nobody said it was easy.

Hello dear readers,

I can’t believe I promised I’d return to updating this website over a year ago...only to have failed in doing so. I will say, COVID knocked the momentum out of me. I spent the rest of the summer getting the most technical I ever had in my teaching career...as I knew I was going to be faced with the challenge of virtual teaching come September of 2020. I focused on teaching virtual summer school and learning about every single new online platform that could be used to (hopefully) keep my students engaged. I think I’ve had enough of Zoom for my lifetime, but based on what I’ve been hearing for the 2021-2022 school year...Zoom is not going away from the classroom just quite yet. Ay.

All my school days (before, during, and after our contract hours of 8 AM to 3 PM) and my weekends were either spent in virtual Collaborative Learning Teams (CLT) with my fellow history teachers (oy, did our ‘off the record’ meetings we had at each other’s houses get snarky…and filled with so many expletives), trying to do lesson plans and create assessments, converting PowerPoints into read aloud videos for our hard-of-hearing/Special Education/English Language Learner students, figuring out fillable fields in Microsoft Word for the students to have access to guided notes (not that they did the guided notes, but hey, the resources were there!), becoming a super expert with our “love it, but hate it at the same time” learning management system (LMS) - Canvas (oh, how I wanted to try Google Classroom), and going so far as to purchase a Nearpod Gold subscription to have more storage space for my history lessons to be converted into fun and interactive activities (I was reimbursed when my county purchased a District subscription for all teachers…$120 later…)

Wow. Okay, so Reader’s Digest version - I had the hardest school year to face, and therefore, did not have the energy to update this website...my labor of love...but let’s be honest, the stories of my forays into virtual teaching, and the many, many failures and successes I had, would have been excellent fodder for history-nerd.com (side note: you can follow bite sized offerings of my teaching escapades at my teacher Twitter account).

Anyways. Hi! I’m alive, I’ve taken a deep breath, I’m getting actual sleep, I took a vacation over a year later (what up, Kentucky?), I’m still in therapy (much needed during the Year of COVID), and I bought a townhome! I’m adulting, as you call it, and I think I’m handling it as gracefully as God will allow. 

I took another adulting risk, and started to date (as much as the Year of COVID would let me). When things started to open up, I went out on some dates, here and there, usually for coffee or a craft beer. None of the dates manifested into anything meaningful...until just this past May as I was finishing off this crazy school year. 

Honestly, I thought the guy I was scheduled to go out with would be like my past dates - he wouldn’t follow up, he’d forget my number, I’d shake it off (no loss there) and choose to either go out with someone else...or not. I remember us making plans and I was so nonchalant about the date, that all I focused on was what kind of food the restaurant had to offer. My work wife, Lisa, and I perused the menu together one day after school. We were impressed that for dessert, the restaurant had homemade Belgian waffles.

So Lisa was like:

“Well, if the date’s a dud, make sure you order a Belgian waffle (to go), and hey! You get a waffle out of it and we at least will have a new place to hang out and grab dessert together after a long school day!”

With the waffle mentality in mind, I bravely went out to dinner with the guy and again, kept reminding myself - it’s not a big deal if it doesn’t work out.

I remember seeing him, sitting in front of the restaurant, waiting for me. I remember thinking oh shit. He’s even more gorgeous in person than he was on his dating profile. His bluish green eyes beamed at me and he gave me the slightest, but sweetest smile as we introduced ourselves.

And so, I thought, once more unto the breach, as I followed him into the restaurant.

Like any first date, there’s always the awkward eye contact and questioning of what to ask and say. My other work bestie, Cymone, had advised that I be frank and ask just what it was he was looking for, but of course, I was too nervous to even bring it up. In due time, I thought. It’s only the first date. We ordered beers and meals - he, a salad of sorts, and me, the idiot, asking for a pound and a half of mussels (after that date, he still made fun of my, um, eclectic order because he had to help me finish the lot). 

Conversation progressed when he asked me about the tattoo on my forearm. I could feel the smile grow on my face at the question - telling people about my tattoo is one of my favorite things to talk about. Two years ago, after my breakup and I was at my lowest mentally, I went to New York to visit my best friend Jessica, when she was working at Syracuse University. During my trip, we decided to get tattoos, and although I thought I’d never get one in my life time - I just knew I needed something to remind myself of my dear departed maternal grandma, Micaela. She always told me que le vaya bien (translates to: “I wish you well” or “all will be well”) whenever we would part after a visit, and I remember always feeling comforted by her smile and lovely, encouraging words. I obtained a handwriting sample and my tattoo artist was able to recreate the phrase on my forearm in her beautiful script. 

My parents were livid after I got the tattoo, and said I’d come to regret “defiling” my body...but to this day, I grin every time I see it, because I’m reminded of my grandma. She was practically an earthly angel, and I am always reassured, that even when the darkness sets in and my anxiety and depression are heightening, things will be better knowing that her spirit and words are inked on my body. Telling this guy such a meaningful and personal story was so easy to do, and then I asked him about his tattoos. He told me about getting his half sleeve, in particular, when he was stationed with the Navy in Japan, but I couldn’t help and admire his commitment to the great state of Texas - he’d had it tattooed on his other arm (when we’d matched, we’d discovered our Texas ties and things went from there). 

His time in Japan helped us start another conversation - we began to talk about (of all things) World War II and the Pacific Theater. I remember mentioning that I wanted to visit the islands of all the Pacific battles and that I enjoyed reading E.B. Sledge’s memoir of his time in Peleliu and Okinawa - With the Old Breed (this work would help form the script for the HBO mini series The Pacific)...and that’s when he looked at me, in astonishment. He was surprised that I had read Sledge’s memoir. 

I think that’s when I knew I wanted a second date with him.

(I told Lisa the next day that I didn’t need or want to take home a waffle when she asked me how the date went).

We finished the damned mussels and he asked if I wanted to walk around the waterfront area the restaurant was located by. I agreed and we, again, fell into an easy conversation. It was rather chilly that night, so we didn’t get to walk around as much as I’d hoped. Then, all of a sudden, he told me I had something stuck on my face and, to my surprise, took his hand and gently brushed the offending item off of my cheek. I pretended not to feel the blush creep across my skin (or the butterflies that fluttered dangerously in my stomach). 

We said our goodbyes and I prayed to God that he would follow up with me. I wanted him to follow up with me. Knowing my luck, however, I thought he wouldn’t. Unlike the previous dates I’d had with no follow up text, for the first time, I knew I would be disappointed if he didn’t ask to see me again.

Luckily, he did follow up the next day. 

We went from there - dates every week. He was sweet, kind, intelligent, and funny. Steady head on his shoulders. Admitted to some baggage early on in the dating stages - of which I respected the hell out of him for being honest with me. He, in turn, respected me when I wasn’t quite ready to make the dating um, more intimate, if you will.

I didn’t want to read into things. I didn’t want to destroy the rapport we’d been building. I was hesitant to ask him very personal questions (like about his previous marriage) because I didn’t want him to think I was being too invasive. So, I focused on his actions and words - that he seemed to want to be taking things seriously between us. I didn’t ask him if he was dating other women, but I reminded myself that there was a possibility. I was perfectly fine with that, although I wish he had been more honest about how many women he was seeing alongside myself. I simply wanted to enjoy dating him, but with each date that passed, I found myself hoping that he would want to become my boyfriend.

We had a couple of blips along the road - especially one that happened just this past week. We parted on a Friday with the understanding that he was having a boy’s weekend with one of his good friends. I decided to peace off to Richmond and have a solo date; I went to my favorite craft breweries and carefully enjoyed drinking my beloved fruited sours at The Answer and The Veil. I texted him once, showing a picture of my beers, but ultimately, stayed aloof and respected his man time. I came home, blissfully exhausted, and then...the following morning, after I’d woken up and taken a shower before going to Sunday Mass, I saw that he’d texted me.

Only it wasn’t a sweet, good morning, how are you message (not that he ever sent any of those over the course of our “relationship”).

It was a picture attachment, of him, in full lip lock with a girl who wasn’t me - a girl who, of course, looked lovelier than I could ever dream to be. All my anxieties of my appearance (and how my ex always made fun of me about how I looked), that I had worked so hard to rid my mind of with my therapist, returned and slapped me in the face with that horrible picture. The girl had long hair, unlike me, who has still stubbornly kept it short (my ex always despised my shorter locks). Smooth complexion, excellent makeup application, and really, had an aura about her that she just looked like she knew she was sexy…and the look on his face in the picture seemed to think she was too.

I only received the picture. No other context. No words saying: hey, I’m out, I’ve found someone better than you.

I texted him back: “Umm...nice to know you think I’m a joke...goodbye.”

I angrily ranted to my friends, cried my heart out at Mass, and after grabbing a coffee pick-me-up at Starbucks on my way home, finally received a text message back.

He replied: “?”

I sent him the screenshot of the picture, telling him about the “lovely” message I received from him that morning. He didn’t respond; not right away. I went to bed early, exhausted and emotionally drained. I forced myself out of bed the next day. I went on a run to clear my head, ran some morning errands, and still, no response from him. 

Finally, he replied: “I know it doesn’t matter now, but I do care about you, I don’t think you’re a joke, and I’m truly sorry. I still had my stuff at my old house where my ex still lives and I went there to get stuff, she somehow got into my phone and sent a photo, then deleted the message,” followed by a “bye.” 

I’d written him off, without an explanation, so he caved in and respected my goodbyes.

We ended up talking it out (despite the warnings from my friends who still, to this day, think he was lying to me - they believed there was no boy’s weekend and that he’d hooked up with her…and honestly, I now think he was also lying to me, but whatever) and things seemed to be fine again. I wanted to trust him. I was tired of my distrust in every man I encountered after my ex.

I kept reminding myself: He was not my ex. It wasn’t fair of me to compare him to my ex. 

And just when I thought everything between us was going to be okay...two days later (I won’t go into details), I received a medical diagnosis (no illnesses though, just some physical therapy!) that unfortunately, would cause some delays in our relationship becoming more intimate. I wasn’t happy about the diagnosis, as it only continued to remind me about the fertility struggles my body seemed to be going through lately, even before I met this guy. I wasn’t reassured with this news, because everyone who knows me is aware of how much I value motherhood. I’ve always wanted to have a family and bring life into this world. I’ve wanted to be called mother for a long time now. If I’m not able to work through this diagnosis, my chances of physically being able to become a mother are slim to none.

My doctor saw the worry etched on my face and tried to placate me - that the physical therapy would work and I would be on the mend by the early fall, but I remember driving home that day, heartbroken that God seemed to be trying to tell me you’re never going to be a mother…this is my plan for you, this is your agony in the garden, and you must feel this suffering now in order to accept my word and my will - with this new diagnosis.

