm treating you exactly the same way I treat every other person I interact with on a daily basis--if I award you the same courtesy I give to literally everyone else--I. AM. NOT. FLIRTING.

And you know what? The other girls probably aren't, either.

Believe it or not, unwanted flirting supports rape culture. And by "unwanted flirting," I don't mean accidentally flirting with someone who's already spoken for, or flirting with someone initially but stopping after you've been turned down. I mean when you flirt with someone who's obviously not interested, and continue flirting after they've made it extremely clear that you're making them uncomfortable--that is unwanted flirting. When you approach someone to flirt, guess what? You're taking a calculated risk, and it may or may not pay off, so you'd damn well better be prepared for both outcomes.

Outcome #1: They like you! They really like you! Congratulations, you have made a successful connection with someone you desire! Pack up your pick-up lines, baby--you're going on a date!

OR...

Outcome #2: You fall flat. They're not interested. End of story. They don't want you, so move the fuck on.

Unwanted flirting is what happens when the dick who thinks that no doesn't mean no continues flirting after Outcome #2 occurs. These are usually the guys with the mentality of...well...

And to anyone with that no-means-yes approach to flirting, male or female, I say...

And so when I heard that guy mutter "She wants it" under his breath, I almost threw up in my mouth a little bit. I didn't "want it"--not his attention or, God forbid, his affection. Not that you could convince him of that: not only did he not take me seriously during the match, but he also didn't take me seriously outside the class. I was just a "girl," something to be chased and objectified and patronized, to him. No more.

My fencing class ended a couple of weeks ago, and I'm proud to say that I did win my final bout in the tournament. I wouldn't admit it at the time, but I kind of secretly hoped the condescending warmup partner (who I'm definitely glad to be rid of) noticed that I can beat someone without getting permission to attack.

Then again, it probably wouldn't change his mind about me if he did.

Loving Cooper Finnegan

[Note: This is a short story I wrote the summer after I graduated high school. Set in a boarding art school much like the one I attended, it's intended to be a universally-empathetic story concerning the end of a high-school romance. It is 100% fictional, though slightly based on actual events. This is the fourth or so draft; I've re-edited it several times because, as with all first drafts, the first one sucked. Here it is now in its most polished form. I hope you like it.]

“Loving Cooper Finnegan”

June

How can four days be this damn long?

I feel like Conor Broekhart after he was thrown into prison on Little Saltee. Hopeless. Lost.

I’m so used to seeing him every day, you see. So used to having that nice little human to bounce those ideas off of. So used to saying, “So, let’s go do something insane…let’s go dye the water in the pool bright purple!” and hearing an enthusiastic voice respond, “Sure, why not?”

Now when I say out loud, “Let’s do something insane,” my mother replies, “Let’s don’t and say we did.”

It finally sinks in. Four days without him and I’m a mess. I don’t want to see myself four weeks, or four months, after I’ve been without him for that long. It’s not possible. It’s just not freaking possible.

It must be possible, because it’s real, it’s here, and I have to accept that there is a very, very high probability that I will never see him again.

October

I don’t know him, but something tells me I should.

He is nondescript, but he’s wearing green. I love green, I love people who wear green. Make all the Irish jokes you like, but people who truly know how to wear green are a rare breed, indeed. This one wears dark-green, and it matches his dark-red hair and pale—but not too pale; he’s not Dracula for God’s sake—skin so perfectly.

I don’t know him, but I know that we are going to be friends.

He is not ordinary. He has an aura that seems to scream, “I am not an ordinary person.” He reminds me of Artemis Fowl. He has the look of someone who hasn’t slept in weeks, of someone who stays up late into the night writing—or reading, perhaps; I hope so, I love boys who read—I can tell from the dark circles under his green eyes.

More green.

On either side of me, my friends make inappropriate jokes and discuss the latest Blogging Twilight post. I listen, but I don’t join in. I’m too busy looking at the boy in green.

