juushika

Second, let us talk about family. Because the one good thing of the cruise—perhaps the good thing of the cruise, nearly it's point and purpose—was that these people my grandfather married into became, well, people. Introductions always go over my head and I rarely recognize faces; I'd met these folk before, but they were still strangers in every way that mattered. I didn't become bosom buddies with anyone, but for the most part I know and respect who they are now. For no damn good reason, Grandpa and Ilene had seating charts for dinner—grouped by table, thankfully not assigned specific seats—which made sure they were able to sit with everyone but didn't confer to us the same favor. On the last cruise the group of us mingled with ease all on our own; this time, there was one couple I never really spoke to. But I bonded with one uncle-in-law over books, and one cousin-in-law over video games; I can match faces to names to identities now, and that's worth something.

The conversation about books was particularly delightful.

But third, let's talk about me. (Of course.) Spending intense time with people—prolonged time with a group that I'm supposed to be apart of because we're all family now—reminds me just how much I am not people. Sometimes it's little things: I don't like what people seem to like, "nice" weather (sunny and warm) and "luxury" accommodations (which they were not—I'm picky, yes, and was recently on a much larger and plusher cruise ship, but this one had a general second-class feel). I don't take things for granted or float along on expectations—just because it's a cruise doesn't mean it's necessarily fun and relaxing and escapist; it actually has to be those things to be those things. More importantly, there are expectations for behavior and acceptance that I don't meet. You may remember my issue with being photographed on the last cruise, and it held true here: I don't believe anyone has the right to assume they have my permission, and it upsets me to be photographed without being asked. Similarly, I don't think it's appropriate or respectful for strangers to call me "sweetie" or for extended family members to call me by a nickname. People are supposed to be cheerful and optimistic, social and acquiescent, and I, in the back, am none of these things.

I sit differently than other people do, because of my back. I dress differently, in broomstick skirts and long-sleeved shirts, a style which hovers between causal and formal but is suitable for neither. I eat differently, I'm a vegetarian but also I don't drink and, unlike most people it seems, I like good food: I take a critical approach to food as I do to all things, I will reject bad food, and I believe nice plating and froofy descriptions don't automatically make food good. I avoid group activities and loud noise. These are my own quirks and none of them are necessarily anyone's business, but if they want to know what I think of the dish I'm not eating then I will probably tell them: I think watering down opinions in the name of social nicety is stupid.

This is news to none of you, I know, but it is isolating to realize it afresh. I still had a few good conversations. The one about books was personal, fairly private, involved, educated, a discussion in the most fulfilling sense, and I'm thankful for it. But so much of what people do to gather and be social makes me feel like the odd one out—because, of course, I am.

Dinner was the only required family event most days; we were free to dispose with the rest of our time as we wished. Devon and I slept a lot, in part to cope with the constant seasickness that everyone was suffering (smaller boats and rough waters are a bad combination); we watched a number of movies through the awesome DVD service* and he taught me to play backgammon. For the most part, we did nothing social except attend dinner.

And sure, maybe that was a wasted opportunity, but dinner alone was exhausting. Not always bad—sometimes so, like when the third generation was seated together and we 20-somethings were grouped with the little kids, or when the cruise line thought it wise to have a half-assed, painfully loud song and dance routine with the last dinner—but always exhausting, and by the end of each night, especially near the end of the week, it was all I could do to hold out until dessert.

And on the last night, in between rounds of bad song covers being blasted through the speakers, I got into a conversation with Ilene and one of my uncles-in-law about 1) Why if I'm such a picky eater and eat so little of the (on that night particularly shitty) food, I'm not thin! You'd think I'd be a stick figure, but there I am. Ilene then followed with a little monologue about how when she gets back she wants to start finding ways to get skinnier so have no delusions, it wasn't a celebration of my body type. Then we transitioned into: 2) What I eat at home, and why I don't eat breakfast, and why don't I just give a quick explanation of what agoraphobia is and how it impacts my day to day life. Because I don't leave the room much, you see—sometimes I manage a meal before Dev makes it home for dinner, sometimes not, because I can't always stand the thought of sharing a space and risking a conversation with someone just because I'm hungry.