I also wondered how the hell I was going to tell him about my diagnosis, but I knew it had to be soon, at least to quell my anxieties if he decided to leave me. The sooner, the better…am I right? I knew I had to be honest with him, even if it meant losing him for good.

So that evening, I called him and broke the news. I asked where he was feeling about us becoming exclusive - I knew, realistically, I would be even more heartbroken knowing he was with other girls while I recovered and completed physical therapy. He hesitated and said he wasn’t sure where we stood...and that he would call me. He hastily hung up and I started to worry as to when (rather if) he would call me.

Two days later, I was admitted into the ER, suffering from intense pelvic spasms, to the point where I could barely move or get up from my sofa. As I laid in the sterile hospital bed, waiting for test results and not mentally coherent because of the pain killers I was hooked up on, I realized I couldn’t wait for him to call.

So I texted him, wishing him well and hoping all the best for him. I said a resolute goodbye, with the painful realization that I had to let him, my glimmer of hope after two years of not letting anyone into my heart, go. If this sounds dramatic, well, it’s true. Ask my friends. Ask my sister. Ask my mother. The last two years of bitterness, of wondering why I wasn’t good enough for someone (therapy, of course has helped me process), were difficult. Then this wonderful man just comes in and…I panicked. I kept pushing him away, just waiting for the next proverbial shoe to drop. But the thing is, he kept staying, and I struggled to comprehend that he was staying. I’m used to the men I’m dating walking away from me. And despite the setbacks we had, up until this point, he hadn’t walked away yet.

He followed my cues, replied to my text, and said goodbye too.

My next proverbial shoe decided to drop.

This time, he finally decided to walk away.

(Not once has he bothered to at least ask me if I’m okay, or if I’m feeling better, or has sent well-wishes for a good recovery - he walked away with no emotion, feeling, or compassion…just very cold, abrupt, and clinical).

If you’re curious, my dear readers, I am improving with my physical health. The pains have mostly subsided (they are reoccurring, but not as bad as they were since the ER visit) and I’ll be starting physical therapy once the clinic is able to make an appointment for me, as they are not ready to see new patients for a few weeks. My friends and family have been reaching out to me every day since I was released from the hospital and he walked out of my life, asking me if I’m feeling okay. 

Again, physically, yes. I am. I know I will be feeling even better whenever I start the physical therapy. Here’s hoping I’m stronger by the beginning of the school year, because the pains really are starting to impact my day-to-day life.

Mentally and emotionally? Well, it all comes in waves. I will admit, there are moments I am worried my depression may eclipse my anxiety, but to be honest, I feel stronger than I was during the last break up because I am 110% aware that I cannot blame myself for the end of this. It’s a diagnosis out of my control. How can I blame myself for this man leaving me for a diagnosis I surely didn’t want? So I know I’m being truthful with my friends and family when they are like, “Are you sure you’re okay?” after I reassure them that I am.

(But please remember, it’s okay to not be okay! Ask for help when you feel you’re drowning - I know I’m always a phone call, email, or text away!)

Look, if this was the 2019 version of me dealing with this relationship, I would be crying my heart out every day, refusing to leave the safety of my bed, wondering why I wasn’t beautiful, smart, sexy or whatever enough to get this guy to stay with me - to want to be my boyfriend. I would be calling this guy every nasty word in the dictionary (and every other synonym for those words in the thesaurus) wishing him ill will, and wanting him to be miserable.

I will admit, there are days where I am angry with him for: not caring about the pain I’ve been in, letting his ex-girlfriend throw their continued relationship in my face with that picture, writing me off like if I was the one who continually hurt him and broke his heart…

And, of course, for wasting my time. For getting my hopes up and dreaming of a relationship. For taking away the opportunity of falling in love, getting married, and having a family - something that I’ve never had and that he’s already received once in this lifetime.

But I learned, if you remember from my previous post, forgiveness is the key to mental and emotional healing.

So the 2021 version of me knows that I need to forgive and try to see some good in this guy, despite his decision to leave me due to something out of my control…in order at least give myself peace of mind. He and I clearly want different things. We prioritize different things. Part of me wishes that he would just realize, hey, she’s wonderful enough to be in a relationship with…who else will I ever meet that would have read ‘With the Old Breed’...that commitment can be a thing…she’s good enough to wait around for while she recovers...and, in the wise words of my grandma Micaela, all would be well. 

Realistically, a bigger part of me knows that no one, not even me, could truly convince him to change his mind and commit - at least not at this time in his life. So let him find someone else - someone who can truly meet his needs and wants, as hurtful as it is to admit. Let him go back to his sociopathic, cruel, and scheming ex-girlfriend, especially if he hadn’t stopped seeing her when we were still dating. I don’t care. I just want him to be happy and, although I thought I could make him happy (oh, how I tried…and oh, how I gave, gave, and gave…and oh, how he took, took, and took), my efforts were never going to be enough because I didn’t live up to his expectations.

I miss him already, very much, and although I know I put a lot of pressure on him with this diagnosis…I just hope he knows that:

1. I was already having a bad week with the start of it being the incident with the ex-girlfriend.

2. I truly wasn’t expecting that diagnosis at the doctor’s office.

3. I was more concerned about how he would react about the diagnosis, and was mortified to tell him the truth…because I was scared of losing him (joke’s on me, I lost him in the end).

4. I simply had hope that he would be at my side, no matter what was told to me by my doctor.

5. I don’t understand why he had to act so cold, selfish, and clinical when he ended it. I didn’t hurt him. I didn’t cheat on him, call him mean things, yell at him, try to be spiteful like his ex-girlfriend, or simply be an all around terrible person. I simply told him the truth, and yet, he’s the one placing 100% of the blame on me by acting as though he doesn’t care about me, contrary to his promises that he did when the stupid text incident with the ex-girlfriend occurred.

6. I also don’t understand why he had to hit below the belt and throw my already shaky relationship with my father in my face when he broke up with me. He justified his “end” to our “relationship” because he thought it would be awkward that he would never get to meet or be accepted by my family. I told him my father would never want to meet any man I date who is not Catholic (this guy, clearly, isn’t). He, though, had been aware of my difficult relationship with my father - that he’s never been proud or accepting of my life choices.

   All I could think was: my father hasn’t accepted me for almost thirty years, literally, since the day I was born, but you’re more concerned about him accepting you? As if. He used my father just so he could have a little less guilt over ending this for his own selfish reasons.

7. And last, but not least, that I was developing genuine feelings for him. I accepted him as he was, despite his own chaotic baggage…and I don’t regret my acceptance. I do not hate him. Not one bit.

As abruptly as he left me, I still refuse to believe that he’s a horrible person. I think his past (although he never told me much about it - I had to make some connections and assumptions based on the limited information I was given) has a lot to do with how he views relationships, intimacy, and really, women. Hurt people hurt people, says my therapist. This hurt man decided to hurt me. I realized after he ended whatever we were that he never cared about me - his words were simply just words. His words that he “cared” were never supported with actions.

I can certainly now realize how the blunt, selfish, and shallow way he “ended” us could have been impacted by his past relationships. That, however, doesn’t excuse the way he acted, but it sure explains it.

So, I’ll emphasize now - I truly did enjoy every second of our time together. We had a brilliant rapport. When we were together, he didn’t berate me like my ex did. He didn’t throw my mental instabilities in my face. He supported me and listened when I ranted about my frustrations with my father (although he sure didn’t mind using this against me at the end). He encouraged and respected my passion for teaching history.

I’ll always remember how he noticed I wore a different pair of quirky earrings every time we met for a date, and adored my sense of style...and my short hair. 

He made me the most delicious steak tacos (because he knew tacos are the way to my heart) and remembered I preferred flour over corn tortillas. 

I was simply impressed by how he remembered the little things about me - and it made my heart soar that someone, for once, was valuing everything I was.

He let me be me, really - and he wasn’t embarrassed by what I brought to the table.

Most importantly, for a brief second, he let me have hope again. He enabled me to open my heart up and trust - something I thought my heart wasn’t capable of doing again after my previous relationship. That’s why I’m hurting over this loss; I believed for a moment that this man was God’s way of telling me, I’m trying to give you what you’ve been wanting over these last two years. 

I don’t doubt my faith. But I guess the reality is, God’s plan really is God’s plan, and I need to be patient to see what His plan truly will be for me. Maybe this guy isn’t my plan now. He probably won’t ever be.

I will never understand why someone who seemed so right just ended up being so, so wrong for me.

Either he truly wanted to be with me and simply ran away when things became too difficult…or he was just a really good liar and manipulator.

My heart, right now, is going with the latter.

But, to quote Kathleen Kelly from You’ve Got Mail - 

“I wanted it to be you. I wanted it to be you so badly.”

For now, I need to focus on myself. This website, for example, seriously does need an update. I’ve had comments from readers wanting to do guest posts and I am very much looking forward to making that happen...as well as getting book reviews published and discussing my exploits as a history teacher this coming school year on this platform. I’ve decided not to date while going through physical therapy - I wouldn’t want the added stress of dating - I find no positive outcome in having to potentially bring this diagnosis up should a relationship manifest. I wouldn’t want to watch another man walk away from me, again, all because of my candor. I sincerely want to take time to improve my health (and I’m already on track to do that!), strengthen my faith, hang out with my friends, spend time with my family, further my teaching career, maybe write a book, and just...let my life unfold, especially as I prepare to celebrate entering a new decade in December.

One day at a time.

I’ve been alone for so long now. As I approach thirty, I truly thought I’d be married already. At this point, I am ready to face a life of being the perpetually single girl. I don’t say this as defeat or to be self-deprecating. Really. I say this as acceptance.

I’ve dreamed of domesticity since I was a little girl. The fairy tale. I wanted the fairy tale that was continually shoved down my throat with Disney movies, Hans Christian Andersen stories, and by my dad. He set the expectation that once I was done with school and gainfully employed, it would be time for me to meet a nice man, get married, and have children.

And I believed in the fairy tale; I took it to be gospel when I was young, hopeful, and filled with optimism - before my heart became so bitter and cynical after all of my failed relationships. I prayed for my Prince Charming to sweep me off my feet, a Pinterest worthy wedding day, a spacious and comfortable house complete with the cliché white picket fence, and the most beautiful children in my arms.

I remember once telling my mother during grad school that, if I met the right man, I would have put my education on pause to marry him, keep house, have children, and fulfill that fairy tale because it was what I believed my heart so desperately yearned for. My post-grad history diploma, as far as I was concerned, could wait. As you all know from other previous posts, I finished grad school, received my MA, and although I came close, I never did find my Prince Charming to start a life with.

