My computer died (I'm sure I'll rant about this at a later time) and I've been unable to write and the words have been storing themselves in my fingers and dying to get out and I have the feeling my posts are going to be unacceptably long in the coming weeks.
But before I start pouring out this backlog of useless things I want to write about, I must get this out of my system.
Dear Grandma,
I love you. Somehow, I still do. Just remember that.
But I don't like you very much. I've given you so many chances. I defended you time and time again. I tried to justify your actions and explain away what I refused to believe was blatant manipulation. I can't do that anymore.
Do you know how many tears I've cried because of you? Do you know how much guilt I felt, feelings purposely orchestrated by you? Do you know what you did to me? All to feed your selfish desires, make yourself feel important. You knew I'm the weakest member of my family. You fed upon my need to please those I love. You knew you could manipulate my feelings and you milked it for almost my entire life. A tool to get back at my father, to make my mother feel guilty.
I used to feel bad when my brother treated you badly. How wrong I was. He was acting like I should've all those years. He was just impervious to your constant guilt trips. He was, is, stronger than I am. What I thought was rudeness was simply him being a far better judge of character than I.
Perhaps I would've tolerated your behavior longer if it wasn't for the truth I saw in the way you treat my father. You know how close him and I are and you've always been jealous of it. You try to make him appear a bad influence. You blame him for the way my family functions. Just because we're not you doesn't mean we're not just as good. Maybe even better.
My father is a good man. He's given me everything I've ever needed and even everything I wanted. But most of all, he's given me the one thing you never have and never will be able to give--unconditional love.
He sees me for what I am. He knows my faults and loves me anyway. I don't have to hide my imperfections from him because he will try to understand. You only criticize, blame, and try to force me out of me.
I can be honest with him about my myself and my beliefs and he does not judge. Maybe he doesn't always agree, but he values my opinion and doesn't belittle it.
You just blame him, television, the internet, my "secular" education. You say I'm brainwashed and you don't even know half of the real me. You give me no credit. The father you say is horrible, he raised me to be an independent thinker, a logical and grounded person. I read. I think. I process. I form my own opinions. They are not his or anyone else's. I have my own brain. I strive to shake anybody's total influence. Yours, Dad's, anyone's.
You don't want to know me. You don't want to love me. You want to buy my affections and my loyalty just to get back at Dad for marrying my mother. You treat me like a tool under the mask of love and expect me to just accept this. You think everyone is trying to brainwash me but you're the only one full of manipulation.
I'm not that little girl in the poofy ugly dress you bought that I only wore to make you happy, or the little girl in the church choir even though I can't sing that only stays in it to make you happy, or the little girl reading her Bible out loud to strangers even though I'm so uncomfortable to make you happy, or the young woman getting baptised even though she was lying through her teeth just to make you happy. Back then, I thought I did those things out of love for my grandmother. I was simply being guilted and manipulated and used.
I will not be anymore. I will not sit back and watch you trash my father. You even went as far as to accuse him of child abuse. That is the most ridiculous accusation you could ever make. I will not sit back and watch you make my mother feel guilty for living the life she chose. Now that I'm older and able to see what you really are, I have to constantly hide what I really am to you. This isn't fair.
I'm supposed to love and like my grandmother. She's supposed to make me cookies and tell me stories about the good ole days and love me. She isn't supposed to make passive aggressive jabs at my father, lie about him to the rest of the family, and use me as a bargaining chip.
I will smile and be polite at all the obligatory visits. I'll exchange a hug and maybe even a laugh, but I will not bow down to you anymore. I will not let you guilt me into anything, including loving my own father. I am my own person, whether or not you choose to believe it.
Ayn Rand wrote in The Fountainhead, "I would die for you, but I will not live for you." You've lost my respect and I know you'll never care to earn it back.
Just remember, this your own doing. I tried.
Sincerely,
Your granddaughter
Dec 28, 2009
Dec 6, 2009
Hibernating
I have been struggling with people lately. It seems every time I try to talk to one, it goes wrong. I don't think I'm doing anything differently than usual to warrant lesser results, but perhaps I am.
Or maybe it's just the time of year. Exam time, for the students among us, always produces plenty of stress. Everybody is bent over syllabuses and calculators, trying to figure out what has to be scored on the remaining assignments to capture that coveted A, or maybe just to pass. The pressure of having to study leaves everyone feeling guilty for having a non-school related conversation, daring to think about something else when there's so much schoolwork to be done. Everybody is on edge.
There's also the weather, becoming cold and windy and rainy and sucking all the life force from the poor little humans wrapped in layers, shivering their way from place to place. The wind comes and snatches all the green from the leaves and knocks them to the ground, along with the spirits of those raking the leaves despondently. It's hard to be happy when surrounded by a dead, cold outdoors. It gets dark so early.
Or maybe it's just that my own stock of patience has been depleted. I haven't been sleeping or eating particularly well lately, giving me a chronic feeling of bad health. My head always hurts and it takes conscious effort to stay awake. This doesn't leave much room for dealing with the sensitivity of my fellow beings, and catering to their minute sensibilities. It takes energy that I do not have to deal with people.
So I avoid contact until this time has passed. Now I know why bears hibernate. It's easier to spend these months curled up in your cave, warm and sleeping, than out there trying to communicate with a frustrating world. I stay inside, with my heating and books, where I can remain blissfully alone.
Or maybe it's just the time of year. Exam time, for the students among us, always produces plenty of stress. Everybody is bent over syllabuses and calculators, trying to figure out what has to be scored on the remaining assignments to capture that coveted A, or maybe just to pass. The pressure of having to study leaves everyone feeling guilty for having a non-school related conversation, daring to think about something else when there's so much schoolwork to be done. Everybody is on edge.
There's also the weather, becoming cold and windy and rainy and sucking all the life force from the poor little humans wrapped in layers, shivering their way from place to place. The wind comes and snatches all the green from the leaves and knocks them to the ground, along with the spirits of those raking the leaves despondently. It's hard to be happy when surrounded by a dead, cold outdoors. It gets dark so early.
Or maybe it's just that my own stock of patience has been depleted. I haven't been sleeping or eating particularly well lately, giving me a chronic feeling of bad health. My head always hurts and it takes conscious effort to stay awake. This doesn't leave much room for dealing with the sensitivity of my fellow beings, and catering to their minute sensibilities. It takes energy that I do not have to deal with people.
So I avoid contact until this time has passed. Now I know why bears hibernate. It's easier to spend these months curled up in your cave, warm and sleeping, than out there trying to communicate with a frustrating world. I stay inside, with my heating and books, where I can remain blissfully alone.
Nov 30, 2009
House is not destroying my brain!
So I'm tired of entertainment getting a bad rep.
For some reason, society decided to be entertainment-centered and consider people who indulge in purely entertaining pursuits as dumb or lazy. How both of these things exist at the same time is interesting, but beside the point at hand.
Perhaps this entertainment stigma is only common to the circle I run in, which happens to be a group of very academic (and elitist, including myself) people. Nonetheless, it irks me.
I happen to enjoy television. For some reason, this evokes a neanderthal image, drooling at the moving pictures on the box. Perhaps this is what it equates to sometimes.
But not all of the time. I happen to think television is occasionally used in a productive and thought-provoking manner. For example, tonight I indulged in one of my favorite shows, House.
House is an excellent example of good tv writing, especially in the realm of character development. The show is strongly driven by House's character. Tonight's episode was even a prime example of the utilization of foil characters that would make my English teacher proud. The show brings up many philosophical issues that my family and I often discuss while watching and afterwards, and sometimes the next few days.
This runs counter to the argument that television eliminates conversation between families, and eliminates independent thought. It spurs both of these in my house. Are we simply a counterexample or is this a common occurrence? I do not know.
Yes, there are plenty of shows I watch for pure entertainment; I am not ashamed to watch them. It's not as if I never contemplate life, read classic novels, or anything considered more worthy pursuits by the academic elitists. I'm a strong believer in "all things in moderation." What's wrong with moderate television watching?
Don't get me wrong, however. I do not approve of such drivel like "The Hills." I see no value in watching this. But I also support the right of somebody who wants to watch it, if that's how they are entertained.
Many claim that tv is corrupting our youth and the future of the world and all sorts of things like that. I think there's a place in this world for tv and other "useless" entertainment. The key is learning moderation, and a lack of it is where our true troubles lie. I don't think I'm a lesser person for watching television and liking it, and I don't think anybody is a better person for foregoing it. If you genuinely like it, watch it. If you don't, don't. But don't assign morality to 90210.
I guess this is very preachy and possibly elitist as I try to combat elitism. Well, nobody's perfect. I guess all the tv has rotted my brain.
For some reason, society decided to be entertainment-centered and consider people who indulge in purely entertaining pursuits as dumb or lazy. How both of these things exist at the same time is interesting, but beside the point at hand.
Perhaps this entertainment stigma is only common to the circle I run in, which happens to be a group of very academic (and elitist, including myself) people. Nonetheless, it irks me.
I happen to enjoy television. For some reason, this evokes a neanderthal image, drooling at the moving pictures on the box. Perhaps this is what it equates to sometimes.
But not all of the time. I happen to think television is occasionally used in a productive and thought-provoking manner. For example, tonight I indulged in one of my favorite shows, House.
House is an excellent example of good tv writing, especially in the realm of character development. The show is strongly driven by House's character. Tonight's episode was even a prime example of the utilization of foil characters that would make my English teacher proud. The show brings up many philosophical issues that my family and I often discuss while watching and afterwards, and sometimes the next few days.
This runs counter to the argument that television eliminates conversation between families, and eliminates independent thought. It spurs both of these in my house. Are we simply a counterexample or is this a common occurrence? I do not know.
