Goodbye, 20s

Welp, here we are. The last day of my 20s.

I can’t help but think back to my senior seminar course in college, where the professor made us write down our five-year plan and our ten-year plan. I’d love to laugh about how much my plans have changed since then, but I honestly don’t even remember them.  And that’s truly how much has changed since then. Even though it feels like a blip, a lot happens in ten years. 

Do I have regrets? Many. I did a lot of very stupid things.

Would I take a do over? Absofreakinglutely. If I could pretty much guarantee that I would still meet and fall in love with Marc, I would get right into that time machine without any second thoughts and do most everything differently. 

But alas, despite what seemingly all the shows we’ve watched in quarantine have told us, time travel is not (yet) possible, and so, c’est la vie.

In the last ten years, I let a lot of people tell me my dreams weren’t possible. I believed them.

A lot of people also told me my dreams were possible. I didn’t believe them. 

I was fortunate enough to have the time and means to travel. I didn’t.

I made some really amazing friends. I didn’t make an effort to keep in close touch. 

But, it’s easy to name every should have, could have, and would have. It’s tempting to look back on the past decade and count every mistake I made on 386 hands. Thing is, I still learned a lot and grew A LOT. In so many ways, I am a completely different person than I was ten years ago. I was doing yoga the other day (which is a huge shift in and of itself. I was so tense in my early 20s that stretching was extremely painful) and I realized I no longer have a thigh gap. This would have caused 20-year-old Jillian to have a full-blown meltdown. I used to sit with a thick pillow between my legs for ten minutes every night to maintain a thigh gap. Now? Eh. Whatever. I’m healthy. It felt symbolic.

In the last ten years, I switched careers four times. I anticipate I’ll switch at least four more. 

I still did many of the things that are best done in your twenties, and I am happy with leaving them there.

I found new passions and new strengths. I tried new things. I gained new perspective. 

In every way, I am just as awkward. 

Through much of it, you were here, dear reader, and for that, I thank you. 

I’m still trying to find the balance between what one thinks life is supposed to be and what it actually is. I look forward to learning and growing more in my 30s. And as far as travel, dreams, and friendships…well, all those things will exist in my 30s too. 

Plus, mentally (and vocally), I think I’ve always been around 56, so really I’ve got about 26 years before I hit my sweet spot. 

One of the best things I’ve done in my 20s actually happened very recently. I started writing, everyday, and I’ve kept at it for four months: A personal record, and I am determined to continue. Obviously, it’s not blog posts (sorry), but I’m really proud of my persistence. Most of the time, it’s really bad, but hey, I’m doing it. And there’s always room for revision.

Maybe that’s what my 30s will be: the decade of revisions. Or, as the original Prufrock says, “Time for a hundred visions and revisions.” 

So long, 20s. Thanks for the ride. Here’s to the next awkward chapter. 

Love in the Time of Quarantine

5 years. 1,825 days. 1/6 of our lives. One showdown to the death (do us part, that is!).

Marc and I celebrate five years since our first date today. Thus far our super arousing and romantic agenda includes house hunting and eating sushi until we pass out from fullness. That’s about it.

So, what has the last year brought us? Not exactly what we were expecting. We were expecting to be married in 6 days. We were expecting to be on a flight to Aruba in 8 days. We were expecting to continue to go about life on the strict timeline I had set for us because that’s how it works. “Na na nana na,” says COVID-19 before sticking its tongue out at us. Rude.

We were not expecting to spend 1/3 of this year in quarantine together, turning our living room into a shared office space. Many people told us, “Oh, see how you feel about each other after spending all that time together! That will be the real test.”

Well…

I can’t say my feelings about Marc haven’t changed. I always knew he was smarter than me, but in the past 4 months, I have learned that he is exponentially smarter than me. It’s intimidating. Everything he says, every idea he has, is covered in 46 layers of intellect that are just beyond me. I can say that I still want to marry him and hopefully we have at least one dumb kid so I have someone to hang out with.