After this guy, deciding to leave me for (again) something out of my control, I don’t think the fairy tale is destined for me. What more, I ask, do I have to do (or not do?) in order to be someone else’s fairy tale?

I’m tired of never just being quite enough for the men I fall in love with. I’m used to it by now, but that doesn’t mean I resent the way they walk away from me the moment things become challenging.

As much as I truly still want to, I know that I don’t have to get married and have biological children to be happy - that my life, up to this point, has been fruitful and blessed with everything else I have achieved. My mother reminds me every day that she’s proud of me; that my health and sanity come first…to stop putting so much pressure on myself to get married and have children, because, ultimately, the continued heartache and hopefulness will eat at me and destroy me. She has had to go so far as to reassure me that she would never be disappointed if I never give her grandchildren. She wants me, her child, to feel better first - physically, emotionally, and mentally.

My dad, however, has now been unfairly hinting for grandchildren (although seeing as he’ll never approve of anyone I marry, really, Catholic or not, joke’s on him - as he would never get to meet the grandchildren then). Sorry to disappoint, dad, but nowhere is it written that domesticity and motherhood has to be my be all, end all. Going to the hospital last week, by myself, was proof that I can handle practically anything on my own. Buying a house by myself earlier this year is even more concrete proof that I’ve got this.

On my own.

I guess I’ve crafted a different sort of fairy tale then, and I take pride in knowing my continued faith has helped me make most of my dreams come true.

I hope y’all stay tuned for a soon-to-come post!

Until then…

Many happy returns, 

-Kate

you know we can't go back.

For those of you who have helped me find my inner strength, you know who you are, and I dedicate this post to you. I don’t know what I would have done without your patience and love.

For those of you who are struggling on the inside - I hope one day you find the courage to admit that it is okay to not be okay.

A year. It’s been a year since the man I was falling in love with walked away. It has been a year of growth, of self-discovery, of coming to terms with who I am, of many emotional nights crying myself to sleep, of wondering what is wrong with me…

And I’ve come to realize that one year later, despite the heartbreak, forgiveness was the key to move on and put this all in the past. But before we talk about forgiveness and stuff, let’s talk about the road it took to get me there.

Last summer, after my first school year ended and I got used to not living at home, I finally admitted and accepted the fact that I needed to address my anxiety and depression. With the help and support of my best friend Jessica, I made the first step in my journey to wellness, mindfulness, and self-care. I made an appointment with a cognitive behavioral therapist (CBT). I decided to ignore what my family believed about mental healthcare (that it wasn’t important) and chose to do this for my own sake and mindset. The guy who broke my heart made it pretty clear I was an anxiety-ridden basket case and couldn’t accept me as I was. I didn’t go seek out a therapist to make him happy or to prove to him that I was trying to “feel better” in a pathetic attempt to hope he would take me back.

Again, I did it for me.

I am writing this because I fully believe in trying to get rid of the stigma that surrounds mental healthcare. I am not afraid to admit to those who know me, that I see a therapist once a week. Now, I still haven’t told my dad, because I’m not ready to, but I’m working getting the guts to do so. But I shouldn’t have to feel skeptical about admitting it to my coworkers. I always had a fear that if I admitted at the workplace that I was seeking therapy, I could be labeled as mentally “unstable.” Then I realized…why, then, does my insurance (provided through work) consider CBT as primary, basic healthcare? My appointments are $20 co-pays, rather than $35 specialist co-pays. Basic mental healthcare should be considered necessary and important, to anyone who feels like they would benefit from it - yours truly, included. I’ve told my closest colleagues (really, they’re friends more than colleagues) that I see a therapist and it didn’t even faze them. They were incredibly supportive, and understood that on Wednesdays, I left immediately after work to make it on time to my appointments. If I ever had a particularly emotional session, they were always willing to talk to me on the phone and ease my mind - sometimes they would call me to make sure I was okay.

I’m so comfortable with telling other people (if, of course, it naturally comes up in conversation) that I’ve gotten to the point at work where I mention it casually: oh, I can’t stay after school for that meeting - I’m seeing my therapist today. Big deal.

Although my “break-up” (I use this term loosely, as, in his mind, we were never in a relationship) was the catalyst to finally getting to a therapist, there were many other factors that I knew contributed to my declining mental health. I love my parents dearly, I do. Those who know me well know that I have a strong relationship with them. As I got older, I realized that my father can be stoic and unemotional to the point where I feel like, no matter what I do in my professional or personal life…it is not good enough, even though I have spent my entire life living up to his expectations - of trying to be a perfect daughter. Case in point: we had disagreed about the man I was seeing when I decided to move out. He believed the man was only into me to get a green card, and was not going to support my decision to keep seeing him. I, of course, had faith in the guy and decided that, no, I was going to keep seeing him, so I left. I felt like I had reached my breaking point. For twenty-seven years, I had always done right by him and what he wanted. For once, I wanted to be selfish and look out for my best interests.

Then a few days after I left, my former drunkenly berated me, ditched me at a bar, and walked away from me. Yeah, we’d broken up, but not for the reasons my father thought would cause problems later on in the relationship. I spent the entire summer, after a trip to Syracuse, Chicago, and Laredo, renting a room in a townhouse, virtually alone unless one of my friends reached out to see if I wanted to get together, seeing my therapist, holding on to my continued faith in God, and trying desperately not to let the swarming rumors of what my former was telling all of our co-workers affect my attempts to heal from my broken heart:

• That I was just a “hook-up,” even though his many texts and conversations had me convinced I actually meant something to him.

• That I was the one who ruined everything - that I single-handedly destroyed our relationship.

Returning to work, I knew, was going to be just another challenge to talk through with my therapist - there was the fact that, yeah, I was going to have to see him every now and then…and I was also now going to have to try to ignore his friends who were spreading his vitriolic rumors about me, but whatever. I was reassured that I had my therapeutic outlet, plus the added bonus of having such an amazing group of friends at work. Slowly, but surely, I was finding my footing again.

I ended up coming back home before the summer ended. That’s when my footing slipped a bit and I ended up having some awful breakdowns with my therapist. My former kept showing up nearby where I was living at night to play tennis at the courts in my neighborhood. My landlady gave him the key to access the courts. She was friends with him. When I asked her if she could tell me when he was coming by so I could make a quick exit (just seeing his car was still a mental trigger), she flat-out refused. What made it worse is that she was telling him when I wasn’t home so he could make an appearance.

I couldn’t sleep. I didn’t like the fact that he was close by and I didn’t like that my landlady was giving him intel on when I wasn’t at home! Frankly, it was none of his business. All I wanted was to move on and live my life - and his nighttime visits weren’t allowing me to do that. I could accept the fact that I was going to see him at work. My therapist was helping me, at the time, to figure out coping strategies for that prospect. Him coming by, his car in view by where I would park, - him, essentially invading my personal space? That, I knew, wasn’t fair.

I called my mom one night and told her what was going on. I had already talked to my therapist, and we’d figured, okay, guess it’s time to find another place, even though I’d only been there for all of two months. Was it right to have to be uprooted again so suddenly? Absolutely not. I, though, was at least able to clearly realize I needed to leave for my own sake. So, I told my mom that I needed to have peace of mind with him showing up - what if our paths eventually crossed? She was worried about me, regardless of my decision, and told my dad what was happening (although I had told her not to).

This is where the love that my father can excellently convey appears. My dad didn’t say “I was right” or “I told you so.” Even a year later, he still never has. He told me to come home because he was afraid that my former would do something to hurt me. No apologies, no bitterness, nothing. Just come home. I was safely back in my old room, with my family, before I returned to work at the end of the summer. Now I’m working on my next steps of finding a place to live that I can own…with the support of my parents.

That’s not to say everything is perfect. I still struggle with my dad’s gruffness and I’m sure he thinks I’m too flighty at times, but thanks to therapy, I have figured out how to better approach my father…or when to just give him space. Even when my sister and mom feel frustrated with his stoicism, I offer them the advice my therapist gives me, and it has helped immensely on how they talk to my dad as well. My therapy has also been helpful in that I find new ways to approach how I interact with my students, especially if I’ve had a particularly stressful day or week at work. I’ve come a long way from my first few sessions, when I was the proverbial hysterical therapist’s client, short of lying on a couch - bawling her eyes out, going through a box of Kleenex, and wondering why she wasn’t good or pretty enough for the man who walked away from her. It’s so nice to have therapy sessions for other facets of my life to help create a more well-rounded me.

A year later, I am glad to say that, while I may not be the trustworthy and wear my heart on my sleeve girl that I was before this all happened, I am proud with the girl that I have become. I’m more aware of my quirks and flaws and unashamedly embrace them. I used to be someone who loved to give love with all her heart, to the point where I was used and taken advantage of. Now I know that, while I can still be giving with my love, I must also do so with caution. I shouldn’t just give my love so freely and openly - if someone truly wants my love, or even my friendship, they are going to have to truly earn it. As my therapist says, I am aware of what I bring to the “table,” both the good and not-so-good. I just need to remember that no one can have my good, if they can’t accept my not-so-good.

Him included.

I gave him my heart, my love, and my everything so quickly. He painted me such beautiful, hopeful words, and I quickly believed in his words. I believed in him. He, in the time we were “together,” didn’t provide any actions to make those words believable. He told me I was beautiful, I was his angel…that I gave him joy and peace. Who wouldn’t melt at such lovely word craft? Unfortunately, when he ended things with me and walked away, I couldn’t believe in him and anything else he told me, because he couldn’t give me the satisfaction of closure. I heard rumors he wasn’t faithful (and from more than one source) and instead of worrying about me and how I may have been impacted by this…instead of being mature enough to personally tell me he was faithful, he yelled at me over the phone and told me to stop making assumptions. Add in the nasty things he was telling his friends at work, well…it certainly didn’t help his case.

We don’t talk. At all. We go about our days as if we never had spoken to each other. He told me he wasn’t ready for a relationship, and then two months later, he was showing off his new girlfriend on social media. The girl that he always wanted me to be. When we were “together,” he told me I should grow my hair out because he preferred it longer, wanted me to stop biting my nails (he didn’t understand that I bit them due to my anxiety)…really, he told me at one point, he would be my “life coach.” Now, in my place, was someone he could be proud to show off to the world. He has now found his true beauty - a girl with long, lustrous hair, perfectly manicured nails, a sexy body, and no anxiety issues stamped on her forehead. A girl, who unlike me, didn’t need a life coach.

