Everything's Trash, But It's Okay

Everything's Trash, But It's Okay

Adult Memoir/social commentary
If you enjoyed Phoebe Robinson's You Can't Touch My Hair (Recall
we discovered that gem last August?) you are going to love her
Everything's Trash, But It's Okay. It's narrated in her very
distinctive friend-to-friend candid voice. Although it's replete with
current pop culture allusions, you don't have to be a millineal to
take to the book like Tobago cat to nip. (I mean that's what we have
Google for.)
Robinson reminds readers that we all have trash moments and
aspects of our life. They may be simply awkward or embarassing. They
may conflict with our family or community's or society's avowed
values. They may even conflict with our own, as in seeing certain
music as oppressive to women but liking it anyway. No matter how
sophisticated or saintly we appear there are things we might be less
than eager to share. Even the Pope. (You'll find some of the trash
aspects of my life in the personal notes).
We should all find this revelation to be immensely liberating.
Robinson sets a fine example. She shares many of the most
intimate trash aspects of her life: mistakes, romances gone downhill,
finance challenges...stuff most of us can relate to.
Finances are a great example. Robinson reminds us that money is
still a more taboo topic than sex, even among family and besties,
never mind with the reading public.
"It's awkward if you're lacking cash yet people assume you have
some. It's worse when e'rybody knows your pockets are like my Afro
after a night out on the town: full of lint, down-pillow feathers,
cracked M&M's, and not much money. And if people know you have plenty
of money? You best believe they're looking at you like, 'I left the
milk and cookies out, St. Nick. Where's my shit?' and expecting you to
start paying for things."
Robinson also works some magic. Her trash talk often leads up
to some serious insights into the hot button issues too often our
society is tiptoeing around. An essay on her struggles with body
image leads to a discussion of how in a fat phobic society not only
the self esteems, but the job and financial security prospects, of
larger women are jeopardized. A piece on the failure of feminism to
become intersectional enough starts out with an allusion to a reality
tv show. People who might be put off by a more academic looking book
are going to be eased into these topics that we all need to be
thinking on. It's sorta like how I slipped a few extra veggies into
my taco soup and corn chowder when the kids were little, before they
bypassed me in nutritional savvyness.
So, since anyone who would be put off by directness and language
would not be reading this blog, I say read the book. Enjoy
Robinson's narrative, make peace with your own trash, and learn a
thing or two.
On a personal note, what people who know me for academics, activism,
volunteering, and drag artistry don't know is that I'm incredibly
image conscious. I gotta look a certain way. Nothing pricey.
Wardrobe by Goodwill. Much of the time it's cat shirts and jeans
because dining has the kind of safety code necessary to protect
student workers from burns and other painful injuries. But I'm known
for cat shirts and I never wear mom jeans. When I can wear my skirts
and leggings my gold standard is garments that have undergrads saying
"Jules, where did you get that?" not "you look niiiiiiiice". Of
course for drag performing I go all out.
If I was to wake up in a hospital bed the first thing out of my mouth
wouldn't be "What the hell am I doing here?" or "Am I going to live?"
but "No family or friends allowed in until I decide who I can take
seeing me like this." Looking pathetic and helpless in an ugly ass
hospital gown. It's gonna be a very short list.
Finally I'm being cautious on ice not from fear of breaking a bone but
from terror of being sentenced to rehab. Being stuck for six weeks in
a place with a roommate who watches tv nonstop or wants to give me all
the details of her gallbladder operation and a staff pressuring me to
socialize (like play bingo) with people I have no interest in
interacting with would be for me a ring of Hell. Fam, if I go to
rehab: private room or damn good earplugs, Internet access and zoom,
my homework and research materials, my own clothes, and the right to
interact only with the physical therapist who will empower me to get
the hell out.
That's my trash and I'm sticking to it.
Jules Hathaway




Sent from my iPod