I can’t say I didn’t know that he was patient. I always knew he was patient, but I don’t think he knew how afraid I am of raw chicken (he usually wasn’t home yet when I cooked). He gently assures me that if I simply walk by the chicken while holding a spoon, I do not have to burn the spoon and then bury its ashes before hopping in a scalding shower. I can say that I still want to marry him and hopefully we lose our taste for chicken.

I can’t say we don’t bicker a bit more than we did pre-quarantine. He probably always knew that I’m over-anxious, judgmental, and take everything a bit too personally. I probably always knew that he needs to take his time with things, especially decisions large and small. Four months of having nowhere to go but our two-room apartment and no one to see but each other can bring those qualities to a new level. I can say that I still want to marry him and that hopefully we remember that we’re not perfect, and at the end of the day, we’d still always choose each other.

I can’t stay I’m not still sad about waiting another year for our wedding. I can’t say that sadness and disappointment isn’t permeating several aspects of my life. Frankly, I’ve had a piss-poor attitude. Marc just says, “You can be snippy if you need to be.” So, I can say that I still want to marry him and hopefully he won’t regret those words.

Did we pass the test?

I was always good at school.

Happy anniversary, Marc! I will marry you, even if I have to grow an extra middle finger for every tongue COVID-19 sticks at us.

Flexing Your Awkward Strengths

Well, it looks like I’m fulfilling my monthly post promise just under the wire! What does this mean? That I’ve gotten my groove back? That I’m on my way to success after all? That 2020 will be MY year?

I dunno.

But I do know this: funnily enough, one of my best performing posts (long-term) is “Ending My Stigma Against Myself,” where I talk about my Myers-Briggs personality breakdown and the general negative attitude around my personality type, INTJ. So I thought I would seize this opportunity to talk about another personality assessment that I think is a bit more comprehensive than Myers-Briggs and definitely better for one’s self-esteem.

Recently, for work, I had to do a Clifton Strengths Finder. This personality test is similar to Myers-Briggs, but instead, it describes your personality…you guessed it…through STRENGTHS.

One of my favorite quotes of all time is this one, often attributed to Albert Einstein (which may be true. I take most popular internet quote attributions with a grain of skepticism): “Everyone is a genius, but if you judge a fish on its ability to climb a tree, it will live its whole life believing it is stupid.” It’s such a worthy reminder that everyone has natural talents and thus everyone has the potential to thrive, if only we could be better about teaching people to cultivate their unique genius.

As a society, we are very focused on shortcomings. We harp on the D in math rather than the A in history. We look for the ways we can do better. We get feedback whether we want it or not, and I think many of us are conditioned to believe we want it all the time. That’s fine! We should try to be our best selves. Sometimes, our best selves aren’t good at math either. That’s okay!

I do not think we are focused enough on what we are good at and what that could mean for our futures. We obsess over “the American dream.” We romanticize the fact that Rudy overcame his obstacles to win the football game, rather than assessing the amount of influencing and executive strengths he must have possessed to get there. We tell people they can do anything they want to do if they’re willing to put in the “blood, sweat, and tears.” And like Rudy, they probably can. But why don’t we reframe the conversation? Why don’t we tell each other how to use our strengths rather than conquer our weaknesses?

As many of you know, I struggle with my career choices. I often feel like I have failed to find the right job or path for me. This is another sad consequence of the American Dream—the obsession with the hustle, the constant negative feeling that you’re not working hard enough, the pushing yourself until you’ve achieved greatness. Why should we glorify struggling when we can encourage and empower people through what they’re good at? It seems like a way to build a happier society. Once you learn how to own your strengths, you can become a more confident person.  And once you are confident in your strengths, you can own your weaknesses. Once you own your weaknesses, you can let go of them.

Sometimes, the stigma around the INTJ personality type makes me think, “Yeesh, no wonder I’m such a mess.” When I reflect on my day or my life (especially in a social situation), I obsess over what I could have done or said better.

When I look at the results of my Clifton Strengths Finder, I think, “Who wouldn’t want to hire me?”

