a bitch with no name, just a face.

Hi.

Wow, it has been a minute!

Typically this blog has been dedicated to the trivial, and insignificant things that I cry about on a bi-daily (or more) basis, but recently I’ve been feeling heavy feelings of being misunderstood. It’s like my angsty teenage self has come back to haunt me. So I must go back, back again, to where it all began…

I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve had friends say to me, “OMG I thought you were such a bitch when we first met” or “I thought you were so annoying at first, but you’re actually really funny,” and from the boys, “I respect you, but I would never date you,” (Wut.) and finally, “I used to be so scared of you.” At least the last comment only implies an insult. I don’t want this to make friends who’ve said these things feel badly. I love you and am so thankful you could see past my hardened exterior, otherwise I’d be yellow wallpaper mad by now (look it up), buuuut, it’s a problem. It’s a problem to essentially tell someone that you don’t like the way they present themselves (a marker of oppression felt by all minorities, really). I’m not unique in this phenomenon. There have been memes generated about this topic, even RBF women bonding #solidarity, and because of this pervasive societal ‘problem’ (the bitch or the oppression? Who knows really) I found feminism.

The BITCH Manifesto. My guiding light, finally I felt understood. I had a tool, a feminist bible to help me navigate my pent up emotional angst. This article written in 1968 spoke to everything I had experienced from a world that didn’t want to accept a girl that talked too loudly, dressed too loudly, rebelled too loudly, presented herself too loudly. The repercussions for young girls who are reprimanded by this social backlash are truly disconcerting. I didn’t experience my first heartbreak from a boy, but from feeling unaccepted for who I was. A bitch.

MY ENTIRE CHILDHOOD foreshadowed 25 years prior to my existence. It was my awakening. (Side note- it was only a matter of time before this blog turned into the feminist ranting of Kate Manley, which often involve tears and long winded recaps of feminist history.) I’ll be the first to admit I am not an angel, despite having gone to Catholic school. It wasn’t EVERYBODY’S fault I caught the bitchness… just all of society really. So I developed a coping mechanism that made me become very sensitive to how I was being perceived at any given moment, and if I felt it wasn’t positively I would shut down. “but it is a sensitivity the rest of the world is unaware of. For on the outside they have frequently grown a thick defensive callous which can make them seem hard and bitter at times. This is particularly true of those Bitches who have been forced to become isolates in order to avoid being remade and destroyed by their peers. Those who are fortunate enough to have grown up with some similar companions, understanding parents, a good role model or two and a very strong will, can avoid some of the worse aspects of being a Bitch. Having endured less psychological punishment for being what they were they can accept their differentness with the ease that comes from self-confidence.”-The BITCH Manifesto.

Thank you Mom. And Nana for raising 4 strong willed daughters, and for educating young women (in the 60’s!) with the knowledge that birth control was a useful tool for family planning in your Sunday school classes… until you were asked to leave. NOT ALL HEROS WEAR CAPES.

But now. It’s… cool to be a bitch? I’m confused. No, its not cool to be a bitch. It’s cool to be a ‘bad bitch’ or to ‘werk bitch’ or to ‘yas bitch, werk’ but still not cool to be a bitch… like to become the president or something because under no circumstances do NOT ASSUME PREDOMINANTLY MALE SPACES IN THIS HERE SOCIETY because, well, then you’re probably a witch, bitch. Things are more confusing now than ever before. Pop culture righteously preaches that its trendy to be your authentic self, but in a generation that has grown up with the smoke and mirrors of Instagram and Facebook how is that even possible? We have begun to curate humanity to the point that we don’t even know what true authenticity is. We have all the access we’d need the first time someone’s name even comes up to scan mutual friends (social status) make preconceived notions (judgments) of who we think somebody else wants us to think they are (nouveau authenticity)… before we’ve even had a real interaction. It’s a very convoluted methodology. I guess at least we’re becoming more aware the effect media and societal expectations have had on the development of insecurity aka the suppression of individuality. Sadly, as much as society has ‘changed’ human nature remains the same- quick to judge. Which brings me to myself, as things often do (ugh, sopranos), judging people/society. And then feeling badly because maybe I misjudged someone (I’ve been known to be human from time to time) or I was too awkward, or too mean because I didn’t smile enough. Then I feel judged because I can’t feel comfortable being myself without possibly offending someone so I’m not myself and then what was the point of even leaving the house today!? But is judgment bad? Not when someone says I’m pretty (god damnit with these ingrained standards of femininity equating beauty with self worth), but now as opposed to my teenage self who might have thrown a punch, when someone says I’m a bitch (not a bad bitch, a bitch bitch) I’ll probably cry about it. Because when you get woke, you realize that you were a bitch. We’re all bitches. Life’s a bitch!