Yes, there are plenty of shows I watch for pure entertainment; I am not ashamed to watch them. It's not as if I never contemplate life, read classic novels, or anything considered more worthy pursuits by the academic elitists. I'm a strong believer in "all things in moderation." What's wrong with moderate television watching?
Don't get me wrong, however. I do not approve of such drivel like "The Hills." I see no value in watching this. But I also support the right of somebody who wants to watch it, if that's how they are entertained.
Many claim that tv is corrupting our youth and the future of the world and all sorts of things like that. I think there's a place in this world for tv and other "useless" entertainment. The key is learning moderation, and a lack of it is where our true troubles lie. I don't think I'm a lesser person for watching television and liking it, and I don't think anybody is a better person for foregoing it. If you genuinely like it, watch it. If you don't, don't. But don't assign morality to 90210.
I guess this is very preachy and possibly elitist as I try to combat elitism. Well, nobody's perfect. I guess all the tv has rotted my brain.
Nov 25, 2009
"Would you like to try a demo?"
Being a mall salesperson is probably one of the top ten hardest jobs ever. Like seriously.
As my mother, grandmother, and I walked through the mall, we were accosted repeatedly by various salespeople manning the booths outside of all the stores.
The first large encounter was at one of those places that sell covers for every kind of technological gadget imaginable, in pursuit of a cover for my naked, exposed phone (that had just survived a drop in the parking lot, which I think was it's ninth and final safety life). I simply asked the man to point me to where I might find the covers for the model of my phone, and he escorts me towards them and begins laying them out, sorted by color and material, and taking any that I looked at for more than five seconds out of the delicate wrapping and snapping it to my phone with an unnecessary but cool little plastic device. As my phone tried on more outfits than I ever do, the man threw the hardest sales pitch imaginable for something I already had every intention to buy. He even said his colleague was a "professional screen protector adhererer." I didn't realize that was offered as a degree now; perhaps it's only a certification program.
After we'd already purchased the cell phone cover, the man catches my mom checking her Blackberry and escorts her to that section of his cart of useless gadgets. Mom politely nodded and smiled as he explained this elaborate and unnecessary gadget involving a remote control and "driving safety" in broken English, as most people do.
Not my grandmother, however. She feels the need to listen with the greatest intensity (even though she definitely didn't understand a single thing, being that she's had her cell phone for two years and can't turn it on). The salesman could sense a prime target. Sure enough, after his spill was completed, she turned to Mom: "Do you want this for Christmas?"
The phone guy was not the only mall-booth-salesperson to notice the gigantic "sucker" sign on my dear grandma's forehead. One woman almost had Grandma handing over her Discover card entirely.
She was selling this (albeit extremely awesome) nail painting thing. It allows you to create elaborate designs very easily, with a salon-esque finish. The saleslady, noticing a group of three females with unpainted nails, seemingly jumped over the cart, exclaiming desperately "Would you like to try???"
Grandma would always like to try. Mom and I, weary from four hours of shopping, kept walking forward and hoped Grandma would follow suit. But, no, her obedience to sales people always trumps her flesh and blood, and she was caught in the trap. Grandma, not wanting to mess up her salon-finished nails, had the lady demonstrating on herself. Happy to find somebody with unpainted nails, she immediately seized my hand and doused my thumbnail in thick black polish. "It's just like a salon, except it only costs $20 one time!"
I didn't have the heart to tell her that, since I never go to nail salons anyway, there was no way buying this product would save me any money. But after I saw the result, which was completely awesome, I was sold. Grandma purchased the cheapest kit as my Christmas present.
But the lady was not finished. She went on to tell us how she has three kids, and only been working at the mall for three days, and that nobody will stop for a demo and that we're the first ones all day. (This completely contradicts the fact that she told us she sold a $140 kit the day before...) And the biggest sob story: us, her sole sale of the day, only earned her $5 in commission.
I was afraid Grandma was going to empty the contents of her purse onto the counter, grab a bottle of nail polish, and walk away, but Mom and I managed to gently pull her away from the booth with her life savings intact.
At least the Southern-bred hint of racism within her kept her from being to suseptable to the ailing salesman act. Many of them are foreign, with heavy accents. One man, hawking lotion, asked "is it because of my accent?" as we continued to walk past him. Grandma nodded yes involuntarily while Mom and I just laughed. This did not deter the man, however, as he pretended that we dropped something and needed to turn around to retrieve it. "Why are all those foreigners (she said it like she'd just sipped sour lemonade from our lunch Chick-fil-a meal) coming here to sell things?" The nail lady better be glad she was white.
So after Christmas, as I elaborately decorate my nails, I will have to think about the poor lady trying to feed her children with the five dollars my Grandma found it in her heart to pay her, and the lotion man with the accent that will have to go hungry.
As my mother, grandmother, and I walked through the mall, we were accosted repeatedly by various salespeople manning the booths outside of all the stores.
The first large encounter was at one of those places that sell covers for every kind of technological gadget imaginable, in pursuit of a cover for my naked, exposed phone (that had just survived a drop in the parking lot, which I think was it's ninth and final safety life). I simply asked the man to point me to where I might find the covers for the model of my phone, and he escorts me towards them and begins laying them out, sorted by color and material, and taking any that I looked at for more than five seconds out of the delicate wrapping and snapping it to my phone with an unnecessary but cool little plastic device. As my phone tried on more outfits than I ever do, the man threw the hardest sales pitch imaginable for something I already had every intention to buy. He even said his colleague was a "professional screen protector adhererer." I didn't realize that was offered as a degree now; perhaps it's only a certification program.
After we'd already purchased the cell phone cover, the man catches my mom checking her Blackberry and escorts her to that section of his cart of useless gadgets. Mom politely nodded and smiled as he explained this elaborate and unnecessary gadget involving a remote control and "driving safety" in broken English, as most people do.
Not my grandmother, however. She feels the need to listen with the greatest intensity (even though she definitely didn't understand a single thing, being that she's had her cell phone for two years and can't turn it on). The salesman could sense a prime target. Sure enough, after his spill was completed, she turned to Mom: "Do you want this for Christmas?"
The phone guy was not the only mall-booth-salesperson to notice the gigantic "sucker" sign on my dear grandma's forehead. One woman almost had Grandma handing over her Discover card entirely.
She was selling this (albeit extremely awesome) nail painting thing. It allows you to create elaborate designs very easily, with a salon-esque finish. The saleslady, noticing a group of three females with unpainted nails, seemingly jumped over the cart, exclaiming desperately "Would you like to try???"
Grandma would always like to try. Mom and I, weary from four hours of shopping, kept walking forward and hoped Grandma would follow suit. But, no, her obedience to sales people always trumps her flesh and blood, and she was caught in the trap. Grandma, not wanting to mess up her salon-finished nails, had the lady demonstrating on herself. Happy to find somebody with unpainted nails, she immediately seized my hand and doused my thumbnail in thick black polish. "It's just like a salon, except it only costs $20 one time!"
I didn't have the heart to tell her that, since I never go to nail salons anyway, there was no way buying this product would save me any money. But after I saw the result, which was completely awesome, I was sold. Grandma purchased the cheapest kit as my Christmas present.
But the lady was not finished. She went on to tell us how she has three kids, and only been working at the mall for three days, and that nobody will stop for a demo and that we're the first ones all day. (This completely contradicts the fact that she told us she sold a $140 kit the day before...) And the biggest sob story: us, her sole sale of the day, only earned her $5 in commission.
I was afraid Grandma was going to empty the contents of her purse onto the counter, grab a bottle of nail polish, and walk away, but Mom and I managed to gently pull her away from the booth with her life savings intact.
At least the Southern-bred hint of racism within her kept her from being to suseptable to the ailing salesman act. Many of them are foreign, with heavy accents. One man, hawking lotion, asked "is it because of my accent?" as we continued to walk past him. Grandma nodded yes involuntarily while Mom and I just laughed. This did not deter the man, however, as he pretended that we dropped something and needed to turn around to retrieve it. "Why are all those foreigners (she said it like she'd just sipped sour lemonade from our lunch Chick-fil-a meal) coming here to sell things?" The nail lady better be glad she was white.
So after Christmas, as I elaborately decorate my nails, I will have to think about the poor lady trying to feed her children with the five dollars my Grandma found it in her heart to pay her, and the lotion man with the accent that will have to go hungry.
Nov 23, 2009
In my heart there rings a melody...
I've always maintained the argument that music isn't any better or worse today than it was in any other decade and that the people living in those decades probably thought the same thing about their music as we think ours. Legends are only made with time.
But as I watched the American Music Awards last night, I couldn't help but think perhaps our music really is worse than that of decades past. I am ashamed to think that any artist performing at that ceremony is the legendary icon that will define this decade for generations to come. Surely Jay-Z is not the Elvis, the Beatles, or the Michael Jackson of our time.
Many of the performances were just sex on stage; Shakira's performance was little more than sex noises and synchronized pelvic thrusts set to generic music. How is this good?
I realize that statement makes me sound like a prude, and if being a prude means I only think you're allowed to have clothed stage sex if the song you're singing is actually good, prude I am.
I thought Shakira couldn't be beat, but then I saw Adam Lambert stuffing a back-up dancer's face in his crotch and just couldn't help but laugh. I thought sexual innuendos on primetime television were meant to be subtle, like you're supposed to wonder if the person sitting next to you got the same thing out of that that you did or your mind is just perverted. But there was no doubt it. When Adam pulled that one, everybody thought BAM ORAL SEX!
I really don't know why this is what is considered entertainment these days. I think good music is so much more than fiery pianos (Thanks Lady Gaga) and bad boxing outfits (looking at you J-Lo).
