The Liberator Persona

On a (what Florida considers) cold night, I accompanied a friend and her co-workers out for a few celebratory drinks for her birthday. It only took a few hours for the majority of the group to scatter, leaving me, my friend, and one random co-worker behind to test our alcohol limits. 

At first, we all got along fine and then somehow, the conversation turned to politics. I’ll skip the gory details, but it got ugly. (At one point, I called her co-worker stupid.) What caught my attention about this debate was how unrelenting both sides were, neither one willing to give an inch to the other’s opinions. There was some part of me that felt we were desperate to change each other’s entire philosophy on politics. I should have dropped the whole conversation, but the alcohol kept insisting that if I could just bring up the right point, she would fold and see the world in a new light.

I have experienced this scenario countless times, yet something about psychological reasons behind our argument stuck in my brain like a splinter. I spent the next few weeks attempting to breakdown an unnamed idea that encompassed the entire art of debate, human psyche, and personal outlooks, all relating back to why the two of us found it impossible to yield our differing opinions. 

The answer came to me in the unconventional form of an old Superbowl advertisement. A long, long time ago, in 1984, Apple released a commercial that mimicked Orson Well’s book,  “1984.” If you haven’t seen the ad, the whole premise is essentially mindless drones (representing humanity) marching towards a screen that preaches conformity. While all these people absorb what the giant head is communicating to them, an unnamed woman runs in and smashes the screen with a sledge hammer, breaking Big Brother’s hold on the masses. 

It clicked instantly. It felt like we were both trying to be that unnamed woman. We were going to be each other’s liberators and silence the hypnotic source that kept us blinded from reality, even if we had to kill each other to do it. In the end, only one of us could be right, or both of us were wrong. And while we both wanted to play shepherd, we never questioned if we were one of the sheep.

The reason this bothered me was because I started to wonder how many times in my life I’ve attempted to play the liberator without having any clue what I was talking about. It can be a perplexing question to wonder if you’re arguing tirelessly because your opponent is someone who can’t be reached (or saved, in a sense), or if they know you are talking out of your ass.

I started to apply this liberator persona to other frustrating conversations I’ve had. There have been discussions where a stray observation of life turned the chat to a fierce debate. I wanted to determine if the conversation turned because I was some kind of visionary genius above the mental capacity of my peers, or if I was a bumbling idiot who needed to shut up. 

I don’t know if there is any kind of answer to gain out of this post, but it made me ask questions of myself I never had before: How does one distinguish if you are attempting to lead people to a better place or off a cliff? Are you the odd man out, because you are making a profound statement that most don’t understand, or are you just an asshole? How can you know if an idea is brilliant or asinine when you’ve only seen things through your own eyes and are set in your ways?

Neither me, nor my friend’s co-worker, walked away that night gaining much insight into why we believed what we believed. We argued and cursed and ended in a vicious stalemate that did nothing to broaden either of our horizons. But if I could learn anything from our political temper tantrums, it was that I’m not always the most brilliant person in the room (not that I really ever claim to be, but I’m using it as a metaphor.) I took the time to stop and question if I ever actually listen to what my opponent is saying, and to hopefully apply it to future conversations. Sometimes you must acknowledge when you are just running with the herd.

“They say the only people who tell the truth are drunkards and children. Guess which one I am.”

― Stephen Colbert

A Modern, Twisted Guilty Pleasures

Dance Moms. Dance Moms, Dance Moms, Dance Moms. Two words. Two syllables. Nine letters. Never have so few words read like a Greek tragedy. Homer’s epic poems could not capture the travesty, misery, horror, and devastation this show creates for me. When I hear this demon’s name, my skin crawls, my palms sweat, and a terrifying shiver runs down my spine, while I try to make sense of this abomination only seen in night terrors. It is the worst of humanity wrapped in a thick layer of suburban fat and a dense southern accent. 

