The Support of a Mentor

If you follow this blog regularly, it should be no surprise to you that I've had a hard life. I've been beaten, broken, abused and poor so how was I able to carry on? What ever made me think that I was capable of anything when the world was constantly telling me that I was worthless?

The support of a mentor is what gave me my strength and the belief I have in myself. Without someone taking the time to say, 'you can do this', I might never have tried. And that is why I owe everything I will ever have to Conrad Fink.

Every once and a while someone enters our life who supports us, encourages us, and wants too see us succeed because they believe we have what it takes. I met Conrad Fink during the fall of 2010 and the courage he showed me will last a lifetime.

You may be thinking, what could a Hispanic, college-aged girl from a rough neighborhood ever have in common with a white, 80-year-old former vice president of the Associated Press? Well nothing. I can honestly say that Conrad Fink and I probably had very little in common besides our love of writing and the thirst for democracy and social justice.

The first time I took a class with Conrad Fink, I was more than nervous. His classrooms are set up around a round-table, where everyone is expected to participate, and where everyone is vulnerable to his criticism, which hits like a nun with a ruler.

Rumor was that Conrad Fink was a grouchy old tyrant, who thought he knew everything about journalism and writing. There were some who even refused to take his classes because of the level of effort he expected from his students. Being the perfectionist that I am, I thought I was up for the challenge. And so my goal for the semester was to work hard and impress Conrad Fink.

Hours were spent, perfecting opinion pieces and coming up with ideas for future editorials.

"You've got good ideas, Villarreal." He said to me once after class. "I've been in this business for a long time, and I can tell you're different." He said. "You take the time to think about the world around you, something your other classmates don't do. Take that, and run with it." He told me and goddammit I did. That was one of the best moments of my life because a legend was telling me I had something special. I couldn't let him down.

When I went home that night, I was determined to write a new column that was going to blow him and the rest of the class away. I wrote about something controversial, but extremely timely. There was a young girl who'd been gang raped and the boys who allegedly committed the act had documented it with their cellphones and were putting up all over social media. This way my story. My chance to be heard. My chance to voice my concerns about sexual violence and social media. I showed the story to my editor and she wanted to run it the very next day. "Wait," I said. "Let me show it to Fink first."

Since the semester started, I'd made a habit of doing my homework on the floor outside Fink's office, waiting for him to be done teaching so I could badger him in to helping me with my writing. He never complained about me taking up all his office hours, in fact I think he was impressed that I wanted his opinion so often. He noticed everything. Even how I carried a notepad with me everywhere, something I'd been doing since fifth grade.

But when I showed Fink my story that day, after waiting for him for a few hours, he was furious.
"Did you watch the video?" he asked.

"No of course not," I replied. "It's child pornography. It's illegal."

"It doesn't matter," he shouted. "You don't write an article about a football game without having seen it. You don't do this Villarreal!"

"Fine," I shouted. "I'll take that part out, but it's going to run tomorrow."

Fink balled up the story and threw it. "No one should ever read this." he shouted. He accused me of not knowing the basic rules of reporting and he was right.

Conrad Fink (Associated Press)

"Okay," I said, picking up the story. "I won't let it run." I said trying not to cry. I grabbed my things and left, feeling awful for missing something so big and for letting Fink down.

When I got home that evening, I sent him an email, apologizing and attached a news article that had gotten attention a while back, hoping to gain his trust back. The next day he gave me a signed copy of one of his books, saying that he knew I was going to have a great career. He believed in me and it was because I didn't crack when things got tough, because I was still willing to try again even though I had failed the first time.

Fink knew that I wouldn't quit and for a long time after his death, I felt guilty. I wanted him to see me publish my first book, to prove that all his effort was not wasted, but he died before that could happen. For those of us who don't believe in the afterlife, I have to push everything that Fink taught me to others. That's how his legacy will live.

Love,
Kris

Growing Pains

Growing up is hard to do, and over the last few years I've been struggling to keep up with the rest of my generation. I'm in my mid-twenties and for me adulthood has been a major adjustment -- both good and bad. I've struggled in my career, and that alone has me feeling like I'm one step behind everyone else.

I often set high expectations for myself, too high in fact. And while I did well in school and at university I had a difficult time finding a job after college. It took months, four months exactly before I landed my first job working in IT as a communications specialist for a major corporation.

It wasn't long before I realized I hated the job and wanted to quit, but I don't believe in quitting so I stuck it out until I was laid off only 10 months in to the job. I found myself on the job hunt again, landed a PR position at a healthcare company and was laid off again after working there for a little over a year.

So it seems that things just haven't worked out for me. I should throw in the towel, admit that I've failed at life and crawl in to a hole and die, right? Fuck that I will make my own way. I took matters in to my own hands and started writing books during that first corporate IT job. I've written four so far all unpublished, but I hope that changes soon.