For anyone who is curious, here are my five Clifton Strengths themes:

Input: I have a freaky good memory.

Strategic: I can identify patterns, define possibilities, and determine a good course of action (brought to you by anxiety!)

Learner: I go out of my way to gain new knowledge.

Intellection: I take time to think through things and make sense of them.

Achiever: I get shit done.

While it costs money to take the Clifton test (unless you have nice employers like I do), there are plenty of similar tests you can take for free. Does it necessarily clarify any personal or professional goals for myself? No, not necessarily, but I think the peace of mind, sense of self, and newfound belief it brings are important. It helps me find courage in all the awkward. It confirms that I do not have people skills, and it also helps me appreciate my colleagues who do and be unafraid to ask them for help. Whether you are good with people, puzzles, persuasion, or punctuality, those are all beautiful forms of genius that deserve to be celebrated!

And so, my assignment to you, awkwardteers, is to think about your genius. Think about your strengths and flex them like nobody’s watching. Or rather, flex it like everybody’s watching so they can be very impressed with you! You go, you lovely creature!

 

Just a Girl Who Can’t Say No

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: Satan himself could come up to me in the street and ask me to sign his petition, and I would do it because I wouldn’t want to offend him.

I am TERRIBLE at saying no to people. Instead, I get timid and weird, politely agree to whatever question has been posed, and then quietly panic about it until it passes or until I can indirectly find a way to say no without really saying no. I have probably disappointed far more people by doing it this way than by just giving a well-meaning yet firm no. I have over-complicated it like I over-complicate mostly everything.

It makes sense in some ways. I already live in a constant state of awkwardness. Saying no to someone who wants a yes presents a clear and present threat of more awkward. I don’t know if my body can physically handle it.

Thing is, it’s not always even just saying no. Sometimes, it’s saying anything at all. Last week, I had to buy stamps for work. It was for a big mailer and my job involves a huge approval process where every tiny little detail of everything is looked at with a magnifying glass. So, I knew when the girl in the post office started giving me stamps with fish, frogs, and George HW Bush on them that this was never going to fly. I was looking right at her as she loaded these wrong stamps into a bag for me, knowing that if I didn’t say something, there would be consequences.

And yet, I said nothing.

My mind was screaming, “Just tell her those aren’t good stamps! She couldn’t care less about which stamps you buy!” Alas, my mouth was fused shut. I walked out with the “bad” stamps, sat at work, panicked about it a lot, and ended up going back to the post office to exchange them for good old-fashioned American flag stamps.

No harm, no foul. Just time wasted and probably some years off my life.

Why? WHY AM I LIKE THIS?

I’ve often thought that my spirit animal is the pangolin. Not because my shiny and strong scales are sought after worldwide for armor and riches. But because pangolins perpetually look like they don’t want to be a bother.

Exhibit A:

I don’t know about you, but if I were to caption this picture, it would be, “Excuse me, ants, I am so sorry to interrupt your ant march, but if it is alright with you, I would like to eat you now. Please. Sorry again.”

Or perhaps, “Oh, forgive me poacher, I didn’t see you there. I am sorry I didn’t make myself more available to your poaching. Would I like to be poached? Uhhhhhhhhhh well…I’m sure you’re a very good poacher. I wouldn’t want to ruin your day or your future career as a poacher. So I guess you can poach me. Yeah, it’s fine.”

I wish I could say these captions were a comical exaggeration of my behavior. Buttttttt…

Clearly, I need to get better at this “no” thing. My survival might depend on it.

Does anyone else out there have this problem? Do you or a loved one suffer from chronic yes-ness? You probably aren’t entitled to compensation, but take comfort in the fact that the struggle is real.

 

I DON’T KNOW WHAT I’M DOING! And Other Signs of Growing Up

In my life, I have thought about many different career paths for myself.

