First Day of School.

Five years ago today

was my first day of college.

I didn't take the most direct route

to my classes

because I had been too proud

to go and find my classrooms

the weekend before

like everyone else had done.

I went to Physical Science,

which I would later

stop attending altogether

because I couldn't handle

waking up for an 8 am class.

I went to Book of Mormon,

which I would later

come to hate

because the girl in the front row

made too many comments.

I went to French Literature,

which I would later

learn was easier

than my AP French class.

Then I had an hour break

and I went home

because I lived 5 minutes away

and I didn't understand college.

I went back for Writing and Rhetoric

which I would later

write my final paper for

on the morning it was due.

For dinner that night

I had popcorn,

frozen vegetables,

and a kiwi.

I went to the ward ice cream social.

Rachel and I went on a run,

and I met the RB stairs for the first time.

Then some boys

started throwing crab apples

at our window,

so we went out and met them

and chatted with them

for the first

and only

time.

And I had no idea

that five years later,

I'd be sitting at my desk

in front of my beautiful, perfect window,

in my wood-paneled bedroom,

a college graduate,

a member of the workforce,

a grad student,

writing this

and remembering this

and smiling back

at my little old self.

Not my first day,

but I remember how cool I felt

walking around campus

with dat gold bow in my hair.

Sometimes, Part II.

Sometimes everyone on facebook

is travelling to other countries,

or getting married,

or getting engaged,

or posting pictures with a new

significant other,

or posting pictures of 

flowers/chocolates/promises you don't intend to keep

that their perfect boyfriend/husband got them,

or announcing that they're pregnant,

or giving birth to a super cute baby,

or landing a new job,

or starting school again,

or just moved somewhere new and exciting,

or

at the very least

is pouring a bucket of ice water

over their head

for reasons never fully explained.

Sometimes I am never doing any of those things.

Especially not that ice bucket business.

Sometimes I am moving into a new house,

and living by myself for a week,

and feeling like my car

is one of my best friends,

and making frequent trips to Rock Canyon Park,

and worrying about all the exciting directions

that my career could go,

and teaching myself microeconomics

on the side,

and working 9-hour days that start at 7:30 am,

and teaching a room full of boys how to tutor,

and getting free lunch at work

three days in a row,

and trying to remember what it's like

to do homework,

and sometimes feeling extremely lonely,

and sometimes feeling overjoyed

that there are people in my life

that I love.

Sometimes I just feel good

that I successfully used a staple gun

to attach this bunting

to this lemonade stand

at the Ericksons' wedding.

So good that I took a picture of it.

We're not so different after all,

are we?

Who Needs Feminism?

I have only been interested in feminism

since January of this year.

I can't remember how I felt about it before,

to be honest.

But now

it's a basic food group

of my intellectual diet.

I recently learned that

there's a Tumblr called

Who Needs Feminism?

that has posts like this,

uploaded by real people.

There's also a Tumblr called

Women Against Feminism

that has posts like this,

uploaded by real people.

(Obviously,

I selected these examples as typical of each website,

and my selection is inherently biased by my opinions.

If interested, please visit each website

to gain a fuller understanding

of the arguments voiced by each group.)

My initial feeling

was that the Women Against Feminism contributors

are just missing something.

Some of my rebuttals to their arguments include:

-Catcalling is not as serious as rape,

but is still emotionally destructive,

and accepting it will lead to a culture

that embraces violence against women.

-Feminism is not a trend.

It's an ongoing movement

to heal centuries-old wounds

of inequality and violent hierarchies.

-Being feminine is not incompatible

with feminism.

-A patriarchy is a system in which

men hold most of the power

and women are largely excluded from it.

Even if we don't live in a de jure patriarchy,

we still live in a de facto one,

even in the United States.

But despite all my rebuttals,

I had a feeling that

these women must be somewhat right.

There are many of them.

They have some valid points to make.

What I was most struck by,

after reviewing hundreds of their comments,

is that these women don't personally feel

that they are oppressed

or that they are victims.

The men in their lives

treat them as equals,

and they are respected

and loved.

They uphold traditional values

and worry about a movement

that advocates for more liberal values,

which, if allowed to take root,

may upset the society that they hold dear

as the healthiest setting

for raising a family.

In my own life,

I don't feel that

violent male-dominance hierarchies

have affected me personally.

My parents are paragons

of equality in marriage.

I am smart.

I went to a charter school

where girls excelled at math and science

alongside their male peers.

My dating relationships

have been full of respect.

But.

I can remember

scores of times

that I have laughed at misogynistic jokes

told by my male friends.

I did this on purpose,

so that I would be seen as

a cool girl--

one who understood

and could parody

the shortcomings of her own sex

without getting whiny

or being a buzzkill

or launching into a lecture.

If we as women look at our lives,

I think we will find these instances,

no matter how much we think

we don't need feminism.