There's the times when I've sat, unable to sleep, in the middle of my bed. The only light comes from the glow of my ipod screen and the only thing I can hear or feel or think about is the simple melody and perfectly descriptive lyrics completely flooding my consciousness. This is good music.
I think the mark of a good musician is a musician who can take a whole song and make it project one singular feeling, startlingly and overwhelmingly present. From the meaning of the words to the arrangement of the chords to the tone in the singer's voice, it all works together to scream out that one, unifying emotion. That's a song worth listening to.
I don't want to come off as a musical elitist- I like Lady Gaga every now and then. But what lasts and should be praised is true artistry, not the music that rides on sheer sex appeal for popularity.
I look around and all I see is are superficial billboard hits. Will any worthwhile superstars emerge? I doubt it. Everybody's too busy looking at Adam Lambert's crotch.
But as I watched the American Music Awards last night, I couldn't help but think perhaps our music really is worse than that of decades past. I am ashamed to think that any artist performing at that ceremony is the legendary icon that will define this decade for generations to come. Surely Jay-Z is not the Elvis, the Beatles, or the Michael Jackson of our time.
Many of the performances were just sex on stage; Shakira's performance was little more than sex noises and synchronized pelvic thrusts set to generic music. How is this good?
I realize that statement makes me sound like a prude, and if being a prude means I only think you're allowed to have clothed stage sex if the song you're singing is actually good, prude I am.
I thought Shakira couldn't be beat, but then I saw Adam Lambert stuffing a back-up dancer's face in his crotch and just couldn't help but laugh. I thought sexual innuendos on primetime television were meant to be subtle, like you're supposed to wonder if the person sitting next to you got the same thing out of that that you did or your mind is just perverted. But there was no doubt it. When Adam pulled that one, everybody thought BAM ORAL SEX!
I really don't know why this is what is considered entertainment these days. I think good music is so much more than fiery pianos (Thanks Lady Gaga) and bad boxing outfits (looking at you J-Lo).
There's the times when I've sat, unable to sleep, in the middle of my bed. The only light comes from the glow of my ipod screen and the only thing I can hear or feel or think about is the simple melody and perfectly descriptive lyrics completely flooding my consciousness. This is good music.
I think the mark of a good musician is a musician who can take a whole song and make it project one singular feeling, startlingly and overwhelmingly present. From the meaning of the words to the arrangement of the chords to the tone in the singer's voice, it all works together to scream out that one, unifying emotion. That's a song worth listening to.
I don't want to come off as a musical elitist- I like Lady Gaga every now and then. But what lasts and should be praised is true artistry, not the music that rides on sheer sex appeal for popularity.
I look around and all I see is are superficial billboard hits. Will any worthwhile superstars emerge? I doubt it. Everybody's too busy looking at Adam Lambert's crotch.
Nov 22, 2009
What I Love About Sunday
In most houses around my parts, Sunday is a reverent day for going to church in the morning, eating dinner with every relative ever, and going fishing with grandpa after. Or some quaint little over-simplified version of a real-life country song.
Not in my house.
Sunday is indeed reverent in my household, but for very different reasons. Sunday is for yelling curse words at the tv you played paper-rock-scissors for when your team fumbles at the 10 yard line.
Plenty of people watch football on Sunday, but few watch football like my mother. Passed down to her through the generations of crazed fans, she's amassed quite the collection of superstitious memorabilia. In front of the tv sits a little brass pig. An innocent brass pig who gets blamed for every Redskin screw up. The pig is required to face whichever way the Redskins happen to be going down the field, and if the pig is not turned at the appropriate times, doom is certain.
This year, the brass pig got a companion in the form of a tinier rubber pig. I used to play with this little pig when I was little. Grandma would fool me into thinking the pig could magically move around by itself. Mom apparently still believes in this magic. He stands guard beside it's senior pig and faces the right way as well, oinking the Redskins to a winning season.
When we lived in Texas, our neighbors found Mom's football fanaticism quite amusing and their teenage son collected those little plastic football helmets. He had an extra Redskin one, so he granted it to Brass Pig. The pig has worn his helmet every year until this year. Last year was so abysmal, Mom decided it must've been the helmet's fault, so now the helmet sits on a foam golfball (with a face) mounted a golf tee. I'm not sure why, but apparently this is very vital to offensive success.
Many years ago, Dad, my brother, and I thought it would be nice to get Mom a Redskins jersey. We picked her favorite version of the colors (the white home jersey version) and got our last name printed on the back. We thought this was a nice gesture.
She wears this jersey during every game. When they lose, it gets violently ripped off and thrown across the room, sliding down the wall at a rate unproportional to its weight. After the initial anger fades, she then throws it into the washing machine, ignoring all washing labels, because the "loss must be purged."
Also, after a loss, the jersey gets put on time out and one of the random, hideously ugly 1980's Redskin apparel is brought out. And then gets thrown across the room and the jersey is re-donned.
This are only a few of the many superstitions, and they don't really directly effect the other members of the house. But her need to make everything exactly as it was during the end of the last winning game does.
If she was watching it on the big television in the living room, she feels she must watch it here this time. But dear Dad also wants to watch his game (which his Colts invariably have a better chance of winning than the Redskins ever do, bless their hearts) and it's only fair that they alternate tv's. He even suggests switching at halftime. She will not budge, as steadfast as a real linebacker.
I'm afraid to enter the living room while the game is on. Often violent strings of cursing that even a sailor would shudder at come echoing up the steps, or a trademark way of clapping with unnatural rapidity that indicates some sort of primal pleasure when Redskins players inflict debilitating injury on Cowboys players. I am sure to get any food I may need during the duration of the game before it comes on, because to pass through her and tv during the game is the eighth of the seven deadly sins.
So while many families eat a nice dinner together and smile politely and go fishing, I cower in my bedroom, scarred of the wrath of a disappointed Redskins fan.
Not in my house.
Sunday is indeed reverent in my household, but for very different reasons. Sunday is for yelling curse words at the tv you played paper-rock-scissors for when your team fumbles at the 10 yard line.
Plenty of people watch football on Sunday, but few watch football like my mother. Passed down to her through the generations of crazed fans, she's amassed quite the collection of superstitious memorabilia. In front of the tv sits a little brass pig. An innocent brass pig who gets blamed for every Redskin screw up. The pig is required to face whichever way the Redskins happen to be going down the field, and if the pig is not turned at the appropriate times, doom is certain.
This year, the brass pig got a companion in the form of a tinier rubber pig. I used to play with this little pig when I was little. Grandma would fool me into thinking the pig could magically move around by itself. Mom apparently still believes in this magic. He stands guard beside it's senior pig and faces the right way as well, oinking the Redskins to a winning season.
When we lived in Texas, our neighbors found Mom's football fanaticism quite amusing and their teenage son collected those little plastic football helmets. He had an extra Redskin one, so he granted it to Brass Pig. The pig has worn his helmet every year until this year. Last year was so abysmal, Mom decided it must've been the helmet's fault, so now the helmet sits on a foam golfball (with a face) mounted a golf tee. I'm not sure why, but apparently this is very vital to offensive success.
Many years ago, Dad, my brother, and I thought it would be nice to get Mom a Redskins jersey. We picked her favorite version of the colors (the white home jersey version) and got our last name printed on the back. We thought this was a nice gesture.
She wears this jersey during every game. When they lose, it gets violently ripped off and thrown across the room, sliding down the wall at a rate unproportional to its weight. After the initial anger fades, she then throws it into the washing machine, ignoring all washing labels, because the "loss must be purged."
Also, after a loss, the jersey gets put on time out and one of the random, hideously ugly 1980's Redskin apparel is brought out. And then gets thrown across the room and the jersey is re-donned.
This are only a few of the many superstitions, and they don't really directly effect the other members of the house. But her need to make everything exactly as it was during the end of the last winning game does.
If she was watching it on the big television in the living room, she feels she must watch it here this time. But dear Dad also wants to watch his game (which his Colts invariably have a better chance of winning than the Redskins ever do, bless their hearts) and it's only fair that they alternate tv's. He even suggests switching at halftime. She will not budge, as steadfast as a real linebacker.
I'm afraid to enter the living room while the game is on. Often violent strings of cursing that even a sailor would shudder at come echoing up the steps, or a trademark way of clapping with unnatural rapidity that indicates some sort of primal pleasure when Redskins players inflict debilitating injury on Cowboys players. I am sure to get any food I may need during the duration of the game before it comes on, because to pass through her and tv during the game is the eighth of the seven deadly sins.
So while many families eat a nice dinner together and smile politely and go fishing, I cower in my bedroom, scarred of the wrath of a disappointed Redskins fan.
Nov 18, 2009
Whoopee
Human beings whole lives revolve around sex. This is a concrete and unavoidable fact of life.
No human being is as obsessed with sex as the teenager, thus I'm usually surrounded by it. (Not literally mind you!)
During the sex chapter in my much-alluded-to psychology class, it was interesting, watching everybody squirm as my teacher casually spouted words like "orgasm" and "clitoris." Inexperienced teenagers and wiser middle-aged women all turned the same shade of embarrassed pink, even though we were just listening.
And, oh, the question and answer session! I now no longer wonder how teen pregnancy happens, because people are certainly dumb or clueless enough. What I don't understand is why it's so embarrassing.
I'm not saying I'm totally comfortable discussing it, but it's just funny how humans spend so much time obsessing over sex (just turn on the tv and count the innuendos!) but feel so uncomfortable talking about it. I guess we're just trained that way, to be embarrassed from the get-go; on day one, parents freak when kids ask where babies come from and it just goes downhill from there.
People either take sex too seriously (don't even think about it until you're married!) or not seriously enough (oh, look, I'm pregnant and playing STD bingo!). What about a moderate approach: sensible sex? That's what should be taught instead of the ineffectual abstinence classes.
