A Rant From a Creative Writing Major

The other night, I went to a mandatory Christmas party for my husband’s work. I didn’t want to go that much to begin with. I have issues getting along with other military wives (lets not get into those stereotypes), and the people he works with don’t really interest me all that much. Maybe that makes me the bad one for not being as open to them, but my father always told me to go with my gut instincts, and now that I’m old enough to actually understand, I’m going to do me and follow his warning. Thanks, Papa for your words of wisdom.

Anyways, back to the party. We were the first ones there. It was your usual, “Oh This Is Super Awkward But Lets Act Like We‘re Friends” type of deal. It was a small party, so it didn’t take long for everyone to arrive. We all got drinks and ate appetizers, you know, the usual shit for this time of year. I mostly gravitated towards the wife of the man throwing the party, the oldest wife by a long stretch. We bonded over our love for vodka (I know, I know, but hey, conversations aren’t my strong suit).

We ate, were merry, whatever. Eventually, a drunk military wife (she had one drink of wine, you guys…ONE) got together with the two kids at the party and decided it would be an amazing idea to do karaoke downstairs. It took all of my willpower not to groan up to the heavens and yell, “TAKE ME NOW.” Karaoke is fine if you’re drunk enough, but these kids only had Kidz Bop and Disney Channel Songs (the bad songs from like, Camp Rock, not the amazing originals) and even if there was a good pop song, it was the clean version. I stuck to playing foosball in the back corner. I did eventually attempt a Nicki Minaj song, but remember, it was censored, so I messed that up on the second verse.

Eventually, everyone left. It was only like 9:30pm, and the party started at 6. I’m used to parties that my Papa and Step-mom throw, where it can last anywhere from midnight to the crack of fucking dawn, so naturally I thought it would be rude to leave with everyone else. The couple hosting the party insisted they weren’t tired and they wanted to talk and have another couple of drinks. At that point, I’d had a glass of hot wine, like five vodka mixers, and I was being handed another glass of wine, so you could say I was feeling a pretty good at this point.

Things are going well. We’re talking about family, pets, you know, the usual. Then my husband’s boss decides to talk about why we want to go to California next time we move.

The conversation went something like this:

Him: Why the hell do you want to move to California? 
Me: Because I’m trying to go to film school for my Master’s Degree. 
Him: What are you doing now?
Me: I’m getting my degree in Creative Writing. 
Him: You know, it’s going to be a slim chance you go anywhere with film school.
Me (trying not to chug the wine at this point): Yeah, I know. I have a backup. I’m going into editing or publishing on the side.
Him: That’s not much better. 
Me: I have a backup backup to be a vet tech, but I’m always going to try and publish and make movies.

So, that was the end of that, because it wasn’t long after that my husband hustled me out of the house. I apparently yelled the whole way home about his boss, but I don’t remember much because I had yet another glass of wine after that conversation ended.

So, what I should have said to this white, male privileged, military doctor, is something along the lines of, “Excuse me, but seeing as you’re a doctor and have no experience in my field, what gives you the right to dictate my future? Just because I’m not going into the science field, or some shitty ass, boring degree, does not mean I haven’t done my research on what I want to do with my life and my career. Secondly, without people taking risks like I am, we would not have music, art, poetry, novels, movies, etc. So, culturally, I’d say I’m important, too, and my life and passions matter. Just because I don’t prescribe medicine for the common cold on a daily basis, does not mean I’m any less of a human being than you are. Also, do you think I’m a fucking idiot just because I’m pursuing a degree in the arts? Fuck you and goodbye.”

But you know, I can’t really afford for my husband to get fired, and I have a feeling he’d be a little pissy at me if I’d spewed that rant to his boss. Still, I should have stuck up for myself and my life choices a little more than I did, but I tend to become choked up and silent in these types of situations (thank you crippling anxiety, you’re the real MVP).

My point is this, people: Don’t you fucking give up on what you want to do with your life because some random ass person tries to make you feel inferior. Chances are, if you’re in the arts like I am, you will be criticized on almost a weekly basis. “What are you going to do with that? Good luck finding a job.” Bitch, I don’t care if I have to work as a freelance editor, or in retail, or whatever the hell it is, I will continue to pursue my dreams and work my ass off until I get where I want to be. You have absolutely NO RIGHT to tell me how to live my life. You don’t know me, my experiences, my strengths, nor my mind. I don’t criticize people for being a doctor, or a lawyer, or for getting a degree in business, so you have absolutely NO RIGHT to criticize me.

So, fuck the haters, the judgers, the assholes who think they know more than you. You do you. You get that Studio Art degree, that Creative Writing Degree. Start that blog. Send in your stuff to publishers and editors. Revise. Do your absolute best and never give up. You owe it to your awesome self to reach for the stars. Don’t let people with limited brain capacity and set views of the world tell you how to live your life. Surround yourself with people who believe in you and you dreams, and tell yourself every day that you are talented and amazing and capable.

That’s my two cents. Rant over.

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