"Basic" is Bad?

I rarely use language over a PG rating in any of my posts, but for today, please excuse me, because it is 100% necessary to discuss this topic that has been drilling a hole through my brain for a while now. It is only used to express the concept created by others.

I don't often write about cultural topics. I have a lot of informed opinions about political and social issues, which I share openly in face-to-face conversation. I tend to shy away from writing my opinions in a public forum, simply because it opens up a world of virtual, verbal sparring that lacks accountability and breeds cruelty. But over the past few months, I have seen something floating around social media platforms that at first had me shaking my head in confusion, and now has me seething with frustration.

We live in a time when it is incredibly easy to slap a label on a person, consider that label a full-fledged dossier on their life and cumulative value to the human experience, and ultimately, dehumanize and discard them from our lives. I am guilty of doing it. I have walked through a store and seen the cute girl in her skinny jeans and knee-high boots, perfect top-knot on her head and scarf expertly knotted around her slender neck, and think, "I know her. Snobby, skinny sorority sister who pukes up everything she eats." I have walked away smugly, at the same time suddenly painfully aware of my own vast ocean of shortcomings. Observed. Labeled. Judged. Discarded. Moved on. A little less kind and a lot more insecure. 

The trend now, is to label someone as "basic." Not basic in a good way, like a simple but refined outfit. Or a touch of elegance in a minimalist home. No. Basic is bad. Basic is shallow, without depth, defined by cliches and stereotypes of things that are deemed simply beneath someone who has true value and purpose. "Basic" is used like a verbal slap across the face, and it is used to criticize women. "She's basic." The intent is meant to cut like a knife. 

But "basic" isn't enough of an insult by itself. It has to be coupled with a word that drips with venom when directed at other women. Now, someone who we see as beneath us is a "basic bitch." Bitch. That word rips at me like a jagged blade tearing through soft flesh. I have used it many times. Generally in reference to others. Sometimes myself. I have never, ever used it as a compliment. It connotes something disgusting, hateful, vindictive. I'm not proud that I have used it, and it is honestly a very rare occurrence since my college days. But the memory of that word passing through and soiling my lips and my spirit is something that makes me cringe. 

By all accounts, I am "basic." I am actually a "basic bitch." I hate even typing this. I hate it even more knowing that the insult is consistently perpetuated by women, who perpetrate the offense against other women. Because we do such good when we tear each other down, and we really better ourselves when we label and discard people as worthless.  A million articles and other social media posts confirm that I am nothing more than this lovely label.

I hesitate to link to articles, YouTube videos, BuzzFeed posts, and other expressions of this cultural pastime. They are out there. It will only take a moment and a Google search to stumble across them. The New York Times has even weighed in on this latest achievement of the trend-setting masses. This section of an article really stuck with me-it details how you know you are dating a "Basic Bitch." There are apparently, more than 50 indicators, such as :

-She goes to the MAC store for her makeup.

-Zooey Deschanel's character on New Girl resonates strongly with her.

-She wears lip gloss

-You'll also find lots of words in her apartment: framed photos that say "family" or "sisters" on it, throw pillows that say "peace" or "love," a piece of jewelry that says "dream" or "hope." 

-Her sense of humor is almost nonexistent. Jokes about suicide, rape, bullying -- "It's never funny, you guys."

-She owns a cowboy hat, cowboy hats, or at the very least listens to Taylor Swift.-She's all about yoga. She wear the pants. She talks about the classes. She just never goes.

(http://blogs.phoenixnewtimes.com/jackalope/2014/04/basic_bitch_dating_signs.php)

Well, I use MAC makeup, enjoy New Girl, wear lip gloss, have framed photos with the words "family" on them, don't find jokes about rape, bullying or suicide remotely funny, own a cowboy hat, listen to Taylor Swift on occasion, and wear yoga pants without regularly going to yoga class. There it is. The sum total of my existence-I'm nothing more than a "basic bitch."

Another article explains this cultural construction as 

"she likes yogurt and fears carbs (there is an exception for brunch), and loves her friends, unless and until she secretly hates them. She finds peplum flattering and long (or at least shoulder-grazing) hair reliably attractive. She exercises in various non-bulk-building ways, some of which have inspired her to purchase special socks for the experience. She bought the Us Weekly with Lauren Conrad’s wedding on the cover. She Pins. She runs her gel-manicured hands up and down the spine of female-centric popular culture of the last 15 years, and is satisfied with what she feels. She doesn’t, apparently, long for more." (http://nymag.com/thecut/2014/10/what-do-you-really-mean-by-basic-bitch.html)

I am sure some will just think I should brush this aside as something silly and meaningless. I really don't think it is. It is a larger indicator of cultural rot and decay. This. is. everywhere. Women judging women. Women judging themselves. Men being told it's totally chill to label women as a "basic bitch" and to define their girlfriend, sister, wife, friend, or the random girl in line for her Pumpkin Spice Latte in her MAC makeup and cowboy hat as nothing more than this truly disgusting and demeaning label.

But it's a heck of a lot deeper than that. It goes back to what I opened my post with-I do this to some extent too. I won't use these words, but I have used the sentiment to judge other women. And we all do it to people we don't truly know. We all do it to ourselves. 

In the moment, it feels like power to cut someone down with words. I am convinced that cutting someone down comes from jealousy. I have experienced that often enough to know that my lashing out is always rooted in my own insecurities. But this is more than individual people wanting to feel better about themselves, in classic bullying fashion. This is widespread. It has become part of the cultural lexicon. 

Calling a woman a "basic bitch" is reducing them to being worthless. Silly. Contributing nothing. Aspiring to nothing. Nurturing nothing. Useless. Expendable. Stupid. It never takes into account their humanity or potential. It doesn't require you to. It only requires you to label and discard someone. Women attacking women over the most trivial things. It is meaningless, and yet incredibly meaningful. 