I know he’s hurt me in so many ways, and even though I wasn’t perfect, I don’t think I deserved the way he just left me behind. I don’t think I needed to be the target of such crude statements.

And yet, I still miss him. I know he’s been through enough in his life, and although I don’t know what to believe in what personal problems he’s told me about having an impact on how he treats women, I’ll still have a little faith in his words. I am a realist, and I know that he is never coming back. There is no fairy tale ending. He didn’t want me. I can finally admit that without feeling despondent. He is never going to apologize for the pain he caused me. He is never going to admit that he too, was at fault. He is so happy now with his true beauty, and that’s all I had ever wanted for him. I hoped I could’ve been the one to be beautiful enough for him, and to make him happy, but alas, that wasn’t meant to be. I’m so glad he’s truly, truly happy. There are days where I am angry with him, but I don’t hate him, although the jury’s out on his opinion of me. I don’t hate him - I could never hate him. I forgave him a long time ago for the heartache he caused, because if I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have been able to forge ahead and be happy myself.

Therapy, really, has taught me the most important thing:

That I deserved to forgive myself.

I deserved to stop blaming me, and me only, for the end of our “relationship.” I deserved to be happy too.

One day, someone will take me as I am - short hair, anxiety, and all.

And if that someone doesn’t arrive, well…at least I know that the journey I have been on has allowed me to be happy with myself.

So, in honor of this discovery, this history nerd is making a return to producing original, historical, and occasionally dorky content, after a year of being scared to embrace who she truly is. She’s back, and going to (try to) be better than ever.

Until then…

many happy returns.

-Kate

D-Day 75

I’m moving away from the sappy, heartbreaking writing (see my previous post written on 3 June) to talk about this day in history, seventy-five years ago…

The “day of days.” The “longest day.” Arguably, the greatest invasion in military history. The day that the turning point of the Second World War began. Today we commemorate the Allied forces who made the ultimate sacrifices for the freedoms we continue to take for granted when they stormed the Normandy beaches on 6 June 1944.

(Side note: everyone wonders what the mysterious “D” stands for in “D-Day.” It simply means “day.” It was day “zero” of the invasion. Soldiers who continued to fight on the beaches after 6 June would add up the days they were there…D +1, D+2, etc...until they were sent elsewhere in Europe.)

The United States took the Omaha and Utah sector. Great Britain seized Gold and Sword. Canada overtook Juno. Together, they began the quest to end the rise of Fascism and Nazism that plagued Europe during the 1930s and 1940s. These veterans, whether they survived D-Day or not, are indeed the “greatest generation” because of their noble bravery, and today, especially, because this invasion was so successful - we salute them for their service.

Check out these links to educate yourself more about the D-Day commemorations:

Imperial War Museums: Read this organization’s story here.

View a memorial commemorating the Canadians who served on Juno Beach here.

Read more about this history nerd’s most admired WWII hero, Major Richard D. Winters, who jumped into Normandy with the 506th Parachute Infantry Regiment as a member of Easy Company (Currahee!) through his obituary, published in the New York Times. Major Winters has an exhibit dedicated to him at the Hershey Derry Township Society Museum, as he was born, raised, and spent the rest of the life in this region of Central Pennsylvania. Check out the museum here.

This is Major Winters’s shadow box, on display at the Hershey Derry Township Society museum, along with other items from his amazing military career. Notice the “Currahee” patch on the top left corner. “Currahee” is a Cherokee word meaning “stand alone,” which really was prophetic for a paratrooper once he made a landing.

This one hit close to home. This article focuses on D-Day vets from Western Pennsylvania, where my dad’s family is from. You can read it here.

There’s a vet who decided to ‘reenact’ his parachute drop…seventy-five years after he initially landed in Normandy as a fresh-faced soldier. He’s 97 and still going strong. Read it here.

Here’s some British perspective for you. You can read about Prince Charles and his commemorations of the day here. You can also visit the Royal British Legion’s site for more knowledge.

#LestWeForget #DDay75 #DayOfDays

Many happy returns,

-Kate

and though she be but little, she is fierce.

Added to on 6 June 2019:

I don’t want to push him away. I don’t understand why he thinks I’m trying to “destroy” us. There’s nothing left of us to destroy, because he destroyed it first. I don’t get why he just can’t give me what I want so I may find inner peace. I know I deserve to be at peace. I decided, after this initial post was written, that I wasn’t going to continue to hold onto hope, contrary to what I told him after we’d played tennis. I told him that over the phone. I don’t think he liked hearing it, but I have let go of any hope…because I will never be happy with myself if I don’t.

I miss him so much. I miss his words, his smile, his arms, his kisses…everything. But I don’t know just how much he might miss me. In all honesty, (and there I go assuming again) my heart and my mind tell me that he doesn’t miss me one bit. He can’t even give me some reassurance that yes, maybe, just maybe, he does.

It’s breaking my heart to let go of that hope, since I was the one falling hopelessly in love. It, however, must happen.

I know I said I wouldn’t use this as a platform for my failed romantic endeavors, but…

I’m brokenhearted. Again. So it goes. I need to vent.

I had so much faith in him. So much. Is there such a thing as too much faith? My Catholicism has led me to believe that it is okay to have faith.

The better question is: Should I hold onto faith in him?

I honestly am in love with this man. I am. I fell, hard, and my heart is shattered. I thought…wow, after all this time, God has finally given me this blessing of this wonderful, handsome and intelligent man. This man wants me and my imperfections - his affections are mine.

How stupid I was to believe in his words. They were empty promises. The actual events leading up to the break-up are too much to go into detail. Reader’s Digest version: he got upset some guy hit on me at a bar, he was drunk, and he blamed me for letting the dude flirt with me (I really, really had no idea how to fend the guy off). He left me in the parking lot after I asked him if he was okay - he just brushed me off like whatever. I was so worried he would hurt himself or someone else by drunk driving. I texted him to make sure he made it home…

And he ripped me a new one. He told me horrible things that really made me start to doubt my mental state. He made me feel like everything was my fault and I spent a week, burrowed in bed, crying my heart out, wondering what did I do to ruin everything? That I was crazy for daring to believe someone like him would ever want someone like me.

He finally wanted to talk, after I’d sent him a pretty candid and honest letter about my feelings. He called me, surprise, surprise, on his way into DC on a Friday night, ready to cut loose, have fun, and forget about me. I had to pull over, because he was literally breaking up with me before going to do this. Probably thought I was just a weight off his shoulders - once the task was over, he could think clearly and enjoy his life again now that my presence was gone.

The man in question started to apologize for his abysmal behavior at the bar. He told me the situation was stupid and he didn’t think I did anything wrong to try and offend him. He apologized for his reactions and told me nothing was my fault - that I wasn’t crazy or emotional.

He then decided to say that the reason he’d been so distant was because he got scared. He, based on his word, decided he was catching feelings and was not emotionally ready to have a relationship with me (or anyone) because the divorce he’d gone through still had him hesitant about embarking on one. He let his guard down, for a second, with me - and then realized he could not be with me because of his emotional baggage. Again, he repeated, it was not because of me.

I can’t…I can’t help but feel like it was, even though he keeps telling me not to make assumptions. I can’t help but feel it’s my fault because he made the decision to leave. I’ve always struggled with feelings of inadequacy. That I’m never good enough for anyone. That my flaws are the reasons I’m twenty-seven and still single. That I’m nerdy, weird, prudish, ugly and unworthy…

So when a babe like him showed me attention and claimed that he wanted me, I really did struggle believing that he thought me beautiful, intelligent, and lovely. I hesitantly started to believe in his words. When he decided it was over, my doubts emerged once more and I just assumed he didn’t want to tell me that he decided I just wasn’t good enough.

I told him that I felt like I was losing him, despite his pleas not to blame myself. He told me he wasn’t going anywhere - that we should still get to know each other, take it slow, and be friends. That we could still go and play tennis together (we did, just yesterday, and I was a jerk, but I needed him to know I wasn’t about to be peachy-keen around him right away) and just have fun.

Which really, was how things should’ve started between us when he returned from Colombia in April. Instead, we jumped right into everything (and I mean everything) and I genuinely started to fall in love with him. I did.

So, can you blame me for wanting to blame myself? All of a sudden, he went from calling me his “beauty” and his “princess” to not wanting to even look at me. He told me he was so blessed to have me in his life - that I gave him “joy and peace” - to barely tolerating me this past week. Does he still have feelings for me, and now he’s doing his best to keep them in check so he can worry about himself? Or, did he stop liking me weeks ago and is now using what he told me on Friday as his “out” for this relationship?

I told him, after we’d played tennis, that I was still going to hold onto a little hope. A little faith. For my life, and for him.

He texted me later: “maybe you shouldn’t.”

That hurt. Again, is it because he doesn’t have any feelings for me at all? Or is it because he doesn’t want me to wait around forever? All I’ve wanted to do is talk rationally to him, but he won’t let me. I need closure. I deserve closure after the hell he has put me through. I cannot wait around for the rest of my life - I know this. What I also know is that I was willing to see where he and I truly could’ve ended up had we had been given more time to just be with each other.

My heart hurts when I picture him already, forgetting about me and flirting with other girls…he’s so handsome, he could have anyone. Why did he even want me? Did he see a vulnerable girl who has “self-esteem issues” written all over her face? Did he take pity on this history nerd and wonder why he decided to take a chance on her when she really was not the girl of his dreams?

I told him today that I was starting to fall in love with him. That all I wanted was just to see him happy and be by his side as he continued to fulfill his goals and aspirations - that he’s done so much already that he should be proud of. That I won’t hold onto my faith forever, but that he cannot tell me what I can and can’t think because he is not the one trying to hold onto the pieces of a broken heart right now. I wrote this all on a note that I stuck in a book - one he had recommended I read. It was called “Hopscotch” by the Argentinean writer Julio Cortázar. Cortázar was influenced by the James Joyce stream of consciousness writing style, so I was immediately hooked and wanted to check it out.

I decided I couldn’t read “Hopscotch” anymore without my heart aching over him. I have a strong connection to books - see my “All Things Must Pass” post - and “Hopscotch” is ruined for me now. With the note folded into the book, I left it in his mailbox outside of his classroom before he arrived in the morning.

He hasn’t said a word. Not one.

I doubt he will.

I’ve said my peace.

I hold onto a little faith.

For now.

Because I have to worry about me.

Me, and only me.

This is my journey. He could’ve shared in that journey and had my love for the rest of his life if he’d wanted it. Maybe I’ll find someone who won’t take my love for granted. Maybe he and I truly are destined to be - that we really are written in the stars and we will happen algún día. Who knows what the future will bring us?

