on being skeptical of journalism: Part I

I get it, journalism is hard. Less and less people are subscribing to newspapers and it's no secret that people like cheap thrills. But an article in the Chicago Tribune last week stooped low, far too low to not call them out for it.

The article was about a set of bond deals intended to earn money for the Chicago Public Schools system that ended up doing the opposite. In it, the Tribune went to town on some of the only people attempting, regardless of success, to raise money for our underfunded education system.

I'm not going to pretend that I know much about bond trading, but I know it's kinda like playing the stock market. You win some, you lose some.

Regardless, this post is not about whether the article was worthy of publication or not. This article is about one particularly shitty approach they took to turn their reader against, once again, one of the only people actually attempting to financially assist the underfunded CPS system. But, once again, their objective is besides the point. She could have been raising money for terrorist rings and I would have still found this approach immensely offensive.

Okay, I am rambling. Time to get to the point. Here is a direct quote from the article (appropriately in Courier font) which you can read in its entirety here:

"Cepeda has an MBA from the University of Chicago and spent more than 10 years as a banker before founding A.C. Advisory. She also married into one of the most influential political families on Chicago's South Side. Her late husband, Harvard-trained lawyer Albert Maule, was a grandson of Corneal Davis, a longtime state senator known for delivering black votes for Chicago's Democratic machine. Maule later was appointed to the city's police board by then-Mayor Richard M. Daley.

"Five months before Maule died of cancer in 1995, he helped Cepeda start A.C. Advisory, according to a 2013 Tribune profile. The firm got its first contract with CPS months later, and Cepeda continues to advise the district and the city. A.C. Advisory received about $4.7 million in fees on CPS deals from 1996 through 2013."

Okay, so lets dissect this a bit. They begin with the fact that Ms. Cepeda has an MBA from one of the best business schools in the world and how she spent 10 years in finance prior to starting her business. But, oh wait, don't be fooled, they continue--"she also married into one of the most influential political families on Chicago's South Side." 

And if that isn't dirty enough, they KEEP GOING. "Five months before [her late husband] died of cancer in 1995, he helped Cepeda start A.C. Advisory, according to a 2013 Tribune profile. The firm got its first contract with CPS months later, and Cepeda continues to advise the district and the city. A.C. Advisory received about $4.7 million in fees on CPS deals from 1996 through 2013."

That's right. Now, Cepeda, a Chicago Booth graduate and an accomplished banker, established her firm and got deals with CPS thanks to her husband, who was political royalty in the South Side (Chicago's utter disregard of the South Side in all things political, financial, and otherwise important can be topic for another post). 

But, since they mention it, why don't we go and check out that 2013 Tribune profile, appropriately titled 

Adela Cepeda carved her own path to success

LOL!!!! Yes, you read that right. The Tribune published another article last year in which they praised Cepeda for being a self-made woman. This year, they decided to instead spin her as a husband-made wife. What were you thinking, Jason Grotto and Heather Gillers? But what do you have to say for yourself, Chicago Tribune??

The evidence is much more compelling in your 2013 article. For example, what they don't mention in the recent article is that she met her husband as an undergraduate at HARVARD. Yes, that's right. She was accepted as a Latina female to the most competitive University in the world. Ms. Cepeda came to Chicago to be with her husband whom she met at Harvard, and who was an attorney from Connecticut but had a grandfather who was a state senator from the South Side of Chicago. Cepeda, herself, ascended to Vice President of Smith Barney.

The 2013 article reads:

"Five months before Maule died in 1995, at age 40, he helped his wife draw up papers for A.C. Advisory Inc., a firm focusing on municipal finance."

The recent article says:

"Five months before Maule died of cancer in 1995, he helped Cepeda start A.C. Advisory...The firm got its first contract with CPS months later, and Cepeda continues to advise the district and the city. A.C. Advisory received about $4.7 million in fees on CPS deals from 1996 through 2013." 

You don't have to be a comparative literature major to realize this shows a blatant lack of integrity in the 2014 article, which purposefully implies that Maule used his family's political history to gather clients for Cepeda and that it began a precedent of an unqualified wife handling and receiving big chunks of tax payer dollars. 

The good news is, Grotto is off to Harvard in the Fall, where he, like Cepeda, can study finance, economics, and accounting and can give journalism a rest. I'm still not sure what Heather's excuse for demeaning the success of another woman is, but maybe she got that from her husband as well.

Again, I get it. Journalism is hard and journalists have to try more and more to make a story. But please be skeptical of all that you read, people. And all that you hear, too. 