To name a few:
Psychologist
Pediatrician
Cardiologist
Actress
FBI Agent
Professor
Author
Career Advisor
Academic Advisor
Market Research Analyst
Teacher
Screenwriter
Producer
Chemist
Nutritionist
Broadcast Journalist
Figure Skater
Dramaturg
Scholar
Film/TV Critic

Alas, none quite as alluring as Ben & Jerry’s Quality Assurance Testing, but I digress.

It’s been a long time since I have had the same job for over one year—actually, I don’t think I’ve ever had the same job for over one year, whether it be moving around internally or moving on in general. I never thought this was intentional, but now that I’ve passed the one-year mark at my current job, I feel the anxiety stirring. For the first time in…well, ever, I think, I have no idea what the next professional chapter is.

I am terrified.

And I have no need to be. There is no good reason for me feel this way. I have a good job with ample vacation time that pays the bills. Everyone should be so lucky.

I try (and often fail) to practice what I preach. I am a fierce disparager of the American Dream. As many plays and indie movies tell us, the American Dream is a recipe for dissatisfaction. I think it’s weird that we ask kids what they want to be when they grow up, and that culturally we expect the answer to be an exact profession. And in a way, we almost expect them to commit to it.

One of the best things I learned as a theatre major is how to think in terms of verbs (in this sense it is used for scene and character study, but it really applies to life). If we asked seventeen-year-olds to answer, “What do you want to do?” in verbs, I wonder how different it would be. Would they want to…inspire? Help people? Solve problems? Build things? Maybe we should force kids to think this way, rather than asking them to check off a box called “Major.”

I chose to be a theatre major. Why? Well, at the time, I liked being in the drama club. I liked seeing shows. I liked engaging with stories. The thing is, I didn’t have the makings of an actress. By the time college ended, I hated being the center of attention. I couldn’t imagine myself in a red-carpet situation or in an interview or being the “face” of anything without being a disaster. I thrive with a routine, and the auditioning lifestyle didn’t allow for that. It turns out what I really liked about theatre was that it was mission-driven, that it required precise deadlines and complex project management, and that both the process and the end result engaged groups of people with something I am extremely passionate about: stories.

Even still, as I enter twenty-nine years of age, while I do have a better idea of my life verbs, my personal values, and what I think I want, I STILL HAVE NO FREAKING IDEA HOW TO APPLY THAT TO A CAREER.

While keeping me up at night, this has helped me learn a lot of things about myself. Such as, as suggested earlier, it is hard for me to be content where I am. I have spent many years mocking the American Dream and yet it is still implanted in me. I am a walking contradiction.

And it’s weird, because I tell myself this is okay. And then I think, maybe I just need someone else to tell me it’s okay. Nearly everyone I know doesn’t fully know what they want to do. Even those who are pursuing what they once definitely thought they wanted to do have doubts—I listened to a podcast recently and the guest was a screenwriter I admire and even she, who went to Harvard as has been writing for shows like Parks and Rec and The Good Place ever since, mentioned that she doesn’t always feel right or satisfied with her career. That blew my mind. Isn’t this enough evidence to prove it’s all BS? That fulfillment is in looking around you, at all the great people you know, the relationships you have, the books you read, the things you learn, and the things you love, and not in the bosses you please, the constant reassurance you crave, the deadlines you meet, and the emails you send? Shouldn’t this be enough? Further, shouldn’t I be grateful that I am even afforded the privilege to dream? Many aren’t given so many options. And if we find contentment in our careers, won’t anxious cynics like me just find something else to dwell on for the rest of our precious, ephemeral lives?

Plus, I am sure there is a crucial part of me that has an idea of what I want to do but is much too afraid to try. It is very easy to focus on potential failure, especially when you’ve convinced yourself you will fail from the get-go. And isn’t avoiding failure a form of failing? I have become what I have feared by simply never trying.

There is also the fact that I’ve been in this position 104 times. Each time I thought about a job I might like as a kid, as a teenager checking off her “Major” box, a young adult, and someone who is holding on to the last moments of her twenties, trying not to feel like they were wasted. And each time I think on it a lot. I make a thousand different decisions. Maybe I commit to one of them. Then I obsess over what that means. Nothing in life is permanent; it’s never too late. I know these things.