I think all women

and all men everywhere

need feminism.

We need to build respect and teamwork

if we are to succeed as humans.

But the question is

Can you make people care about something

that they don't think affects them?

Should they have to care about it?

If you want to make them care about it,

are you just as bad as what you're fighting?

Nostalgia, Part II.

Oh sweet nostalgia.

Nostalgia for

late nights

watching Catfish last summer.

Nostalgia for

running on Slate Canyon Drive

with Katilin

when I was training

for my half-marathon.

Going to weddings

makes me nostalgic

for James & Tash's wedding

because it was perfect.

I got on the 830 bus this week,

and even the smell

made me nostalgic.

I love nostalgia,

because it reminds me

that I have a nice life,

even if I don't notice it

until after the fact.

I love nostalgia

because it reminds me

that my heart is big enough

that anything

can become dear to me--

even the smell of a bus.

Timpanogos.

Today, I hiked

all the way

to the tippity top

of Mount Timpanogos.

View from the top. 

I've wanted to do that

for five years,

and I did.

There we were,

on the top of a mountain

taller than

all the other mountains

around it,

huddled with friends for warmth,

sharing snacks,

taking selfies,

while we waited for the sun to rise.

We watched it slowly light

the mountain faces

and the whole valley,

and then the hills burst to life

with wildflowers

and trees

that we couldn't see or imagine

during the 7 miles up

in the dark of night.

We saw mountain goats

and I crossed fields of rocks

and one million switchbacks.

Photo Cred: Mike Shaha

I have always felt like

Mount Timpanogos stands

as the queen of the valley,

and today I was queen of the mountain.

Sir Paul McCartney.

Last night,

I went to a Paul McCartney concert.

The Paul McCartney.

Sir Paul McCartney.

He played at least 5 different guitars

and two different pianos

and the ukulele.

He's 72 years old

and he played for nearly 3 hours straight

and never missed a beat.

Several times

when we were clapping for him,

he'd hold up his guitar in the air,

like he was giving it half the credit,

and we'd clap for it, too.

He had us clap for John

and he had us clap for George

and I shed a tear.

.
.
.

The minute he came on

and started singing Eight Days a Week,

I died and went to heaven.

I'm at a Beatles concert.

This is 1964--

the year The Beatles came to America.

My dream of living in the 60s

finally came true.

The crowd screamed

just like you see

on that old black and white footage,

and I imagined myself in a mod dress

with cat-eye glasses

and a beehive.

My heart was singing

and crying

with excitement.

.
.
.

But the longer the concert went on,

the more I realized

I was glad it was 50 years later.

That wasn't some 22-year-old Paul on stage,

freshly famous,

with a prolific songbook

still up in his head

waiting to be composed.

It was Paul

after 50 years of fame.

That wasn't The Beatles

of the Vietnam Era

and the Civil Rights movement

that I love so much.

It was music

that had been born then,

but lived on and on

through all the ages of men since

to stand timeless

at the top of the mountain

forever.

I felt like I was experiencing

an iconic human moment,

singing endless choruses of

"Na, na, na,

na-na-na-na,

na-na-na-na,

hey Jude"

with Paul

and with a stadium full of people.

How many hundred thousands of people

have heard Paul McCartney?

And now I'm one of them.

The Good Life, Part 2.

2014 has taught me something.

It started on New Year's Day

when my cousin Becca had a baby.

We've added two babies to the family

and two husbands

and lost one grandma.

And I realized

that what's most important

is when families grow

or shrink.

When people make covenants.

When you're separated 

from people you love

and when you get reunited.

When things happen at temples.

.

.

.

Last weekend I went to LA

because Clark & Lizzie

were blessing their baby.

We are all different people

than we were two years ago

when we spent every day of summer together.

But we still love each other.

There's nothing like seeing your friend

holding her baby

and realizing you love her more

because there's more of her to love

because now she has a son.

I feel like something is missing now

because I don't have this baby

in my arms.

And today Jon & Jess got married.

The room was filled

with people that love them,

and I danced in the rain

at their wedding reception.

Mary was there with me

because she's back from her mission

and I was overjoyed.

There's nothing like seeing your friends

love each other

and realizing you love them more

because now they have each other.

This is the good life

and this is what matters.

The Good Life, Part 1.

Convertible Conversion.

So there we were standing

at the rental car counter

at 12:30 at night,

and the boys decided

that we should upgrade

to a Mustang convertible.

I was skeptical.

But then we peeled out of the parking lot

just as a plane was taking off.

I put my head back

and there was the black sky

and the stars

and that plane

flying right above me

with nothing between us.

And the LA traffic

didn't seem so bad

with the top down.

And even though my hair looked crazy

the entire trip

(we're talking

pre-dreadlocks here),

by the end,
I thought,
"How will I get along now,
just driving in a regular car?"

But really.