But happy mediums are not what people do best, especially in what are deemed "more important" topics. I suppose this is just a short, incoherent rant, but there it is.
No human being is as obsessed with sex as the teenager, thus I'm usually surrounded by it. (Not literally mind you!)
During the sex chapter in my much-alluded-to psychology class, it was interesting, watching everybody squirm as my teacher casually spouted words like "orgasm" and "clitoris." Inexperienced teenagers and wiser middle-aged women all turned the same shade of embarrassed pink, even though we were just listening.
And, oh, the question and answer session! I now no longer wonder how teen pregnancy happens, because people are certainly dumb or clueless enough. What I don't understand is why it's so embarrassing.
I'm not saying I'm totally comfortable discussing it, but it's just funny how humans spend so much time obsessing over sex (just turn on the tv and count the innuendos!) but feel so uncomfortable talking about it. I guess we're just trained that way, to be embarrassed from the get-go; on day one, parents freak when kids ask where babies come from and it just goes downhill from there.
People either take sex too seriously (don't even think about it until you're married!) or not seriously enough (oh, look, I'm pregnant and playing STD bingo!). What about a moderate approach: sensible sex? That's what should be taught instead of the ineffectual abstinence classes.
But happy mediums are not what people do best, especially in what are deemed "more important" topics. I suppose this is just a short, incoherent rant, but there it is.
Nov 15, 2009
50th Post!
Wow, this is my 50th blog post!
When I started this, I expected my usual be-really-into-it-for-about-a-week-and-quit self to emerge full force. But now, about six months and 50 posts later, I'm still typing away.
Perhaps it's because I'm just too full of stuff to say and nobody to say it to, or simply because I love to ramble, but I really enjoy blogging.
I don't make myself post. At first, I thought I was going to have to, as I do with most things in life. But I don't. Occasionally, I just feel an overwhelming urge to start typing away. I did away with the pressure to write something every day. That's just not practical. The urges come close enough together to keep the intervals at decent length.
Blogging sometimes has a bad connotation. People assume it's where preteen girls whine all over the internet. And maybe it is. But not always. I keep up with several blogs (as seen by the little thing that shows what I follow... somewhere on here...) and I really enjoy reading them. It's just like a little slice of somebody else's day, a chunk of their thoughts, that I'd never be privy to otherwise.
And even if another soul never knows this blog here exists, I consider it worth it. There's a sort of therapy in dumping the thoughts clogging my head onto this website. I never think of anybody else ever reading it as I write it.
I really think blogging is a big part of the future of the media. It works better than a newspaper, in a way, because it enables instant feedback, instant revisions. (But instant revisions are also bad. It's one step closer to Big Brother, after all.) You just have to trust and hope for the best, I guess.
So here's to blogger and fifty more posts/ramblings!
When I started this, I expected my usual be-really-into-it-for-about-a-week-and-quit self to emerge full force. But now, about six months and 50 posts later, I'm still typing away.
Perhaps it's because I'm just too full of stuff to say and nobody to say it to, or simply because I love to ramble, but I really enjoy blogging.
I don't make myself post. At first, I thought I was going to have to, as I do with most things in life. But I don't. Occasionally, I just feel an overwhelming urge to start typing away. I did away with the pressure to write something every day. That's just not practical. The urges come close enough together to keep the intervals at decent length.
Blogging sometimes has a bad connotation. People assume it's where preteen girls whine all over the internet. And maybe it is. But not always. I keep up with several blogs (as seen by the little thing that shows what I follow... somewhere on here...) and I really enjoy reading them. It's just like a little slice of somebody else's day, a chunk of their thoughts, that I'd never be privy to otherwise.
And even if another soul never knows this blog here exists, I consider it worth it. There's a sort of therapy in dumping the thoughts clogging my head onto this website. I never think of anybody else ever reading it as I write it.
I really think blogging is a big part of the future of the media. It works better than a newspaper, in a way, because it enables instant feedback, instant revisions. (But instant revisions are also bad. It's one step closer to Big Brother, after all.) You just have to trust and hope for the best, I guess.
So here's to blogger and fifty more posts/ramblings!
Nov 9, 2009
Only "Urgh" is Adequate
Fickle friends, how you annoy me!
I don't understand people. I really don't. They're so simple and so complex all at same time. This makes them especially hard to be friends with.
All I want are people I can talk to, that I can identify with, and who don't judge me. Apparently this is entirely too much to ask.
Why do we demand that our friends be who we want them to be instead of who they actually are? Life isn't supposed to be like a Sims game. You can't click edit and add or subtract personality traits. That doesn't stop anyone from trying though.
I have come to really appreciate the few people I can count on to actually accept me instead of try to mold me into their image of what I'm supposed to be. Heck, I'll even settle for people willing to incorporate new ideas into their me-stereotype.
What I can't tolerate are those who feel the need to demand of me certain actions or bar me from others. If you do not like any aspect of my personality, actions, interests, etc., why do you even want to be near me at all?
If I could, I would be everyone's friend. But I'm tired of always having to the bigger person in some many various relationships. I'm never allowed to be the petty and immature one because that role is constantly filled by somebody else. It's hard always letting everything slide off my back when hardly anyone affords me that luxury.
I suppose I should just get over it and deal with people as they are, and I as I am. But sometimes, I just reach a breaking point where I wish I didn't have to talk to them anymore. I want to pass on all their games and scheming and lies. I just want to be. Simply be, without judgment or having to take sides or engage in silly arguments.
But that's not possible and I'll always have to deal and I'll always have to be the bigger person and I hope I don't have to stretch so far I break.
As Michel from Gilmore Girls once said, "People are especially stupid today. I cannot talk to anymore of them." Or something like that.
I don't understand people. I really don't. They're so simple and so complex all at same time. This makes them especially hard to be friends with.
All I want are people I can talk to, that I can identify with, and who don't judge me. Apparently this is entirely too much to ask.
Why do we demand that our friends be who we want them to be instead of who they actually are? Life isn't supposed to be like a Sims game. You can't click edit and add or subtract personality traits. That doesn't stop anyone from trying though.
I have come to really appreciate the few people I can count on to actually accept me instead of try to mold me into their image of what I'm supposed to be. Heck, I'll even settle for people willing to incorporate new ideas into their me-stereotype.
What I can't tolerate are those who feel the need to demand of me certain actions or bar me from others. If you do not like any aspect of my personality, actions, interests, etc., why do you even want to be near me at all?
If I could, I would be everyone's friend. But I'm tired of always having to the bigger person in some many various relationships. I'm never allowed to be the petty and immature one because that role is constantly filled by somebody else. It's hard always letting everything slide off my back when hardly anyone affords me that luxury.
I suppose I should just get over it and deal with people as they are, and I as I am. But sometimes, I just reach a breaking point where I wish I didn't have to talk to them anymore. I want to pass on all their games and scheming and lies. I just want to be. Simply be, without judgment or having to take sides or engage in silly arguments.
But that's not possible and I'll always have to deal and I'll always have to be the bigger person and I hope I don't have to stretch so far I break.
As Michel from Gilmore Girls once said, "People are especially stupid today. I cannot talk to anymore of them." Or something like that.
Nov 6, 2009
Help! I Need Somebody...
What makes some people more helpful than others? Why do some people hold open the door, volunteer their time, or just provide kind words at will, without even thinking about it. It seems almost as second nature to them.
Others appear not to care, and go through life concerned only with their own needs.
Perhaps we all fall somewhere in between on this spectrum. I know I am both at different times. But overall, there people who can be counted on and those who simply cannot.
Are the helpful people influenced by somebody who helped them in the past? Did they make a subconscious decision that they would spend their lives helping others because somebody helped them once.
Many people say they won't be happy unless they're doing some sort of service work. Is this born of the selfish need to feel good about ourselves? The idea that there is no truly selfless act is a common one. We get something for ourselves when we help others- an alleviation of guilt, special recognition, or help in return.
I don't think this is necessary a bad thing. Who cares what the motivation was if the hungry are fed, the needy are attended, and the sick are healed? Just means to an end. If other people are helped in the process, then shouldn't that just be gravy?
Why should we make ourselves feel guilty for wanting to help people because it helps us?
Even on a grand scale, like stopping genocide, the same rule seems to apply. People attend rallies (which don't help much, coincidentally, but that's another blog entirely) to make themselves feel better about caring about the issue. They feel like they've done something. Perhaps it results in a few more people gaining awareness, or a meager sum donated and lost in the bureaucracy that surrounds altruistic organizations, but ultimately, the goal is to make people feel like they've helped. Their guilt for being on the favorable end of the need spectrum is temporarily alleviated by wearing a "Save Darfur" tshirt.
I suppose I've strayed quite drastically from my original musings, but the whole concept of volunteering and the psychology behind it intrigues me so much. There are so many factors.
But again, who cares? It's a means to an end. People still get helped, even if it never seems like quite enough. Humanity would simply collapse if we didn't help each other out occasionally. But it's so uneven and, usually, unfair.
I don't even know what I'm saying here. Humans are complex? Nothing is simple? Charity is a sham? Only the bottom line counts?
I don't know.
Others appear not to care, and go through life concerned only with their own needs.
Perhaps we all fall somewhere in between on this spectrum. I know I am both at different times. But overall, there people who can be counted on and those who simply cannot.
Are the helpful people influenced by somebody who helped them in the past? Did they make a subconscious decision that they would spend their lives helping others because somebody helped them once.
Many people say they won't be happy unless they're doing some sort of service work. Is this born of the selfish need to feel good about ourselves? The idea that there is no truly selfless act is a common one. We get something for ourselves when we help others- an alleviation of guilt, special recognition, or help in return.