I wonder how we can marvel at what is going on around us in popular culture. How we can lament things like suicide, depression, isolation, divorce, violence in schools, violence at work, addiction, crime, and not see the connection to the popularization of things like this? 

In a wealthiest country in the world, with an under 40-population fed exclusively on a diet of meaningless media and entertainment laced with cruelty, it is the most low-level, amoebic expression of the decay of humanity.

We have walked a long road as people of regarding others as beneath us. Labeling others has been the tipping point for some of humanity's greatest tragedies. I don't pretend that calling someone a "basic bitch" is the moral equivalent of murder, genocide or war. I do, however, believe it reveals something about the core of who we have become-people who see others only in terms of the standards set by society. Which is crazy, because I have absolutely no clue what those standards are supposed to be. 

If liking Starbucks and eating pumpkin treats and wearing cute scarves and treasuring pictures of my family and believing strongly in my faith makes me "basic" and makes me a "bitch," then I don't even know what would make me "complex" and "desirable." What would make me deep and of worth to someone? I don't think there is any way to pass that test, because it is designed to make every woman tested, fail. It is meant to make you feel like absolute swine. It is purposeful. It is ruthless. And it is something that every woman can choose not to participate in. 

I don't know that I even understand why I chose to write this. I think I am reacting so vehemently to this because I feel incredibly insulted by the concept that someone would slap this label on me as the ultimate insult without taking a second to get to know me. Maybe I am bothered because I know, deep down, that I am guilty of doing this to others too, descriptive language aside. 

I do know, though, that I am as far from "basic" and hopefully, as far from "bitch" as you can get. I am complex. I am valuable. I have made contributions to my family. To the students I teach. To my friends. I am educated. I am smart. I am witty. I have deep thoughts. I aspire to be more. I want to lift others and elevate myself. I want to serve and give back. And if I still drank coffee, I would do it all while drinking my danged Pumpkin Spice Latte. While wearing a pair of Uggs. And listening to Taylor Swift. I hope you will reject this label too, and think about how this type of dehumanizing garbage makes our world a much sadder place. 

What the heck will we come up with next to make people feel bad about themselves? I shudder to think. But in the meantime, I know that I can choose not to label someone as "basic" anymore. I don't think I have ever met a "basic" human in my life-humans are the antithesis of "basic." They are infinitely complex, and eternally meaningful. 

I am left with this thought as I read back over my ramblings-if you change your words and thoughts, you change your life, and the lives of those around you. And that, is something that is basic. The good kind of basic. The kind that matters. 

Loss

For eleven days, we lived a dream. 

For eleven days, we were parents.

Fourteen days after our third IUI, there were two pink lines. Something I had waited years to see. 

There were kisses and tears and excitement flowed between us. We tempered our excitement with realism, knowing we needed to have a blood test for confirmation. The blood test came back positive. But my HCG levels were low. Only a 24. Low, but ripe with promise and potential. 36 hours later, they were at 60 and on track for a steady rise. We scheduled a 6 week ultrasound. 

We let close family and a few friends know. We held each other close. I prayed every day, saying "strong baby, healthy baby," over and over. I named our little angel "nugget" and hoped that he or she would hold on and be ours forever. 

I bought pants that would stretch with me for a few months. I started thinking about paint colors for the guest room. I read everything I could about having a healthy first trimester.

My body changed. I was exhausted. Sore. In desperate need to upgrade my bra size. Moody. Hungry, Bloated. Slightly crampy. Nauseated. 

Then, nine days after the test, five a half weeks into my pregnancy, the pain started. Tuesday and Wednesday nights were awful. I didn't sleep. I couldn't go to work. I clutched my tummy and just prayed it was progesterone side effects. The pain stopped. I went to work on Thursday morning. I started bleeding lightly. I threw up in the bathroom and left work immediately.

I went home, called the doctor frantically. I went in for a scan, and the ultrasound didn't show anything. No yolk sac. No heartbeat. It was still early, and possible that nothing would show up. I was sent to get blood work done. We held out hope that things were okay. 

Friday morning, there was a gush of red, and we knew. Our angel was gone. Tears and sobs and desperate aching. My blood levels showed a miscarriage. "Spontaneous abortion" was the official diagnosis.

So now I wait. Wait for the bleeding and pain to stop. Wait for the nightmare to end and dawn to break. Wait to be able to choke out a sentence without feeling like I am going to vomit. 

Three years. Three IUIs. Countless shots. Thousands of dollars. A million wishes and prayers and hopes. Gone in a moment and in a rush of blood.

I am exhausted and weak and broken. I do not understand. 

I awoke this morning with a horrible thought. The thought that I flushed my baby down the toilet yesterday morning. 

There are those that will try to placate me and say, "it was so early." Or, "it wasn't a baby yet."

They don't understand. In that magical moment when divinely appointed conception occurs, it is a baby. It is a life. It is full of hope and promise and that baby, small as a poppy seed, contains all of the promise of life. 

I know that early miscarriages happen because things aren't right. Genetically. Developmentally. They are Heavenly Father's way of mercifully taking care of things as gently and naturally as possible. 

Mercy hurts like hell. 

So we wait. And we pray. And I bleed. And I yell and cry and hit the wall. And I love my little angel that I miss desperately already.

We're not ready to talk about things in depth, but as we have opened our life and struggle to so many, we share the new of this tragedy and our deep sorrow as well. 

We'll try again. And again. And again. We will have a family.

And someday, we will meet our angel baby and my tears of sadness will turn to tears of joy and understanding.