The Rants of an Unraveling Mind
Recently I’ve realized that, outside of my pretty yarn photos and goofy comments, I have not properly introduced myself to all the new people that I have gotten to know on the social interwebs…so instead of writing one out again, I did a thing…
Who knows. Maybe I will do another one…😏
Cheers,
XoXo
I drafted this dude back in the last week of November, after the recent eruption in the Fiber and Textiles community on the topic of racism. When Kristy Glass broke everything.
~
No matter the intensity of blue skies and sun this week, it has felt like a particularly dark one.
In the beginning of 2019, the internet’s Fiber and Textiles community blew up and rippled throughout the year over the topic of the thick, unrelenting racism that has tethered the white-washed, fibered halls for generations.
Finally. Not for a lack of silence, mind you. It had been brought up on countless occasions before by many, myself included, on the very clear and distinct line etched in the cement between the BIPOC community and the caucacity in crafting that be. Up until that point, the discomfort felt over decades of trying to pierce the mass bubble of exclusivity had gone mostly ignored.
‘It would figure,’ I thought to myself, bitterly. I dove back into the social ether after all of this occurred, during the beginning of the pandemic when the thought of seeing no-one ever again loomed imminent. I had been on a much needed break from “the social network” that ended up lasting well beyond a year because when I break, I break pretty hard.
I had no idea the conversation had finally shifted from a whisper to a roar and I was elated. Within the first few months of being back, I had found so many POC creators and was falling in love with fiber all over again through a new lens. I went on a social media unfollowing spree and replaced them with as many new creators I could find. I removed all of the current yarn shops I had in my favorites and started ordering yarn exclusively through Black-owned, indie dyers. I was floored by the amount that I hadn’t known about prior to this point. One could say, this was a very large reason as to why I made it through 2020.
The mood and vibe had changed, and noticeably in some cases. Many white shops and creators were finally working with and incorporating the POC community into their world, bringing a call to action on what types of changes and conversations need to take place in order to break up the crafting clique that had fused so strongly. It was a long, long, LONG overdue change that needed to take place and the gears felt like they were at least beginning to turn.
It’s incredible how quickly a tide can shift from one direction to the next in a snap.
Kristy Glass (a popular crafter in the fiber community, of whom I knew literally nothing about until last Friday) decided to open all the wounds within the POC community that are still only at a stage of working towards closing up. The blood hasn’t even coagulated yet, y’all.
The details of the incident are not for me to rehash. In fact, I highly HIGHLY encourage any retellings of the story to be done through the Instagram videos of the POC creators themselves, cited below, as well as the ONLY news article so far that has provided the actual truth of it all, courtesy of the Daily Beast. These, as well as the poignantly portrayed details laid out by one Heather M. Collins, who has specifically summarized the incident through a series of blunt and humorous tweets.
The tornado of discussion is now back in full swing and this time, I am actually here for it. I am feeling it. I am hearing it. I am seeing it; the frustration, the anger, the hurt, and the emotional exhaustion. Folks back to showing their true colors and standing up for KG because, well, she ‘apologized, stop yelling at her, she’s sensitive’. I just can’t.
As someone who grew up in gas lighting heaven, noticing the stark differences between a true apology and what you are SUPPOSED to accept as an apology is like noticing what makes daytime different from nighttime. It’s not science, it’s the POC community’s reality. Sincerity versus sinister.
Amongst the many problematic incidents cited for Glass’ behavior was charging Black women for their one time highlight on her social reaches. A stunt she still had the audacity to pull immediately after we JUST had the reparations discussion ten times over in 2020. Sinister.
~
During this whole rehashing of the bigger discussion of racism, many have mentioned that they ‘had no idea that this community even HAD any racism in it’. Outside of the mass muscle strain on my eyes rolling too far into my sockets, for them, I feel a strong sense of sadness. I feel sorry that their world is so centralized around their own privilege that they forget the bigger picture, which is older than any person living today: racism is fuckin’ everywhere. EVERYWHERE. E.V.E.R.Y.W.H.E.R.E. If you are still saying ‘I had no idea it was there!’ or, ‘I am not racist because…’, my dears, you still have miles upon miles of learning to go. A state’s long amount of miles. Like, the size of Texas or California, but you have to walk it, miles.