I don't think this is necessary a bad thing. Who cares what the motivation was if the hungry are fed, the needy are attended, and the sick are healed? Just means to an end. If other people are helped in the process, then shouldn't that just be gravy?
Why should we make ourselves feel guilty for wanting to help people because it helps us?
Even on a grand scale, like stopping genocide, the same rule seems to apply. People attend rallies (which don't help much, coincidentally, but that's another blog entirely) to make themselves feel better about caring about the issue. They feel like they've done something. Perhaps it results in a few more people gaining awareness, or a meager sum donated and lost in the bureaucracy that surrounds altruistic organizations, but ultimately, the goal is to make people feel like they've helped. Their guilt for being on the favorable end of the need spectrum is temporarily alleviated by wearing a "Save Darfur" tshirt.
I suppose I've strayed quite drastically from my original musings, but the whole concept of volunteering and the psychology behind it intrigues me so much. There are so many factors.
But again, who cares? It's a means to an end. People still get helped, even if it never seems like quite enough. Humanity would simply collapse if we didn't help each other out occasionally. But it's so uneven and, usually, unfair.
I don't even know what I'm saying here. Humans are complex? Nothing is simple? Charity is a sham? Only the bottom line counts?
I don't know.
Nov 3, 2009
Ayn Rand is Following Me
And I don't mean on twitter, you internet junkies.
The author and political theorist and thinker of the 20's has decided to make a random resurgence here in good ole 2009.
I saw on the Daily Show (where most good things come from) this lady who wrote a book about Ayn Rand (it's one of those names you have to type completely out every time) and her life and her novels. That lady said that Ayn Rand's objectivism ideals often make a comeback when we have a liberal government. So I guess Ayn Rand came in with Obama.
I have an extremely limited grasp on her philosophies, but I'm extremely intrigued by her for several reasons. First off, I must say that, only with my meager understanding, I don't agree with her very much.
But her novel that I am plowing through, The Fountainhead, is beautifully and masterfully constructed. It's a good blend of story and shoving objectivism down your throat. The characters are flawlessly suited to her purposes, but you still see them as characters despite what they're meant to represent. They also have extremely cool names. Since I suck at naming characters, I must stand in aw of the perfect marriage of Dominique Francon, her name, and her painted personality.
In addition to the literary genius she no doubt was, I also have a default respect for apparently strong women. There are not many woman throughout history, today even, attributed to certain schools of thought. Here Ayn Rand is, many years later, still being drug into the political scene. She seems consistently relevant. Though like communism, her ideas appear to only look good on paper.
I'm also a little fond of that picture I've posted there of her. I find it amusing that in almost every picture of her, she is holding a cigarette and much of the same can be said for her characters. The look on her face seems to suggest a quiet confidence. She isn't the prettiest woman (And I'm sure she wouldn't have been caught dead in a Roaring 20's flapper dress) but her intelligence appears to make up for it. I just like her.
I've read that she was not the nicest to her "followers" and perhaps a bit pushy, but I suppose that can be said of any sort of leader. Though I never agree with Ayn Rand, I certainly can respect her, as she sits quietly in her leather armchair, smoking, feeling elite, and knowing somebody is reading about her right now.
Nov 2, 2009
Facebook and Humans
I'm never really the first person jumping on various trend's bandwagons, but lately I jumped on one and discovered much more.
After urging from half a dozen different friends, I decided to give in and create a Facebook account. After all, even my mother has one.
I figured it'd be one of those things you create an account for once and then never log in again. Wrong.
It's hard to understand the appeal until you actually get into it. I was amazed at how fast friends built up... people are on there constantly. And such random people. Every person I've ever met in my life, it seems, was adding me. Regular social parameters simply do not apply on facebook. People answer these random interview questions about people they would never really talk to in real life... I think that's kinda great.
Such is the amazingness of the internet. The internet gets a bad rep from pedophiles and prostitutes on Craig's List and viruses and hoaxes and porn and corrupting the youth... Okay, so I almost closed this window in fear.
We get so lost in complaining and finding fault with everything that we lessen the benefits of what we have.
I'm going to stop now before that gets even more preachy.
I suppose this post doesn't really have any point other than to express my rekindled appreciate for the internet, communication, and the better side of humanity.
How weirdly positive was that? The world is weird lately.
After urging from half a dozen different friends, I decided to give in and create a Facebook account. After all, even my mother has one.
I figured it'd be one of those things you create an account for once and then never log in again. Wrong.
It's hard to understand the appeal until you actually get into it. I was amazed at how fast friends built up... people are on there constantly. And such random people. Every person I've ever met in my life, it seems, was adding me. Regular social parameters simply do not apply on facebook. People answer these random interview questions about people they would never really talk to in real life... I think that's kinda great.
Such is the amazingness of the internet. The internet gets a bad rep from pedophiles and prostitutes on Craig's List and viruses and hoaxes and porn and corrupting the youth... Okay, so I almost closed this window in fear.
We get so lost in complaining and finding fault with everything that we lessen the benefits of what we have.
I'm going to stop now before that gets even more preachy.
I suppose this post doesn't really have any point other than to express my rekindled appreciate for the internet, communication, and the better side of humanity.
How weirdly positive was that? The world is weird lately.
Oct 26, 2009
My Silverbacked Gorillas
In a recent video posted by my favorite vloggers, one of them brought up the concept of "silverbacked gorillas." I have no idea why he termed them this, but I do like the concept behind it.
He was trying to explain why people seek fame. One of the oft-referenced explanations is that we want attention. Not just any attention, but attention from people we consider important to us.
He also said that this attention-seeking behavior is not inherently destructive, but only destructive if we're looking towards the wrong "silverbacked gorillas." This, in turn, caused me to evaluate my own gorillas. Who do I want attention and respect from?
My thoughts first lie on my father. All my life, I've pretty much been a classic case of "Daddy's girl." His approval is what I seek above all else. But as I grow older, I see more and more that he is not infallible. Though I don't consider his opinion entirely absolute anymore, I still value it so highly that he is the only person in my life who can make me cry. Just knowing he is unhappy with me in any way shakes me. Is this healthy? I'm guessing no.
Reaching out from my family, I want the respect of my teachers. I just want to prove that I am competent and trustworthy. Many events recently have jeopardized this image of myself I wish to project. I know they do not even begin to know the true me, the real me, the me that my friends and family know. Why should I let these people judge me when they simply do not have the time to evaluate fairly? Why should I care?
On a broader scale, I want approval as a writer. I want somebody out there to tell me (somebody that doesn't have to, and somebody with real experience and authority) that I'm not crazy in wanting to be a writer. I want to be considered good on my own merit, not in comparison to anybody else or for the circumstances under which I am writing. I want to be deemed worthy and justified in all my endeavors. Perhaps this is actually a positive gorilla.
I'm sure there are more people from whom I desire attention, and maybe there are some people from whom I should and don't currently. One pointed difference between me and my peers is that I seem not to care so much about approval from the opposite sex. This renders me at a disadvantage in the dating game that's supposed to be so important to me at this stage in my life, but it's not. Just a distant bleep on the radar. Does this make me deficient in some capacity? Many view it at some sort of immaturity, but I don't buy into this logic. I've yet to see a mature high school relationship.
There's so many people out there, all seeking the approval of somebody else. Today in psychology, my professor said that there are no true "human instincts" because there isn't one universal behavior all humans adhere to. If there ever was one, I think the need of attention is a pretty good candidate.
My "silverbacked gorillas" are sure to change many times throughout my life, and hopefully I will learn to discern the positive ones from the negative.
He was trying to explain why people seek fame. One of the oft-referenced explanations is that we want attention. Not just any attention, but attention from people we consider important to us.
He also said that this attention-seeking behavior is not inherently destructive, but only destructive if we're looking towards the wrong "silverbacked gorillas." This, in turn, caused me to evaluate my own gorillas. Who do I want attention and respect from?
My thoughts first lie on my father. All my life, I've pretty much been a classic case of "Daddy's girl." His approval is what I seek above all else. But as I grow older, I see more and more that he is not infallible. Though I don't consider his opinion entirely absolute anymore, I still value it so highly that he is the only person in my life who can make me cry. Just knowing he is unhappy with me in any way shakes me. Is this healthy? I'm guessing no.
Reaching out from my family, I want the respect of my teachers. I just want to prove that I am competent and trustworthy. Many events recently have jeopardized this image of myself I wish to project. I know they do not even begin to know the true me, the real me, the me that my friends and family know. Why should I let these people judge me when they simply do not have the time to evaluate fairly? Why should I care?
On a broader scale, I want approval as a writer. I want somebody out there to tell me (somebody that doesn't have to, and somebody with real experience and authority) that I'm not crazy in wanting to be a writer. I want to be considered good on my own merit, not in comparison to anybody else or for the circumstances under which I am writing. I want to be deemed worthy and justified in all my endeavors. Perhaps this is actually a positive gorilla.
I'm sure there are more people from whom I desire attention, and maybe there are some people from whom I should and don't currently. One pointed difference between me and my peers is that I seem not to care so much about approval from the opposite sex. This renders me at a disadvantage in the dating game that's supposed to be so important to me at this stage in my life, but it's not. Just a distant bleep on the radar. Does this make me deficient in some capacity? Many view it at some sort of immaturity, but I don't buy into this logic. I've yet to see a mature high school relationship.
There's so many people out there, all seeking the approval of somebody else. Today in psychology, my professor said that there are no true "human instincts" because there isn't one universal behavior all humans adhere to. If there ever was one, I think the need of attention is a pretty good candidate.
My "silverbacked gorillas" are sure to change many times throughout my life, and hopefully I will learn to discern the positive ones from the negative.