And yet, I am still afraid.

Anyone else out there really feeling this pain lately? I’d love to hear from you, if only for the solidarity.

It’s Really Unattractive When…

Welcome to the newest episode of, “What I Should Have Said Was…”

I’ve been thinking a lot about pet peeves. For instance, I’ve gotten a lot of flack in my life about being a loud eater. People have rolled their eyes and whispered about me (or audibly complained) as I chewed my food at an apparently deafening volume. Well, I’m so sorry that’s bothering you, I really am, but telling someone to eat differently is like telling them to walk or breathe or sleep differently. It’s not a switch I can just turn on and off. As I reflected on this, I think I realized that pet peeves might be my pet peeve.

And also, jerks. Jerks are my pet peeve.

You ever have someone tell you that it’s really unattractive when you do something? Perhaps a friend or family member or a lover themselves. Not things like, “You were really rude to that server,” unattractive. But for doing simple, human things?

I’ve always thought it’s good to work on oneself. The older I get, the more I think that working on oneself is about harnessing the conviction to know who you are and what you want, and less about listening to the jerks. But when I was younger, I always listened to the jerks. I consumed that jerk feedback like it was delicious jerk chicken (loudly, apparently). This is where my actor training kicked in. I had a part to play, the part of lovuhhhh. And I wanted them to like me, to really like me!

I’ve always been told I take direction well. But it’s impossible to keep track of all of this! Eventually my options became either join the robothood or set this list on fire with a maniacal life and thunderous applause from my live studio audience.

So, for this post, I thought about some of the best, “It’s really unattractive…” comments I’ve gotten in the past. Some I took to heart; most I was just timid about. For the sake of catharsis, I am including the response I like to think I would give these days. Oh, beautiful hindsight!

–It’s really unattractive when you get so clingy.
Well, it’s really unattractive when you act like I don’t deserve your time and attention.

–It’s really unattractive when you don’t shave.
Well, it’s really unattractive that you want me to be as smooth as an eight-year-old. And it’s really unattractive that you think you can govern my hair.

–It’s really unattractive that you dye your hair.
…It’s really unattractive that you think you can govern my hair.

–It’s really unattractive that you’re a brunette.
IT’S REALLY UNATTRACTIVE THAT YOU THINK YOU CAN GOVERN MY HAIR.

–It’s really unattractive when you drink.
It’s really unattractive when you try to control what I do with my time.

–It’s really unattractive that you’re friends with so many guys.
It’s really unattractive that you check out every single woman who walks by.

–It’s really unattractive when you act so apathetic.
It’s really unattractive that you and the rest of the world have told me not to have feelings.

–It’s really unattractive when you wear makeup.
It’s really unattractive that you think you can govern my face.

–It’s really unattractive that you watch so much TV.
It’s really unattractive that I have to resort to fictional characters to fulfill my emotional needs. You’re nothing next to Ben Wyatt.

Any readers out there have an, “It’s really unattractive…” moment? What did you say or wish you’d have said? I would love to hear from you.

The History of J. Awkward Prufrock (as Told by Old Diary Entries)

A lot happens when you pack up your life. Like you find old underwear from when you were in the fifth grade; and even though they are ratty and full of holes, you put them on just to feel something. Then you lay on your floor and feel the weight of Wendy Darling’s famous line, “I have to grow up tomorrow.”

Plus if you’re a serial writer like I am, you find old notebooks you haven’t been able to part with, even though they are full of less-than-glamorous details about yourself.

Here are some of those details, spelling errors and all, for your reading pleasure!

Age 6, when I learned about stereotypes and poetry. 

Dear Diary,
I love my cat. Don’t tell anyone. I don’t want them to think I’m a cat lady.
Jillian (with a backwards J. I knew it was wrong; I was just being defiant).

The Story of Lizzy and Jackie
By Jillian Ports
Lizzy and Jackie grew up in an orphinage. They had two best friends named Tipi and Janie. They were really and I mean really were best friends. 

