ON HUMILIATION

I can’t remember the first time I felt embarrassed but I can remember a first few, like:

• sipping pudding out of a plastic bag during pre-k astronaut day

• sitting in music class somewhere between K-3rd grade looking down at my thighs

• playing soccer. I felt masculine, but not athletic. I think I felt masculine a lot growing up, because a lot of the time I was the only non-white girl in a lot of predominantly white spaces

And then there was ballet. Anyone who did classical ballet seriously is familiar with the role of humiliation in training.

1:1 humiliation. Did you practice? I don’t believe you?

1:1 humiliation, loud enough for it to seep across to the others. Did you eat? I can see that.

Group humiliation. Do you know the combination? Do it now. In front of everyone.

I think a lot about shame and humiliation. I had this really brilliant and kind roommate in a sublet who told me how dangerous shame is, how dangerous it is that we make people feel ashamed for things that are natural like sex and hunger and getting rid of the thing at the end of hunger (see, I even talked around that because I’d feel shameful typing out the blunt way to describe excrement (did it again)).

I think shame and apologies go hand in hand. You have to feel bad about something to want to say sorry. You have to feel like you’ve disappointed someone in order to feel like you owe them an apology. I was listening to this thing the other day that said something about how you feel angry towards someone when they’ve done something outside of your expectations. I think apologies work the same way. I think you feel apologetic when you know someone expects something from you and you haven’t done it.

When I was little, I was praised for being good. And quiet. And smart. I was told that I was a ballerina and that I was eventually a pageant queen — but one that was the smart one!! Because I was short and didn’t have Instagram face. And like Alice Miller predicted, I morphed myself into the most loveable version I could be and presented that to the world. And like Carl Jung predicted, I developed vices and neuroses so that the most despicable version of me would have somewhere to simmer. The type that likes attention. And a snobbish streak. And seething anger that retreats inwards and becomes judgment and quiet.

Don’t call me a good person. I’d rather be whole than good. I think.

So here is debauchery. The little of deaths and delights, of peaks and valleys, or victories and vices, because I want to be full. I like myself full, even if you can see my lunch. So here is a full, depiction of me.

I’m writing this from a plane to San Diego. To see my brother. And meet with a literary agent who promised that they could change my life. I don’t believe them. There’s no money in for writers it anymore. Not the way we have it set up now. I write because I want to write. And until someone pays me what I think my writing is worth (another dark trait — literary pride!!!) I’m keeping my fiction scrappy and liminal and tactile.

I’m also supposed to meet with someone in music. If you’ve been a reader for a while, then you know that I joined a band a few months back!! It’s still a hard thing to say out loud, because I’ve only conceived of myself as a ballerina and then a writer. But those are the expectations again. And you have to become comfortable violating them. So we’re working on stuff slowly and quietly and it’s been the most fun I’ve had in ages. We passed around three CDs (vintage!!) with one song on it to friends and told them to do what they will with it.

This past weekend, I was meandering around as I always do. I went to this mixer in Dimes Square and immediately left because Mr. Buffet was supposed to be there. And he was. But so was his new girlfriend!!!! Time moves fast in my dating universe because I’m a bad texter and I keep myself busy to make the time dense. Because if I can’t make it go slow then I might as well pack it full.

So I fled from that mixer to the apartment of this guy I’ve been seeing who doesn’t have a name here yet, but may!! Could!! Eventually. He cut up an apple for me to snack on as he made me dinner. And then he painted me!! For the second time this month (I can’t stay away from artists. They find me). It’s interesting to see yourself in someone else’s eyes. I took a Caravaggio book off of his shelves and asked him what exactly he became known for. He explained the high-contrast style to me. The shadows.

From here, I went back to my apartment. Wrote on the roof. Drank a little gin. I wrote until my friend buzzed up and we embarked on the night out. Which always seems to start disgustingly late. ‘

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THE NIGHT OUT

Party 1:

“I’m so sleeeepy,” I complained to my friend at the bar. He made me the best espresso martini I’ve ever had. My first espresso martini was in Pittsburg after a 12-hour train ride and an intense Facetime fight with my then-boyfriend. But this one had cinnamon. Then my best friend met the man he recurringly has meet-cutes with in the elevator of this Soho house spawn. (Someone help me cancel my membership. I only got it because I went on two super weird dates here and wanted to prove to myself that I could go on my own.)

Party 2:

This restaurant that turns into a club after hours. But you only know this if you’re invited. I ran up with two of my friends (we’re always late). “Everyone’s leaving” said the manager, who is also a PHENOMENAL dj. But he played a little more for us and my best friend threw it back for me, and we chatted with everyone outside until closing. Then the cops showed up based on a noise complaint. A noise complaint in Lower Manhattan is idiotic. If you’re filing a noise complaint in Lower Manhattan, then you need to a) move or b) join the party.