I try to make it a point to discuss my mental illnesses in the same tone that I would any respected physical illness. My heath isn't necessarily anyone's business, but if I wouldn't feel ashamed to explain how my diabetes impacts my diet, then I sure as fuck won't feel ashamed to explain how my brain crazies do. It's healthy for me to be honest and self-accepting, and if I can make anyone else more honest and accepting (of themselves, of others) then I think that helps us all. And it has helped me, to be more honest; I've also gotten better about talking about these things—a similar issue came up at the end of the last cruise, and my summary and explanation this time was much clearer.

But that does nothing to change the fact that I was still, at the end of this long week, the fat girl** and the crazy girl; the outsider, the not-person. I don't regret being outed: despite all the caveats, and there are so many, I accept who I am, from curves to crazies. I believe that owning the person that I am and being willing to talk about it can only help. And the conversation didn't go poorly—Ilene was sympathetic I suppose but also, as usual, chock full of halfway-correct assumptions which she took to be the absolute truth, and it's pretty pointless to try to correct her (even on the word, agoraphobia, which she called agraphobia, and more importantly on the fact that agoraphobia means you can't even leave the house—nevermind that for a time not to long ago, I didn't—therefore mine can't be "real"); my uncle was surprisingly receptive, excluding an offhand but inappropriate quip about how he hears that that a bit of alcohol can help with problems like these.

But...

But things were so very good before the cruise. I saw century_eyes, I met sisterite, and I had a marvelous time. I listened to "Dog Days are Over", and realized it was true. In my own silly way, I took a step towards self-actualization ("Today, being me makes me overjoyed."). I don't celebrate New Year's because the end of a calendar seems too arbitrary a cause for celebration, but for what it's worth I went towards the end of 2010 realizing that I am better—feeling better, being better, better at being me.

And then I was the fat crazy not-person. The cruise didn't destroy me—honestly it wasn't that bad, just exhausting, and that's nothing that some reading in bed can't fix. And part of the experience of isolation (in the midst of a crowd) has driven me to want to combat it: I want to find my own crowd, my clan, my chosen family; I want to see my loved ones again and find more and build on preexisting relationships; I want to spend time in Portland so badly that my skin itches with the desire. It frustrates me that I can't make these things come instantly to pass, but the desires for them are good.

But that good isn't quite enough to erase the bad that rouses it.

Anyway. The cruise was. It was long, and tiring, and did good things, and did bad things, and could have been much worse. FLL wasn't using the backscatter machines when and where we went through security, so the trip ended on a similarly exhausting (flying all day tends to be) but surprisingly painless note, which is an absolute blessing. I came home to news that a handful of you have been going through tough times and experiencing incredible losses, which puts my own familial angst in brutal context and mostly just makes me wish the best for all of you. Above all I am happy to be home—even if I sort of wish that home were up in Portland just now, but still: what matters is that it's over, so thank goodness for that.

* This was one of the few benefits of this particular ship: free movies to borrow as long as they were on shelves. We watched Death Race (not bad for what it is, and we both adore Jason Statham), Mission Impossible (I'd never seen it; yeah, it was fun), A Knight's Tale (pretty awesome, gleeful anachronistic, and the We Will Rock You sequence rocked my socks), Wicker Man (the remake; better in two minutes but still delightfully loltastic), Catch Me If You Can (not exceptional but solidly entertaining), and Shooter (again, not exceptional but solidly entertaining, emotionally rewarding and technically sound—gun-wise, not filmography-wise), and The Bank Job (a little more serious than we were expecting, and so relentlessly depressing; it might have been better at a different time).

** For the record, I wouldn't class myself as "fat," but then I also wouldn't self-apply any similar categorization. I'm short and curvy and moderately overweight; I'm also very bad with visual comparison, and I have no idea how my body actually ranks in the thick to thin scale. For the most part, I also don't care. But this isn't about what I would call myself: it's about how I felt I was being classed, implicitly, by someone else—and, as such and via context, carries the word's negative social implications.