June

Two weeks since graduation.

Cooper wrote to me yesterday, but it was a short, barely-there email.

Hi Nori—

I went to the library again today. I’m halfway through Future Eden, and you’re right, it’s amazing. Strange, but amazing.

My parents and I are going on a picnic tomorrow. I don’t know exactly where. If it’s pretty, I’ll take a picture for you.

Love,

Cooper

I remember when Cooper and I first met and I introduced myself as “Eleanor—but call me Nori, everyone does.”

And he smiled and said, “Nori. Like the dwarf in The Hobbit?” And when I blushed he said quickly, “It’s a perfect name for you. No one else could be named after a dwarf. You could, without losing a single shred of dignity.”

I liked his name too. Cooper Finnegan. I knew name meanings. Finnegan meant fair. It was an Irish name. Why didn’t that surprise me—all that thick red hair? Cooper. Barrel maker. What did that even mean? Did it even matter?

Now I wonder if “barrel maker” meant something. And this is just what I do, when I don’t understand something—I analyze the living hell out of it. Does “barrel” mean “barrel of a gun?” Because if it does, I’m scared, far too scared to think about what that could symbolize.

If it means what I think it might…

BAM—straight through my heart.

November

Cooper Finnegan. That’s his name. Cooper Finnegan, senior, transfer from Detroit.

“Someone set my school on fire,” he explains to me, over burned coffee and chalky, white-flour pound cake. “My parents thought it wasn’t safe, so they sent me up here.”

Sentenced to a boarding school in the middle of fucking nowhere because your parents wanted to protect you? My God, and he’s so calm about it. I can’t imagine not coming here by choice. “Why didn’t you stop them?” I ask.

He looks at me, shocked. “They’re my parents.”

“But they’re not you,” I point out. “You should have a say in what happens to you.”

Cooper looks at me for a long moment. Then he shrugs and says bluntly, “Well, I trust them.”

I trust my parents too, but not blindly. I don’t trust anyone blindly. But I trust him, even though I have literally no reason to. I trust him, I don’t know why.

Maybe it’s the sparkling green eyes that remind me of Harry Potter. Maybe it’s the thick, straight tufts of red hair that fall just barely to his shoulders and give him the appearance of having permanent bed-head. Maybe it’s his voice, so soft and sweet that he makes Michael Jackson sound like Al Pacino.

Maybe it’s just fate.

July

The sky is beautiful. The clouds are a dark, almost sinister shade of orchid, roughly the texture of cotton batting, against a background of deep plum. When the fireworks begin, around nine-thirty or so, the bursts of red and yellow and blue sparks explode against this background, creating an image so breathtaking that it almost hurts. I desperately want to save this image, but even my fancy T2i can’t capture the beauty, and it makes me sad.

He would have loved this.

I try calling him again, but his phone is off. He’s probably meeting the president. Oh no, wait, the president lives in D.C.—like me—and he lives in Boston. Never mind. Scratch that. He’s probably off writing the next Odyssey or inventing the cure for some rare disease.

And what am I doing? Sitting here watching fireworks. In a few moments my mother will call out the back door, and she will have me come inside and help her ice the lemon pound cake that she just took out of the oven. I will eat the pound cake after we ice it, along with a generous helping of fresh strawberries and a mug of hot, black coffee. We will watch a Harry Potter movie, probably the first one, because that is her favorite as well as mine.

Meanwhile, the boy I love is somewhere in a museum or a science center or a library, getting smarter for Vassar. Lucky bastard. If Vassar hadn’t rejected me I could be there in two months with him. Instead, come August twenty-fifth I’ll be off to the strict, evangelical Christian Calvin College in Grand Rapids, Michigan. Ironic, considering that I just escaped from a strict school in Michigan.

But this is my life, and I have to accept that, and I have to accept that I will never be good enough for Vassar, just like I am not good enough for him.