Over and out,
-r

on the use of cosmetics: part II

This is long overdue, I know. Unfortunately, senior year has offered no chance for a senioritis flare up.

This article was partially never published because it is so personal for me. But because I know so many women and men are struggling with a similar experience, I feel it's time to overcome any insecurity and practice some honest journalism (or whatever this can be called).

My experience with make up, as has been mentioned, is entirely different than that of my sister. Unlike her, I was never drawn to the stuff. In fact, it wasn't until Winter 2012 and the age of 19 that I learned how to properly apply eyeshadow and eyeliner. Until then, eyeliner had been a tool only to hide my trichotillomania.

Unless you don't know what eyeliner does, it may be pretty clear where my trichotillomania manifested. I have a strong memory of being 7 years old, when symptoms of the compulsive disorder began, and playing on the pool deck (a place where my glasses couldn't hide my abnormality) when a friend shrieked "Oh my gosh, you have no eyelashes!!!" Cue me dying of embarrassment but trying to play it cool.

I don't remember my "trich," as it is nicknamed, being a socially crippling problem again until I was about 17. Perhaps swimming, which I did until this age, relieved me of some of the urges or just left me little time to sit alone and pluck.

I want to clarify that trich is a compulsive disorder. This means I wasn't consciously standing in front of a mirror and removing one lash at a time. In fact the opposite is true. I would be taking a test and all of a sudden there would be a lash between my thumb and forefinger. I would spend the rest of the test discouraging these urges, rubbing my finger along my lash line to feel for vacant space caused my "habit," worrying about whether or not it was noticeable and beating myself up for stripping myself of another little piece of my femininity.

That's the irony. Trich is a constant battle of body and mind. The impulse is plucking this hair to release endorphins and give me a rush of comfort during a stressful period and meanwhile, my ego is filled with shame over the loss of some of my attractiveness, or even on a more basic level, my normality.

My family saw it another way. Rather than concern for my appearance, they were disturbed by this self-harm. If they were already disgusted by my nail biting, trich set them over the edge. Especially my sister, who got up close and personal with the proof of my compulsion every time she practiced a new make up routine on me. 

"Oh, look! You have some eyelashes!!" My sister said cheerfully as we sat at breakfast with a family friend in the Autumn of 2012. I got up and left, horrified and humiliated that she would bring it up in public. At this point, I had been concealing my deformity with heavy eyeliner for over a year and struggling daily to resist the urges, spending at least half an hour a day in front of the mirror just inspecting my eyes from every way possible, looking for progress or mourning loss and attempting to assess how bad the damage was.

A few months later, I was home for Christmas break and my sister, seventeen at the time, suggested we go pick up some new make up, and I could get some new eyeliner. As we poked around the counter, the sales lady came by and asked if she could help. My sister quipped, "Yes, we want a make up tutorial for her. The works." 

My stomach dropped. As soon as the sales lady promised she'd be right back to do that, I spat at my sister, "What the FUCK, Lucy!?"

"What? You need to learn. You can hide it better if you learn how to do it right, anyway."

As I continued to spew my anger as ferociously but quietly as possible in the busy department store, my mortification and dread bringing me to the brink of tears, she stopped me.

"Listen, she does this for a living. She's seen everything. Your plucking really not that bad, tons of people have the exact same problem, and you actually have some eyelashes right now. So stop embarrassing yourself, sit down in that chair, and pay attention."

Because my sister is quite terrifying despite being barely over five feet tall, I sat down in the middle of that department store, I shut up, and I learned how to do a full set of eye make up for dummies. My sister sat by, beaming and snapping photos.

Then she dropped the bomb. "She doesn't have many eyelashes so I want her to learn how she can better fill in the lash line." 

I could feel my cheeks redden, confirmed by the make up artist's, "Well, I don't think you'll need any blush..." But then something remarkable happened. It wasn't so bad at all.

"Absolutely," the lady said without hesitation, "You've been doing black but because you have low density, I really think you should do more like a brown. Just will be a bit more natural." She applied a line right above my lightly populated lash line as I watched in the mirror and then moved on to lips.

Turns out, my sister was right. 80-90% of reported cases are women, and it's estimated two to ten million Americans are sufferers of trich (1). Not everyone plucks from their lashes. Eyebrows, arms, and head are popular spots too. But because of my location, make up had a particular importance for me.

It was not about enhancing any feature or looking pretty. I mean, I guess it was a bit about looking pretty. For many, eyelashes are a symbol for femininity. Regardless of biological accuracy, drawings of male figures generally don't have them, while female ones have those three big eyelashes. The thing is though, in the real world, three doesn't cut it. And people notice, though maybe not as much as I imagined in my head.

