the antiquated reverie
I’ve always been obsessed with antiques and pre-owned things. Growing up, I rather’d my aunt’s hand me down than a new piece of clothing. Every year I go to Iran I sneak something from my Grandma’s house. All of my plates are from the set that she bought nearly 30 years ago. A great deal of my furniture is antiques from facebook marketplace (love living in the Midwest!). And whenever I go to a new city, I try to visit a goodwill or some other antique store. Tokyo thrifting was particularly fun, but Iowa antiquing was more rewarding.
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I personally never found this weird, but many people did. Nowadays, it’s popular to thrift, but growing up, we did it due to being poor and my mom used to tell me to not tell any of the other kids about how my clothes were from Goodwill. Crazy that now, kids brag about it! I’m glad that it has become such a big thing though. I find such value in not only antiques but just things with previous owners. Even if it is something basic, I love knowing that someone else experienced it. I feel as though it connects me to other people through different decades.
I’ve always loved talking to people and hearing their stories. War veterans, political prisoners, kindergarten teachers, party girls, a random guy from South Carolina, anyone. Once you sit and listen to people’s stories you come to realise a very simple truth. Nothing that you are experiencing is unique. And while that may sound sad to some people, it brings me great solace. The details of a situation may defer, but the human experience is the same.
Specifically talking to women. From housewives to suffragettes to feminists to teenage girls. The problems each generation face is different, our Grandmas probably never had to worry about revenge porn but they carried deep societal shame about being a divorcee. Suffragettes fighting for the right to vote is different than feminists fighting for abortion rights, but they both entice the same emotional need for autonomy. Teenage girls and housewives alike feel closed out by their households, one is at the hands of parents, the other is at the hands of a husband.
There is a bittersweet taste in that. A part of it brings me comfort knowing that I am not broken or crazy. The other part of me obviously mourns the loss of joy these women felt. It’s nice knowing I have a slew of other women to turn to, but I simultaneously wish they were oblivious to this pain that I am feeling.
Growing up, I used to be told that I am very “wise” and “mature” for my age. And I guess I kinda was… Because I would regurgitate what my aunts and mom would tell me. I parroted what older women said constantly. Not that I would actually listen. It was always surprising to me that people would think the advice or the eloquent commentary came from a 10 year old. I had no idea what the fuck I was talking about. I could say the words, but it would be a long time before I understood what they meant. I eventually learned my lessons, and now my advice to younger girls sounds the same. And I’m sure they won’t listen to me either.
As a result, my reveries, the many daydreams I get lost in, are nothing new. They are antiquated the same way a wooden house or an old city is. Go back in history, and there is a girl somewhere, maybe not writing a Substack or making a TikTok, but sitting there with her head in her hands, dreaming of a sweeter life. She turned out okay, so will I.
See you in the next one,