December

Snow covers the ground. It’s as cold here in the winter as it is hot in D.C. in the summer. Sam and Maggie and I grab each other’s hands and run and slide, run and slide, until we collapse in a heap on the thin layer of ice that has formed on the ground.

We find Cooper near the auditorium and bring him in with us. We run around the auditorium and shout lines from our favorite movies, and sing songs from RENT and Hairspray and Sweeney Todd that we only know half the words to, and we skip and play and dance until a security guard kicks us out.

On the way back, Maggie comes up with the idea of naming our favorite constellations. The night is clear, and we look up and see every star through the tops of the trees. “Mine is Seven Sisters,” Maggie tells us, reaching up to point out the shape in the sky.

Sam thinks about it for awhile. “I think Orion is mine.”

I stop and look up, staring around until I find my favorite—the Big Dipper. “Such a cliché,” Sam teases me when I voice this opinion.

But Cooper takes my hand, and points up to the very same constellation I just named. His breath makes a perfect little cloud in the crisp night air as he says, “My favorite is the Big Dipper, too.”

July

North Carolina is a six-and-a-half-hour drive from D.C., and I want to go there about as much as I want to stick hot needles under my nails. If I stay in D.C., I reason, there is a possibility that Cooper will come for me. If I go, he might come for me and then leave, disappointed, when he discovers that I’m not here.

I try to pack, but it feels like I’m preparing for the apocalypse. I pack nothing but short skirts and shorts and sundresses, and only one pair of jeans and one cardigan. I bring as many books as I can fit in my suitcase. Assuming that we actually don’t stay in the hotel the entire time, I figure I can at least be prepared for the ride to the hotel and the ride back.

I charge my iPod the night before. I also sync it, adding my new playlist of songs that remind me of Cooper, starting with the song we danced to at our senior prom and ending with the song that makes me cry every time I hear it because I miss him so much.

The stuffed white tiger that he won for me at Great Wolf Lodge sits in plain view on my shelf. I’ve taken that thing to bed with me every night. I want to take it with me—but if I’m seen cuddling with a damn stuffed tiger my parents will know that something is up. And I don’t want them to see that I’ve completely gone off the deep end.

Through the six-hour drive, I spend about one-third of my time sleeping, one-third of my time reading Fight Club, and one-third of my time staring moodily out the window as I listen to my iPod. Dad tries to engage me in conversation. I ignore it. I drink iced tea out of an insulated bottle and eat McDonald’s fries and cheese puffs from rest-stop vending machines, and I block the world out when the car begins to move again.

January

The bell has just begun to ring. A handful of kids from our school run to the playscape, shrieking in excitement, knowing they’re about to get drenched. I hang back, Cooper and Sam by my side. Sam—skinny, lily-white Sam, with about as much hair on his chest as a Chihuahua—has absolutely no reservations about whipping off his clothes and exploring the busy waterpark in his daisy-duke swimsuit. I, on the other hand, refuse to take off the t-shirt covering my one-piece. It’s not that I don’t want to swim, I do; I’ve been water-fight deprived for the last four months…but I have a good reason to not take off my shirt.

“Come on, Nori,” Sam coaxes me. “No one is going to notice your boobs in here.”

I am five-six, 119 pounds, and I wear a size 34E bra. I hate, hate, hate my breasts. As soon as I’m old enough (and I can afford it), I am going to get my breasts surgically reduced as small as the plastic surgeon can manage. And I swear, if one more girl looks enviously at my chest, I will hit her. If she wants them so badly, she can have them.

I fold my arms across my chest. “Damn right they’re not.”

Sam sighs exasperatedly. “For God’s sake, this is Great Wolf Lodge, not a beauty pageant. Now please take off your clothes and come on.”

Sam just wants to get wet. But Cooper understands. This is when I realize that his swim trunks are about three times longer than Sam’s, and he hasn’t taken off his t-shirt, either. “I’ll stay with you,” he promises, and Sam rolls his eyes and heads off, leaving me with Cooper.