I think that’s the end, but I mean, pretty solid, right? I don’t think any questions are left unanswered.

Here is one of my untitled works:

The moon shines bright
People are walking
Stars twinkle through the night.
Yingyangs are floating through the sky!

I think this is one of those pieces that was inspired by a work of art. I had just gotten those bitching stamp markers. Picture below!

Age 13-14, when I was the worst. 

Dear Diary,
My name is Jillian Ports. I am 13 going on 14. I just finished the eighth grade a few days ago. I’m trying this new thing with writing down my feelings so I won’t be confused all the time. So I’m gonna ramble and you’re gonna listen, got it? 

 I saw a sappy love movie today called THE NOTEBOOK. It was actually pretty good considering that I’m very anti-love. I’m more of a blood, guts, and gore kind of girl. Love is stupid and fleeting and the world will be better when everyone realizes that.

I hate happy songs too. I wish my friends would stop trying to get me to listen to happy music. I mean, what’s the point?
Jillian 

Well, 13-going-on-14 Jillian, one day this song called “Uptown Funk” is going to come out and you’re going to think differently. Also, cut the bullshit. You know you’ve cried your way through every movie you’ve ever seen.

Dear Diary,
Haven’t written in awhile. Nothing to write really. I’ve been depressed because my PIRATES OF THE CARIBBEAN fanfiction only received 3 reviews. Maybe I’m not cut out to be a writer.  

 My next entry might be more exciting. Be prepared!

 With love from my many hearts,
Jillian
PS: VANITY FAIR was virtually the WORST movie I’ve ever seen. 

I wasn’t a complete idiot. Vanity Fair did suck.

Here is the next entry—the exciting one I promised.

Dear Diary,
Nothing has happened in the last month. School is cool and drama club is going to start soon. I hope I get a part! 

 I’ve come to the realization that I don’t need a boy to make me happy (Well, obviously, Jillian. You’re anti-love!). I want to be a free person. Independent. I can think of lots of guys who are cute and stuff and all I’ve really wanted out of life is for someone to love me in that special way (What?). But then the tears come to pass. What am I to do? AND I have a bio test tomorrow. School is evil. 

With love from a confused heart,
Jillian
PS: LOVE SUCKS! 

I am woman.

Age 19, when I had feelings. 

 I’m so very tired of wondering. 

 I am so very tired of having my thoughts pounding on the sides of my skull, waiting to be released from their shell. 

 Some wish to flee through my lips, but they may not, for I might appear weak.

 Some wish to seep into my heart, but they may not, for then I’d be doomed to be weak. 

 I lay down and press to keep them in, but I am only so powerful. 

 If there is one thing I have learned from love, it’s that your soul has no bounds, you mind has no limits, and your heart never knows what it’s capable of. 

 And fear. Fear comes in all shapes, sizes, and sounds, including relentless pounding in your head—the pounding telling me that I’m about to lose. That I need to let go.

 At least I have control over the letting go. 

 I am so very afraid of falling in love. I am so very afraid of letting someone know—of letting him know. I’m so afraid of the future, not because of career uncertainty, but because I may never see him again. Because even if I weren’t afraid of falling, I never had the chance to.

And knowing that I could have fallen will bring less sleep than simply having done so.

 Yeesh, no wonder I was so tired all the time.

Dare I write it down? Dare I make it real? Dare I open up what I fight to keep closed?

 I dare. Because it is my life. Because I am mortal. Because I have a story.

 The problem with you is that I know what you are. My mind repeats it, my mouth repeats it. I am totally and completely enveloped in the truth of you. But I don’t like it. Don’t want it. 

 So my heart fantasizes. It paints a picture of thoughts and feelings that go unsaid. It whispers not truth, but possibility. Possibility is where heartache is born. My feelings were conceived out of wedlock, a fraternal twin of heartache, borne of truth and possibility.

 The possibility is what I’ve fallen in love with. The truth is what I accept.

 The worse thing is the truth of you is better than the truth of me. In many ways, you’ve lied less.