For anyone reading this that is not within the Fiber and Textiles community, I encourage you to share these creators’ stories and the (factually correct) news articles. I encourage you to speak the hell up when you know something is wrong, continue having the difficult, uncomfortable, and hard to have conversations, and stop sitting in one place.
Change is not comfortable but change is the only way to continue moving the gears. The conversation has to keep going, whether you like it or not. Nothing in this life that is worth fighting for is easy.
POC Creators you should know and follow and love and buy things from:
Adella Colvin – Lolabean Yarns
Laverne Benton – Bzy Peach Yarns
“The most wasted of all days is one without laughter.”
– E. E. Cummings
Sometimes posts just need to be light. Remember those really ridiculous surveys we loved as teens that were around every xanga (yeah, I said it, don’t you feel old) corner? Well sometimes when I drink I do funny things, like write ridiculous to-do notes to myself, laugh at things I probably shouldn’t, and occasionally write dumber shit than normal (among other things).
So enjoy the fruits of my drunken labor. You’re welcome (and feel free to fill it out in the comments! I’d be interested to know who is enjoying my insanity):
Favorite time of the day: Any time of day that is not the morning
Favorite song that was released between your 5th and 15th birthday: How can anyone answer this question, you dumbass…I don’t know, literally anything
Favorite song released within your birth year: I Think We’re Alone Now, Tiffany
Favorite dessert: What is this question, though? Probably chocolate related…
Twitter or Instagram: Insta
What’s a unique skill you have: I can somehow almost always know when an actress is pregnant on a TV show…my husband says I have “the gift”…I would like a cooler one…
Favorite past-time: Playing with and/or being within a reachable vicinity of yarn
You’re stuck on an island and you can only take one of your favorite movies, what would it be?: Auntie Mame, Rosalind in ’58, NOT Lucille…
Favorite season of the year: Any season that is not Summer
Favorite beverage: Coffee
What was the last Drive-in film you saw: I think it was an X-Men film…or cowboys?…it’s all the same thing
Morning person or night owl: night owl
What was the last country, outside of your own, that you visited: Germany
If you could be standing anywhere right now, where would it be: Somewhere in the area of Greece
What was the last story you told to someone: Probably a story to my husband about something stupid and/or adorable that one of our ridiculous cats did…
What did you want to be when you grew up: Book author
What is your dream job now: Self employed
Introvert or extrovert?: both
Describe how you feel about the current year in 5 words: It could be much worse.
Oh, and in case you thought I was joking, here’s a favorite note I wrote to myself this year…
Cheerios. xOxO
“In three words I can sum up everything I’ve learned about life: it goes on.“
Robert Frost
I come with a lot of flaws, it’s true. So much so, that I am usually pointing out even the most minute flaws that others probably do not even notice.
My self esteem is a toilet.
Maybe I did not pick the most alluring career environment for someone as emotionally disheveled as I am; my armor tends to not be as thick as it should be and I know that. Another flaw. However, last week, man…last week was another hurdle I am struggling to get through.
I have seen a lot in my work life over the last sixteen years. Things that have opened my eyes thoroughly to the “shut up and do your job” mentality towards Black employees. It’s obviously an old ass concept, I am not talking about anything new, unless you have been living under a rock of ignorance. Young people make darkly humorous Tik Toks in this day and age to the very tune, but the grim reality is starkly contrast in humor.
I wish I was lying when I said that I have worked in places where the HR department accepted an employee’s use of the nickname “ni$%er lips” towards a fellow employee because we just “couldn’t lose someone with his talents”. Or the time another fellow employee, a Black female, much smaller than myself, was escorted off of the premise by multiple security guards in front of all of her co-workers without even being allowed to remove her personal effects from the floor. She apparently was not using “please” and “thank you” enough in her email correspondences.
It really is an ugly reality, but reality nonetheless. We work through it because we have to but that does not mean that the emotional burnout doesn’t happen, perhaps, a bit quicker than our lighter counterparts.