Oct 24, 2009
Crossing the Line
The Campus Y on the UNC-Chapel Hill campus is rapidly becoming my favorite place on earth. It appears only good things happen there.
Many months ago, I attended a conference there, designed to instill values of social change in high school kids. Social change... a broad term, possibly meaningless.
Perhaps no values of social change were instilled in me that weekend. I pretty much hold the same values of social change as I did before. But I did manage to find some personal change.
I sort of wrote about it previously and thought I might should post it here:
I live in a place where the only things more closed than all the shops on Sunday mornings are the minds of the citizens inhabiting the streets.
Intolerance is baked into every homemade apple pie and everybody’s welcome to a second helping of old-fashioned ignorance. It sounds mean of me to say, but I guess I’m a little bitter from all the years their attitudes have locked me within myself, bound me with my beliefs, and constricted me with my own convictions. Unable to see around what they know, they block everything else out.
It’s demoralizing to second guess yourself constantly. It’s unsettling to feel alone in your perceptions. It’s terrifying to face a world where everybody thinks you’re wrong. But I did, every day. I went to school and pretended to be something I’m not because the fear of being hated by everyone was greater than the fear of destroying myself from the inside out. Something had to give.
Finally, a beautiful beacon of hope landed in my mailbox one morning in the from of an acceptance letter to a youth conference at a nearby college. This conference was supposed to be all about tolerance in various forms and about being an active part of changing the world you live in for the better. This was what I needed. At the time, I had no idea how much.
The first night of the conference, I distinctly remember walking with the 100-member group across the sizable campus. The night air was the perfect temperature, and the campus streets were no longer cluttered by college students running late or cars circling around, lost and aimless. To be there after dark, it was like I was already an enrolled student.
In addition to the depiction of my collegiate fantasies, I was surrounded by people, for the first time in a long time, that I could’ve voiced my ecstatic appreciation to and they would’ve understood. On my right, two girls were engaged in a deep discussion about the theory of evolution. A pair ahead of me was comparing notes on their different religions, one Muslim and the other Christian. I overhead snippets of an openly gay boy chronicling his childhood and when he first recognized he was different. These discussions would never take place in the town listed on my nametag as “home.”
I could write for days about the many wonderful experiences that ensued, one stands out clearly as a turning point in my personal ideology.
In the run-of-the-mill feel good story of a movie “Freedom Writers,” the students participate in an activity in which the teacher reads a statement to the diverse group of psuedo-delinquents with hearts of gold, and they pass over a line taped to the floor if the statement applies to them. Watching the movie, I considered this just a passé plot device, designed to pull tears from the eyes of mushy viewers.
This was until I was asked to cross that line myself.
They marched all 100 of us into a room that looked like a shrunken gymnasium and lined us up against the wall, explaining the rules. At first, as they read the easier questions, to get us accustomed to the format, having to remind us every few seconds to remain completely silent. But as the questions delved deeper into the most personal aspects of our existence, the silence became voluntary.
In the beginning, I stayed mostly on the right side of the wall. I live a mostly untroubled life and the statements applying to depression, feeling unloved, drugs, alcohol, eating disorders just didn’t effect me.
Then came the religion questions. First she called, “Cross the line if you classify yourself as agnostic.” I wavered on the spot. I didn’t really consider myself agnostic, but people were more receptive to the word… They’d never know…
A handful of students walked across the room and turned to face their peers. I looked up at them, trying to arrange my face into an accepting expression. I felt for them.
Then I heard the words I had been dreading.
“Cross the line if you classify yourself as an atheist.” For a second, I hesitated. Nobody would ever know I was lying by staying safely on the right side. Then one brave girl slipped over the line and turned around. I couldn’t let her stand there alone. I couldn’t lie to myself. I walked.
With each step, I grew bolder. These were my beliefs. I should own them. I shouldn’t care about the judgmental thoughts I could see the 98 pairs of eyes trying to suppress. I faced them all defiantly. Where I thought I would be afraid, being in such a minority, I was emboldened. Empowered. In my thoughts, I dared them all to challenge me.
Then I slipped back into the group, and all the eyes watching me fell away.
Suddenly, I saw the kids on the other side of the room in a whole new light. I imagined the internal struggle they were probably undergoing and how heavy their feet seemed as they propelled themselves across the room, lining up to face judgment, themselves, their lives.
I greatly underestimated the value of this exercise. It’s hard to examine yourself and it’s hard to acknowledge that every person has a problem you will probably never know about. All of the people I’d formally seen as 2D were now real people, with real struggles.
I carry that feeling of standing on the other side of the line with me everywhere, every day. I try to cross that line at every opportunity. Instead of being scared of judgment, I try to face the crowd and own myself.
And, hopefully, I appreciate those who are also simply trying to do the same that much more.
Well, I meant to also write about the second Campus Y experience, but I think that is more than enough for now.
Many months ago, I attended a conference there, designed to instill values of social change in high school kids. Social change... a broad term, possibly meaningless.
Perhaps no values of social change were instilled in me that weekend. I pretty much hold the same values of social change as I did before. But I did manage to find some personal change.
I sort of wrote about it previously and thought I might should post it here:
I live in a place where the only things more closed than all the shops on Sunday mornings are the minds of the citizens inhabiting the streets.
Intolerance is baked into every homemade apple pie and everybody’s welcome to a second helping of old-fashioned ignorance. It sounds mean of me to say, but I guess I’m a little bitter from all the years their attitudes have locked me within myself, bound me with my beliefs, and constricted me with my own convictions. Unable to see around what they know, they block everything else out.
It’s demoralizing to second guess yourself constantly. It’s unsettling to feel alone in your perceptions. It’s terrifying to face a world where everybody thinks you’re wrong. But I did, every day. I went to school and pretended to be something I’m not because the fear of being hated by everyone was greater than the fear of destroying myself from the inside out. Something had to give.
Finally, a beautiful beacon of hope landed in my mailbox one morning in the from of an acceptance letter to a youth conference at a nearby college. This conference was supposed to be all about tolerance in various forms and about being an active part of changing the world you live in for the better. This was what I needed. At the time, I had no idea how much.
The first night of the conference, I distinctly remember walking with the 100-member group across the sizable campus. The night air was the perfect temperature, and the campus streets were no longer cluttered by college students running late or cars circling around, lost and aimless. To be there after dark, it was like I was already an enrolled student.
In addition to the depiction of my collegiate fantasies, I was surrounded by people, for the first time in a long time, that I could’ve voiced my ecstatic appreciation to and they would’ve understood. On my right, two girls were engaged in a deep discussion about the theory of evolution. A pair ahead of me was comparing notes on their different religions, one Muslim and the other Christian. I overhead snippets of an openly gay boy chronicling his childhood and when he first recognized he was different. These discussions would never take place in the town listed on my nametag as “home.”
I could write for days about the many wonderful experiences that ensued, one stands out clearly as a turning point in my personal ideology.
In the run-of-the-mill feel good story of a movie “Freedom Writers,” the students participate in an activity in which the teacher reads a statement to the diverse group of psuedo-delinquents with hearts of gold, and they pass over a line taped to the floor if the statement applies to them. Watching the movie, I considered this just a passé plot device, designed to pull tears from the eyes of mushy viewers.
This was until I was asked to cross that line myself.
They marched all 100 of us into a room that looked like a shrunken gymnasium and lined us up against the wall, explaining the rules. At first, as they read the easier questions, to get us accustomed to the format, having to remind us every few seconds to remain completely silent. But as the questions delved deeper into the most personal aspects of our existence, the silence became voluntary.
In the beginning, I stayed mostly on the right side of the wall. I live a mostly untroubled life and the statements applying to depression, feeling unloved, drugs, alcohol, eating disorders just didn’t effect me.
Then came the religion questions. First she called, “Cross the line if you classify yourself as agnostic.” I wavered on the spot. I didn’t really consider myself agnostic, but people were more receptive to the word… They’d never know…
A handful of students walked across the room and turned to face their peers. I looked up at them, trying to arrange my face into an accepting expression. I felt for them.
Then I heard the words I had been dreading.
“Cross the line if you classify yourself as an atheist.” For a second, I hesitated. Nobody would ever know I was lying by staying safely on the right side. Then one brave girl slipped over the line and turned around. I couldn’t let her stand there alone. I couldn’t lie to myself. I walked.
With each step, I grew bolder. These were my beliefs. I should own them. I shouldn’t care about the judgmental thoughts I could see the 98 pairs of eyes trying to suppress. I faced them all defiantly. Where I thought I would be afraid, being in such a minority, I was emboldened. Empowered. In my thoughts, I dared them all to challenge me.
Then I slipped back into the group, and all the eyes watching me fell away.
Suddenly, I saw the kids on the other side of the room in a whole new light. I imagined the internal struggle they were probably undergoing and how heavy their feet seemed as they propelled themselves across the room, lining up to face judgment, themselves, their lives.
I greatly underestimated the value of this exercise. It’s hard to examine yourself and it’s hard to acknowledge that every person has a problem you will probably never know about. All of the people I’d formally seen as 2D were now real people, with real struggles.
I carry that feeling of standing on the other side of the line with me everywhere, every day. I try to cross that line at every opportunity. Instead of being scared of judgment, I try to face the crowd and own myself.
And, hopefully, I appreciate those who are also simply trying to do the same that much more.
Well, I meant to also write about the second Campus Y experience, but I think that is more than enough for now.
Oct 19, 2009
I Don't Understand
Sometimes I think I'm too caring and sometimes I think I'm too heartless. Today was a heartless day.
For some reason, I am unable to feel sympathy towards depressed or suicidal people. I know I'm supposed to and I know some of them genuinely can't help it. They're clinically depressed; their brains actually contain an abnormality that makes them lose their will to live.