Party 3:

151 bar. Vinyl only. I found this place on an awkward date (trend). He brought me in and a lot of his friends were there, and they were all looking at him and giving him that weird gratifying I see you man nod. But the music was nuts. So I brought my friends back. There was a crazy cover. If you’re under 30, you should not be paying covers!! Based on budget and principle. We started talking to this nice man outside who turned out to dj there on weeknights. “These are my friends,” he told the bouncer. We went in. He whispered to me that he knew every single record on the shelf behind the booth.

There was a beautiful girl in there.

She had curly hair and a strapless top. She wasn’t wearing any makeup. She danced with abandon with a cute boy and a wild woman who I think was her mother. I watched her for a moment in awe. Then I closed my eyes and realized that this was the type of girl I once wanted to be. When I was younger. When I was a good girl. A ballerina. Miss Teen USA. And now I realize, this is the kind of girl that I am. And I took a tequila soda from my friend who got it from one of the djs and closed my eyes and danced with my own sort of abandon.

And eventually, we walked home. You always have to walk home.

The walk home:

And it is either the best or worst part of the night but never in between.

My best friend walked me home because he was sitting in my apartment for exactly 20 minutes before he needed to go to the airport. But we stopped at the Bodega for fries and ran into one of my favorite bouncers (cute tooth gap!!).

At the register, my best friend told two Australian men to stop buying “throat daggers” and they invited us to another bar with them, so my friend didn’t get to sit down for 20 minutes after all. We chatted with them until we had to go home.

And while my best friend was in a car to the airport to the southern part of America for the holidays, I wandered around. Because it was early morning now and I hate sitting still.

And, I was waiting for the police to show up because I needed to file a report for my wallet, which had been stolen at some point in the night. I passed this bar, which was always open late. And I noticed a banner with the tagline of a rapper who my ex and I used to love, until he followed me on Instagram. Then my ex stopped listening.

He’d sent me a DM out of the blue on my 23rd birthday. “Happy Birthday” it read. No punctuation. “Thank u!!” I said. Extra punctuation.

I went into the bar, and there he was. Seated, clearly on the tail end of a promotional event.

“I’m 23!” I said.

“Huh,” he looked tired and confused.

“Hailey” I said.

He remembered(?)

(But my friends call me Hailo.)

We chatted for an hour ish, and I mentioned shyly that I was a writer, but I was in a band too because literature makes no money, and I want to make something fun shake.

“Don’t be shy,” he said. “You have to own that shit.”

I nodded.

I mentioned that I was going to California soon to visit my brother and meet with a literary agent who was trying to promise me the world. He gave me the name of a friend of his who does something music and music business related. I smiled.

“Say it again” he demanded.

“I’m in a band.” I said. Louder (still quiet). Then I got a call from the police.

They were here. Ready to document my cards and documents which had been plucked from my purse while I was too busy dancing with abandon.

I had to put the estimated value of each item. Credit cards are replaceable. Insurance cards are replaceable. But in there, I had a note from a friend of mine in high school who had written me a priceless note when I graduated.

A note that meant so much to me then, declaring that I was beautiful and smart and capable and kind. We’ve gone to the ballet together. I’ve watched him feed his cat. He was nice and I didn’t want to ruin our friendship. But I’ve since taken that note out during dark times and worn it thin, folding it and stuffing it back into my stolen or lost or gone wallet.

And I thought about the note as I went back to my apartment. I’m thinking about it on this flight to the west coast. Where I’ll probably tell a literary agent “no” and play a CD of my band for a friend of my ex’s favorite rapper.

IN SUM

I think that note signified things that I never let myself believe. Having grown up in a cycle of shame and humiliation and validation and submission. I was taught that pleasing others was always the most important thing. To point my feet and smile big and step on absolutely no toes. That was the part of me that was allowed to come to light and other parts, parts that are still me, crept in the shadows.

I think that’s how you stop being embarrassed and apologetic and start living like you really want to live. You have to look into the shadows and be okay with what’s there too. There’s a weird masochistic beauty in shame. And there’s a triumphant, brassy pulchritude in overcoming it.

Look at your shadows. Do you know who you are in the dark?

Get a good look at yourself. What are the details. Where is the contrast. Embrace it.

You’re the one who has to sit with yourself at the end of the day. You set your own expectations. And you’re allowed to alter them as well. Like Caravaggio, getting all baroque and getting really detailed in a way no one else had.

Don’t apologize for wanting to be alive. Embrace it, the light and dark, the push and pull. And it’s the lull between both, the dance of the two, that makes life worth living.

My plane is landing soon. Beating on against the current of the wind.

I’m no longer embarrassed of my present self like I was in the past.

It is nighttime now, and looking over the dark skyline of a new city, I’m ready. I’m ready to be a writer. I’m ready to have a band. I’m ready to say “yes” to anything art-related and live a life of whimsy until something shakes. I’m ready to be in the morning and at night and over and over and over.

xx

hailo