I wish him the best. I want nothing more than for him to find some peace of mind, because his soul deserves to be fulfilled and at ease. He will always be in my prayers. I will always let God know to help him have a blessed day. That I will always be here for him, and carry a bit of him in my heart for always.

For now, I worry about me and succeeding in my life - the right here, right now. I take flight on my journey and make it wonderful.

Stay tuned for my post on my DC Monuments at Night excursion!

Many happy returns,

-Kate

musings.

Unexpected poetry writings by me, after a heartache filled long weekend:

Hindsight

those bright brown eyes
a flicker of love, a spark of affection
just a second of hope
now, gone for good
eyes cold and desolate
forever frozen in time
filled with contempt and the choice
to never look back at me
I should’ve guessed it wouldn’t last
just based by my luck in the past

Never

she was never the beauty
she was never desired
she was always pushed aside
in favour of someone better
so when he called her his beauty
she fell for him
and his lovely words
but then he broke her heart
oh, to quote kurt vonnegut,
so it bloody goes

many happy returns,
-Kate

All things must pass.

It’s been a while, my dear readers, and my life has made a total one-eighty since my last post. A month ago, I was insanely happy, writing about Rupert Brooke, my students did amazing on their reading standardized test, and to my most surprise, I started seeing the most wonderful man. This last change in my life came out of nowhere, but I thank God for this unexpected and brilliant blessing. It’s a fledgling relationship - it’s still so new, and we’re just trying to get to know each other at this point. It, however, is so nice to have someone who truly believes that my dreams are worth pursuing…and doesn’t have doubts in my talents and abilities.

Unfortunately, not everyone in my family sees these qualities in this man. This, combined with other things I am apparently, doing wrong in my life, has persuaded me to leave home and start anew. It is time for me to live my life. Is this man the absolute reason I’m leaving? No. I am twenty-seven years old and need to worry about me. I need to be able to make my own decisions and choices. I am naturally a people pleaser - I’ve always been like this. It’s a shortcoming, I realize, as I approach thirty…because I need to be strong enough to defend myself as I continue my adulthood. I need to stand up for myself and learn how to say “no.” I shouldn’t have to worry about disappointing or upsetting people by using the word no. I want to be able to date whomever I wish, come and go from home as I please, and pursue my teaching career without being criticized. It is time for me to be a little selfish and think about my life. If I don’t, any confidence I still have in myself will only disappear.

This realization doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt any less to pack away two bookcases worth of history books. I felt as if though I was packing away a part of me - books have always been a piece of my identity. My heart was breaking as I carefully organized my familiar historians; Kershaw, Kotkin, Overy, Coogan, etc. by their historical specialty (no lie: I seriously have a box labeled “postcolonial studies”) into drab cardboard boxes. I don’t have enough room where I am going to have bookshelves. They will be going into temporary storage while I settle into my new life. I have to be optimistic and realize that I am not hiding my identity by putting away my favorite books - I have to do it, just temporarily, to help me strengthen it.

I’m sure you can imagine that I must have a million different thoughts and anxieties bouncing around in my head as I make sense of this abrupt change. I didn’t think an innocent relationship would spark the need for me to leave home. I thought I’d get to continue my life as it was, just enjoying this man’s company, finishing off my first year of teaching, and being with my family. I was 100% wrong, and as a result, I’m absolutely not myself. I find myself worrying so much about everything, including him. I get scared that if one day he doesn’t want to see me, it just means he wants nothing at all to do with me. I shouldn’t think that, because if we were seeing each other every day, we would get sick of the constant company. I shouldn’t think that because it is not in his nature to be uncaring. He’s the most empathetic and faithful man I’ve had the pleasure of knowing, but this situation I’m in isn’t allowing me to think straight and logically. He promised me, before things between us really developed, that he would do his best to be the nicest to me - to trust him. There is no reason I shouldn’t believe in his promise. I want nothing more than to hold on to that promise, because I really do trust his good and God-fearing nature.

“All things must pass
None of life’s strings can last
So I must be on my way
And face another day”

— George Harrison, from "All Things Must Pass"

To be candid: I’ve been an asshole, and he doesn’t deserve that. I need to just take a deep breath and take each day with him as it comes. It doesn’t matter in what form he’s in - text, voice, in person, in my dreams…I know he’s there. I know I can and should rely on him, because I do believe in his simple promise to trust him. That’s all I could ever want from someone I’m seeing. Gifts and gestures are nothing to me - I prefer promises and words.

If you are reading this, please do know that I am sorry for being a burden, because that is the last thing I have wanted to be to you.

I am stronger that I am giving myself credit for, and I know I can stand up on my own. I know I can make it through this tough time. God is guiding me because this is His plan. The only plan I want to follow is God’s. Not my father’s. Not my mother’s - just God’s. I may not feel like a history nerd without my favorite books at my finger tips, but this is only temporary. I’ll be reunited with those books soon. My family will, if not accept, but hopefully respect my decisions one day. I’ll move into my new place and be independent. I will continue to believe in his promise as we get to know each other and take it slow.

I’ve been thinking about the adage “this, too, shall pass” as I get through this crazy time. It’s been helping me every day, but then I was reminded about the song “All Things Must Pass” from the eponymous solo album by George Harrison. I think this phrase is better applied to my situation. It’s not just one thing I’m fighting - it’s several of them - and it’s true. I’ll come out stronger. I’ll emerge victorious…because all things must (and will) pass.

Many happy returns,

-Kate

In Memoriam

Disclaimer: As an Amazon Associate, I may earn a small commission from qualifying purchases if you use the links listed within this post.  Using the following links to purchase any of the books discussed will not add to the cost of the item(s). It’s an excellent way for you to support my continued efforts to provide amazing and free content to you. Thank you!

Hello dear readers -

This is a brief post, but I couldn’t let this day go by without honoring one of the poets who has helped shape my understanding of the Great War (1914-1918). Today marks the 104th anniversary of the death of one of England’s brilliant war poets, Rupert Chawner Brooke (b. 8 August 1887, d. 23 April 1915). If you haven’t read the works of Rupert Brooke, take a moment to find them online (or order an anthology here). Poetry Foundation offers an excellent biography and selection of Brooke’s most famous poems if you don’t feel like committing to purchasing an anthology.

Rupert Brooke, as quoted by William Butler Yeats, “the handsomest man in England.”

Rupert Brooke was only twenty-seven when he tragically perished two days before he was to embark on what would become the ill-fated Gallipoli campaign in the Dardanelles. He, like many young men of his generation in Great Britain, believed it to be his duty to country to volunteer as a soldier during the Great War. He enlisted in the Royal Navy Volunteer Reserve as soon as the conflict began in 1914, despite already having started a career as a talented writer and poet after he completed his education at Cambridge. He had gained a following amongst Great Britain’s literary elite of the early twentieth century - the writers Virginia Woolf and William Butler Yeats considered him a friend. Brooke, however, decided his duty to his country was more important than continuing his writing career.

That is not to say Brooke stopped writing while in the navy. Brooke’s most famous works emerged during the war. His poems reflected the feelings most men held when they first enlisted during the beginning of the war - optimistic and patriotic. Great Britain believed the war would be over by Christmas of 1914, but of course, as we all know, this was not the outcome. The war dragged on, and the soldiers who believed it to be their duty to serve did serve…knee deep in the dirty, rat-infested trenches of the Western Front. They became disillusioned with the war - the later war poets like Siegfried Sassoon and Wilfred Owen would write about their hatred for the conflict because they, unlike Brooke, witnessed most of the brutality of 1916 and 1917.

Brooke did not share in Sassoon’s and Owen’s experiences. He died before the violence and bloodshed of the Great War peaked. He was proud to be a soldier; he was honored to die on behalf of his beloved England. These sentiments are especially reflected in the “Nineteen-Fourteen” series of sonnets. The most famous of the five sonnets is arguably “The Soldier,” in which Brooke is perfectly content with dying for England, because England, personified as his “mother,” helped raise him. England was responsible for allowing him to mature and become a man. Brooke, if he died, only wanted to be remembered as one of England’s cherished sons, buried in “some corner of a foreign field that is for ever England” in gratitude for the role England played in his maturation.

Brooke’s death wish was indeed fulfilled - after acquiring a mosquito bite when stationed in Egypt, he became ill with sepsis after the navy headed off to the Aegean Sea en route to Gallipoli in April of 1915. Brooke died on 23 April 1915 on the Greek island of Skyros, and was buried by his fellow soldiers in an olive grove…the same soldiers who would meet their demise at Gallipoli just a few days later.

That Greek olive grove will forever be a piece of England now that his body and spirit are buried there.

Here’s to you, Rupert Brooke. May you continue to rest in peace, “under an English heaven.”

Before I end this piece, I leave you with Brooke’s last written poem. It was an early draft created just before the Gallipoli campaign, and remains unpolished and incomplete - it was appropriately titled “Fragment.” As much as I love “The Soldier,” I am haunted by this last piece of his, because I truly do believe he was already foreshadowing his death. That, however, is subject to your own interpretation.

I strayed about the deck, an hour, to-night
Under a cloudy moonless sky; and peeped
In at the windows, watched my friends at table,
Or playing cards, or standing in the doorway,
Or coming out into the darkness. Still
No one could see me.

I would have thought of them
—Heedless, within a week of battle—in pity,
Pride in their strength and in the weight and firmness
And link’d beauty of bodies, and pity that
This gay machine of splendour ’ld soon be broken,
Thought little of, pashed, scattered. …

Only, always,
I could but see them—against the lamplight—pass
Like coloured shadows, thinner than filmy glass,
Slight bubbles, fainter than the wave’s faint light,
That broke to phosphorus out in the night,
Perishing things and strange ghosts—soon to die
To other ghosts—this one, or that, or I.

Many happy returns,

-Kate

the deification of adolf hitler

Disclaimer: As an Amazon Associate, I may earn a small commission from qualifying purchases if you use the links listed within this post.  Using the following links to purchase any of the books discussed will not add to the cost of the item(s). It’s an excellent way for you to support my continued efforts to provide amazing and free content to you. Thank you!

Hello dear readers -

I am currently working on a book recommendation for the first selection I’d like to feature on my website. This selection was a favorite of mine that I read during my graduate program, and I can’t wait to finish up the review. For now, I thought I’d show you all just how much this particular book caught my attention and interest by featuring the response paper I needed to write for the class.