“You don’t have to swim,” Cooper says once Sam leaves.

“What else is there to do?” I say stupidly, forgetting that the waterpark is not the only entertainment option in Great Wolf Lodge.

Cooper looks off in the other direction. “Come on,” he says, taking my hand almost absently. “Let’s go the arcade.”

July

We drive through West Virginia at five o’clock in the afternoon. It has been pouring rain all day, but now the sun is just coming out. The landscape looks washed-out, like the work of an amateur watercolor artist—dreamlike and pale and hazy. I close my eyes and turn up the volume on my iPod, and hug my tiger tightly.

Bethan. That’s the tiger’s name. I don’t remember exactly why. I just remember that I started calling her that, and it stuck. I remember that Cooper hit it big on one of those game-token slot machines, and it put out about a hundred and fifty tickets. Grinning like an idiot, he marched me up to the counter and asked me what I wanted.

Slightly dazed, more than a little surprised, I pointed to the tiger. The white tiger, the endangered white tiger, my favorite animal. The man working the counter handed it over, and Cooper handed it over to me. I remember nuzzling the soft, plush toy and saying something stupid about how I owed him. He said I didn’t.

Bethan sits in my lap, brown eyes staring blankly ahead. I think if I look closely enough, I can imagine that she’s real. If I look closely enough, I can almost pretend that she will get me through this.

And I wonder, as I look into her empty plastic eyes, How did it come to this, Cooper? How did it come to me relying on a stuffed animal to keep from missing you? But it doesn’t work, I don’t miss him any less. If anything, I just miss him more.

Bethan, it seems, is falling down on the job.

February

February in Northern Michigan. God forbid.

Everything is encased in a thin casing of jewel-like ice, making the entire world look like a huge, pristine diamond. Light layers of dusty white snow skirt across every flat surface. Icicles the size of broom handles hang from every rooftop. The world is a frozen wonderland. All emphasis on frozen. When I was a freshman I damn near died every time I went outside from December to April.

And yet it’s absolutely beautiful. I want to take a thousand pictures of it. I want to take a piece of it with me back to D.C. and re-create this wintery beauty on some hot, stifling July day, long after I’ve left this place for good.

Cooper and I walk to the library together, our gloved hands interlaced. He suggests we stop for hot chocolate in the café. We do. Once inside, he takes off his glove to draw on the inside of the frosty window. A heart. My name, my initials—his initials—together. He turns to me, self-conscious. He smiles.

I am speechless.

He goes to get us hot chocolate and gives me time to process what he has just done, what he’s just told me. I can’t think straight. Imagine, if you will, being handed everything you’ve ever coveted, carefully packaged inside one frosted heart. It’s frightening—sweet, yes, but frightening.

But he comes back, and puts his hand over mine when he sits down. His hand is so warm from holding the hot chocolate, I can feel it through my glove. He’s protective. It’s nice.

He looks at me, and I’m not afraid. I crack the frosted heart wide open and accept that he is handing me the world, and when he finally asks, outright, if I will be with him, I say yes without hesitation.

July

North Carolina is hot. Much, much hotter than D.C.; I don’t know why I ever would’ve suspected otherwise. I lie in the air-conditioned hotel room wearing short-shorts and the loosest tank top that I own. So not classy—Maggie really would not approve—but I don’t care. The news stations all call this a heat wave. I call it a heat apocalypse. I’d take a northern winter a hundred times over right now.

I check my phone every fifteen minutes. Cooper has not called. His parents have kidnapped him for a family outing, I think, or maybe he’s just busy getting ready for Vassar.

Vassar really should be grateful. He could have gone to Princeton, Yale, Stamford, Harvard, Notre Dame, USC, University of Chicago—but he chose Vassar. That school should feel honored. They should give him a damn award for existing. Sometimes I think that’s what our high school did—give him awards just for his existence.