While many have already written and discussed this show, I was fortunate enough to avoid searing my retinas for the past three years. To my great displeasure, that peaceful time in my life, before I knew Dance Moms, is over. I am now 10 percent dumber and emotionally scarred. I am here to admit that, I, Katie Foster, am addicted to absolutely atrocious, shitty reality TV, but this show is different – it got under my skin like no other horrible TV show has before.

The story begins with the only way any sane person should happen upon this appalling train wreck: completely plastered. The events surrounding this experience are a blur; all I remember is sitting down, thinking, “What the hell? I’ve never seen this before,” and proceeding to hold back the nausea building in my system.

There are so many repulsive aspects to focus on with this show: the horrific parenting, the mammoth that verbally assaults little girls, what kind of people these poor children will turn into because of their experiences, but the one thing that stood out above all else, and on which I choose to focus, are the final-stage routines pre-pubescent girls were executing. It honestly felt like I was watching borderline child porn. (God forbid a woman show a breast, but a toddler in lingerie, thrusting her hips and shimmying, is perfectly fine for television.)

The same phrase kept repeating over and over again while my brain was molested by the horrors on my TV screen, “These little girls have no idea what they are doing with their bodies! How the hell are you going to teach someone to dry hump on stage when they’ve never experienced it in a bedroom?!” I felt the need to scrub my brain with steel wool when I thought about all the pedophiles who must masturbate to this show. (Excuse me; I have to go take another shower after typing that sentence.) 

How the fucking fuck could any semi-decent human being, not only think this was a good idea, but also encourage this kind of behavior. These girls are great at what they do and are only doing as their seemingly Nazi-inspired instructor says. All the distaste I have lies squarely on every adult who chooses to subject children to this borderline abuse. Parents, instructors, judges – they all have a part in this. There is a collective emotional whirlwind of shame, repulsion, and rage when I think about the fact that this group of people is: a) allowed to vote, and b) contributing to raising the next generation. But the thing that makes me feel physically ill is that there is a large enough audience to keep this on the air. Part of America is actually seeking out this kind of “entertainment.” 

The question I have to this entire country is, WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH US?!? Whether you watch the show or not, how could an entire nation be content enough to allow this kind of programming to run for as long as it has? It makes me feel that we all need to re-examine what we consider an enjoyable way to spend our free time. 

Watching 10 minutes of Dance Moms warped my entire opinion of reality TV. Every reality show I watch now makes me feel a little more foolish and shameful, because it was a building process to Dance Moms. America had to be desensitized to obscene behavior before they accepted watching children go through it. Every time someone watches a spoiled housewife throw a drunken temper tantrum, or a group of 20-somethings have an orgy, it is one step closer to some sleazy producer saying, “How can we push the boundaries again?” I blame every individual who watches reality television for the creation and success of shows like Dance Moms. I think it’s time we go back to the days where chocolate was considered a guilty pleasure, instead of watching children grind a stage.

“Alcohol is the anesthesia by which we endure the operation of life.”

― George Bernard Shaw

The "But" Girl

My father recently educated me on the “but” person we all meet in life. You know, the one who is a wonderful person, but they like to run over stray animals. They have a great personality, but they steal out of tip jars. They would give you the shirt off their back, BUT they happen to be a compulsive liar. If you have to add “but” into the description of someone, you are probably fishing for a way to make them seem less depraved, even if they are just that. In my opinion, the “but” individual is an iron chain holding others from progressing. 

Why all the hostility towards people with huge personal flaws? Because I recently put all my faith and trust (not to mention all my money on the line) for one. I am planning on moving to New York City this year with two of my best friends (we will name them Brandy and Sherry), and a new girl (Cognac) introduced to the group by Brandy. Cognac is very distantly related to Brandy. Completely trusting Brandy, I wanted to accept this new girl into the group like she was family. After all, Brandy allowed the new girl to stay in her apartment when she had no where else to go, and paid for a New York trip to attempt some early apartment-hunting. 

