An Original Rant – by Emily Wright

Privilege without power in the struggle for change.

I don’t know what happened or when everything changed. The course was once so obvious and clear. Destinations were not always visible but the drive and the path were present and in focus. I knew I was moving forward to something big and something important. Never was I fueled by a strive for riches or fame. It has always been about the pursuit of change for better. 

   Now, I am not so sure. Where has my champion gone? I understand now that the lack of confidence to do anything is about the thoughts that carry you through. These thoughts, I had taken for granted. They always said go, leap, it’s yours. Now, there is doubt and uncertainty. 

Unaware then, that those thoughts were my privilege.  It never occurred to me how entitled I felt to take on the world. I didn’t understand what insecurity sounded like. 

That is not to say I was never insecure. On the contrary. My appearance, body size, reputation, and intellect have always been flawed through my lens. Not living up to my potential is my biggest fear and thoughts of doubt needle away at me and rob me of sleep some nights. But I have never doubted the possibility of achieving any goal. 

Anything is possible

 If I could carve out time to work out, I could lose weight and get back my old body type. If I cared to pluck, manicure, and primp, I could restore my shine. If I, then I. If I, then I. All of those statements imply I have control or some sort of say over my future, my success, my goals. In there lies my privilege. 

 Not having the time, motivation, and will to achieve something is very different than not having the opportunity. And the truth is, I have never been without the opportunity. 

I have always been of the opinion that I have some power over my current situation. Not that I can prevent bad things from happening, but when they do, I determine how far I will fall, how long it takes to dust myself off, and when I step back into the ring.

It is knowing the possibility of better exists.

Better: when normal is lost and then restored. As in, are you feeling better? A question often asked of those unwell. It asks if there are signs of improvement or progress. Better than before. Not better, as in perfect.

I am constantly striving for better and believe perfection is an illusion, or at the very least, temporary. 

I guess what I am talking about is hope. I am forever hopeful.

Of course, I have my days when it is harder to be hopeful. And after a good cry and self disparaging words, I pick myself up, dust myself off, and restore my hope. Sometimes with greater zeal than before.

These days, it is not so easily restored. Some days these thoughts I took for granted, are not there. They are replaced by whispers of doubt thick with a heavy sense of why bother. Carrying on is no longer assumed or effortless and I understand. 

 The drag of uninspired thoughts pull self worth and progress down. It is as though I am standing still. No longer moving forward. Seized parts disable me. It hadn’t occurred to me to take notice or take care of my well being because it had always been well. 

Now that I fumble around to find the light switch to bring it all back to light, I worry the power may not be on or the bulbs may not burn as bright. If the light within me dims, I don’t know how to bring it back. It has never been this dark for this long before. 

My desire for hope is rooted in helping others achieve the opportunity to strive for better.  I understand now that I may have the power to create change by bringing light to the possibility of hope so that every girl grows up with the endeavor to take on the world.

Her inner thoughts should shout yes, go, leap, it’s yours. In those thoughts lie power and privilege. 

Looking at year two of a pandemic that has been particularly hard on women, working women, and mothers, I see now how fortunate I was to have that inner drive that kept pushing me forward.  Seeing women drop out of the workforce to care for their children is necessary but no less devastating. Women occupied less than half of the chairs at the table of change before covid-19 and now the hiring pool for such promotions will contain even fewer women candidates. 

My frustration is second only to my sadness.

I felt as though I was next in line for that promotion. Now I am not so sure. What I do know is that I want those chairs occupied by those who never had the opportunity to hope. For they understand the true power and privilege in the ability to create change.  I have been overlooked and pushed out of the way by my male colleagues for over twenty years. I can only assume that my anti ‘yes, sir’ attitude has something to do with that. Although the most progressive of corporations agree that alike opinions do not create change, mine remains in the dark ages with similar looking, alike mined (mostly) men sitting at the decision making table.

I will not be silenced, nor will I move out of their way, but I will happily step aside if it will allow for greater change. 

Emily Wright original poem.

An Emily Wright original Poem: Blind. A shared secret about women, their strengths, and weaknesses. Women need each other to understand. Not judge.

Emily Wright original poem.

Emily Wright Original poem.

Emily Wright original poem: Black Dog. A shared secret about the black dog of depression. Mental illness lurks in dark corners of life.

Emily Wright original poem.

Emily Wright original poem: Breathing Fire. A shared secret about harboring rage and the carnage caused by angry words

Emily Wright original Poem:

Emily Wright Original Poem

Tiny Threat – a story with a poem. Tiny Threat is an excerpt from Little Sister a manuscript in the making.