Meanwhile I was the overlooked one. I was the wannabe Gus Van Sant who could never get into a film festival. I was the girl who never got any recognition for breaking a barrier that had been in place since the film department was formed. I did not win a single award or get into a single film festival the entire time I was at that school.

But Cooper did. Cooper was successful enough for the both of us.

Cooper Finnegan, we give you this award simply for being born. You are a miracle.

He is a miracle, he is, and he is mine, he said he was, and he will call me because he loves me. He loves me, he told me so.

March

Three days before Spring Break, Cooper comes rushing up to me mid-dinner. I’ve just escaped from the Film Shoot From Hell and hope that he has good news; as long as someone is happy I can put up with just about anything. “Nori, you have to go check your mail!” he says, gasping for breath, as he waves a huge white envelope in front of me. “I got in, Nor—Vassar just sent me the letter this morning! Go check! I bet your letter is waiting there!”

We run back to my dorm together, my bad mood evaporating like dry ice. So far I’ve gotten into all three of my safety schools—Calvin, DePaul, and Emerson—and two of my target schools, Columbia Chicago and University of North Carolina. This leaves Vassar, USC, University of Maryland, and Michigan State to reply.

My mailbox is stuffed. There are two big white envelopes and four skinny, pathetic-looking envelopes. Two of the skinny ones hold letters from my cousins, one from Maya, who lives in New York, and one from Krystal, who goes to University of Maryland—I put those aside; I’ll open them later. The two big white ones are from University of Maryland and Michigan State. I don’t like this, I don’t like this at all.

The first non-letter skinny envelope is from USC. No surprises there. I hated the idea of going to California for school anyway.

But the second skinny envelope is from Vassar.

We regret to inform you…thousands of qualified applicants…invite you to reapply…don’t be discouraged…qualities that Vassar admires, however…cannot accept at the present time.

I think Cooper’s hand is on my shoulder, but I am crying too hard to hear what he’s saying.

July

I’m not sure why I chose Calvin. Wait, strike that, I do: It’s because of my dad.

You see, my father is a graduate of Calvin College, and he swears by their film program. Never mind that after he left Calvin, he went into graduate school for computer sciences and wound up as a project manager for a tiny computer company that no one has ever heard of.

I got a full scholarship to Calvin, thanks to my dad’s alumnus status. I only got a half scholarship to Columbia Chicago, which is where I actually want to go. My parents said, Don’t be silly, go wherever you want to go. You can get a job next summer. We can help you apply for outside scholarships. We can get money somehow. Don’t tie yourself down for our sake.

But I had to, I couldn’t just take their money again, they’ve done so much for me, putting me through Great Lakes Art Academy and paying the fees for all my film festival submissions. It wouldn’t be fair to make them pay for art school when I don’t deserve it.

If I am not good enough for Vassar, I reason, then I am not good enough to force my parents to pay for Columbia.

“You were good enough to get in, idiot,” Maggie has scolded me multiple times. “Your parents want to see you happy. Go to Columbia, and for God’s sake stop worrying so much!”

I can’t stop worrying, because I am afraid that if I choose wrong—if I don’t make exactly the right move, right now, today—I will end up flipping burgers and begging people for money to make five-minute mumblecore shorts, while Maggie publishes her novels and Sam releases chart-topping records and Cooper finds the cure for cancer or writes the next Great American Novel or invents a new musical instrument.

April

As the rain melts away the last of the winter snow, Cooper and I run around in every possible thunderstorm and drink the rainwater from our cupped hands. One precious afternoon, we snag Sam and Maggie from their respective dorms and the four of us run around in the rain together, splashing and singing and shrieking like owls.

I think it is Maggie who asks me to take pictures. I’m afraid for my camera, but she reminds me that, like any good wannabe photographer, I carry clear plastic shower caps as makeshift camera covers for precisely this situation. So I cover my camera and start snapping photo after photo of Cooper, Sam, and Maggie dancing in the rain, and somewhere between shots I begin to cry. Not because I’m sad, not because I know that these moments will soon evaporate into memories, but because I’m so happy that mere laughing and smiling just isn’t enough; I need some other outlet for my emotions.