Cognac and the group happened to have a lot in common and she made a great drinking buddy, BUT, as I came to find out later, this girl was a selfish, klepto leech who sucked all the positivity out of the room. Not only did she stay rent-free at Brandy’s apartment, while devouring all her food and stealing her make-up, she ditched Brandy in New York, after she bought her plane ticket and paid for cabs, to run around Time Square by herself. This girl left a revolting taste in my mouth, to say the least.

The final straw was when Brandy found an apartment on her own and had to put down a nonrefundable $1300 for the deposit. Cognac decided the best time to let Brandy know that she had absolutely no money to contribute was after Brandy had already handed over the check. A few more events followed, and the whole situation ended with Cognac saying she was going to live with her aunt and wished Brandy luck with rent, but not before calling her an anxiety-ridden, only-child-syndrome bitch.

I. Was. Fuming. This now ex-roommate had fucked with my family and put all my savings on the line (I wasn’t going to let Brandy end up on the streets of New York, and I was willing to pay to keep it that way.) Since Sherry and I were leaving six months after her, we wanted to give Brandy a proper send off with a Florida Bucket List Day (a holiday I made up that consisted of nothing but drinking) to celebrate all Florida had to offer (alcohol). It was during this made up holiday, we began to really break down everything we hated about this girl.

We ranted and raved about Cognac for a solid hour. As the champagne bubbles from our mimosas began to outnumber our blood cells, all the “buts” went out the window, and we reverted to the kind of name-calling even I wouldn’t fucking repeat.

By the end of Florida Bucket List Day, I was positive, if Brandy couldn’t punch Cognac in the face, she would at least scatter the belongings she left at her apartment in dumpsters all over the city. I wanted the three of us to assist karma in doing her job.  

The next morning, as I dragged my aching, water-deprived limbs to work, I got a surprising, if not sobering text. Apparently, once Brandy could see straight again, she decided it wasn’t a good idea to test karma’s patience. She had contacted Cognac to let her know she could pick up her stuff off the side of the street corner, if she felt she deserved it. (She felt she did.)  

I am not one for petty revenge, but this girl was a special case. The rage I had accumulated towards her had festered and multiplied, and I wanted nothing more than to drag her, her name, and her belongings through the mud. She fucking deserved it. But Brandy felt she was above that kind of behavior, and felt a single girl in the city needed all the good karma she could get.

While I genuinely applaud her for being the better person (I couldn’t have fucking done it), it made me question the way we all respond to the worst of humanity and the way we treat each other. At what point should someone stop trying to be the bigger person? At what point does the bad outweigh the good so much, that retaliation is not only okay, but should be encouraged? The world is an ugly place filled with ugly people, why should only good people be the ones who get fucked over? 

Almost every child was grew up with some variation of the rule “do onto others, as you would have others do onto you,” but there are some situations in life where this seems incorrectly applied. How many peaceful protestors need to be assaulted before a counterattack is seen as a defense and not terrorism? How many innocent people need to die in genocide before citizens can throw their own bombs? How many times does a kid need to be bullied in school before they can throw their own punches? At what point should you just burn a bitch’s clothes instead of giving them back without any sort of repayment or thank you?  

Maybe self-preservation should be the determining factor of whether one should be the bigger person. When someone’s livelihood, safety or family is at risk, there is a natural instinct to protect these assets; if the instinct to protect what you love becomes apparent, should one fight fair? 

While I grind my teeth thinking about it, I don’t believe a person needs to fight fair. I am someone who unconditionally believes in justice for all, and if the only way to get true justice is to throw a low blow, why should anyone stop themselves? (This kind of thinking can only be applied on a case-by-case basis.)  Overall, in life, I encourage everyone to take the high road, but DAMMIT! Some people need a good right hook to the jaw.

“Always do sober what you said you'd do drunk. That will teach you to keep your mouth shut.”

― Ernest Hemingway