Last week I had just come back from a much needed week off with the hubby to celebrate our nine years of life together and seven year wedding anniversary. I was refreshed and ready to jump back in, happy to have the break.
Admittedly, I am not always the best at communicating all of my thoughts so when I fall into an anxiety attack, it is like trying to wrangle thoughts and speech inside a wind tunnel. I start shaking, I cannot really talk, I cry a lot, and none of it can be controlled no matter how hard I try. I hate it, but sometimes it just happens. So, here I am at the end of day Friday, getting back work I had been waiting on that should have gotten to me the day before. I am not really able to process mentally how I could get all of the late assignments completed in the next hour and forty five minutes and it hits me. The anxiety attack. Maybe I can ask for help, maybe someone else can stay on with me. Perhaps we can move some due dates. That is what I had wanted to say. But that is not what came out and the stuttering had already kicked in. Then it happened again. My Manager’s piercing, shrill screams reverbing through my headset as it did so many times before:
“Oh my god, why are you crying now? This is your role, you just need to do your job because this is what your role is!“
“Why do you have a problem every single time you get assigned something?”
“You don’t even do that much! Of all of the people on the team, YOU’RE the one that works the least and has the least amount of tasks!”
“YOU are scared to communicate with ME!? YOU’RE scary, YOU’RE the scary one! I ALWAYS get attacked, you attack me all the time!”
In less than five minutes I crashed and burned. I just wanted to understand the timelines and in less than five minutes so many degrading insults had gutted me and the attack just got worse, so I did what I always do. I agreed. I added more flaws that I would “work on”. I apologized for all the stress I had caused and ensured I would fix it.
After satisfying her with more self deprecation and hanging up, I could not help but just stare blankly ahead for a bit. What had just happened? Every bit of self love that I had worked hard on holding onto that week came crashing to my feet. This had already occurred a few times before so I had a feeling it was coming again. The first time it had happened, I had not even been at this job for two months. Again, much of the same. Why am I crying, why am I giving attitude, I do not work enough to be stressed out. A hollow deja vu.
I spent the weekend knitting, frogging, and re-knitting the sock leg that should have taken me no time at all. My head could not stop sending me flashbacks like a boomerang and concentration ended up being impossible.
“Good god, you must be one worthless, lazy fuck, huh?”
I could not keep that thought from pinging back and forth through my head. I had never been accused, until the new job, of being lazy. If anything I was always overdoing it, late night hours, weekends, working on travel, you name it.
I allowed this five minute rant to dictate how my brain would function for the rest of my weekend break. Now, Monday is here again.
I really have nothing pretty or positive of note to end this post on. Frankly, I want you to be as uncomfortable as it should make you. I am afraid every day of stirring the pot, saying the wrong thing, doing the wrong thing, and messing up tasks from nerves. It is not what I had hoped for but it is the reality at the moment. This is reality.
Remember to be excellent to each other.
Cheers, xoxo
No, not the funny one with Steve Carrell.
I’ve been working on making my home office a personal sanctuary (or bubble of sorts) for a longer amount of time than I am willing to admit. Trying to make a workspace that feels safe amid the unsafe. Conundrum!
Setting up the room, though, has made it more than just a work space which is exactly what I was trying to accomplish. I have such beautiful display pieces and furniture from fam that I can FINALLY utilize and I have more (or not enough?) plants than I will ever need.
I did the DIY desk build from two filing cabinets and an unfinished oak slab from Ikea that I slapped some clear finish on, which felt like a big accomplishment. It has an amazing amount of space to fill up and I can set it up any way I want.
The yarn and knickknack shelves are all IKEA born and raised. I love collecting unique boxes and vintage cameras (some of which I have definitely operated).
I’ve also always wanted a regal, deep blue, velvet couch from the 1930’s so for now, a futon with a blue cover and velvet yellow pillows will do. My gifted, personalized pillows could not go better (shout out to anyone familiar with the quote!).