Cooper notices my tears, despite the rain. He rushes over to me and takes my hands. “Are you okay?” he asks, concerned.

The late-afternoon choir practice has just let out and the underclassmen begin to stream out of the covered amphitheater as he speaks, ending our solitude and reminding us that we are, after all, on a campus and not in an enchanted fairy glade. I look around, momentarily distracted. While I stare at the intruding choral singers, Cooper gently takes my camera and puts it back in my waterproof backpack. “No, don’t,” I protest, but he grabs my hands again.

I hear Maggie say, “Come on, Sam…we’re in the way.” I don’t know what she means by this; it’s not like they’re between us.

But Cooper persists: “Why are you crying?” he asks, reaching up and gently brushing tears and rainwater from my cheeks.

It’s the most intimate touch he’s ever bestowed upon me and it sends more tears streaming from my eyes. “Because I’m so happy,” I explain, and laugh even as another river of tears escapes.

Cooper leans down, his face inches from mine. My breath freezes in my throat; I’ve never been kissed and he’s never shown any indication of wanting to kiss me. I’ve never questioned that—it’s just who we are—but now, it seems, he’s changed his mind. We agreed to go slow, that much I understand. This, I can’t get my head around. If he wants a kiss he can have it, but oh, God, I have no idea what I’m doing…

“I prefer to see you smile,” he whispers, and gently plants his lips on my cheek, kissing my tears away.

August

I pack for college much the same way I packed for North Carolina: like I’m preparing for certain doom. Once again, I have that feeling that I can’t leave D.C. because if I do, Cooper won’t find me if—no, when—he comes for me.

Mom drags me through the mall, shopping for clothes. I have no problem finding pants. Forever 21 has a sale, and I get what I think must be enough jeans to make wall-to-wall tapestries for my bedroom. But tops? Forget it. My breasts have specific requirements for tops. I end up getting unisex size-L and female size-XL t-shirts to accommodate what I’ve begun to refer to as the Twin Planets…not that I’m allowed to get many t-shirts anyway.

“Michigan will be cold,” Mom reminds me—as if I could forget, after spending four years in that Godforsaken boarding school.

Time moves so slowly when you want to throw yourself into the nearest fire pit. (Though D.C. being what it is in summertime, that’s not too far from reality.) Dad hosts barbecue after barbecue, offers multiple times to throw me a graduation party, offers to take me to the carnivals. I used to love carnivals. Now I can’t remember for the life of me why I ever thought it was fun to be whipped around on a huge metal structure that had in all probability been built about twenty years before I was born.

“No, thank you,” I say over and over.

Cooper has written me exactly one time since I’ve gotten back from North Carolina—a short, tense letter that made me wonder if he was okay.

Nori—I won’t be able to talk for a bit. Going to New York for the week to check out Vassar with my parents.

—Cooper.

No “love” this time.

Still no calls.

May

Cooper laughs as he watches me dance—or should I say, attempt to dance—in a black-and-white ballgown and black pumps. I’m laughing too—at his hat—the most ridiculous thing, it looks like a graduation cap had a love child with a patterned ski cap. Ke$ha—the one song of hers that I can stand—blares out of the speakers, out-of-step with our “Phantom of the Opera” prom theme.

Cooper finds this song hilarious, especially the line “We make the hipsters fall in love.” “Can I call you something tonight?” he shouts over the music.

“What?” I ask.

“Hipster!” he replies, grinning like the Cheshire Cat.

“And damn proud of it!” I scream, and he shrieks back—a high, girlish sound—and begins to dance with me.

We dance like we are the stars of a music video. He grabs me by the hand and twirls me around. I can’t stop laughing—not the delicate, girly kind of laughing that most females do when trying to flirt, but real, honest, exhilarated laughing. The kind of laughing you do when you are having the time of your life.