But there's also the attention seeking morons who can't find self-gratification any way but faking depression.
Maybe it's because I can't tell the difference or maybe it's because I've never had to deal with it myself, but as hard as I try, I find no sympathy within myself for them.
I've seen the affects firsthand. I had an aunt who blew her brains out because she was so depressed. I remember her on her up days, when she'd flit around all sunshine and bunnies and just give and give and smile and smile. She was so happy it was unnatural. I remember her on her down days when she'd just sit at the table, slumped down, shoulders shaking with her tears.
I was staying with my grandma one summer, the summer before my aunt committed suicide. It was a down day and my grandma was trying to cheer her up. I didn't understand what was going on or that my poor grandmother was fighting a losing battle. I was scared and confused. Nobody ever took the time to explain it to me until many years later, many years after Aunt Marie was dead.
I remember that my grandma took me to my aunt's house afterwards, going through her vast array of eclectic possessions. She would break down at the sight of certain objects, then collect herself and entertain me. I was so young. I still have a few of the things I took that day, including a little ceramic Bugs Bunny that still sits on a shelf in my bedroom. I understand now what my grandma was going through, how responsible she felt for her sister's death. I sympathize with Grandma.
But I still can't sympathize with Aunt Marie.
Maybe it's because we fear what we don't understand. Maybe I really am just heartless. I want to understand, but I can't. I just can't. I guess I shouldn't try to make myself feel the "right" emotion and just feel whatever I feel. Is there such a thing as a right way to feel?
I just don't understand.
For some reason, I am unable to feel sympathy towards depressed or suicidal people. I know I'm supposed to and I know some of them genuinely can't help it. They're clinically depressed; their brains actually contain an abnormality that makes them lose their will to live.
But there's also the attention seeking morons who can't find self-gratification any way but faking depression.
Maybe it's because I can't tell the difference or maybe it's because I've never had to deal with it myself, but as hard as I try, I find no sympathy within myself for them.
I've seen the affects firsthand. I had an aunt who blew her brains out because she was so depressed. I remember her on her up days, when she'd flit around all sunshine and bunnies and just give and give and smile and smile. She was so happy it was unnatural. I remember her on her down days when she'd just sit at the table, slumped down, shoulders shaking with her tears.
I was staying with my grandma one summer, the summer before my aunt committed suicide. It was a down day and my grandma was trying to cheer her up. I didn't understand what was going on or that my poor grandmother was fighting a losing battle. I was scared and confused. Nobody ever took the time to explain it to me until many years later, many years after Aunt Marie was dead.
I remember that my grandma took me to my aunt's house afterwards, going through her vast array of eclectic possessions. She would break down at the sight of certain objects, then collect herself and entertain me. I was so young. I still have a few of the things I took that day, including a little ceramic Bugs Bunny that still sits on a shelf in my bedroom. I understand now what my grandma was going through, how responsible she felt for her sister's death. I sympathize with Grandma.
But I still can't sympathize with Aunt Marie.
Maybe it's because we fear what we don't understand. Maybe I really am just heartless. I want to understand, but I can't. I just can't. I guess I shouldn't try to make myself feel the "right" emotion and just feel whatever I feel. Is there such a thing as a right way to feel?
I just don't understand.
Oct 17, 2009
The Simple Pleasures
Since I've been in an icky mood lately, I decided I will simply write out a bunch of happy things that I love, things that invariably make me smile. Here I go!
The warm feeling when the heat kicks on for the first time of the year and how it feels up every bit of space and even the slightly burnt smell it emits. It makes me feel safe for some reason.
And the smell of my uncles' chestnuts they send us every fall wafting through the house and eating them until our hands are sore from peeling with Mom. They're so warm and sweet and perfect.
The moment of awe just after I read a particularly gripping passage in an excellent book and the moment of appreciation that I hoard selfishly to myself because another person would ruin the personal satisfaction of it. I just turn it over and over in my head, read it again, appreciating every word, and wishing I could write something that wholly amazing.
When my mom yells for me to look out the window and I see the neighbors walking their llamas down the street, looking as normal as if there was a dog at the end of the leash.
Sitting in the living room, on the spot on the couch that is always mine, talking to my family during the commercials of a universally entertaining tv show.
The first few notes of my favorite songs and the immediate recognition of the beginning of a few minutes of complete enjoyment.
The simple pleasure of writing with a fresh pen for the first time and the strong, confident marks it makes.
Sitting in an auditorium full of people who all clap together as if they have one brain but everybody knows the true diversity that sits on the bleachers.
Genuinely proud parents and teachers gushing over their kids, all the trials of raising them forgotten, eyes glistening in the happiness of that one moment of pride.
Finally finding my remote and the relief from a silly inconvenience that I feel ashamed for being annoyed by.
Making lists so I can go back and see everything laid out perfectly, showing the many simple things that sometimes more important than what's big.
The warm feeling when the heat kicks on for the first time of the year and how it feels up every bit of space and even the slightly burnt smell it emits. It makes me feel safe for some reason.
And the smell of my uncles' chestnuts they send us every fall wafting through the house and eating them until our hands are sore from peeling with Mom. They're so warm and sweet and perfect.
The moment of awe just after I read a particularly gripping passage in an excellent book and the moment of appreciation that I hoard selfishly to myself because another person would ruin the personal satisfaction of it. I just turn it over and over in my head, read it again, appreciating every word, and wishing I could write something that wholly amazing.
When my mom yells for me to look out the window and I see the neighbors walking their llamas down the street, looking as normal as if there was a dog at the end of the leash.
Sitting in the living room, on the spot on the couch that is always mine, talking to my family during the commercials of a universally entertaining tv show.
The first few notes of my favorite songs and the immediate recognition of the beginning of a few minutes of complete enjoyment.
The simple pleasure of writing with a fresh pen for the first time and the strong, confident marks it makes.
Sitting in an auditorium full of people who all clap together as if they have one brain but everybody knows the true diversity that sits on the bleachers.
Genuinely proud parents and teachers gushing over their kids, all the trials of raising them forgotten, eyes glistening in the happiness of that one moment of pride.
Finally finding my remote and the relief from a silly inconvenience that I feel ashamed for being annoyed by.
Making lists so I can go back and see everything laid out perfectly, showing the many simple things that sometimes more important than what's big.
Oct 12, 2009
Damn Thee Uncertainty
I have so much to say and so little to write.
I'm in an awful mood. I failed my driving test... again. This time due to a lack of confidence, and lack of backing up in a straight line.
I can't take it anymore. I can't bear anymore of Dad's disappointment and disappointment in myself. This shouldn't be so hard and I can't adequately express to anyone else how hard it really is for me.
I'm tired of always feeling guilty for coming up short to everyone else's expectations. Shouldn't my own expectations come first? Heck, I don't even meet those lately. And I'm growing more and more convinced that I don't even possess the capacity to change. Try as might, fatigue or disappointment, or just sheer laziness always overcomes. I'm not sure if I can fight it. I'm doomed to this cycle of repeated failure, rebirth of hope, slight success, and then failure again. But who isn't?
I realize this sounds so overdramatic and generally stupid, but that is pretty much how I feel right now. Overdramatic and stupid. It's really the only thing I'm sure of.
I think assurance is what I need to fix every single problem I currently face. I need to be sure about something, anything. I have to learn to be decisive. It kills me constantly, my indecisiveness.
For example, today during Quiz Bowl practice, which means nothing, I knew several answers but didn't say them because I wasn't sure. But they were right. Australia, Rosenburgs, Treaty of Versailles. These aren't hard words to say and they were the right ones. Why couldn't I just spit them out? Why do I have to be indecisive and unsure and just so stupid?!
I can't get anything coherent or worthwhile posted here until I actually have something coherent and worthwhile in my brain. This could take awhile. I apologize for my uncertain self.
I'm in an awful mood. I failed my driving test... again. This time due to a lack of confidence, and lack of backing up in a straight line.
I can't take it anymore. I can't bear anymore of Dad's disappointment and disappointment in myself. This shouldn't be so hard and I can't adequately express to anyone else how hard it really is for me.
I'm tired of always feeling guilty for coming up short to everyone else's expectations. Shouldn't my own expectations come first? Heck, I don't even meet those lately. And I'm growing more and more convinced that I don't even possess the capacity to change. Try as might, fatigue or disappointment, or just sheer laziness always overcomes. I'm not sure if I can fight it. I'm doomed to this cycle of repeated failure, rebirth of hope, slight success, and then failure again. But who isn't?
I realize this sounds so overdramatic and generally stupid, but that is pretty much how I feel right now. Overdramatic and stupid. It's really the only thing I'm sure of.
I think assurance is what I need to fix every single problem I currently face. I need to be sure about something, anything. I have to learn to be decisive. It kills me constantly, my indecisiveness.
For example, today during Quiz Bowl practice, which means nothing, I knew several answers but didn't say them because I wasn't sure. But they were right. Australia, Rosenburgs, Treaty of Versailles. These aren't hard words to say and they were the right ones. Why couldn't I just spit them out? Why do I have to be indecisive and unsure and just so stupid?!
I can't get anything coherent or worthwhile posted here until I actually have something coherent and worthwhile in my brain. This could take awhile. I apologize for my uncertain self.
Oct 6, 2009
Yeah, I'm Lazy
Since I'm lazy and my brain is dead from sleep deprivation, I decided to try one of those internet meme things I see people use in their blogs occasionally. Seemed pretty fun, so here I go.
The Who, What, When, Where, Why Would You Meme
Who ....
is easy to love? Kittens. And other things that are small, furry, and trusting.
do you just wanna smack? The close-minded, FOX news, Kanye West... this list could get long.
do you trust? a select few haha
do you talk to when you're alone? Myself, since there's nobody else there... duh?
