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!

IMG_0901

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.

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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 31st: 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.

MB

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.