Tuesday, 28 November 2017

Let's talk about Manic Pixie Dream Girls

Manic Pixie Dream Girls have fascinated me for nearly as long as I can remember. (A MPDG, for those of you who don't know, is a female character who's wacky, outgoing, beautiful and decently shallow. She exists to help the male character find life, adventure, and romance. She's "not like other girls" and usually has a crazy name or hair style (it's usually dyed? Not sure why) and listens to weird music. She's eccentric, quirky, gorgeous... and a cardboard cut-out. Think Zooey Deschanel in pretty much everything she does.)

I'm pretty sure I've used this picture before but I love it way too much to not use it again.

The first time I was introduced to a MPDG was in about third grade when I read "Stargirl" by Jerry Spinelli. Stargirl is new to Leo's school and turns heads everywhere she goes. She wears kimonos, 1920s flapper outfits, hippie clothes. She sings 'happy birthday' to each student on their special day with her ukulele and leaves coins on the sidewalk for people to find. When Stargirl and Leo begin dating each other, she changes the way he sees the world. Life is more beautiful and strange and wonderful with Stargirl, after all. 

When I learned about MPDG, I immediately thought of Stargirl. (I was really disappointed that one of my favourite books had this trope, but the second book turned it around by fleshing out her character.) I've run into a few MPDG in my time, between books, movies and TV shows. Before learning about the trope, I kinda secretly (definitely?) wanted to be like them. And why not? They're beautiful and smart and different, and who doesn't want to be different? She's not like the other girls, she makes her own way in life. Compared to the other female representation that's out there, being different isn't too bad. 

Of course, I wasn't aware of the MPDG trope yet. Being quirky isn't the problem, but existing to kick-start the male character's arc is a problem. Proud of not being like the other girls is a problem. We are women. We need to stand together and help each other, not tear each other down. Dying your hair pink doesn't make you any better than the girl who's kept her hair natural her entire life. Listening to The Beatles may make you a bit quirky but it doesn't mean you're any better than the girl who listens to One Direction. All women are valid, all women are humans and worthy of respect. 

It's generally accepted that MPDG are a trope to avoid. We are not plot devices for men to use, we will not tear each other down. In saying that, I still love the trope. I kinda hate myself for it, of course, but I relate to MPDG too much to roll my eyes every time one comes on my screen. (To be honest, I think it's because I'm almost a MPDG myself. Purple hair? Weird taste in music? Eccentric hobbies?) 

I hate the negative side of the trope, but I'm willing to make the argument that it's not necessarily a cliché that needs to disappear. (I KNOW. Hear me out.) Of course, the negative sides of the trope need to be wiped off the face of the earth (I AM NOT A PLOT DEVICE) but the more positive aspects of a MPDG character are amazing. A MPDG challenges social norms. She ignores what other people think of her and does what makes her happy, not what's expected of her. That's something to celebrate and encourage. You want to listen to weird music? Go for it. You want to dye your hair? Alrighty. In saying that, we need to consider the other side, where "basic white girl" music and plain hair is great too. 

I would love to see more MPDG who have their own lives, who flip the trope and stand with women instead of trampling them underfoot (unintentionally or otherwise). All women deserve to be represented and to have agency and a life outside the male main character. (Besides, coloured hair is really cool ;) ). 

What do you think of Manic Pixie Dream Girls? 

Friday, 17 November 2017

Citizens, finally

Well, we made it. My family and I are finally Australian citizens. 

Wednesday, November 15th, 2017. We showed up, hugged our guests, took the pledge and became Australian citizens. Just like that. Of course, it was easier for me. Mom (Mum?) and Dad did the hard work while I just showed up. 

It feels good. It feels like another piece of the Me Puzzle slotting into place. God knows I've spent enough time trying to figure out who I am and this is one thing that feels right, like I was meant to do this. I am so blessed and thankful for this opportunity. I'm now fully Australian and fully Canadian, right where I belong. (Plus when I get my Australian passport, I'll be the real-life spy of my dreams with a stash of passports. Watch out, world.)

I'm not the same person as I was six years ago. A girl with strawberry-blonde hair who couldn't talk to strangers turned into a sort-of woman with purple hair who still gets lost in her head but knows how to find her way out. I think thirteen-year-old me would have been proud of the eighteen-year-old me, and I pray eighteen-year-old me will be proud of the twenty-four-year-old me. I think I will be. God hasn't let me down in the past, and I don't think He will in the future. 

I want to say thank you. I could write a whole book trying to thank everyone, so I'll try to keep this short. Thank you to my readers, who took the time to read the ramblings of a shy girl from the Albertan prairies. Thank you to everyone who helped us through the good times and the bad, who made the transition bearable (and also really fun). I couldn't have gotten through without my friends (old and new), family (again, old and new) and everyone in between (teachers, coworkers, pastors and kind strangers). I have borrowed mattresses, winter coats, tea, cars, dogs (plural), shoulders to cry on, Netflix accounts and homework answers. The kindness of the people in my life - Canadian, Australian, and everyone in the middle - has never failed to astound me. 