 Me? I’m whoever you want me to be.

 And we? We are nothing.

I really wish I could remember who this was about…

Ah, youth. Maybe it is best to leave it behind.

J. Awkward Prufrock and the Journey to Hogwarts

Harry Potter turned 20 this week! My how time flies. I’ll admit sometimes, even to this day, after school lets out for the summer, I find myself confused about why I still have to get up early and where my class schedule is.

Summer always fills me with that tremendous Harry Potter feeling, you know? That feeling of total wonder and excitement. I always make sure to re-read at least one of the books every summer, starting on July 31^st: the date I spent every year, from ages 11-17, staring with unblinking alertness at the sky, waiting for my Hogwarts letter to come.

I was skeptical of Harry Potter at first. Even at age 7, I always found myself distrusting the majority. But I picked up the first book when I was around 10 or so, and after that, I totally understood the hype. Like millions of other kids, those books were my childhood.

However, there is one thing about the Harry Potter books that I simply cannot get behind. And that is the house system.

So, when students get to Hogwarts at age 11, they are sorted into four “houses” based on core personality traits.

To review:
You might belong in Gryffindor, where dwell the brave at heart,
their daring nerve and chivalry set Gryffindor apart.

You might belong in Hufflepuff, where they are just and loyal,
those patient Hufflepuffs are true and unafraid of toil.

Or yet in wise, old Ravenclaw, if you’ve a ready mind,
where those of wit and learning will always find their kind.

Or perhaps in Slytherin, you’ll make your real friends.
Those cunning folks use any means to achieve their ends.

(Yes, I did type that from memory. And later today, I’ll have no idea where I put my car keys.)

You take classes with your house, you dorm with your house, you eat meals with your house, you sit with them at Quidditch games. Your house is your family. And you are pitted against other houses with a points system that, granted, promotes good study habits and behavior, but also promotes rivalry against those who are unlike you.

The history of this is supposedly the four Hogwarts founders couldn’t decide which types of students they would admit, so they decided they would take them all. But while they were there, they would ensure students would stick to their own kind.

How irresponsible!

So these students are supposed to spend some of their most formative years only hanging out with people who are like them? That seems like a really good way to stunt their brain growth. They say there wasn’t a witch or wizard who went bad who wasn’t in Slytherin. Gee! I wonder why! That’s never happened when you’ve put a bunch of capitalists in one room. With sorting comes judgment, marginalizing, fascism. Maybe that’s why Voldemort went bad. Because he never had to talk to a Hufflepuff.

Also, who’s to say a Gryffindor at age 11 is still going to be a Gryffindor at age 17? When I first took the Pottermore test at age 21, I was sorted into Gryffindor. I took it again about a year ago when I made a new account, and I was sorted into Hufflepuff. But I’m fundamentally a bookish introvert. Does that make me a Ravenclaw? I identify with all the houses. Every time someone has asked me about my Hogwarts house, I legitimately do not know the answer. Which can make me feel even more out of place than I already feel.

And I know, I know: people are always going to have their differences. Harry, Ron, and Hermione were hardly the same on many levels. And the hat takes your choice into account and yada yada. A recent Atlantic article just discussed a study being done about how people were more likely to get Pottermore-sorted into the house they wanted to be in. But is that self-awareness, self-aspiration, or a testament to the malleability of the quiz? Quizzes are easily manipulated. The hat, seemingly, not so much.

Plus, what if you get into your house and it’s awful and you don’t get along with your housemates? Are you allowed to transfer houses the way you’d be allowed to transfer roommates at a university?  How are you supposed to bond with a whole group of people based solely on the fact that you’re “brave”? It doesn’t even seem like you’d be able to transfer schools without running into the same issue, as Ilvermorny, for example, uses the same system. Though that could be your standard U.S./British thing.

Maybe it’s best I didn’t go to Hogwarts. This is a lot of social pressure. Imagine those poor wizard kids losing sleep over whether or not they will make it into their family house, forcing them to adopt unnecessary personality traits. Or maybe, with a family like the Weasleys, the hat just throws them into Gryffindor for the sake of not having to think about it too hard. What are the implications of that? What does it do to the system?