My unsuccessful career in corporate America has taught me a few things:

Don't define yourself by what you do because it will leave you feeling empty.
Don't dedicate your life to a job.
Don't expect anyone to look out for you or your career.
Don't assume that just because you land a job you will be happy there.
Figure out what you love and do that because for some, corporate America can be a nightmare.

The 40-hour work week isn't for everyone. The monotony of the days can often be unbearable as once you're an adult everything starts to blend together like one big mural of time. I've learned to appreciate myself without my career path being set in stone. I've learned to value flexibility and to not worry so much about other's opinions because most people are fucking stupid unfortunately.

Through growing up, I've also learned that it's okay to ask for help, it's okay to admit your faults and to make mistakes. It's okay to be me, and I don't have to make excuses for myself.

But the most important thing that growing up has taught me thus far is that you have to live your life no matter what, and knock down anyone who's standing in your way.

And she thinks she's the pink of perfection...

That's a line from a film called "Summer Magic" that I watched as a kid. When I was little and did a good job someone would always drop the word "perfect." 

I was a cute kid so adults constantly gave me attention for my looks, and then when I did something smart I got coded as "perfect." 

"She's so perfect," they'd say. 

"You're perfect," my mother would tell me. "Not my perfect Crissy," she'd utter if anyone ever spoke a word against me. 

"I love how perfect you are," said my husband and I was always afraid to let everyone down.

Because I'm not perfect, and for the first time in my life I'm not trying to be.

I used to think that if I acted as perfect as possible my life would be easier and everyone would love me. I thought if I always looked beautiful, excelled professionally, kept my house clean and baked elaborate desserts for everyone, I wouldn't have a care in the world. 

Well, as I'm sure you've guessed by now it didn't work out for me. I became a warden of my own thoughts and actions. Anything that didn't seem perfect was banished from my personality, and anyone in my life who wasn't trying to be perfect, I condemned. And really all I was doing was condemning myself, judging myself along the same strict standards as I did every person I met. 

I felt as though I had to be perfect or my friends and family wouldn't be able to brag about me anymore. I was desperate to keep up my persona and then one day I just broke -- cracked right down the middle. 

There was no hope left. I couldn't be saved and so I had to give up the battle for perfection. I had to stop counting every single calorie I put in to my body. I had to stop punishing myself for my own mistakes and short-comings because no one is perfect, and anyone who might be perfect is probably horribly boring. 

So my point is that you should always do your best, but who gives a fuck if your house isn't spotless. Who cares if a few cookies have some burnt edges -- you'll eat them anyway because they taste amazing. Imperfection is beautiful, it's unique. 

Don't turn in to a drone, and don't have a break down like I did. Love yourself and your friends and family because they aren't perfect and neither are you.

Love,

Kris

On Weight and Self-Worth

Sitting in my neighborhood bookstore and having to hear a very young girl, around 18 or 19, describe herself as "chunky" breaks my heart. It hurts to hear her say that to her group of friends, but it hurts even more that they only offered their friend more negative comments about their own bodies.

I'm not judging these girls. Because I know where those thoughts come from and just how hard it is to constantly work against them.

We all do it. We criticize our bodies and in turn diminish our self-worth. And I'm one of the biggest culprits. I'll stare at myself in the mirror looking for dimples and extra fat to pull and tug on, comparing my body now to the body I had in college or in high school, and wondering why I didn't realize how I awesome I looked back then.

For women, it's often a constant struggle to learn to love and accept their bodies. For a large part of our history women felt that their appearance and beauty ultimately determined their survival, and it did. All women were expected to marry, and you married based on how attractive and complacent you were. We live in a much different era now, but these ideals still cloud our judgement because they're constantly recycled and repackaged in ways that we often don't recognize. We only know that we should feel bad about our bodies, that we should always be looking for a way to improve our appearance because for women our appearance is important..

And it is important, but it should never be the sole determinant of your worth as a person. I bet that girl had a million other things should could have been focusing on -- work, academics, art, culture, but we allow our obsession with our appearance to cloud our brains and shadow our true potential.

But you're more than your body and you're more than your weight, so don't listen to society's mantra of thinness equaling happiness, because it doesn't.

I've had times in my life when I ate very little to stay thin, and while I looked great I was the unhappiest I'd ever been. So let so and so worry about getting her boobs done or skipping dessert, while you worry about putting in overtime on that big project. One worry will benefit you while the other won't.

Determine for yourself what looks good and don't let the images on a telescreeen dictate for you. And banish the little voice inside your head that tells you you're fat. Cuz you ain't, honey.

Love,
Kris