A little background: the class was a graduate history seminar called “Modernity, Revolutions, and Totalitarianism.” The class was offered by George Mason University’s resident Russian historian, Dr. Steven Barnes. I was blessed to take coursework and, eventually, complete my comprehensive examinations under his brilliant tutelage and guidance. It is because of Dr. Barnes that I have had more confidence in my historical writing and critical thinking skills. The course focused on how the concept and question of modernity (I want you to ask yourself: how can modernity really be defined with regard to time?) can affect the political and social framework of a country.

The book I’m discussing is Sir Ian Kershaw’s work, The ‘Hitler Myth’: Image and Reality in the Third Reich. Kershaw takes the idea that, after the decadent, short-lived period of the failed Weimar Republic, the average German citizen was immediately taken in by the promises of the rising Nazi Party - that this party would be responsible for helping Germany revive itself from the embarrassment and ghost of the despised Treaty of Versailles. The Nazi Party literally started to deify its leader, Adolf Hitler, as a “god” and constructed the idea of cult-building to emphasize his power.

As a result of the party’s cult-building, the Germans were easily manipulated into believing that Hitler was the “god” who would assist them with making Germany a great nation once again. This made it much easier for the party to take over, condemn the Jewish people (and anyone responsible for their economic plight after the Great War), and eventually, implement the “Final Solution.” The work I’m presenting you is a response to Kershaw’s theory of the Hitler “cult.” You’'ll notice references to Italian Fascism and the influence of Catholicism and spirituality. Happy reading! I’ll be posting the actual book review soon:

Ian Kershaw’s The ‘Hitler Myth’ focuses on the “image-building and image reception”[1] of the so-called “Hitler myth” or “cult.” This propaganda motive was necessary to give Germany a leader who seemed to be concerned for the nation’s future. As Hitler enchanted the masses with his public persona and enigmatic charm, the Nazi Party, constantly derided by the public, continued to mold an economically sound Germany, prevent war, and solve the “Jewish Question.” The Hitler cult allowed for these changes to take place; the people may not have agreed with the ideologies and beliefs of the Nazi Party, but because they were so entranced by Hitler himself, kept the party in power until the end of the war. Each chapter shows the development of the cult, how people fervently began to ‘join’ it, and Kershaw argues that not everyone believed in the imagery. He concludes his work with the ‘beginning of the end’ of the cult, right when Germany went to war, and the inevitable demise of the cult when the war ended. 

Chapter four, “The Führer versus the Radicals” (roughly 1936-1937), shows how much the cult had evolved from Hitler’s election as Chancellor in 1933, as well as how spirituality presented by Hitler allowed for the public to leave behind the church in favor of the Führer.  Kershaw immediately states that Hitler was “basically opposed to Christianity,”[2] but that he desired to create a balanced leadership of secularism and spirituality. As soon as Hitler took power, his speeches showed a shift in tone; they became more “messianic,”[3] as he wanted to help spark an “awakening of the nation”[4] through these seemingly god-like speeches. Kershaw though, says that Hitler, because of his non-belief in Christianity, wanted to portray a spiritually devout leader to the people, as opposed to someone who believed in a structured religious order.

This brings this argument back to Peasants into Frenchmen. Weber’s chapter on the spiritual reawakening of the nation echoed in Kershaw’s chapter. The rigid Catholic Church structure of pre-revolution France became a more interpretive spiritual revival for the people, and this is much like what Hitler is trying to accomplish through his deified speeches. While the Frenchmen in Weber were still “Catholic,” they knew there was more to Catholicism than just the religious, church-attending aspect. There was a spiritual part to Catholicism, much like there is a spirituality present in Hitler’s Germany.

The chapter draws on ‘miracles’ performed by Hitler. The mere sound of his voice and his physical presence, he told his people, were enough to awaken them and unite them as a group to help Germany thrive as a nation. Although there was still a firm belief in “institutionalized religious practices”[5] throughout Germany, Hitler’s speeches took people away from the conformist churches, and allowed them to convert to his “substitute faith”[6] of believing in the nation.

Unlike Eugen Weber in Peasants Into Frenchmen, Kershaw gives the counterargument to Hitler’s new ‘religion.’ Weber does not offer a response from the French Catholic Church about this shift in spirituality. Kershaw, however, portrays the struggle between Hitler and the churches, especially the Catholic ones. There was some support of Hitler by the Catholics because of the Nazis and their fight against Communism. Some believed that Hitler was “recognized by the Holy Father.”[7] These beliefs, though, were held by the upper ranks of the Catholic hierarchy. Local priests despised Nazism, and even dared to insult Hitler when making critiques about his leadership. He was not a deity; he was not someone who people should put their faith in. Not only was Hitler’s leadership criticized, but the lower ranks simply thought the Nazi Party was untrustworthy, and a threat to the state. Their critiques went largely ignored. Hitler continued to show some ‘support’ for Germany’s churches. Thanks to the imagery of his cult, no one caught up in his new ‘religion’ would ever believe that he could lie about “his professions of support for the Churches.”[8]

This chapter can only serve as a reminder of how a leader can sway the views of the public though spirituality. Weber’s post-revolution France allowed for the French to leave the church and believe in a spirituality, while Hitler’s glorified speeches persuaded Germans to further believe in the developing cult. How would Hitler’s cult have continued to grow if he had not placed spiritual overtones in his speeches to the masses? Did Mussolini himself use these spiritual tactics in his own regime; will this be a theme encountered when the chosen works on Fascist Italy are discussed later in the semester, or is this ‘spirituality for the state’ only common to Nazi Germany?

Many happy returns,

-Kate

(works cited below)

[1] Ian Kershaw, The ‘Hitler Myth’: Image and Reality in the Third Reich (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1987), 3.

[2] Kershaw, The ‘Hitler Myth,’ 106.

[3] Kershaw, The ‘Hitler Myth,’ 107.

[4] Kershaw, The ‘Hitler Myth,’ 107.

[5] Kershaw, The ‘Hitler Myth,’ 108.

[6] Kershaw, The ‘Hitler Myth,’ 108.

[7] Kershaw, The ‘Hitler Myth,’ 113.

[8] Kershaw, The ‘Hitler Myth,’ 120.

goodbye to all that.

The time in between the beginning and end of that relationship in my previous post are all a blur to me now. I do not wish to remember that time because I refuse to spend another moment worrying about him.

He’s moved on. He’s found someone else who will give him everything I wouldn’t. I’ve moved on by using my writing as an emotional platform to rid myself of lingering feelings.

The beginning - that seemingly magical moment we met in college - and the end, are the moments that will truly remain with me. Our end arrived, and although it pained me to let him go, I know now that he was not God’s plan for me.

And I thank God every day for the path I am on now, without him.

I wrote this piece on March 9th of last year, when I realized it had been his birthday and it was the second one I wouldn’t be celebrating with him. I was saddened by this realization - I, admittedly, did cry and spent the better part of his birthday in bed. But, the next day marked the turning point for getting over him the moment I chose to write down my feelings on paper.

That day, I wrote our ending and let it remain a relic of my past - a past that I do not ever wish to return to.

So here, dear reader, is our end:

March 9th, 2018

Yesterday was his birthday. It was the second birthday I’ve spent without him. Two years since I last saw his face. Two years since everything fell apart. I still wonder if he kept the DVD set of Downton Abbey  I got him for the first (and last) birthday we were together. I then smile, and think back to when we watched the series together - he’d never seen it, and I kept begging him to watch it with me. He adored it, and it was yet another thing that we could say we had in common.

And then, I feel my heart break all over again when I recall how we ended things over a phone call just a few months later in May.

Tuesday, May 3rd, 2016 to be exact. 

My worst day.

Just a few days before I’d started my comprehensive exams for my history graduate program.

The day that he finished his term teaching history at the community college.

He didn’t have anything to worry about if he was hurt by us ending things - no exams, no classes to play student in. He’d achieved what he wanted. He already had his MA. He had his job. He had the whole summer free to be away from writing papers, and thinking of a thesis for graduation. A broken heart wouldn’t affect his studies - he didn’t have any. 

Me? I cried non-stop, and listened to The Beatles (Rubber Soul, by the way, is the perfect melancholy break-up album) on repeat as I typed three exams from a variety of topics ranging from post-colonial Europe, Communism, Josef Stalin, modernity, and totalitarian governments. I wondered how the hell I even passed my exams. I couldn’t be bothered with thinking about what impact and role Fascism played in Mussolini’s Italy as I worked on the essays. I didn’t even think about the possibility of me failing my comps, and what it would mean for my future in the grad program, thanks to my altered state of mind. All I wondered was:

Does he hate me?

I miss his hazel eyes already. And those freckles. 

Is he thinking about me? 

Does me miss me?

Is he going to show up on my doorstep, profess his undying love for me, and ask me to marry him? 

I submitted my exams - all thoughts of him still fresh and painful the moment I emailed them to my professor and clicked “send.” The last hope I had for him did not occur in that four-day period, burrowed up in my room, as I struggled to write each exam.

He was gone. There would be no grand gesture from him. He didn’t love me. He didn’t want a life with me. He told me that, plain as day, especially when he told me I’d never be the girl who would be the mother to his children (my heart broke at that statement). He was over me. He didn’t want to fight for me.

He didn’t want me. 

I can easily state these realizations now. It took me almost two years to get to this point.

Almost two years. And my feelings remain unchanged. I don’t know if I’ll ever really get over him.

(But, oh, dear reader. I did. I’m so glad I did.)

Many happy returns…

-Kate

first impressions

As someone who has, to put it lightly, uhh…unusual tastes in the history I study, I have struggled to find a “better half" who will tolerate my quirky interests. Here’s an example if you’re wondering what I mean by “quirky.” My mom and I were talking about weddings and cliché proposals. I said that I would absolutely hate it if my boyfriend (we’re talking imaginary here - as if that’s going to happen any time soon) proposed to me on Valentine’s Day, my birthday, Christmas, or New Year’s Eve. So, she then asked me what my ideal proposal scenario would be.

Without missing a beat, I said, “June 6th, the Normandy beaches, preferably on the Omaha or Utah sector.”

Then she dared to ask what day the actual wedding would occur on.

Again, without missing a beat:

“May 8th of the following year, to commemorate Victory in Europe Day…and grandma’s birthday.”

I’d really need to find the right man to make that happen. The right man who would just get me enough to make those scenarios happen. Someone who wouldn’t be afraid to take my quirkiness on, but accept and love me for it. I could be wrong, but I doubt there’s a man out there who would do all that for me…just to make me happy. Now you’re probably wondering, my goodness, are all of these posts going to deal with sappiness and heartbreak?