So cruise ships leave towel animals in your room when they turn down the beds. It's stupid, but this is pretty much the highlight of my day. Now to be fair, there aren't many highlights for me to be had on a cruise ship, but regardless: they tend to be pretty damn cute.

So I didn't write a cruise log this time. There's some things I have to say, and I will, but in lieu of anything approaching a diary I give you: a cruise in towel animals.


These images are gonna be hella noisy, taken as they were on boy's phone after sunset.
Night one was a swan. It's a pretty damn good swan.

( Two, three, four... )

Night five, and a bunny, and I'll be damned if it isn't adorable. Those cheeks!
Boy says it's surprisingly well-rendered for being a bunny made of towels, and I concur.
The last night is miserable, all packing and no towel animal, because they want to kick you out as quick and early as possible the next morning. Also we spent six nights on board, but those are the only pictures I have and I can't remember any missing animals—perhaps there wasn't one on the first night? It's all a blur now. So, yes. A shitty travelogue.

But cute.

Leaving in a few minutes for my parents's so that we can all drive up to the airport and get started on this cruise trip thing. I may not be bright eyed and bushy tailed, and I'm hardly eager to go, but we're packed and ready. Dev and I are bringing a PSP, Zune, two seasons of Dragonball Z, all of Reboot, two books, and a couple of films between us. On the last cruise we made a bit of an effort to get out and about, but we've done that dance now and anyway I hear this cruise line (Holland America) and this ship in particular leave a little something to be desired, so we have given ourselves full freedom to lock ourselves away and geek out in social isolation.

So, yes. We're flying on Christmas—which by the way is today, and merry Christmas to those that celebrate it—and aw fuck, we haven't ordered sisterite's gift yet, that may be late hun!—and the holidays are obviously all fucked up, and I don't want to go, and I started this morning by stepping in cat pee, but you know: fuck it.

I send my love to you all. What is it that they say? I'll see you on the flip side.

Friday, Day 6, At Sea
To come back up North [as we had, at this point, just began the return journey] is like coming home. When I was at school in Walla Walla, I felt the same thing on those long drives south. In the last two hours I would come back into a land of evergreens and fog, of water and growth, a richness of the land that the desert end of Washington refuses to offer—and as the view out the window went misty and dark (even in the warmth of summer) it would tug down to the deepest part of me that was—this is—home.

The temperature has dropped an easy 20 degrees, and we sail today into the wind--a wind to lean into, a wind strong enough to knock knots from the boat's speed. The sky mists at its borders, and the waves are rich blue again. This is like coming home. It's almost a relief to know that, when shoved south for a week, I don't suddenly realize that I love the warmth--my world is not rearranged, but rather what I assumed to be true is true: these dimmer, darker, deeper days are my days, they are my comfort and my home. I don't have to move to Mexico.

And to think, these aren't even the cold, salt-bitter Pacific coasts of my home state.

Tonight, meanwhile, is the big family night—the actual anniversary, and a formal dinner no less; we're taking group photos in just a few minutes and first I need to brush out my hair, because a walk on deck has turned it wild. I am not looking forward to pictures—but perhaps the rest, the closeness of the family, for a reason, with direction, perhaps even with good food--perhaps that will be nice. But there's no time left for wishful thinking—Devon's just finished using the comb.


Further thoughts, four days post-cruise
The anniversary celebration did indeed go well.

I had the same quibble about family photos as I always have: I have no problem with a commemorative group photo or two, but feel it's offensive to peer-pressure or demand others take part in numerous other photos (of individuals, small groups, family groups, etc.). I understand why some people would want to have those photos (I don't like or keep snapshots, but for those who do they can be pleasant mementos), and I think it's perfectly acceptable to request someone allow their photo to be taken—but more often than not, it's not a request but a simple assumption which removes the individual's ability or right to refuse. And, you know? It's unacceptable to take away that right, especially when it comes to someone's body—even if you're just transferring their image to film. That this assumption exists isn't my family's fault; it's wider-spread than that, it's cultural. And no, being photographed didn't do me lasting harm. But it made me resentful and uncomfortable, in part of the standard of assumption that lies behind it*, and that counts for something.

