White bedspread.
All my bedspreads are white. Something about white sheets has always struck me as angelic. They can be fresh from the laundry or two weeks unwashed and crumpled; somehow, they always lay perfectly on a bed, looking soft as a cloud, a mundane beauty shining in the changing light of day. It’s a blessing to disappear under the covers of such a peaceful, clean color. Maybe if I sleep in the cloth of such purity every night, it will rub off on me.
Mirror.
It has become a habit of mine to check my reflection in the mirror before entering the world. The mirror in my bedroom is an old IKEA closet door. My dad had disassembled the closet and was planning on taking it to the dump before I rescued the mirrored door, lugging it up two flights of stairs into my room. Image is armor—all women know this. Checking your reflection is like choosing a character. Some days I wear clothes that make me look smart—black dress shirt and trousers, shiny loafers—and the air around me becomes more respectful, more serious. Some days I wear tank tops over long-sleeved shirts, smudge the black eyeliner around my eyes, and let my curls create their halo of messy glory on top of my head. Suddenly, I find my steps carry more confidence, fewer people talk to me, but when they do, it is with a certain awe in their eyes. On other days I wear no make-up. I dress in plain jeans and a hand-me-down t-shirt my grandmother gave me; the logo for a jazz festival which retired from existence ten years ago covers the back. Those days are always simple. I glide easily through the hours, keeping to myself, becoming one with the background.
Lancôme lipstick.
My mom tells me that my lips are my best feature. She says that you should always highlight your best features and bought me a Lancôme lipstick at the mall. I don’t find my lips to be anything more spectacular than average, but I wear the lipstick anyways. It has a slight shimmer and a subtle, deep rose color that I like. I wonder if more women buy lipstick with the intention to enhance their features or simply because they like its color. And I wonder if intentions even matter in a world where women are encouraged to seek out enhancement; it seems my natural state of being will never be beautiful enough.
Gretsch amplifier.
I’ve been playing guitar for a decade. I took it up at a summer music camp and have been strumming away on my acoustic guitar ever since, but something about it always felt too soft for me. I’m more of a PJ Harvey “Rid Of Me” kind of girl than a John Denver “Take Me Home, Country Roads” kind of girl. So, one day, I finally decided to make the trade in for an electric guitar. I had brought my sister and her friend with me because I was intimidated by the men who worked in the store. What would they think of a girl coming to buy an amplifier who had not once used one before? I fall into such traps of inferiority more often than I’d like to admit—somehow in every room there seems to be someone who is more qualified than me. The men were nice, they brought out a little yellow amplifier for me to try, feminine in design compared to the others. As I tested it, I kept the volume at low (and still do) as to not take up too much space. My sister and her friend were chatty with the men for the whole two hours I spent deciding what to buy. I attribute it to them that I ended up getting my guitar and yellow amplifier for three-hundred dollars off the sticker price.
Stack of magazines.
Fashion is my passion (yes, I am aware of how cliche and stereotypical mean-girl this makes me sound, but the rhyme and truth to this phrase is unparalleled). And, as far as I’m concerned, fashion magazines are their very own art form; so, I save, collect, and cherish an extensive stack of them.
Teacups.
I have always had the problem of not drinking enough water. I’m just never thirsty for plain tap water. In middle school, I used to buy a liter of sparkling water and drink that for lunch until my mom told me I would get kidney stones. Now I drink tea. Water is supposed to keep your skin clear and give you a glow. I must not be drinking enough tea because I still have acne and my skin is dull.
Journal.
My journal has Monet’s The Water Lily Pond on its cover. No other artists have been able to translate life onto a canvas in quite the same way as the impressionists. You can truly feel the heartbeat and emotion pouring out of their paintings; the bright colors and dynamic brushstrokes sway and blur, drawing you into them so that you can almost hear the soft chirping of birds, the bustle of a city, or the cold snap of wind on a winter’s morning. These paintings are raw and real, yet beautiful and serene. In the pages of my journal, I scribble fervently, trying to capture the well of emotion inside of me like the impressionists did with their paints. More often than not, my words hold angst and darkness, the things which anger and scare me. There are so many ways that I wouldn’t want to exist, so many futures that I don’t want to see. These words are sandwiched between the beautiful lilies—my despise for mindless existence, my fear of the future, my irritability for the insignificant, and my doubt of myself. When others look at me, I wonder if they can see through my character as if they were sifting through these pages. And, if they can’t, should I let them? Should I exhibit life in open honesty, with all of its highs and lows, bright colors and broken brushstrokes? Or must I stay hidden in the curation of a more perfect image?
