Last week, I drove down to Anaheim for an annual state conference for educators. I saved my school's director a ton of money by staying at my parents' home. While I was relaxing, I was going through some old pictures and found one of me that was taken 10 years ago. I compared it to a recent picture and thought that I looked far better at 39 than I did at 29 years of age. I posted it to my Instagram account with the following comment: Women tend to fear getting older, but like fine wine, we do get better with age. Some of the comments that followed were just too cute. All agreed that women need to learn to love themselves as they age. Though I looked really cute at 29, I had more of a mysterious if not sophisticated quality to my current appearance.
I showed my mom the two pictures and she immediately noticed the eyes. They definitely tell a before/after type of story.
I really was such a baby (as one of my friends commented). Back then, I had more of a rockabilly influence as an East Coast Swing and Jive dancer. In 2005, I was in my fourth year as a high school English teacher. My ideas at the time were so idealistic; wanting to impart my love of literature before people started to hate it. I wanted to hone their critical thinking skills. I wanted my students to be creators rather than doers.
I taught in a district that was primarily Mexican immigrant and poor. It was a real eye opener seeing a completely different community than one I had grown up in. (I grew up in an upper-middle class community. I never went without.) The staff meetings showed the disparity; there was definitely a cynical attitude among the teachers that these students were nothing more than your future laborers. They were selfish, self-centered with an all too high sense of entitlement. Despite their negativity, I maintained my positive outlook that all students were capable of doing well. I was so naïve.
My mom noticed a more hardened look. My eyes look like they held so much pain. I didn't think so. What my eyes show is the loss of light, the loss of innocence, and the loss of optimism. It's an understanding of a cold and bitter world where evil lurks at every corner. I now look at everything with skepticism. I view all people as a potential threat to my welfare. In the years between these photos, I experienced much disappointment.
I was raped in 2007. I kept quiet. I was subsequently harassed and blackmailed by this assailant. For two years, I endured harassment such as ominous and threatening phone calls. If I didn't pay him, he would spill. A person can only take so much abuse before they snap. It was when he said, "I'll always come after you. I always do."And I snapped. It cost me my job, my reputation and my freedom.
In 2009, I relocated back to where I was happiest. San Francisco. I became involved in the swing dance community. I made new friends. I returned to graduate school to earn my MA degree so that I could teach college. I met Demian. I was vulnerable and still trying to pick up the pieces of my previous life. He promised me safety and security. He promised that he was in it for the long run. But he wasn't supportive. He verbally abused me. He committed spousal rape. After our break-up, he disclosed my background to others. I lost another job.
I refused to be a victim, and thus continued moving forward. Demian's new girlfriend harassed me and stalked me. Though the harassment has finally stopped, the stalking continues. I really don't care if she continues to lurk.
Though I found a new teaching position at a college, graduated from San Francisco State, moved down the Peninsula to live in a nicer home in a great community, I still walk about with caution. I've been hurt too many times to feel safe and secure. I've learned that I have no one to depend on but myself due to my hard time trusting people.
I have transformed myself from an innocent girl to a hardened femme fatale, who wants nothing more than to be in control of her own well-being. Une femme who is independent, defiant, and refuses to be victimized, manipulated or controlled. And lets face it, the 1940s dark, vintage attire fits my profile quite well.
While I may like how I look today than I did ten years ago, I also prefer the person I am today over the innocent, naïve self who was nothing more than a doormat.