I used make up as a way to hide my disorder. For me, it returned to me some of the normality I kept shedding unwillingly. I didn't want to leave the house without it, not because I was afraid I wouldn't look as pretty, but because I wouldn't look as normal.

But makeup also relieved me from this prison of self-disgust and mutilation. The enjoyment of putting it on and feeling whole again and doing it in a group setting lead me to seek help and Summer of 2013, I began experimenting with natural cures, eventually coming up with a mixture of the B vitamin compound called inositol and biotin that resisted the urges and repaired the damage (2).

Which is not to say I'm cured. I still sometimes find myself with little black hairs between my fingertips while I'm struggling with homework or taking a final exam. I still tend to run my fingers back and forth along my lash line checking for "bald patches." But I now spend two to three minutes on make up on in the morning, the same routine I learned in 2012, and never feel the need to run to the mirror during the day to make sure my deformity is still hidden. I get to wear mascara like my friends when I get dressed up and I don't have to think of an escape plan when a friend asks to try something new out on me--I no longer avoid social situations in which someone may discover my deformity. In fact, make up has actually enabled the growth that makes me feel comfortable to not wear make up, to talk about and seek help for this infliction. And it's lead me to feel confident enough to share on the internet what I used to not even admit to my family.

What I'm trying to say is not, "make up is a cure all!" But it has lead me to share with you all about my experience with a disease that has probably inflicted many of the readers, since I know it has affected many of my friends who could have been a major source of comfort had I talked about it with them sooner. In these situations, confidence is what one needs to seek help. In my case, exactly the thing that I was using to hide my disease gave me the confidence to fix it. And that--not the long, full lashes--is the beautiful thing.

1. Trichotillomania Learning Center. (2014). Hair Pulling: Frequently Asked Questions. Retrieved from http://www.trich.org/about/hair-faqs.html

2. I'm happy to share more about this!

on the use of cosmetics ft. Lucy

Recently, makeup has become a point of interest for me, not so much its application but its general use--the reasons for using it, the way people view it, the controversy behind it. Thus, I begin a two part series on the subject.

My sister and I have very different relationships with makeup: She has been using it ever since she no longer needed her hands to crawl; I began when she dragged me to the Clinique counter at Macy's my sophomore year of college (during Christmas season, no less) and had me sit through an entire tutorial. She experiments, whilst I do exactly the basic "makeup for dummies" routine I was taught at that counter. My sister and my reasons for wearing the stuff are entirely different.

Thus, when I asked my sister to write me a piece on why she wears makeup, I figured our stories would be different. I didn't expect that they would be remarkably similar.

Here is her story, exactly as she originally wrote it (well, edited slightly for grammar):

***
When did I start liking makeup? Honestly, it's been as long as I can remember. My favorite part of reuniting with extended family growing up was having my older female cousins do my makeup for me. Most of my play dates with friends consisted of checking out what makeup products they had accumulated from birthdays or holidays and begging to play with them. Was my excitement to wear makeup because I was trying to impress a new crush? That wasn't even on my radar. Was it to try and look flawless for a new Facebook profile picture? Facebook wasn't even a thing. Was it because I watched my mom put on makeup and wanted to be like her? Most definitely not. On a fancy night she only wears mascara and lipstick. Bottom line, it was always something I was drawn to. 

As I became older and crossed into the age where wearing a little makeup was appropriate, my interest and love for it only grew. Then I discovered the world of YouTube and makeup tutorials and began to discover what it was that I found so intriguing about cosmetics. Throughout my life art has always been something I have enjoyed. I always opted for the art electives over others and normally it was what I looked forward to most about a school schedule. I wasn't a bad artist by any means, but I wasn't great. And I never felt like painting or drawing was something I wanted to invest a lot of time doing as soon as I stepped out of the classroom. But as I discovered more and more YouTube personals and watched videos full of new tips, techniques, and styles for makeup application, I was only more excited to try and replicate them either on myself, my mom, my sister, or friends. It wasn't until one day when I stumbled across a drag queen makeup tutorial that I realized how with makeup an entire face can be transformed. It was then that I realized what excited me most about makeup was the artistic aspect. Something that was creative and artistic, but completely applicable everyday of my life. 

I won't pretend that beyond the artistic aspect wearing makeup doesn't do anything for me. I know for me and for many others wearing makeup brings some added confidence. I simply feel good with makeup. But there is this judgement that makeup is superficial or fake and the intentions behind it are wrong. Well, I'd like to know the line then. Because someone who throws on mascara every morning is wearing makeup. Someone who does the routine from the foundation to the false lashes is wearing makeup as well.