Converse.
This particular pair of converse hasn’t been worn much—they are more symbolic than functional. Not that I can’t wear them; in theory, they could take me to the ocean or the mountains, to the White House or a stage looking out on thousands of people. Shoes quite literally take you places. Every day, I put on a pair of shoes and walk out the door, but it’s like my shoes are failing me—I don’t seem to be getting anywhere. I’m sinking in quicksand, some days so fast that I want to give in. The pair of converse in the corner of my room are my symbol of hope for the hopeless; a token for the distance I have traveled—the soles I have worn through—and the distance I still must go.
Book titled “Heroin Chic.”
I read this book last year. It is about a girl growing up in Oslo who seemingly has everything—a superior voice, loving parents, silky blonde hair of envious beauty. But in the end, she becomes a heroin addict, and her life falls apart at her own doing. This book consumed me. I had false memories as I walked through the same neighborhoods in Oslo; I thought about dying my hair platinum blonde; I dug out my mom’s old bottle of opioids and kept it in my nightstand. About a week after finishing the book, I was still having erratic thoughts and feared that I might be going crazy. But, alas, I am not crazy, and neither were my actions. What this book made me experience on a deeply emotional level is the cognitive response called empathy; a measurement of emotional intelligence often misunderstood as weakness.
Slippers.
There are two pairs of green slippers in my room. Green is not my favorite color; something about it reminds me of being sad, like how some people get sad when it rains. Some days I never step out of my slippers, I just go from bed to slippers to bed. In some ways, I suppose you could approximate my mood by how often I wear my slippers. I’m usually wearing them when I’m reminded of all the talented, beautiful, and brilliant women whom I admire so much are actually my competitors in the pageant of life, jobs, and resources—that I must stop thinking we are friends who lift each other up because, in reality, we still live under the patriarchal systems that pit us against one another, so there is no reason for me to aspire to anything as I have no chance when in competition with such talented, beautiful, and brilliant women, and I might as well drown in my tears and go back to sleep. Either then, or when someone says to me that my “biological clock” is ticking.
Chestnuts.
My friend’s mother told her as a child that chestnuts bring good luck. We were walking down the street one autumn day and my friend was filling her pockets with them, I asked why. Ever since then, I’ve collected chestnuts any time I see them laying on the sidewalk. My small collection is lined up on my windowsill, and others are lost in the purses I no longer use. I’m not superstitious, but I do collect chestnuts. Until it is proven that miracles can’t be bottled up in seeds which sprout life, I’ll take all the luck I can get.
Size 0 jeans.
Let me tell you one thing: I am not a size zero. So why are these in my room?
A birthday card, hanging on my wall.
For years I’ve been keeping every birthday card and letter I’ve received in a small blue box. It’s a safety measure I take, like putting on a seatbelt before driving a car. The dangers which my cards buffer me against are the everyday experiences of young woman. Pessimistic? I’d say realistic. The thing is, every day I am reminded of what I should be, and what I am not. Fun girls go out every weekend—I should try to be more social. Smart girls have academic goals—I’d better figure out a career path soon. Strong girls do what they want, go where they want, forge their own path—I wish I weren’t so afraid of failure. When life reminds me of what I am not, my cards tell me of what I am. My favorite card is from my best friend, given to me on my nineteenth birthday. She drew the card herself, with an illustration of me on the front of it, and I love it so much that I keep it hung up on my wall. When I see this birthday card, I see my friend: a brilliant young woman full of creativity, wisdom, insight, and infinite beauty. If I am of value to someone like her, I must have some good qualities, right?