Lights flash, colored spotlights swinging freely around the fake-wood dance floor. Around me is a mass of multicolored taffeta and satin and chiffon and lace, some of it iridescent, some of it matte. I am a black-and-white dot in the center of a giant kaleidoscope.

The music pounds through my body like a drug. Dizzy, almost high, I grab Cooper by his tie and pull him close. His hands come to rest on my hips. We are close, so close, and I’m still laughing, laughing hysterically, and I’m so happy I can’t breathe, and when we kiss I’m still laughing and I can feel his body trembling against mine because he’s laughing too, even as his mouth clumsily, shakily connects to mine.

Cooper’s first kiss. My first kiss. A moment to cherish.

August

Last time I was at the dentist, they must have dosed me too heavily with Novocain. That must be it. That must explain the cold numbness that has taken up permanent residence in my body. Either that, or I just lost my virginity to a Dementor.

I stare at the clouds through the plane window. The man next to me seems a little too interested in showing me pictures of his two-year-old daughter. His wife, a gentle, scolding, motherly young woman roughly five years older than me, continually tells him to “leave that poor girl alone, can’t you see she doesn’t want to talk right now?”

I turn up my iPod, blocking both of them out.

He finally called.

I’m sorry, Nori. I’m so sorry.

He doesn’t want me anymore.

It’s the long-distance thing. It’s too hard not being able to see you every day. I’m sorry, Nori. I’m so sorry.

He thinks I’m going to cheat on him.

This way we can both go off to college and be free. You can be with someone else, without worrying about me or thinking about what I’m doing….I’m so sorry, Nori. I wish it didn’t have to be this way.

He doesn’t want me.

It just isn’t going to work. I’m sorry, Nori.

He thinks I’m not good enough for him.

We’re just too different…we have different lives, different values, different ambitions. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, Nori, I wish I could be with you, I really do.

That was all he could say, on the phone, not even listening as I died, as I tried to remember how to breathe—

I’m sorry, Nori, I’m so sorry.

Like fuck you are, I want to tell him. You’re not sorry. You’re better off without me and we both know it.

I’m sorry, Cooper, I’m so sorry. I’m sorry I love you. I’m sorry that I’m such a freak. I’m sorry that you had to deal with me all that time. I’m sorry you had to take me to the prom, I’m sorry you had to kiss me. I’m sorry I made you help me with my homework. I’m sorry I made you feel guilty about getting into Vassar.

I’m sorry, Cooper. I wish I didn’t love you.

May

It’s the night before graduation.

Crying parents, excited seniors, hyper siblings, wistful underclassmen. The works. The seniors had a special picnic earlier today. Cooper laughed as I tossed pretzels in the air and caught them in my mouth. We ran around the clearing and played Frisbee with Sam and Maggie. Then he pinned me up against a tree and kissed me even though I was wearing his least-favorite flavor of lipgloss. Strawberry, for the record. He hates strawberry.

Now it’s almost midnight and we’re dancing together for the last time at the end-of-year party in the gym. Sam and Maggie have long disappeared. The DJs are playing “Don’t Stop Believing” and I want to kick them, this is not the song I want to hear last. “Don’t worry. It won’t be,” Cooper assures me when I complain to him.

The last song turns out to be one of my favorites—“All the Small Things” by Blink-182. “Did you—?”

“Of course I did,” he grins, and then begins to spin me around the dance floor as if we’re in a ballroom instead of a gymnasium.

He’s laughing in the same exhilarated way that we were laughing at prom, and I love that he’s touching me, I love that he’s holding me and laughing with me, I love that he’s so happy to be with me. I love that we feel so young, so immortal, like this night will never end, like we can stay here with each other forever. I love that he kisses me as the last chorus swells, and I love that just before the song ends, he leans in and whispers in my ear—

“I love you, Eleanor Harrison.”

