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October 30, 2018

/ Emily Ferman / 1 Comment

Why do bad things happen to good people? Why, in a country that preaches tolerance and acceptance, is there so much hate? I don’t know the answers to these questions. I don’t know if I’ll ever have concrete answers but, I know that I am more confused now then I’ve ever been.

Family and friends are constantly telling me how important it is to vote. “Your future depends on the decisions you make now”, “You have to vote this year”, “Why aren’t you exercising your right as an American citizen?”, and my favorite, “I know you’re a millennial so you probably don’t think you need to vote but it’s your fault if your future isn’t what you want it to be. Your generation isn’t active, you have to vote, it’s your duty as an American.” I’m not active? I’m not being American enough if I don’t vote? Really? That’s way harsh (if you don’t get the reference, yikes).

I read an article this morning that the Intelligencer published. They interviewed several young people about the reason(s) why they don’t vote or, have stopped voting.  In each of their profiles, they talked about the theatrics of politics, in one way, shape, or form. After having finished reading, I realized that I have everything in common with these people. Some of them have never voted because it’s too confusing. Some have voted in the past but stopped because they think the world is way too obsessed with choosing sides as opposed to doing what is actually right for the people. And, a general concensus was that they were so sick of being told what to do that they couldn’t even distinguish what was right for them to do personally versus what they’ve been told is the right thing to do.

I don’t appreciate being told that I’m not being a good American or I’m being a “classic millennial” by not engaging. Who’s saying I’m not engaged? Where do my own relatives- my family– why do they think they have the authority to tell me I’m not doing enough as a citizen to change my country? What if I don’t want to vote? What if I’m so sick and tired of being told what to do? Why is my not wanting to vote bad? I find myself identifying with a lot of what the article documented. I’ve never voted before. I’ve never wanted to vote before but, I do intend on voting this year and for years to come. Right now, I don’t know why I’m voting– I’m doing it but, I don’t know why, and THAT IS OKAY. To my best ability, I will make the right decision for me, not for the forces telling me what they think is right.

I started this by alluding to the Tree of Life shooting in Pittsburgh. Going to the vigil last night made me really think about where I am at this point in my life. Have I done enough as a millennial? As a woman? As a Jewish person? I’m frustrated that I’m not excited about voting. I’m confused about why, as a millennial, I’m being blamed for the state of our country and I’m confused about why we get such a bad rep as a generation. To my family and friends older than me, please don’t dismiss the fact that you do push your opinions on me. I know you’re trying to help me be the informed citizen you want me to be but, instead of telling me that Trump sucks (which, by the way, I know. That dude is ridiculous. The fact that you think you need to tell me this in the first place is insulting.), why don’t you help me navigate how to apply for my absentee ballot? Why don’t you encourage me to read as much as possible and continue my interest of my place in this political climate? Support me and help me understand, don’t expect me to know everything and then when I say I don’t know, please don’t act surprised.  Instead of telling me I’m not doing my job, help me.

_________________________________________

Intelligencer article:

http://nymag.com/intelligencer/2018/10/12-young-people-on-why-they-probably-wont-vote.html?fbclid=IwAR1QPAvH7u_7Ev5OqO3HATqQ-yzZvntp7cB9lTygC-5l7NfWOHuOP3u-STI

 

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October 10, 2018,10:00a

/ Emily Ferman / Leave a comment

Four years ago, I never would have thought I would be where I am right now.

In the Spring of 2015, I was sitting with my family on a bus to Hollywood Studios when I got the email saying I’d been accepted to the University of Delaware for the Spring 2016 semester. For the rest of our trip, I couldn’t stop thinking about what type of bedding I wanted and I that had to get a mattress topper because college mattresses are gross and uncomfortable. By the week end, I had already picked out the select 100 pictures that would grace the cement walls that would, unbeknownst to me, haunt me for years to come. Bad things happened there; I had to escape.

I did a stint at a Jewish day camp. I had to see my ex-boyfriend every day. It wasn’t fun; I was emotionally and physically wrecked by the time August rolled around. One of the good things that did come out of this summer, however, was my decision to transfer to Binghamton. This was the change I desperately needed. 

That October, I applied to study abroad in London the following semester. I went to London the following spring. I went to the Louvre, walked around in the attic where Anne Frank was once hidden, and sat on Arthur’s Seat after a night of Scottish line dancing. I would not be the same person I am today without London. With a kiss on each cheek and a final sip of a cuppa, I say thank you. 

Summer 2018. I had applied to hundreds of internships and nothing had come of the countless hours I spent writing so many cover letters and editing my resumé. As a last-ditch effort, I applied to a summer program at New York University. I got in and attended the six-week intensive. I realized that maybe I actually do have a chance of making it- whatever that means. 

So, here we are. It’s 10:00 a.m. on Wednesday, October 10, 2018. Carole King is quietly playing on my turntable– her name is Vic– and I’m sitting at my desk. To my left, I have Zadie Smith’s On Beauty stacked on top of my deeply loved and very much tattered copy of The Great Gatsby. My headphones lie in a tangled mess next to my empty coffee mug, and I’m thinking about the stairs I don’t really want to walk down to fill up my water bottle that I have to drink from with a straw because if I didn’t, water goes everywhere and then I’d have to walk down the stairs again to get paper towels. I have a map of central London up on my wall to the right, and my metro card from this summer next to a postcard of Hillary Clinton’s face to the left. Not yet folded, clean laundry adorns my unmade-pillow-fort-of-a bed. My room may be a mess, I may [or may not] also be a mess but, I am so very happy. It’s funny the way life works itself out, huh?

Four years ago, I never would have thought I would be where I am right now. 

@ferrisbueller: you get me, right?

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What is COMFORT FOOD?

/ Emily Ferman / Leave a comment
com·fort food
ˈkəmfərt fo͞od/
noun
  1. food that provides consolation or a feeling of well-being; provides a nostalgic or sentimental value to someone. The nostalgia may be specific to an individual, or to a specific culture.

 

In sixth grade, my best friend called me fat. We haven’t spoken since.

In tenth grade, a boy that I really liked asked me to prom by writing out “PROM?” in big, colorful letters on Staples brand poster board. It was the best day of my life since kindergarten when I lost my tooth in the mac-and-cheese at Disney World.

In freshman year, my roommates tweeted very nasty, very mean words about me. People that I didn’t even know were telling me to sleep with one eye open.

Last year, I wrote an extremely difficult letter to a boy I once loved.

The Cheetah Girls 2 soundtrack makes me miss 2006 when Disney Channel was actually good. The letter my first boyfriend wrote to me on our plane back to New York always makes me cry. My favorite podcasts make me laugh and whenever Michelle Obama talks, I shed a single tear because I really wish she would run in 2020.

Words have the power to dramatically alter our lives. They give us solace in times of sadness and show us courage when we’ve hit rock bottom. Words never fail. They are and will always be there for us.

Words are my comfort food.

I hope you’ll find comfort in them, too.