An Emily Wright original poem part of the Little Sister, manuscript in the making.

Emily Wright: Rant

Public vs Private life – is there a difference? And how will this affect the mental health of our youth?

We are so polarized.
There is a story in the news about an Uber driver who posted the interactions of four young male passengers on YouTube.  They were team mates who were openly discussing the inner workings of their team.  Comments were made that were not meant for the rest of the team or the coach.  This is news worthy because it questions whether or not a taxi or Uber car is a private domain, one that remains private just as a hotel room.  This is not the controversial issue that I wish to broach. But it does bring the boundaries between public and private into play.

On any given day, I am personally video recorded up to 15 times.  There are video cameras everywhere and where there aren’t, there are people with their smart phones at the ready.  We are raising a generation of young people who are accustom to being recorded at any time.  When do we get to be ourselves or is the ‘self,’ as we know it, undergoing a disembodiment?

Not a day goes by that I do not consider the wild days of my youth. Back then, my cell phone did not have the capability to snap photos or record videos.  And for that, I am eternally grateful.

I have forgotten much of my party days and that which I remember I do not wish to have documented for the world to see.  Smart phones were not equipped with cameras until after the birth of my first born, long after my party girl days. 

I feel honored to be of the generations who had the opportunity to be wild and reckless without having to worry about such moments being plastered on social media the next morning like a hideous scar obtained while hungover.  Partying in my early twenties often consisted of drinking too much and winding up dancing on the speaker or high-rise platform provided specifically for that purpose.  The point was to make a spectacle of myself. Nerve and a shot of courage was served with every cocktail. After the third or fourth I had eared the reassurance of deniability too. Sober, I would never be dancing center stage. In fact, sober I would secretly judge and pity the drunken chick, knowing the morning will bring regret and embarrassment if remembered.   

My colleagues today would never believe the depths my inhibitions would sink to back then.  And for THAT I am forever grateful, for there were no means for my friends or nearby party people to document.

A close friend works at a post-secondary school establishment and the stories of past weekend endeavors the students share are laughable in comparison to the trouble we used to get up to.  A decade ago, I used to think yikes, we were chronic, promiscuous party girls.  Now I think, what happened to being young and stupid?  Isn’t that what youth is for?

My concern is that society is conditioning our young people to accept that there are no more private moments or regrettable times revisited only in our memory.  Today every smile, fake smile, misstep and momentary lapse of judgement will wind up on your social media or worse, someone else’s social media without our knowledge or consent.

What will become of us?

Will we eventually not care?  Will we just accept that it is just a matter of time that we will all end up naked on the internet?  If this is our future, we can only hope that eventually everyone will be considered flawed, it will lose its novelty and eventually nothing will surprise or shock us?  Or will we all just embrace our public identity and assume our less authentic self all of the time?  If this is the future waiting for us, then we will all end up with greater mental health issues than we already do?

Kids will be kids implies that there is a phase of silly decisions that were not meant to brand us like a tattoo. 

It is inherently human to lash out. We need an outlet to vent, to complain about things that bother us. Healthy adults seek safe places to do this;  over drinks with colleagues, we say unsavory things about our boss and criticize other colleagues.  We bash our spouses over the phone with our best friends. We groan about our parents with siblings. And our partners see our many hats, more importantly they see us completely naked in all sense of the word.  We need this and I worry that our obsession with YouTube, Facebook, and Tik-Tok seriously threaten our authentic selves.

Consider our politicians. Decades ago, it was scandalous for a leader to be divorced, to step out on their marriage, or get caught with a sex worker.  Today, we accept that everyone has their secrets and are entitled to a private life free of judgement.  Meaning, everything you do is up for public opinion. Will our standards eventually stoop so low that we will cease to care?

I don’t know, stepping out on your wife to get with a hooker kind of says a lot about you as a person that might influence your values and policy.  Either way, I preferred scandals served cold. I would rather read them or hear about them afterwards as a true testament that one can be a great leader and a womanizing, elitist prick all in one. Today we just accept bad behavior because there is no escaping public scrutiny as no moment will ever be private and no secret will ever stay buried again.

I want my son to end up streaking down the block on a dare at his first team party in college.  I want my daughter to enter a limbo contest while spring breaking in Florida. I do not wish to witness or have access to any of this. But I don’t want my kids to have embarrassing videos that will plague them for ever. They deserve the same rite of passage as I did, where I could be reckless and wild without it being documented. When such events are whispered and rumored about there is room for deniability. Video footage does not allow us any room to get beyond a reasonable doubt. 