Being a bitch gives me depth. It forces me to constantly reevaluate interactions where I felt I was being perceived inaccurately which helps me better understand myself, my intentions, and how I want to improve the next time around. It’s not within my power to control how others will see me, but I can be honest with myself about why they might have come to that conclusion. The minute we become complacent in a fixed identity, is the day we stop growing.

So what does all this mean? Idk, but it’s provocative. No, it means don’t judge a bitch by her face.

Ps. Sorry to everyone I was a bitch to in high school and beyond. You have to understand, it was society… NOT ME. Well kinda me… sorry.

What’s love got to do with it?

When I first met him, I didn’t want to fall in love again. Being in love… it’s so much work. I just wanted to have fun, be young, be free. But it was too late, because quickly realized something I inherently already knew about myself… I can’t control my emotions very well.

So there I was, in love. Wanting to spend every extra second of my life with this person outside of myself. But this is my youth! I’m supposed to just focus on me, right? This led me to grapple with the notion of the “relationship ven diagram,” which is the idea that relationships can be represented by a ven diagram: two individuals constitute as their own complete circle, and as they begin to merge, that represents the relationship. In order for this diagram to remain strong, and not just an ordinary circle, there must remain the individual. Navigating this delicate balance is tricky. Because as we fall in love, we have to give away a piece of ourself and basically fuse to another. This can be a source of strength, but also one of great weakness. Ultimately culminating in the question, “how close is too close?” Nobody wants to lose their identity.

In your 20s everyone tells you it’s your time to have fun. But I have not been having very much fun. I’ve been struggling with complex, emotionally raw, and difficult life choices as I decide the kind of life I want to live. The kind of person I want to be. People keep telling me that I’m too young to be in a relationship, I should be having (the dreaded word) FUN. Or that I shouldn’t worry about a career, I’ll “figure it out.” Well what if fun is not hooking up with a line of frogs to find a prince, that eventually, I’ll have to deal with all of this complicated relationship drama all over again. What if fun isn’t going out every night to end up going home alone, or waking up hungover at a job that just pays the bills. I don’t want to wake up years from now thinking that I should’ve tried harder, or have taken more chances. And I don’t want to buy into this fallacy that having a serious relationship in my 20s is what’s preventing me from self discovery. Maybe it’s just a naive romantic notion, but I believe the compromises young love teaches you during the most individual centric part of your life, make you better in other facets of life as well. If I can love someone this fully now, I’m excited by a future where I’m confident in my ability to love. Your essence is basically composed of two things; the way you live and the way you love, and how this combination molds you as a person. Love teaches you to live without fear.

A future without fear sounds very appealing right about now.

Of course there are days, weeks where I’m mulling over what the future holds, or what if we’re just wasting our time. Every fight we have, there’s that tiny dreaded thought in the back of my mind that says what if this is it? What if this is our last fight, or this isn’t “fun” anymore. Well I don’t want to just have fun. I want to be the best version of myself, and I think being able to do that with a cutie (not the mini orange) by my side, maybe not a life long cutie but a cutie nonetheless, who is dedicated to making me feel good and I them, makes us rebels. Amidst all the wanderlust, one night stands, and crazy nights that you can’t  remember; we wander together (mostly in search of food, but I promise it’s very romantic in a barbaric kind of way), our night stand is at the corner of the bed, and the nights I can’t remember were because we were asleep cuddling. So whatever the outcome, I’ll be better for it. Knowing that I went through the complicated not fun stuff to experience this level of closeness, and know that I can be me despite the fact that I’m part of someone else too.

I guess that’s my definition of fun- daring to love, put myself out there, feel all the feels, and mostly cry about anything and everything.

Brunchtime Sadness

~An untimely reflection on Easter Sunday~

Well, right on schedule my morning cry session commenced… Barely 10:15am I am just awake enough to be realize how far I am from my favorite brunch spot. A spot where I’m comfortable enough to eat alone at the bar where the bartender knows me by name and order. A spot where I feel at home amidst the syrup drizzle, aroma of freshly brewed coffee, and maybe a celebrity spotting. This is my spot to spot.