To answer your question: no, they are not. I think, however, it’s okay for me to talk about my (lack of a) romantic life because I want you, my readers, to know that:

It is absolutely okay to be yourself. I have thought, for years, that I need that better half to define me. That myself isn’t good enough for this world. I’ve only recently come to the conclusion that no, I do not need a better half. I can be my own better half. I can be a better me and let the world take me as I am. I am happy with the way my life is turning out so far. I’ve finally embarked on the path I’ve wanted to take. I’m using my historical nerdiness in a relevant field. I am a teacher, sharing my passion for the subject to a varied pool of students from all walks of life.

I teach Language Arts to preteens, hoping to instill the value of reading in them while they are still young. I teach world history to college students - most of them are in my class to fulfill general education requirements. I, however, have some older students that are there to prove to their family members that it is never too late to get a college education. It makes me feel like I am making a difference as a teacher by being that educator who will help them prove that no, it is certainly never too late to learn.

If there’s not a better half for me out there, wanting to stand by my side and be my cheerleader as I become a seasoned educator, then that is his loss. I know I have achieved an iota of self-fulfillment by doing what I do best - sharing my love for learning and history…and I get to do it in a professional realm.

That still doesn’t mean I don’t hold on to hope that my better half is somewhere in this world - whether he’s somewhere where I live in northern Virginia, an ocean away in Ireland…

Waiting. Just waiting. For me. Little, unremarkable, unashamedly nerdy me.

Once upon a time, I thought I had found my better half. I thought this would be the guy who would give me that Normandy beach proposal. I thought I was going to marry this man - I prayed that he would ask me to be his wife. I had dreams of us blissfully married; our days filled with history, books, being underpaid teachers, living in a cozy house with our cats…and eventually, our children.

I was wrong. I was so so wrong. It took me a long time to get over him. Sometimes I do wonder if I truly am over him. Part of the reason I started writing about my historical endeavors was because of him. I began to put our story to paper - the two history nerds in love - as a way of coping with the heartbreak. The writing process has finally helped me get over him.

So, I offer y’all First Impressions, a vignette of the day I truly believed I met my better half:

I’m pretty sure I was in love with him from the moment I caught him smiling at me during the first class session of one of my graduate history seminars. I walked in the room with my friend Christina, and I could feel a gaze on me instantly. This bearded guy, wearing a black and red checkered shirt and glasses. I took him in…his adorable freckles. His mirthful brown eyes. His floppy dark hair, sprinkled ever-so-slightly with grey. His good-natured grin.

Just him, really.

He wasn’t trying to play coy; that was a definite. Not with the way his gaze remained fixed on me.

So, I take back my earlier sentiment: I know I was in love with him upon our first meeting.

I didn’t think that first day back to school would have me instantly falling for some guy I’d never even spoken to. I honestly thought I’d be on my own in that seminar. Christina, of course, was with me, and at least I’d be able to make some snarky commentary with her underneath our breaths during whatever lecture we’d have, but really, the class was meant to be an independent research project. Maybe I’d have to make some awkward small talk with the other students at some point in the semester. Cultivating relationships? Nah. I was beyond caring about that in grad school, and this class was giving me the opportunity to work (mostly) independently.

I liked relying on myself. I liked being alone. Alone meant I could focus on getting a good grade; the class was a “capstone.” You needed to pass to meet all requirements in the MA program. The final paper was worth 60% of my grade—I knew it would be hard work. I didn’t need (but probably secretly wanted) the distraction of a man to prevent me from doing thorough research and writing a concise, well-mapped thesis.  I didn’t want to take the risk of having someone break my heart in the middle of the semester, causing me to have an emotional upheaval, and jeopardize my work. With my track record, I knew that’s exactly what would happen. 

(Just sayin’, men are absolutely, the worst distractions.)

But that evening, when my professor asked each of us to introduce ourselves, had me pray to God that I’d get to know the man who smiled at me. No distractions weren’t an option anymore. Who was he?

Name. Concentration. Ideal topic that we would base our final papers on. That’s what we were forced to tell the class as we went one by one around the classroom to speak.

I barely paid attention to everyone else. I didn’t even care; everyone was like, I’m so and so who just loves America so much, that I made my concentration American history!

Those damn Americanists. Where were the European historians at? I get it; we’re in America, but still…

So it’s this one other guy’s turn. He’s the epitome of tall, dark, and handsome. Couldn’t resist staring at him for a moment; he was total eye candy. Still, didn’t even care to note his name. He said he was interested in Scottish history. Okay, cool…decided I wasn’t interested. My eyes followed back to my man. I waited like an impatient sod, desperate to hear his response. If it was Europe, that was it. We were soulmates.

Finally. It was his turn.

“My name is David. My concentration is European history—”

Oh, thank God.

“And I’m interested in researching about Oscar Wilde and the sodomy charge that was brought against him.”

Interesting, I thought, as I processed what he’d just said. I myself would not have decided to research about Oscar Wilde in a history class. I think it’s because I relate Wilde too often to a literary background that I forget that yes, the charges that were brought against him would have had historical impact. As I continued to dwell on his topic (and how much I really wanted to ask him about his research), I completely ignored everyone else’s turn. Before I knew it, I had to speak.

I cleared my throat, aaaand…

“I’m Kate. My concentration is European history (there were like, five of us in the room, compared to the nine Americanists—clearly, we were the minority, but whatever), and I would like to study the libel trial against the Irish nationalist leader, Charles Stewart Parnell.”

Boom. That’s right. Go Ireland. My professor commented on my topic but I can’t even remember what he told me. My mind was elsewhere.

I dared to look at David.

(Wasn’t even paying attention to Christina, who was now telling the class about her research project.)

And he was still staring back in my direction.

(Those pretty brown eyes.)

Class ended at nine that evening. Tall, dark, and handsome, to my surprise, flagged me down. Wanted to know more about my fascination with Parnell.

Especially was wondering why I hadn’t signed up for the “Ireland in War and Revolution” course that he was in.

Honestly, I had wanted to. My favorite professor was teaching it, and he’d told me about the course before I’d signed up for fall semester classes the previous spring. The truth was, I was craving a different area of Europe to study (as much as I loved Ireland), so I told him that I opted to take “Stalinism” (of all topics) with my second favorite professor in the history department instead.

And I was barely paying attention to him. I was trying, not-so-subtlety, to look for David, but he’d walked out ahead of me and this guy, who politely introduced himself as Josh (glad he did, because I really didn’t remember his name from the classroom introductions.)

Like the nerd I am, I continued to ramble to Josh that I wanted to learn more about Stalin… because I loved discussing rhetoric in totalitarian governments (truth) and that was the reason I hadn’t wanted to take the Ireland class (double truth). My history obsessions are sooo seductive, I know. I thought Josh would be turned off after that (he probably thought, wow, this girl’s a weirdo, let me walk away from her slowly), but no! He continued to walk with me to the quad. Josh was talking up his interests in Scotland (…meh), but said he had an interest in Ireland, and then I’m there correcting him when he merely referred to the Provisional Irish Republican Army as the “IRA.”

They had different names. The PIRA, the faction that emerged during the Northern Irish “Troubles,” was the one we were discussing, and I always get so pissed when people just call them as the the “IRA.”

(Nitpicky, yes, I know.)

But on our way to the quad, I saw out the corner of my eye, someone lighting up a cigarette. Oh eww, secondhand smoke. Gross. I turned my head from Josh, and looked at the offender.

David. Trying so desperately to get his lighter to work. The flame met the cigarette just as I locked eyes with him again for probably the sixtieth time that night.

He looked at me guiltily, and it was sooo awkward that I just turned my attention back to Josh. We walked past David, and I felt like a total jerk.

Ugh.

(I was a fool. In love.)

And it would be another week before we saw each other again.

(Double ugh.)

Until next time…

Many happy returns,

-Kate

the modern day flapper

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The middle school I work at just announced we would be doing a “spirit week” at the end of February. I am usually the teacher that doesn’t participate, but the themes for this spirit week grabbed my attention. On Thursday the 28th, we are having a ‘blast from the past’ day. We get to dress up as our favorite decade. My mind immediately gravitated to:

flapper.

I asked my work bestie if she would don a glitzy, fringed 1920s Gatsby style dress so we could be twins that day. She agreed. We’ve gathered all the pieces we need to look like 1920s fashion plates. Amazon was the perfect place to get our dresses and gloves. I already had shoes and sparkly headbands. Our hair is relatively short - I only need to flat iron it to make it look more like a flapper’s bob, and hers is curly enough to represent the famous Marcel wave. We made the right decision for our decade. It didn’t take much effort to get the outfits ready.

My friend, however, asked if I would do her makeup because she doesn’t really wear it. I can go from no makeup to full face whenever I feel like it, so she thinks I’d be able to recreate a 1920s makeup job.

Uhhh…

Am I a professional makeup artist?

That is a no.

Am I scared of looking too vampy in flapper style makeup for school?

That is a yes.

So while I may not be trained to recreate a professional, 1920s true flapper look, my makeup skills are more than decent enough for us to play the part without scaring off our students. I was able to find the right balance between vintage and modern. I decided to keep three key features of the flapper look to maintain the integrity of the makeup:

1. An entirely matte finished face.

2. Dark lips with cupid’s bow intact.

3. Heavier, smoky eye.

Numbers two and three, however, would be modified for a more modern approach, but still visible enough for people to say yes, they are from the 1920s.

The Process Begins

Always, always, always set your eye makeup first to let any fallout occur before applying foundation. I did, however, decide to apply my primer so it would sink into my skin while I did the eye makeup. What you use to prime is up to you. My skin does have redness, so I rely on a green primer for color correction. I also didn’t want any sort of natural redness to pop through my foundation and blush if I didn’t use my primer. I use the Makeup Forever Step 1 Skin Equalizer Primer (Sephora, $37) for my everyday makeup. I used it for this tutorial as well. All I did was dab it on my fingers and apply it with my tips - no brush is necessary.

My arsenal of literal eye candy - everything you see here was used to attain a smoky eye.

Eyes

I started my eyes by applying a mattifying base to my lids. I always use the MAC Cosmetics Pro Longwear Paint Pot in Painterly (MAC Cosmetics, $22). It is the perfect nude pink base that looks gorgeous on its own, but serves as a strong, blendable base color when I use other eye shadow palettes on top of it. The paint pot lives up to its name - it does go on as a cream, so make sure to let it dry for about a minute before continuing your process.