J.K. Rowling, I adore you. You are my queen. You gave me the most precious gift I’ve ever been given, and I truly believe my love for Harry Potter has helped define me as a fierce proponent of storytelling. But this system is potentially hazardous to the youth of this fictional wizarding world. You can take that feedback all the way to the bank!

Ending My Stigma Against Myself

I recently did my Myers-Briggs personality breakdown.

For anyone who may not be familiar, the Myers-Briggs system sorts people’s personality types into sixteen different categories, based on four sets of criteria: introverted vs. extraverted, intuitive vs. sensing, thinking vs. feeling, and judging vs. perceiving.

I am an INTJ. No surprises there. If you’d like to take the test, you can do so here: https://www.16personalities.com/free-personality-test (and about 999 other places on the internet).

I’ve never really been a fan of these sorts of things, but I go back and forth on why, depending on the day. Either I think it is impractical to box humans, with all of their complexities, into a simple 16 categories, or I think you’re either a dumbass or not a dumbass and there is no reason to over-complicate it.

It turns out this is a very INTJ thing to say.

Another INTJ thing: this was the most concise chart I could find, but it is taking all of my strength to ignore that it says “extrovert” instead of “extravert.” Extrovert has evolved into an acceptable spelling over the years, but it doesn’t make any linguistic sense.

A me thing: I hate myself for making that statement.

I did the test because we often use it in my office when students are struggling to find a major or a career path. I thought it would be useful for me to better understand the system so I could help the students. As I stated already, I wasn’t exactly shocked by my results, but when I started to do more research, it got a little crazy.

Reading about the INTJ experience was like reading a description of myself: the things I like, the things I’m good (and bad) at, the way I approach conflict, relationships. It was all laid out there on my computer screen.

INTJ is one of the rarest Myers-Briggs personality types, and an INTJ woman is the rarest gender/personality type combination of them all, making up roughly 0.5% of the population. Because of this, an INTJ woman notably has a harder time connecting with other women (and people in general). At first, reading all of this gave me comfort. I had some definition, a name to put to all of my questions about why some seemingly easy things, like being in public, were difficult for me, why I never felt like I was getting anywhere with people. I was just on a different plane. Not a better or worse plane, just different.

There were some qualities of a typical INTJ that I consider good qualities: they are competent workers, they have high professional standards for themselves and others, they embrace the weird and the creative, they are known as the entrepreneurs, strategists, architects. Some famous INTJs include Mark Zuckerberg, Nikolai Tesla, and other innovative thinkers.

But then, I started to get angry.

Because as I scrolled through my Google results, I started to see headlines like, “How to be a Likable INTJ Woman,” and, “Maintaining Your Femininity as an INTJ Woman,” or, “What It’s Like Being an INTJ Woman (And How to Fix it).” It was like the greater population’s consensus was that I needed to be repaired, reprogrammed. And there was nothing about being a likable INTJ man or person. Just woman.

This all started to make me think about all the times I’ve been called a bitch, arrogant, odd, crazy. How many times people have offered up ways I could improve myself, tricks and tips for behaving like a normal woman. I absorbed that information deeply within myself, as an INTJ would, and took it seriously. I set out to make myself a different me because I truly believed the me I had developed over the course of my life was poorly built. I’m really, really tired of thinking that way. It is hard to be fighting with yourself all the time.

Now that I’m older, I realize…I am odd. That’s okay. Call me odd. But if we are going to throw around nasty terms at one another, I think they should be reserved for those filled with malice, ill-intent, hatred, sadism. I’ve never approached any social situation with anything other than discomfort and obsessive concern about whether or not I’ll be wanted. I don’t think I deserve to be called a bitch because I don’t fit into your idea of what I should be. We may have different interests, but we are both human, and that means something.

And you know what? As Tina Fey once said, “bitches” get stuff done. And so do INTJ women.