It’s Easter Sunday, I’m alone in a city that’s constantly kicking my ass, and all I want (NEED) is something that makes me feel other than defeated — these particular somethings are the world (New York Cirty) famous pancakes from Bubby’s in TriBeca. The fluffiest, most wholesome, picture-perfect breakfast cakes you’ve ever laid eyes on. But on this day of days, instead of being conveniently located just around the block from where I’m usually squatting (my boyfriend’s parent’s house), I’m stranded in the upper west side (aka Harlem offset by two blocks) in my one-room, fits-nothing closet-like bedroom. The more tragic thing about this particular  breakdown is that this area is actually really great. I just haven’t spent enough time up here to know where is great.The only place I know is the bodega on the corner where the two brothers who own the shop slip some candy into your thank you come again grocery bag, which really is a great comfort to me because I only go there for one of three things: Mac and Cheese, Perrier, or Ben and Jerrys (most of the time all three at once). I think its clear why I always get some extra candy.

So back to the tragedy that is my ever growing and growling appetite. I’m in tears because at best the trek to get to the magic pancakes is a 40 minute subway ride, at worst over an hour (theres always construction on the weekend). I’ve also already used up my allotted uber/gett/lyft rides for the week so I’m really out of options for any sort of immediate satisfaction, which I’d really grown up accustomed to. In Colorado literally anything I could want is about a 10 minute drive away. DRIVE. IN MY OWN CAR. I really miss those days… Now my life is usually in the hands of reckless taxi drivers, and claustrophobic communal subway trains. You could say this day was starting off horribly, horribly wrong.

It’s now 3pm  (time flies when you’re netflix&cryin) and I’ve decided to put on my big girl shoes (aka my adidas that are actually from the children’s collection because the pink color is only available in kid sizing) to avenge the tears I have lost over my morning theatrics of unfortunate circumstance. Long story short(ened) I end up in the Lower East Side at Russ & Daughters so I wouldn’t be late for work. And in that moment, I realized this was exactly where I was meant to be on this Holy Day. A pure, wholesome, Irish Catholic girl brunching at the most delicious Jewish delicatessen in Manhattan.

I had finally arrived.

Hi… Hey. lol, it’s Kate (because I know you’re wondering ‘who is this?’)

Does anybody else get those texts, “who is this?”

“… lol its me, kate… yeah kate manley. yup, funny last name. it’s cool we’ve only been going to school together for like 10 years.”

New phone. A likely story.

whatever.

Anyway I’ll try to keep this as brief as possible but there are a few characteristics of mine that might interfere with this goal; my propensity for irrelevant detailing, and my tragic fate of awkward introductions. My in person greetings vary from being slightly off putting and cold (RBF) to physically assaulting people. I don’t understand why a good ol’ fashioned hand shake is so “impersonal.” Hugs are okay… but I mean I just met you, and I’m not entirely convinced we shouldn’t still be worried about ebola. Recently, I’ve been struggling and I do mean stru-ggl-ing with the double kiss. Do NOT get me wrong. I’m a very glamorous girl at heart… I love the romantic effect these double kiss greetings can have in transporting you to Paris one lip smack at a time. Maybe it’s because I’m Irish and I grew up with affection being shown through a pat on the back, or a sarcastic comment vaguely meant as a compliment. In any case, I’ve not had much practice with the faire le baise (oh là là.) Now that I’m in New York City, I’ve had to make some adjustments, and after an uncomfortable amount of almost make-outs later I have finally begun to overcome my cringe worthy faux pas.

*The trick is that everyone always starts to THEIR left… Revolutionary.

Welp that’s me, Kate. Not Kathrine, not Katelynn/lin/lyn (full disclosure, my middle name is Lynn… but I SWEAR my first name is just Kate.) Your average millenial striving for greatness with the emotional capacities of a five year old. A beauty queen who needs at least 10 hours of sleep, and feels entitled to a dessert after every meal. A yogi who can’t touch her toes. A radical/socialist feminist with the internal struggle of how to still enjoy hip-hop (and general life trends) while despising the exploitation of women in the media. A 22 year old retired opera singer searching for her place in the world of music. A bleeding heart who acts tough to avoid rejection (even though that’s the career path I’ve chosen.) Singer/auditionee by day, coat check girl by night. Small town girl relocated in the city that never sleeps, hustling the streets trying to keep up even though most of what I do is sleep (and cry). In short, I’m really just a walking contradiction. But aren’t we all? (cliche attempt at connecting with “audience” aka my mom whose probably the only one who’ll read this.)

Thus far, being an adult has not been easy. So I’ve decided to let myself cry about it, blog about it, and try again until I figure this whole thing out (even if that means making the same mistake…more than a handful of times.)

#downwiththepatriarchy #honesttoblog #cryingoverspilledmilk #JustKate

ME EVERDAY