Also, a moment of silence, please, as we bask in the glory of the Martha Washington Sewing Cabinet gifted to me by my equally antique obsessed mama in law a few Christmases ago. Is she not gorgeous? All of my many (many, many…) knitting needle sets and tools fit PERFECTLY. Though my decorations change from time to time, Groot will forever protect her while perusing through some of my favorite issues of Vogue.
I still have a few things here and there that need sorting but overall, I finally feel comfortable; success achieved.
Now, time to get to work.
Cheers, xoxo.
“The neighbor asked him how he was and what he’d been doing. My grandfather said, ‘I’ve been cutting the grass and watching it grow. Cutting the grass and watching it grow. Life,’ he said, ‘is ninety percent maintenance.’”
~ Spielberg’s Taken
This summer has been a whirlwind combo of strange weather and a roller coaster of emotional ups and downs. I have been hiding from the social media world in order to recharge, focus on sleeping, work on my personal community, and make a conscious effort to accomplish more this year.
It’s been tough, to say the least. Starting a new job in the middle of a pandemic was probably not the brightest move for me to make in 2020 but was needed just the same. However, some changes feel more like moving from the pan into the fryer. The hysterical loneliness and emptiness that comes with only being a needed pulse in a distant chair can weigh you to such deep lows. The first time working in an environment where I am not part of any team, just ‘the help’, no more, no less. So here I sit and knit, trying to analyze how to heal from something new.
I have been focusing on keeping my hands as occupied as possible with all of the extraordinary BIPOC yarns and tools I’ve collected over this year. My design brain has been reactivated. Playing with fire, color, foliage, and shifting structures has been an encouraging companion when I need the distractions. But now I think it’s time to start writing again, too.
I still question how worth it all of this is; am I speaking to no one, is it really that big of a deal if I don’t post? My ability to veer from negative thoughts and remain motivated is sometimes a losing battle. I guess that is part of venturing on a journey, you never really know when the roads will fork and bend.
I guess I will just keep pressing on.
XoXo
If there was a better way to go then it would find me
I can’t help it, the road just rolls out behind me
Be kind to me, or treat me mean
I’ll make the most of it, I’m an extraordinary machine.
Fiona Apple
*Triggering Content Warning*
Otis was not originally called Otis. Otis needed a new name. Well, that, and a fresh set of nylons, but more importantly, a new identity.
Dammit, I miss him when he is tucked away. Every time I decide to pick him up to start playing again, it feels like embracing an old friend. An extra limb that carried me through half of what was a mangled childhood. In all my years of playing, I have yet to find a classical that sounds quite like him.
I honestly hate talking about music. Some things you experience in life are just too involved or intense to be able to put into words for another to comprehend and in trying to do so, the opinion floodgates open and by then you have lost your motivation from disheartenment. Music and I have always had such a personal connection. I do not play to be heard, I play to feel free.
Otis was passed on to my brother and I by a church family getting rid of extra guitars when I was in my preteens. The only guitars we had been introduced to prior were my father’s classical and a special, eighties built Les Paul; a deep, blood, red wine color with special machine heads that had tiny tuning handles, which folded inside of each knob. The neck was perfectly crafted with a fretboard of stunning mother of pearl inlays. To this day I have still seen nothing like it. I loved that thing and hated it all at the same time. It was the guitar of my dreams and could lull me to sleep when played. Unfortunately, after I convinced the babysitter that we were “totally allowed to play with it” that one time, the days long welts left behind from the top of my back, down to the backs of my legs from the leather belt lashing made me feel differently about its allure. I had accidentally chipped some paint on the damn thing and the damage was very soon discovered by its meticulous owner. After that it just felt like a toxic love affair. The thing was fucking haunted.
So close your eyes,
And close your mouth.
And do this all in time to the music
That screams like a child in the back of your mind
In a clown’s saloon...
Ryan Adams
Receiving Otis as a kid felt like I had been handed a brick of gold. The moment I figured things out and conquered tuning, it just all rushed in. I had grown up on a lot of sixties and seventies classics from my parents’ collection before finding my own music journey. I wanted the slow hand of David Gilmour mixed with the complex finger styling of Steve Howe, playing Mood For a Day with perfect ease. I spent hours on end with calloused fingers and sore wrists, giving myself full blown tendonitis by high school from overplaying. For a spell, I was the kid with the record player and a stack of Pink Floyd, tucked in a quiet, dirty basement, resetting the needle over and over until I had the timing just right. Music and I were already one, but now that I could play it, the game completely changed.