How do we preserve the privacy of being reckless and wild for our youth? It’s an important part of growing up that was not meant to be posted as public.

An excerpt from Emily Wright’s manuscript in the making . . .

Little Sister

A novel about the rise up against preconditioned expectations women and girls have learned to accept and often think nothing of enduring.

Unlikely Muse

The high-pitch hum of heat buzzed around her like a war cry that frenzied flying insects. Raising her head to ease the tension mounting in her shoulders, the breeze was quick to cool the sheen of sweat at Melody’s hair line. It was too late to consider a hat. The task had already begun. Gardening was meant to be light welcome work. Not this patch of dirt. The massive plot carved out at the back of the yard did not make the chore of weeding enjoyable in the slightest. It was labor: an overgrown jungle of hated perennials crowded out the desired ones.  

Melody’s mother, Emma, had wanted a small patch of the acre yard reserved for some flowers. A splash of color to enjoy while at the kitchen sink gazing out the window or sipping coffee as she sat on their expansive deck. Hugh had a different view. The hunk of land Melody’s father had dug out would have been massive for a public space . They should have known his ‘go big or go home’ attitude would warrant a backhoe. In fact, her mother had mentioned a rock garden and envisioned stones no bigger than pumpkins jutting up between her peonies and iris. Instead, Hugh arranged for a front-end loader to drop off stones that any normal person would categorize as boulders to squat in the sprawl of upturned earth. 

Now, when Emma looked over her yard she saw a neglected eyesore of weeds and overgrown plants choking out some sort of grotesque ruins. She hadn’t asked for a hobby that would require multiple days to tend to. It was now a constant reminder of time she had reserved elsewhere, while the hours of work needed to maintain this wild foliage dogged her from her view from the kitchen. Very rarely did Emma sit on the deck anymore and when she did she turned her back to her jungle garden.

In an effort to help with this, Melody had set out to weed a section of garden; a mere portion that, perhaps over a few days, would make some sort of headway. There were no disillusions to this thankless effort that would hold very little impact. Nonetheless she would try. At the very least, she hoped to inspire her mother to come out and garden by lightening her load somewhat.

This too could backfire. In early summer, many of the flowers had yet to bloom. Weeding without a degree in horticulture was risky. Melody was prepared for her mother’s misguided wrath. Unearthing the wrong plant could trigger Emma’s anger. The rage meant for her husband, the frustration with her own neglect, could rear its ugly head to hiss and snarl at her daughter’s good deed. You know, the kind that doesn’t go unpunished.

On this particular day, Melody stood to straighten her back and once again vowed to never own a garden of this size. Cows had been grazing in the west field when she first knelt, trowel in hand. They were  now migrating to the east. The slow trod down the hill was a muddy one. Their once creamy white coats were dappled with muck and manure as they slogged along. At the base of the gentle slope, water pooled and gathered in the wells of their hoof prints to pull at their legs. The cows plodded on and glanced back every so often at their struggling calves, helpless. Mud sucked at the entire length of their little limbs. Every step was a silent labor. 

Looking on, Melody spotted the smallest calf and worried for its safety, not knowing how to, but wanting very much to intervene. But it endured. Measured and slow, the tiny cow, now dipped in mud, fought to find higher ground along the fence line. The effort to get there seemed greater than the straight line behind its mother, but Melody appreciated its will to find a better way.

It was painstaking to watch as the small cow navigated through thick inhospitable stocks of wild grass while the sodden earth clung to every step. The calf’s unwavering effort was rewarded when it broke through to dry land. This was made obvious when it pranced and leaped towards its mother and the rest of its herd. Frolicking calves were always a gleeful sight. This little guy’s struggle made for a rewarding happy dance and a smile found its way to Melody’s lips. Her gardening tasked seemed manageable after witnessing the inspirational feat of an unexpected muse.

Then, grunts of protest and annoying complaints interrupted this moment of purity as the only bull reached the marsh field. Always lagging behind and bringing up the rear he ambled along. Seeking out the calf’s path, the massive male sought higher ground to minimize his efforts. Leg muscles twitched as he easily pulled his mud soaked ankles from the wet dirt. Detouring and avoiding the straight path left by the females the bull balked and bitched the entire way. A noisy rant to the others making his inconvenience and rage known. 

As he passed by Melody, his over privileged mud smattered ball sack bobbled behind. 

“And that’s why we eat the males!” Melody hollered at the disgruntled beast before returning to work on her mother’s garden. 

An Emily Wright Original Rant on giving up the fight.

A Shared Secret of The Only Road.