I spent a gap year traveling abroad where I didn't bring anything more than Chapstick. I played sports including swimming for a majority of my life where makeup just was pointless. And yet for me, putting on makeup still feels very worthwhile.

Wearing makeup doesn't mean you're only trying to look good for someone else or that you lack confidence. It doesn't even imply you're shallow. I think makeup is a great creative outlet and a confidence booster.

Im not really sure what else to write… sorry its all over the place. thats my thoughts

on forgiveness

There comes a crossroads in every long term, meaningful relationship. It is in inevitable, being the flawed, emotional human beings we are, that at some point, one of you will do something to piss the other off, make them feel badly, or break their trust. At this crossroads, you have a decision to make: forgive and preserve the friendship or let it go and run away. 

Sometimes, you get to a crossroads and you look back and realize here have been hundreds of similar crossroads, and each time you have taken the one towards maintaining the relationship. If repeatedly this person has made you feel like complete and utter shit, has physically or mentally abused you, or has consciously and maliciously stabbed you in the back, you need to divert off the friendship path. Full speed. Run the fuck away.

If, however, this person's actions were the result of human error--if these crossroads do not define the relationship but is rather a blip in it--then it's time to practice forgiveness. For those errors that seem suffocating when fresh--a friend venting about you behind your back, a friend being rude to you when he's agitated from a bad break up, a friend canceling plans with you for a love interest-- realizing when to forgive is a practice in perspective [see "On Perspective"]. Sometimes you have to step back and think, is this worth cutting ties completely? In 10 years, will I think this was worth ending the relationship?

In some cases, the answer to this will be yes. If the person is physically or mentally abusive, if the person influences you to make decisions that are harmful to yourself, if this person is consistently making you feel awful about yourself, then this needs to be the final crossroads you come to on this friendship's path.

But if the answer is no, you need to choose the path towards forgiveness and reconciliation. This path can look bumpy and awkward and exhausting. In fact, sometimes the "adios" path can look smoother and easier. Forgiveness and reconciliation requires the communication and the effort of both parties. 

Like the people in them, all relationships have their flaws. And part of maturity is knowing when to forgive those closest to us for theirs or else be doomed to continuously cycle through people, discarding friends every time they make mistakes and moving on to new ones until they do they same. Because, it is a fact of life that everyone, even the best friend on earth, makes mistakes.

Update (7/16/2014): I stumbled upon this cute webpage today and found it relevant. I indentified my, my family's, and my friends's actions within Namka's observations. If you're feeling agitated yourself, check these conditions first. Remember, prolonged anger only hurts the angry. Help yourself! Find happiness! Life is short, my friends. 

on "having balls" or "being a pussy"

When someone says, "Don't be a pussy," they are really saying, "stop being a wimp." But it's exaggerated, like the difference between saying "gosh darnit!" and "DAMMIT!"

Conversely, when someone says, "Damn, he/she/it has balls," they're really saying "Damn, he/she/it is tough and fearless."

Like what? What???? How does this slang make any sense to anyone with even remote knowledge of biology. Did the creators of this terminology even take sex ed?!

Let's review the facts.

Vaginas, more unaffectionately called pussies, put up with more of a beating than any other part of the human body, except for maybe the heart (pun intended). No, but really. Pregnancy and child-bearing causes the largest deviation from homeostasis (the happy place of the body) for not just women, but all human kind, than any other human activity (including football).

Those things stretch, tear, and put up with the extreme discomfort of bad sex and pushing out a human child. And, then, it keeps going! Often doing it again, sometimes consecutive times in a single birthing session. (Fun fact: the most babies birthed by a single woman is 69*)

Testicles (a.k.a balls), on the other hand, also carry a the makings of a human child--when they are microscopic. These things hide from cold weather in the safety of their person, are sensitive to the slightest touch...essentially they are scared of everything and anything and run from even the smallest stressors.

So explain to me how vaginas are the weak ones and balls are the fearless ones.

Anyone would be lucky to be called a pussy, or at least way luckier than actually being one. What a compliment to your fortitude, bravery, and resilience! Vaginas in this world are expected to and do perform one of the hardest if not the hardest tasks of human kind hundreds of thousands of times a day.

So let's change the terminology...or at least look into the accuracy of our middle school sex ed classes.

*Marie M. Clay; Clay (1989). Quadruplets and Higher Multiple Births. London: Cambridge University Press, 1989.