I reached for my Marc Jacobs Eye-Conic Multi-Finish Eye Shadow Palette (Sephora, $49) in The Night Owl (you’ll see it on the Sephora website renamed as Edgitorial). This is where I decided to add my darker color out from the middle to the outer corners of my eyes. I used the shade “We’ll See” - a milk chocolate matte finish that I blended until I was satisfied that I did not look like I got punched in the face. I cannot do a decent smoky eye, so I get wary when the shades are insanely dark like “We’ll See” is. I then took another brush and blended a lighter shade from the palette to start giving my eyes some depth. I used “Take a Memo,” described as a pale peach matte, and blended it all across my eyelids.

Close-up of the Marc Jacobs palette - this beauty deserves to have its own photo. “Take a Memo” is the shade right in the middle. “We’ll See” is two shades to the right of “Take a Memo.”

I was craving, however, a little color so as to match the delicate blush shade of my dress. So I said goodbye to my Marc Jacobs palette and dug out my Tarte Love, Trust and Fairy Dust (Sephora, $39) one - filled with shimmery and delicate plums and pinks. With a new brush, I blended a mauve matte shade called “Frolic” in the bottom halves of my eyelids, and then finished off my eyes with another palette. I used the NARS Pro Palette Duo in Sugarland (NARS Cosmetics, $25). Sugarland has two colors; a golden shimmer and a beautiful and ethereal orchid. I topped off my eyes with the orchid selection…and my pseudo-smoky eye was set.

I did a quick liquid liner with my Tarte Tarteist Double Take Eye Liner (Sephora, $24) and avoided a cat eye, as that would be anachronistic with my decade. I only lined the tops of my eyelids, and then coated my eyelashes with my new favorite mascara, NARS Climax (Sephora, $24). I was debating getting false eyelashes…but figured that would definitely make the look “too much” for the school day. Luckily, the mascara coats on evenly, allowing for multiple applications to make the eyelashes appear long and luscious.

Setting the Face

My fallout was dusted off. My primer had set. Hello, foundation. Using a damp Beauty Blender (Sephora, $20), I decided to practice my tutorial with my Clinique Stay-Matte Oil-Free foundation (Sephora, $27). I didn’t want to waste any of the foundation I use on a daily basis for a practice run. The Clinique foundation, however, would still give me the same effect I was looking for: matte, dull, and doll-like. When I do my makeup, I will be using my reliable Make Up For Ever Ultra HD Invisible Cover Foundation (Amazon, $56 - my shade is Y245). This is a medium coverage matte foundation that can easily be built up. The HD formula makes it perfect to be filmed or photographed - it was the foundation of choice by the Downton Abbey makeup artists to make the actresses playing Edwardian aristocrats look flawless on screen during an age where makeup usage was minimal (read: none at all).

Do not be afraid to go heavier on your foundation for this look. When I examined my face, I realized I’d actually missed some spots (especially around my nose) because I was afraid I would look too caked on. The nice thing about the Beauty Blender is that it does allow the user to control and spread out the foundation easier. Once my foundation was applied liberally all over my face (do not forget to apply at the jawline and into the neck to make your face smooth and even!), I took my Sephora Pro Precision Powder Brush #59 (Sephora, $38) and dipped it into my holy grail of setting powders…

Starting from the left: The Clinique foundation was the choice I used to do this tutorial, but I’m going to rely on my Makeup Forever foundation for the final look next week. To the right of that bottle is the Laura Mercier powder that really gives me the “vintage” vibe I’m trying to achieve. Below are the face tools: my Beauty Blender and Sephora powder brush.

Ladies, if you know your makeup and you’ve guessed what it is, then you’re absolutely right. The Laura Mercier Translucent Loose Setting Powder (Sephora, $39) is perfect for obtaining flawless makeup. I use it everyday, and knew that this would be the only setting powder I’d use for this look I am trying to achieve. The feature I like most about this setting powder is that it does not cause the dreaded “flashback” when being photographed. It keeps my face matte and fresh all day, even during a humid Virginia summer. I blended this into every nook and cranny on my face to truly get the right aesthetic.

With my blush brush, I then applied my Charlotte Tilbury Cheek to Chic Blush in Ecstasy (Sephora, $40) on the apples of my cheeks and dabbed a little on my nose. I hadn’t used Charlotte Tilbury products in my makeup routines until this past October when I got my makeup done at Sephora. I was impressed by the quality and color of the blush my makeup artist used on me. I asked her what product it was. Once she said it was Charlotte Tilbury, any doubts I had about buying her products disappeared. Into my shopping basket it went. I like that you can apply it fairly heavily (without looking tacky!) if you’re trying to play dress up - I used it when I did my makeup for Halloween. I was Mary Poppins, and the blush really did help pull the look of my costume together. I looked more like her character, and less like myself.

Charlotte Tilbury products can easily be used for every day cosmetic wear, or if you’re trying to get a more dramatic look when using makeup for a costume/fancy event!

Eyes (Again)

I decided that my bottom lashes needed definition. Instead of using a pencil eyeliner, I used a trick another Sephora makeup artist taught me. I grabbed a small, angled eye shadow brush and carefully dipped it into the one of the shades from the Tarte palette I’d used earlier. I picked the shade “Wonder,” a matte plum color, and I softly lined my bottom lash line with eye shadow. This trick gave my eyes a soft and glamorous finish. Using a pencil liner would’ve made the final look too harsh and vampy.

Lips (Finally)

Did you know that there is a woman who is dedicated to recreating lipstick colors of the past with modern and better quality cosmetic ingredients? If you didn’t - you do now. Bésame Cosmetics, founded by the cosmetic historian Gabriela Hernandez, sells accurate reproductions of popular lipstick shades from decades past. Bésame first became famous for their signature red shades, but the cosmetic line has expanded into skincare, perfume, foundations, and eye shadows. Bésame now has lipstick shades from the 1960s and 1970s, which are representative of the neutral trends popular of the time.

My best friend purchased my first lipstick for from Bésame for Christmas a couple years ago. She knew of my love for the 1920s, and gifted me the shade 1922: Blood Red (Bésame Cosmetics, $22). When applied with a heavy hand, this shade is as flapper as it gets. We’re talking Theda Bara vampy. What I wanted to maintain with my lips was the cupid’s bow, rather than the full-blown color, so this meant lining them. What I love about the Bésame lipsticks is that they are designed to use as a lip liner and a lipstick. The tips of the lipstick are chiseled. This allows the user to line with the slanted, pointed edges before taking the flatter end to fill in the rest of the lips.

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I lined with the lipstick first and then blotted my lips together to help spread the color. Then I gently dabbed a coating of the lipstick to fill in any gaps, but I did not apply it like a normal tube of lipstick. This method allowed for me to easily define the cupid’s bow and make the lips red, but not too red.

Taking It All Off

It took me the better part of twenty minutes to make sure my face was clean and cleared of my chiseled on makeup. I started to take off the warpaint by wiping my face with my Cetaphil Gentle Makeup Removing Wipes ($6.20 on Amazon, via Cetaphil’s website) and then cleansing it with Biore’s Charcoal Cleanser Micellar Water (Amazon, $8.20). If you have a facial brush, like a Clarisonic or Luna, I recommend you use that with your usual facial cleanser to do a nice, deep clean once you’ve removed most of it with the wipes and micellar water. Then, moisturize as usual and you’ve entered back into the twenty-first century.

I’m pretty sure flappers wish they had these products back then to take off their makeup…

Final Result of the First Tutorial

My “modern day flapper” look…minus the sparkly dress & heels…

I usually don’t like posting photos of myself because I am nowhere near good enough with my makeup application, but I did want to share how my first attempt came out. I’m pleased with the outcome; however, I want to practice it a couple of more times. I want to be more sure of my application the day I need to do it on, and feel comfortable doing my friend’s makeup. My goal is to streamline the process so I do not spend an hour dedicated to painting my face.

What I’d like to end with is that history truly can be found in anything, even something so vapid as makeup application. I don’t think I’d look like a flapper if I didn’t try to study the makeup trends that the flapper look comprised of. The challenge was to bring the look into the modern day. By learning about the key elements of the look and incorporating them into my makeup job, but deciding where I could tone them down, I truly can transform into the modern day flapper.

Until next time…

Many happy returns,

-Kate

greetings & salutations

Winter Graduation, George Mason University, Fairfax, VA
21 December 2016

The moment I received my MA in my hand will always be one I cherish. It was in that moment that I knew I was satisfied with the decision I made to pursue history as my career.

Have I regretted it? Not even for a second.

You’re probably wondering what the purpose of this website is. To be honest, I still haven’t figured it out yet myself. I suppose I can say this has always been an idea of mine - to write about my exploits as an amateur historian since…well, my sophomore year of college.

I was required to take an Informational Technology course as a fulfillment of the general education requirements at George Mason University. I wasn’t looking forward to taking the course everyone seemed to complain about. I heard many humanities majors struggled with the course work, but I also knew it had to be done.

Thank goodness for the Center for History and New Media (CHNM). That year, the CHNM decided to offer a “humanities-friendly” IT course that would meet the requirements for the IT credit. Another bonus? It also offered me upper-level history elective credit. I enrolled as a student of this first course - HIST 390: The Digital Past. I spent my spring semester learning about how one could successfully pursue a degree in history thanks to a growing technological age. History, for those of you who believe it to be a “useless” major, will only continue to come alive thanks to the innovations the historians at the CHNM have created.

(Just saying - Zotero rocks! Digital humanities are a thing - and they are here to stay!)

I enjoyed my time in that course. It was challenging, but I loved bringing the past and the future together to question the role of history in our “modern” era. The digital humanities will thrive because of our willingness to adapt and use technology to benefit our research.

(Another bonus: we didn’t have to pay a dime for a textbook. Everything was available as a free resource!)

A requirement of the program was to create a blog via WordPress. We didn’t have to pay for a premium account - the freebie one would be enough for the course. We had to post weekly blogs about whatever the topic was on the syllabus. The blog would eventually feature our final research project - whatever historical topic we wanted to pursue. What kinds of preservation paths would we take to archive our research? What sorts of digital innovations (Google Earth, Daytum, SlideShare) would we use to present our findings?

So, I suppose this website is my way of continuing a preservation path - but now, I don’t have to do it for a grade. I have numerous historical interests. I teach it at the college level, I want to teach it at my middle school, and I hope to eventually go back and pursue a PhD. I love to talk about it, so why not feature it here? I’d like to offer online editing services too; anyone needing help with Turabian citations? I’m your girl. Want a suggestion on a new historical book? Ask me. Debating whether or not to pursue history? Needing questions about the application process for a graduate degree? I lived it, breathed it, and was criticized for it: trust me, I’ve got advice.

I invite you to drop me a line with any ideas you might have for me to feature…or any questions you have. All I can say is: I’ll do my best to answer them.

Until then…

Many happy returns,

-Kate