As for the rest, well, I'm not sure what to say.** The actual anniversary, the actual family event, it was lovely. By nature of my grandparents's personalities and relationship, the dinner was laidback, lively, humorous, and yet still authentically touching. But my memory is limited and inconsistent, and already a summary of that evening has fled me. Instead what I remember is this: Despite a few glasses clanged and words uttered, there were no formal toasts. There was, instead, my grandfather rising simply to say they were blessed, to thank everyone for coming, and to pledge that in another ten years, we would meet again. Ten years ago we celebrated 50 years while on a ship touring Alaska. No one knows where we'll be ten years from now (and general consensus begs it's anywhere but another cruise ship) or who will be around then, but we will be together to celebrate family and love.

And that—that is beautiful.


* For further reading: My body is not your property, by shadesong writing for the Boston Area Rape Crisis Center blog. This essay is about the assumption of consent (or the assumption that consent is unnecessary) for physical contact, but the two issues are hardly unrelated.

And while I'm on the topic, I also had issues with assumptions related to physical contact and consent while on the cruise. I'm hyper-sensitive to issues around touch because I avoid most physical contact, and so what bothered me probably wouldn't bother most: the instances of unasked physical contact were all fairly "safe" (being touched on the shoulder by our waiter) or occurred between family members (being hugged by my grandparents). But they did bother me—because for every majority that doesn't mind this sort of touch there is a minority, like me, which does; because even if each individual incident is minor, they all reflect a culture in which one (especially if that one is female) is not able to determine how and when others interact with their body. And that culture scares me.


** Am I better at writing critically than appreciatively? Yes, yes I am, thank you.

I did not record a daily log (and trust me, given the repetition of my experience you would not want one), but while on the cruise I did record a few thoughts over a few days. I'll post them here, as I find the energy to go back and edit them for public consumption. To begin:


Sunday, Day 1, Boarding
I discovered my own personal hell. The flights down to L.A. were, surprisingly, not that bad—the first plane was old and rickety and exceedingly cramped, but both flights and the layover were short. For the most part, all was unremarkable, and therefore well. It was on the journey to the ship itself that things began to go downhill: it was a bit of a wait for the bus, a bit of a drive, and the entire boarding procedure felt messy—a lack of apparent organization, a dearth of communication, and the crowds, oh, the waiting crowds. It was a long, slow climb to get aboard.

And once we had, I was of course exhausted: Devon and I had stayed up all night to catch our 3a flight, and sleep on the plane had proved futile (I couldn't babysit both my back and neck, which meant I had to sacrifice comfortable, potentially restful head positions in order to keep my back pain under control). I wore an oversized comfy shirt for the plane, which was great for the plane—but made me frumpy and uncomfortable in the heat, the crowds, the almost-a-cruise atmosphere of the ship.

And then it got better.

Because the rooms weren't available until an hour after we boarded, so instead of the necessary privacy, crash time, and change of clothes that I had expected, we were herded to the messhall for what would have been a large and varied buffet had not every item tasted the same: like nothing at all. Chewable air would have been a better offering, I think. The hall was crammed, packed and hot and noisy; there were no free tables so we sat at a bar where I couldn't even reach the footrest, inviting a new wave of back pain. Remixed techno pop played over the loudspeakers which—as a combination of repetitive sound and awful lyrics—is indeed the soundtrack of my personal hell.

And then my grandparents and cousins arrived and—hot, sleep-deprived, pained, frumpy, disappointed, and approaching an almost embarrassing level of discontent—I had to hug about a dozen people and try to act pleasant.

There could be, for me, no situation more fine-crafted to elicit my personal suffering.

Things did get better (in the non-ironic sense, this time) when the rooms opened up. I took a quick shower, and crashed, and napped, and by the time we gathered in a group for drinks and, later, dinner, I was much improved. Sunday actually ended on a pleasant note with a surprisingly enjoyable three-course meal, so while the cruise began in misery and I can still nitpick many more problems, I spent Sunday night in a huge bed with my beloved and woke to 18 miles of pure ocean stretching on outside the window.