I will sit right down
Waiting for the gift of sound and vision.
David Bowie
Once my father caught on that we liked something that he already had a vested interest in, we finally found a sliver of common ground and by my late teens, the guitar count in our home was in the teens itself, with an amp count not far behind. A person could not walk into our house without noticing that it was full of guitarists.
My baby brother had met the strings not long after I did and blew us all away, learning songs by ear, even learning Hendrix was straight-forward for his fingers. Soon, after being gifted his metallic, mint green Stratocaster (affectionately named Lucy), a guitar strap only left his neck for showers. The magic music man of the family was born, and he has never put a guitar down since, all because of Otis.
Boy, you’re gonna carry that weight,
Carry that weight a long time…
The Beatles
There are a lot of reasons I walk away and come back. Sometimes it hurts too much. The fond memories I have, outlined by my entrancement with the strings still sit like fine china on an old, rickety shelf. I am not ready to feel them yet. However, sometimes I just need him again, during rough times of emotional stress or just because seeing an old friend can sometimes bring you back to a happier state of mind. Who knows…
Weekends around here are always a gamble for my husband and I. The weeks end up draining everything from us due to both of our insanely stressful jobs and by the weekend, every ounce of energy is just gone. It’s always difficult trying to even have social lives when, by the weekend, we cannot even be our best selves.
This past weekend finished up a three week stint of covering out of office co-workers with piles of tasks I had never done previously and had to learn for the first time amidst my own work. It’s been rough but strangely rewarding. This weekend started off in fatigue-land and, unfortunately, the hubby ended up having to teach Sunday morning. I think we have all been there, working on your days off when you are already spent. That feeling of being stressed and crunched for time to attempt to relax. It’s disheartening.
In the midst of trying to “do it all” in a day, tensions mounted and communications unhinged and, thus, erupted a verbal explosion. It does not happen often, once or twice a year, usually our arguments are mild and easily resolved, but every so often, that explosion occurs that sends the blood to your ears and makes every opposing scream a notch louder than the last. It’s not a brag; coming up in very difficult and abusive home situations tends to make you non-confrontational so your communication styles adapt to a pacifism. Screaming is a trigger for both of us so it’s always a last resort. Nevertheless, sometimes we scream. It happens. We are human.
I still remember that time the neighbors heard during our very early years of marriage. I was carrying in things from the car, post explosion, and one of the older neighbors stopped me, smiled, and said “It’s going to be ok, ya know”. I looked up reluctantly to let him see my tears and smiled back, “I know, I know it is.”
“At the end of the day, you’ll both realize it just doesn’t matter that much” he went on, “but don’t go to bed angry today. It’s just not worth it.” Part of me wanted to tell him to mind his business but I had to accept the fact that if we were going to broadcast our business, we should not expect people to turn off their ears.
The sincerity – in his smile and in his words still resonates with me during these moments when the explosions occur. Years later, as I ponder over this moment and those words, it made me have a thought. No one posts when they have a fight. I am not talking about airing your dirty laundry out in the breeze and providing all of the juicy details of your arguments for all to know.
As a church kid in an abusive home, fighting and a home in disarray were taboo subjects. We were strictly instructed to not speak on what went on inside. I grew up prior to the age of endless information and everyone owning a cell phone so seeking help during fights in our house was not easy. Between this and limited resources, the idea of a “healthy argument” was beyond my knowledge. This was just how normal people lived.
The day my father decided to chase my mother down with a frying pan after flipping a table on her, it was fight or flight. I could not have been older than twelve or thirteen at the time. After hiding my brother and making him stay in one spot, I escaped with no shoes, making a careful, tip-toed beeline to my best friend’s home for help, which was just shy of a mile away through a rough Philly neighborhood. Arriving in a state of shock, I had no time to explain before being caught and dragged back to my own home where the terror continued. I still remember looking at their faces over my shoulder, hoping, praying, please help us; please see me.