**Disclaimer: I understand "pussies" and "balls" are symbolic of the genders for which they are reproductive organs and explicative of gender stereotypes and not inaccurate sexual education. But, either way, we should stop perpetuating these stereotypes. Still feeling arugmentative? Fine. Then just let me have this rant.**

on perspective

There comes a time, or more likely many times, when one is faced with circumstances that try his or her patience or anger management abilities. If you're like me (i.e. you have a lot of emotions and/or character flaws, depending on who is talking), these events occur on a rather regular basis.

Throughout my childhood, I was a bully's wet dream. I reacted to anything and everything, and vehemently. My intense reactions to stressors were nothing less than self-destructive. As a college student, I realized the error of my ways.

*FLASHBACK*

When I was in middle school, my local public library had a used book sale every afternoon. (Actually, they probably still do but that is irrelevant because this story is set in circa 2004) Quite often, I would stop by on a regular basis and impulse buy as many $1 to $2 books as I had money for.

One such book was called The Art of Keeping Cool.

No, it wasn't a self-help book. It was some little-known fiction novel. And I actually never read it so this piece is not going to be on what I learned from this book. What it is going to be about is this: The Art of Keeping Cool.


From my 20 years of experience being part firecracker, part Energizer bunny, the most valuable lesson I have learned is The Art of Keeping Cool. I only became a novice in this art in the last, say, 6 months. But this skill, and some medication (kidding), have been correlated to an immense increase in my own personal happiness and in that of my amazingly tolerant friends, who no longer have to spend hours reassuring me that so-and-so was completely out of line or that X is probably not mad at me because I said I was going to that social gathering and then I didn't go.

I call it, practicing perspective (patent pending).

"Da fuq," you say, as you wonder why you're taking advice from a neurotic twenty year old's amateur blog.

But, seriously, it works.

Practicing perspective means when you start getting riled up--frustrated, annoyed, angry, embarrassed, disappointed, guilty, etc., etc., etc., you stop and think "Will I care about this in a week? Month? Year?"

If the answer is "no" to any of those time periods than it's just not worth stressing over. Practicing perspective means keeping your eye on the big picture and adjusting where your emotional priorities lie accordingly.

It's a simple method that works wonders. I imagine cardiologists and therapists all over the world would see a massive decrease in business if everyone would follow this method.

So just to recap:

In the event of a stressful situation...

1.) Take a deep breath

2.) Think "Will this matter in..."

a) 1 week

b) 1 month

c) 1 year

If no--exhale--and move on. Don't spend any further time worrying your pretty (or handsome) little head on it. You time can be better spent on worrying about all the things you answered "yes" to for a) b) or c). 

Now get off this blog and go enjoy your life!

-r

on getting tired of people

I once overheard a conversation that went something like this:

Person A: "Everyone at this school is socially awkward. I'm socially awkward, you're kind of socially awkward..."
Person B: "What? I'm not socially awkward. I just hate everyone."

Okay, I mostly wanted to post this exchange because I found it hilarious but I also realized there was something blog-worthy in here.

Sometimes, for no particular reason, a friend whom I have been very much enjoying spending time with will just suddenly start annoying me. He or she has not done anything to me, their behavior has likely not changed, but suddenly it feels as though I am metaphorically gasping for air every time I am in close proximity to this person. Slowly, I find little things annoying me and eventually I can't even force myself to answer their text messages and I have to suppress an eye roll and force a response to everything they say.

I'm not saying this is rational or fair, I'm just remarking on my experience after recently discovering one of my friends experiences the same phenomenon.

For people like us--or maybe this is a common thing--our relationships with others can be viewed as cups that are filled with water as you spend time with that person. When the cups are full, you are sick of that person. Continuing to add water just causes the cup to overflow and causes a mess. Instead, you need to let that cup sit and wait for some of that excess water to evaporate out before adding more. With some people, the cup is more...uh..exposed to the sun. Thus, that cup evaporates faster, sometimes even so fast you seem to never grow sick of them. With others, it's so cold that the cup is frozen full.

Did you follow that?

I think that by viewing these friendships as cups of water, it's easier to stay patient and avoid dramas. When I can see my cup is getting full, I know it's time to take a little breather and let some water evaporate before I have a big mess everywhere that I have to clean up. Sometimes this means I need to push that cup a little further into the sun with an open conversation or a lot of vigorous exercise, like boxing.

I don't know that this is a common experience, but if it is I think it helps to know others feel the same and realize it's not mean or rude to wait for some water to evaporate--it's necessary. Well, unless you want to continuously be on clean up duty. Some people like doing that shit.

-r