And for the record: this is why the cruise was, for me, undesirable.
I know there are people that want to go on cruises. I am not one of them. I know that to speak glibly of this gift from my grandparents (who paid the way for all those that attended) is both to overlook my own luck and privilege, and to undervalue the important familial aspects of the trip. But speaking purely of my own comforts, desires, and preferences: I did not want to go on a cruise. And that first day isn't a bad example of why.

A big cruise ship is a floating, all-inclusive, isolated hotel. Even if it has a rock-climbing wall, it's nothing more or less. So, say: You're a vegetarian and a picky eater with certain standards for food quality (hey, you sound just like me!) Then: There will regularly be nothing for you to eat in the buffet, either because ingredients are unlisted, the only vegetarian option is iceberg salad, or all of the readily-available, self-serve food tastes like shit; not infrequently at the sit-down waited meals you will eat one more bowl of pasta with marinara. Say: You require certain accommodations in order to cope with or prevent chronic pain. Then: You may have difficult, limited, or no access to those accommodations (it took us three hours to get extra pillows for the room; the majority of the public seating was actively bad for my back), especially at the beginning of the trip when you need them most. Say: You are an introvert, or, worse, agoraphobic. Then: Outside of the safety of your stateroom, you will be surrounded by crowds without exception—any time you want to eat, take a walk, or consider engaging in a ship activity, you will be surrounded by large crowds of loud strangers. If you are traveling in a group of 24 family members, you will also encounter people you know, on a fairly regular basis; you will be required to attend family gatherings.

In other words: a cruiseship is, for me, not a plush floating island of amenities. Instead, it may leave me without sustenance, in pain, and traumatized. Of course it's not always a worse case scenario—there were good vegetarian options sometimes, even for me; sharing a room with just Devon gave me plentiful privacy and comfort in order to look after both my physical and mental health, and I am grateful beyond words for that. But there's big drawbacks, and an unending parade of little ones from uncomfortable sheets and towels to edible but unenjoyable food to the very atmosphere of the ship.

I don't know how quite to describe that atmosphere. It's ... it's the dining hall on the first day. People wearing skimpy shorts and bad, fruity perfume; people talking too loud and being too excited to go. It's the worst imaginable music, bland food, the bitter smell of a dirty sea and the edge of a big city. It's not quite the access or comfort you want, wrapped in the allure of an Exotic! Resort! Location! It's smarmy, almost, the very idea of the thing: visit new, exiting areas the in pseudo-comfort of your floating monstrosity of a hotel. I cannot personally think of a less pleasant way either to vacation (why not chose somewhere authentically comfortable, with more variety, with better food, with better amenities—or why not stay home?) or to travel (why not, and this is a crazy idea, actually go visit a place for a week or four?)

Yes, this is a matter of personal taste. It's also because I'm picky, I take my luck for granted, I don't know how to be grateful, and so on. Every time someone mentions how awesome a cruise sounds I feel that discomforting guilt: people want to do this—shouldn't I be glad for the chance?

But no. No, I was not, however awful a person that makes me; this is why. The cruise wasn't all that bad, and I'll get to the rest later. But for a bit of context, this is worth saying first.

This may come as a surprise, but I'm leaving for a week. The surprise may be that you missed my previous mention of this trip, or that I'm making any sort of hiatus announcement at all—usually I just disappear without warning.

For the next seven days I shall be on a freakishly large boat some miles off the nearest coast. We will not have internet access, because they overcharge about as much as you'd expect. I may not catch up on my flist when I get back; if that matters to you, feel free to leave important comments here or shoot me an email. I'll be back when I'm back—y'all take care 'til then.

We're not ready yet, and only have, well, just a few more hours before it's out of our hands and onto the plane, as it were. I am finally phasing from "lala I can't hear you" to "oh fuck, I have stuff to do," which is about time even if it's no fun. The cruise will be. Hopefully it will also be good. Crossed fingers from friends are welcome.