Thank you. 

Tuesday, 14 November 2017

It's good to be creative again (and my brain is weird)

It feels really good to be creative again. 


After a full year at university with little to no creativity going on, I'm surprised at how good it feels to sit down and write again, to get violet gel pen smudged across my fingers. Camera clicks and candles, late-night poetry, tending to my army of succulents lined up on my window sill. Mascara, musty pages of my favourite books and figuring out how to match my wardrobe to my new dip-dyed hair. 

I've always been a creative person, whether or not I've wanted to admit it. My creativity has taken many different forms over the years, the results both good and cringe-worthy. In either case, I've learned something about my art and myself. 

I won't pretend anything I've made is perfect. Good, even. But if I've enjoyed doing it, does it matter what the end result is? 

My brain is a bit weird. I'm both left-brained and right-brained, a mix of gears and cogs and pastels bleeding together like the sunrises across the horizon. Calculus is relaxing, getting lost in derivatives and integrals. Writing is beautiful, a whole world on its own for me to tumble into. 

I'm also a bit weird in that I want careers with both halves of my brain. I've always been a hard-worker and a dreamer, and for some reason it hasn't sunk into my heart that I've chosen to pursue two different careers, both difficult on their own to achieve. I guess when you have so many privileges you want the galaxy instead of just the world. 

And I think that's ok.

Monday, 6 November 2017

Life's Like That: Stupid things I've done during exams part 3 (in which I wreck a pillowcase (and still can't sew to save my life))

(You can find part 1 and part 2 here.)

If you'll remember from last week's post, I did something stupid which basically involved dropping my blanket in a candle then leaving it until the smell tipped me off that something had gone horribly wrong.

Well. That night I was studying some more on my bedroom floor (yes, I study on my bedroom floor) and I had my pillow propped against my bed frame (as you do (let's assume I'm a bit of a weird individual when it comes to exams ok?)). My pillow was scrunched up and stuffed underneath my bed, but hey, I had other things to worry about besides The Scrunching of my Pillow.

My butt had fallen asleep, so I yanked my pillow out from underneath my bed to rearrange myself (and maybe reassess my life choices). Unfortunately, due to the radioactive string cheese that was my brain I had forgotten the screw sticking out of my bed frame. This dastardly screw had been my downfall on more than one occasion. Out of pure spite it had ripped several holes in my Barbie suitcase filled with my American Girl paraphernalia and I always manage to hit it whenever I wriggle underneath the bed. (This has prompted many a conversation about how I rescued a small child from a crocodile and this scratch on my arm definitely wasn't because I was attacked by my bed.)

As a direct result of this neglected fact, the screw caught on my pillowcase and left a fantastic rip as a gift. Sadly, my mom was in the room and as you could imagine she was less than pleased at my one man army's attempt to destroy every piece of linen in her household. 

Of course, I had to stitch my pillowcase back up and as you might remember I'm not great with sewing. Thankfully, the chaos is mostly over. As long as my pillow is flipped the right way and my blanket is tucked in it's almost as if nothing happened.

Good old exams, right? 

Wednesday, 1 November 2017

Life's Like That: Stupid things I've done during exam time part 2 (in which I almost burn the house down)

Imagine this. Unwashed hair in a messy bun. (And not the one where you try to make it look messy and like you don't care, but a legitimately messy bun.) A pencil stuck in my hair, wearing pyjamas that probably needed a good wash. I'm sitting in a sweaty mess in the corner of the dining room on my beanbag, textbooks, pencils and workbooks splayed across the floor. I have a cup of tea to my right and a candle burning on the floor to my left, a blanket across my lap. 

My mind is frazzled. Formulas and random facts float through my brain, wrap themselves around my spine. Exams are just around the corner. I finish my tea in a frantic swig, then throw my blanket to the side and stumble to my feet. I need another cup of tea in order to think. 

The kettle boils, the dog barks, the TV in the next room crackles. I sniff. Something is burning. Then I remember. The candle. The blanket. 

Oh no. 

I race back to my beanbag to find my blanket carelessly strewn over the candle, charred synthetic fabric mixing with the tangerine scented wax. It's not on fire, but the once cornflower blanket is now ebony. 

I yank my blanket out of the candle to find a giant hole on the edge. I sigh. That's exam brain for you. That evening, I sew up the frayed edges with shaky stitches. It's a large enough blanket that you wouldn't see the hole unless it was completely spread out or if you were looking for it, but it's still a quiet reminder of how out of it I can be sometimes. 

(See part 1 and part 3.)

Have you ever done something exceedingly stupid like me?