Unfortunately, there would be no help in our stars.
After that incident, we became good at finding hiding places huddled together until the storms blew over. I gave up on finding help because, for us, this was just our normal.
~
Is it strange to question the lack of normalizing fighting and talking about it freely? I really do not think so. I wonder sometimes if I had been exposed to more ideas of what healthy fighting looked like in the real world, if it would have made me more comfortable with continuing to seek help in the past, more comfortable with healthy debates, more comfortable being in the world. Fighting is healthy and normal, but there are clear ways of doing it that are not.
I love my husband more than any words can fathom, and we fight. It is not always pretty, and like anything, it is easy to forget that anything worth doing takes time, practice, and work. Growing together has strengthened our communication process, even when it comes to fighting, because we put the work in to making it better. Rome was not built in a day and I can certainly confirm that we are absolutely no Rome. We are still the little gift shop being built next to Rome selling cute tchotchkes to tourists; building, nonetheless.
We got through this blowout like we have in the past, by taking space to be angry and upset. By thinking over and then sitting down to discuss.
I wonder what young people think when they see happy couples posting nothing but happy shit all day every day and, not making an ounce of effort to talk about the times when it gets hard. These times happen. Make space for figuring out the best ways to resolve it and if you don’t know, phone a friend.
Also google.
Peace and love, xoxo
Yeah, I know, I said I would be back in May but sometimes my timeouts last longer than I would prefer. Even the best laid plans…c’est la vie.
On a positive note, I have been able to keep up the writing, designing, and creating, despite my silence on social media so before diving back into writing, I figured I would share what I have been up to.
SHOUT OUT TO BLACK OWNED SMALL BUSINESSES! 🗣
2020 was not completely hell, there were small positives here and there and I really am thankful for those moments. One of those positives was finding more voices of Color in the Fiber community. I cannot believe how many different Black owned yarn dyers I have been missing out on over the years and it is a bittersweet mix of sad and excited to get to learn about and try so much new all at once.
I don’t think I have ever considered how heavily not having a safe fiber community has affected me over time. I have taught myself how to do everything I know how to do today with no assistance. I did not have women in the family who passed on their stitching wisdom to me like a lot of girls did. Most of my teachings were to help me work through whatever trauma or life event that I was going through at the time so when I look at what I create now, in times of doubt, I try to remind myself “hey, you’re pretty okay, you took trauma and made it into something beautiful and functional.”
In lieu of social media, I’ve kept my mind busy being inspired by some amazing Black/BIPOC folks creating their fiber crafts, whatever it may be. I’ve also been keeping my hands busy getting to try new, STUNNING yarns from some of those amazingly talented women. While I’ve been creating from patterns, It’s been mostly swatching and designing my own for the first time in a very long time, and it feels really good. I am usually not a huge fan of my designs but it never hurts to try if it brings you joy.
I am going to be posting many handles on Instagram about these awesome brands, go follow me, follow them, and support small businesses. ❤️✌🏽
Vulnerability alert, kids, heads up.
You know those points in your life where it feels like after every wake and before every sleep, everything is falling apart. Bad news is sitting on the edge of anticipation and the ache of it fills up all the gaps inside of you.
That’s been April here in 2021.
I’ve hated April for many, many years. It’s my birth month, which has meant endless yearly cycles of bad shit happening within the month along with the yearly reminder that I am still here when I would prefer so badly to not be. Some may find comfort in birthday times. I can’t, I refuse. April breeds pain, tears, loneliness, haunting, and devastation too often.
This month, my family has endured multiple losses, painful surgeries and difficult breakdowns to name a few. Not to mention everything in the news for just this week alone. It’s exhausting and taking a numbing toll. This week, in the chaos, I stopped being able to cry. I’ve tried now for days just to get it off of my chest and realized I am entirely too numb to do so.
I am tired. I am worn and for the remainder of April, I’ve decided I am going to recharge and hopefully restart myself again here in May.
I hope anyone else out there feeling the weight of life here on earth right now is able to step back, rest, recharge, and reset.
❤
Life at the Burrow 