Everyday I remind myself there is much to be grateful for, it is harder than others to convince myself.  

This is not a pity party nor am I just another Karen ignorant to her privilege. 

I am privileged. This, I know.

I grew up as a middle class white girl in the country.  There were no bounds to what I thought I could accomplish. There were obstacles, yes. Many of which I welcomed. Crashing through norms, busting down barriers, and biting into ignorance is in my blood. Maybe this is because I grew up fighting against and disguising my dyslexia and the uninspired future my family had imagined for me. Or maybe this is because I am a Scorpio, redheaded, Scott Viking with molten lava in her veins.    Either way, I am not about to back down and fight for what is right.

I graduated university, surprising them all and ready to set the world’s balls on fire.  As a humanities major, I raged and burned with the inequities of our past that paved our future.  I was going to make a difference and level the playing field. I was going to bring rich white men to their knees and make them see how their narrow gaze and financially driven ways perpetuated and fueled these fires that burned in every disadvantaged, marginalized, and unprivileged community.  There would be a day of reckoning and I would be there with bloodied fingers, a dirty face, and sweat soak brow just to help hoist that flag.  

Twenty five years later and I have nothing.  It took me years to acknowledge being passionate is often confused with being emphatic and no one is listening if you are shrill and dramatic.  So, against everything I am about, I learned to be controlled, calm, and slow when I spoke.  This I mastered, and still no one is listening.  I am dismissed and overlooked at every turn. I have lost count of the number of occasions I had the right to say ‘I told you so.’ No matter, no one was listening anyway.

While on maternity leave, a younger less educated white male became my manager. Not before getting the keys to the office had he ever set foot in my department. It took a lot for me to graciously accept his leadership but, I did, and reasoned that I could leverage myself when he inevitably came to me for my advice and opinion.  He did not. Instead he hired two new people, who happened to be young white males, had them learn the job then arranged for them to train new hires. With their six months of experience between them, they were responsible for molding even newer staff members. There were days when I actually found myself poking my own arm to confirm that I was not invisible. 

These boys have overthrown me in the eyes of my manager.  Still, I seek comfort and sanity in the fact that those I work with appreciate and prefer my work ethic, dedication, skills, talents, and experience over the unengaged, arrive late, leave early attitudes of the newbies.   

The smartest woman I know is a doctor of the highest degree.  She is a wife and mother of two.  A few years ago the opportunity to earn her fellowship came about at the least opportune time for her career and her family. Although she would have decided to go for it on her own, this decision was no less encouraged by her boss, a childless doctor herself.  Now, with her fellowship, my friend is asked to be patient and less particular with her male colleagues.   She was told to accept mediocrity.  Nothing about her life, thus far was achieved by way of mediocrity. So why should she have to lower her expectations to accommodate her lesser counterparts?

Another friend of mine waited to have her child later in life, thinking it would help secure her career. As young women, we were told by our role models, “we could have it all, just not all at the same time.”  This, we accepted. So my friend left her dream job to have her daughter. She returned to work early because she caught wind that her job contract was up for renewal and she had to compete with her replacement. After cutting her maternity leave short by more than three months, the guy who was filling in for her landed the job anyway.  She lost out: lost those three months with her baby girl to lose to the guy with no risk of going on maternity leave. 

I am angry. Everywhere I turn there are women working their asses off to achieve- things they already deserve. And every time they are disappointed they turn inward to improve and have greater self awareness.  Fuck that ! ! ! 

On the day I realized my privilege and understood that guilt lacked value and purpose, I vowed to use my privilege to better the world, open some eyes, wake the ignorant.

Today, I see my privilege as window dressing. It is enough to exclude me from the marginalized but not enough to allow me to make a difference. 

I am not allowed to complain because I am white and middle class. But as a woman who has been silenced, dismissed, objectified, and victimized the rage burns on.  I am nearing fifty. What is sadder than losing the fight, is losing my will to fight. For decades I have been throwing punches with quick wit and undying moxy. It took a lot to kick me down, and when I did fall, I would have a good cry, question my code, and feel sorry for myself. While down, I would doubt my path, which inevitably ended with me getting up, brushing myself off, and bracing for another fight. 

I am afraid that someday soon I will just stay down.   I will scroll down past the job post of the promotion I will never get. I will turn down the volume on stories that celebrate tiny achievements of the marginalized then gloss over the growing financial divide between classes. I will sit down when called upon to protest. I will look down when my daughter asks me my greatest accomplishment. The obstacles were just too big, that when ignored and dismissed too many times for far too long, I finally learned to just turn off, shut up, and stay down.