August

There are two songs I can’t hear without thinking of him. Neither of them are the slow, sappy love songs you’d expect. It’s just those two—“We R Who We R,” the song we danced to at senior prom, the song that was playing when we had that wonderful first kiss—oh, God, how I wish we’d done that sooner, “going slow” be damned—and, even worse, perhaps the worst of all, “All the Small Things.”

Because he used to sing me that song.

Because when he called me from the train station just before he went home, he called me his “little windmill.”

Because it was the quote in his signature at the end of his e-mails, and now it’s not, and I know he’ll never change it back.

Because he used to kiss me whenever I sang the chorus back to him in my thin, shaky singing voice.

Because he used to call me and sing me the chorus when I answered the phone.

Because he used to make me playlists and share them on iTunes.

Because he used to quote lyrics to me when I was having a bad day.

Because he was the first boy to do any of that for me and I know that no matter how many boys (though there won’t likely be many) do those same things for me, even if I let them, it will never mean quite the same thing.

Because he used to love me.

[Avery Udell, 2013. Please credit me if you quote this story online, in person, or elsewhere. Thank you.]

Looking back, looking ahead

One of the things I love about photography is the intimacy of it--or at least, what I perceive as intimacy; I'd bet that there are a fair few legitimate photographers out there shaking their heads at what I just said. But I'm going to pretend, at least for now, that everyone who's reading this is with me and totally gets what I'm trying to say.

Whether it's a self-portrait (which I'm just learning how to take), a portrait, a group shot, or a shot of an inanimate object, there's this inescapable closeness, this unshakable feeling that whatever or whoever you're capturing is, for that moment, totally in your hands. For a second, even if it's just for that second, you connect. It's suddenly your job, and your job alone, to make that person or that object beautiful, and just for that one moment, only your camera can do that. This is why taking candid shots is always such a gamble--and so disappointing when those candid shots don't turn out. Because if that shot turns out blurry or unflattering, you can't just do it over the way you can with a posed shot--that moment is gone forever, and your attempt at capturing it just as it was failed.

I'll be first to admit I'm terrible at candid shots, just learning to take self-portraits, and still struggling with the more technical aspects of photography. It took me an unseemly amount of time to figure out that, no, the f/stop and shutter speed are not in fact the same thing. This is why I'm going to take this opportunity to tell all of my fellow amateur photographers to first and foremost READ THE INSTRUCTION MANUAL THAT COMES WITH YOUR CAMERA. For the love of Pete, save yourself the headache--READ THE DAMN THING BEFORE YOU PICK UP THE CAMERA. Trust me on that.

But technical headaches aside and amateur fumblings notwithstanding, I feel powerful with a camera in my hands. I feel like an artist. I feel like I have the capability to do things that not everybody in the world can do.  I feel strong, I feel smart, I feel beautiful (behind the camera, mind you--put me in front of it and it's a different story entirely). I feel like someone worth paying attention to, and believe me, people do. I learned a long time ago that if you have a camera in your hands, there will inevitably be someone within ten feet who notices and feels the need to pose for you. I don't just feel empowered. I feel complete.

These photos were taken mostly around Christmastime, the most recent being from Superbowl Sunday. I felt a sense of nostalgia while looking at them--and a sense of accomplishment. Because, hey, maybe that's just a slightly overexposed shot of a pack of Gatorade--but it's my slightly exposed shot of a pack of Gatorade. It's what I saw in that moment and what I felt was worth capturing on film. And who knows? Maybe that one weird little picture from New Year's Eve 2012 will be worth something someday. I don't know. All I know is that right now, it's worth something to me.

My first attempt at a self-portrait--I was trying to demonstrate loneliness, hugging the body pillow instead of hugging my girlfriend. I don't know if it worked, but I know that I was damn proud of this shot because it involved mounting the camera so high I was afraid it would fall over, setting the timer, then pressing the button, jumping back into bed, arranging myself around the pillow, and freezing into that pose in the timespan of about ten seconds.