What...
dangerous things do you do while driving? Me driving in general is pretty dangerous. So... breathe.
are you allergic to? Some unidentifiable type of pollen, possibly ragweed. And algebra.
is Satan's last name? McCormick.
is the last thing that moved you? I'm not often moved, really.
is the freakiest thing in your house? my brother, probably
When.....
is it time to turn over a new leaf? It's usually always a good time to turn over a new leaf. No time like the present.
will you be all that you can be? Never.
is enough enough? When you can't take it anymore
do you go to the dark side? when they have peanut butter cookies instead of brownies
Where....
are your pants? On my legs!
is your last will and testament? non-existant. I'm too young to be that morbid.
is your junk food stash? My digestive system mostly.
is Carmen Sandiego? In my little CD holder thing
Why.....
was the Lone Ranger alone? Body odor?
was The Scarlet Letter scarlet? Don't tell my English teacher... and because red represents sin and impurity. Who came up with what colors represent anyway?
are musicians sexy and plumbers not? Music is sexier than sewage. There's nothing glamous under my sink.
are there no seat belts on school buses? Beause students would constantly be hitting each other with them, vandalizing them, and otherwise causing more harm than the occasional wreck does.
Would you....
swim the English Channel for a doughnut and coffee? Um, no.That's far from a fair trade.
If not that, what? peanut butter cookies maybe?
forgive someone who deliberately hurt you? Deliberately? no.
rather believe a lie if it hurt you less than the truth? No. Ignorance may be bliss, but it's also ignorance.
you still be alive if you were sucked out of an airplane window? I'm thinking not.
Would you just float around in space for while? Beats me. Stupid question. And I refuse to think about it anymore.
Well that wasn't very entertaining, was it?
Next time I'll try to find something with more interesting questions.
I picked this one because it reminded me of the essential journalisty questions, I guess.
And the original had pretty pictures that I have no idea how to post on here.
Whatever.
I will now cease this gigantic time waste.
The Who, What, When, Where, Why Would You Meme
Who ....
is easy to love? Kittens. And other things that are small, furry, and trusting.
do you just wanna smack? The close-minded, FOX news, Kanye West... this list could get long.
do you trust? a select few haha
do you talk to when you're alone? Myself, since there's nobody else there... duh?
What...
dangerous things do you do while driving? Me driving in general is pretty dangerous. So... breathe.
are you allergic to? Some unidentifiable type of pollen, possibly ragweed. And algebra.
is Satan's last name? McCormick.
is the last thing that moved you? I'm not often moved, really.
is the freakiest thing in your house? my brother, probably
When.....
is it time to turn over a new leaf? It's usually always a good time to turn over a new leaf. No time like the present.
will you be all that you can be? Never.
is enough enough? When you can't take it anymore
do you go to the dark side? when they have peanut butter cookies instead of brownies
Where....
are your pants? On my legs!
is your last will and testament? non-existant. I'm too young to be that morbid.
is your junk food stash? My digestive system mostly.
is Carmen Sandiego? In my little CD holder thing
Why.....
was the Lone Ranger alone? Body odor?
was The Scarlet Letter scarlet? Don't tell my English teacher... and because red represents sin and impurity. Who came up with what colors represent anyway?
are musicians sexy and plumbers not? Music is sexier than sewage. There's nothing glamous under my sink.
are there no seat belts on school buses? Beause students would constantly be hitting each other with them, vandalizing them, and otherwise causing more harm than the occasional wreck does.
Would you....
swim the English Channel for a doughnut and coffee? Um, no.That's far from a fair trade.
If not that, what? peanut butter cookies maybe?
forgive someone who deliberately hurt you? Deliberately? no.
rather believe a lie if it hurt you less than the truth? No. Ignorance may be bliss, but it's also ignorance.
you still be alive if you were sucked out of an airplane window? I'm thinking not.
Would you just float around in space for while? Beats me. Stupid question. And I refuse to think about it anymore.
Well that wasn't very entertaining, was it?
Next time I'll try to find something with more interesting questions.
I picked this one because it reminded me of the essential journalisty questions, I guess.
And the original had pretty pictures that I have no idea how to post on here.
Whatever.
I will now cease this gigantic time waste.
Oct 3, 2009
All the world's a stage...
We always think of the past in terms of change.
"When I was young..."
"A few years ago we didn't..."
"It hasn't always been this way..."
But last night, as I sat watching a brilliant production of Shakespeare's A Midsummer Night's Dream, it was easy to believe that some things truly don't change.
After all, Shakespeare wrote those words hundreds of years ago, and here is a group of high schoolers forfeiting their Friday night to hear them. Though the language is old (and beautiful, depending on your tastes), much of it still lives today. We unwittingly use words Shakespeare first penned, and his plots and reproduced over and over again.
And it's no mystery why these things don't die as easily as his characters seem to do. There's a reason the lines resound as easily with teenagers as the audiences of old. There isn't a high school student in the world who hasn't felt the sting of unrequited love, that can't sympathize with Helena as she clings to Demetrius and he pulls her around the stage or with Hermia's confusion as her love Lysander suddenly has changed his mind. Or even with Puck as he expresses remorse over his misdeeds before telling the audience not to be alarmed, it's all simply a dream.
These human emotions are timeless and unchanging. Even though we'd like to turn a nostalgic eye on the past, what matters always seems to stay the same.
"When I was young..."
"A few years ago we didn't..."
"It hasn't always been this way..."
But last night, as I sat watching a brilliant production of Shakespeare's A Midsummer Night's Dream, it was easy to believe that some things truly don't change.
After all, Shakespeare wrote those words hundreds of years ago, and here is a group of high schoolers forfeiting their Friday night to hear them. Though the language is old (and beautiful, depending on your tastes), much of it still lives today. We unwittingly use words Shakespeare first penned, and his plots and reproduced over and over again.
And it's no mystery why these things don't die as easily as his characters seem to do. There's a reason the lines resound as easily with teenagers as the audiences of old. There isn't a high school student in the world who hasn't felt the sting of unrequited love, that can't sympathize with Helena as she clings to Demetrius and he pulls her around the stage or with Hermia's confusion as her love Lysander suddenly has changed his mind. Or even with Puck as he expresses remorse over his misdeeds before telling the audience not to be alarmed, it's all simply a dream.
These human emotions are timeless and unchanging. Even though we'd like to turn a nostalgic eye on the past, what matters always seems to stay the same.
Oct 1, 2009
Zzzzzzz
I haven't posted as much lately as I'd like to. Usually, an idea will just present itself in my mind and stay firmly stuck there until I pour it out into this lovely medium. But such things, instead of lodging themselves in my cranium, are passing through as quickly as they come, not stopping long enough to bother me into writing about them.
In Psychology, my professor displayed the symptoms of sleep deprivation on his PowerPoint. I yawned, struggled to open my eyes, and saw myself in obnoxious yellow font a blue background. It's not like I don't know that I'm sleep deprived. That's pretty darn obvious to anyone. But the last symptom scared/intrigued me. Microsleeps.
Apparently, if you get so far into sleep deprivation, your body will start forcing you asleep at random two-three second intervals throughout the day, completely subconsciously. I'm a little scared. My body can just rule me incompetent and take over at any time. "Since this moron is obviously unable to sleep at the regularly scheduled hours, we'll just make her!"
Being out of control generally disturbs me. This involuntary response is definitely uncontrollable. While it's probably extremely rare and you have to stay awake for 3 days straight in order to provoke it, that doesn't stop me from constantly thinking I've just awoken from a microsleep.
When I fail my driver's test, I can simply say I was microsleeping.
When I'm not paying attention in math class, microsleeping.
When my mind wanders during conversation, microsleeping.
You get the point.
So I haven't been blogging much because... you guessed it. Microsleeping.
So there is another weirdo irrational paranoia to add to my list.
I think I should probably catch some megasleep now.
In Psychology, my professor displayed the symptoms of sleep deprivation on his PowerPoint. I yawned, struggled to open my eyes, and saw myself in obnoxious yellow font a blue background. It's not like I don't know that I'm sleep deprived. That's pretty darn obvious to anyone. But the last symptom scared/intrigued me. Microsleeps.
Apparently, if you get so far into sleep deprivation, your body will start forcing you asleep at random two-three second intervals throughout the day, completely subconsciously. I'm a little scared. My body can just rule me incompetent and take over at any time. "Since this moron is obviously unable to sleep at the regularly scheduled hours, we'll just make her!"
Being out of control generally disturbs me. This involuntary response is definitely uncontrollable. While it's probably extremely rare and you have to stay awake for 3 days straight in order to provoke it, that doesn't stop me from constantly thinking I've just awoken from a microsleep.
When I fail my driver's test, I can simply say I was microsleeping.
When I'm not paying attention in math class, microsleeping.
When my mind wanders during conversation, microsleeping.
You get the point.
So I haven't been blogging much because... you guessed it. Microsleeping.
So there is another weirdo irrational paranoia to add to my list.
I think I should probably catch some megasleep now.
Sep 26, 2009
Nervous "Brake"down and Excellent Fathers
I hate driving. So much. I cannot put into words how much I hate it. It's very inconvenient to abhor so vehemently something so integral to life. In order to be a fully functional member of society and live a decent life, I must be independently mobile.
But I simply cannot do it. After one epic fail at the driver's test, Dad began to grow alarmed at my shocking inability to effectively operate a motor vehicle. Now he takes me driving whenever he finds a spare second and it's stressful and awful and occasionally near-fatal.
I can do the basic things. I can drive around my little four-stoplight town without much problem. But put me on the highway and all hell brakes loose. (Get it!?)
In order to pass the test (and get back to the DMV, which I'm guessing is a slightly important part to passing the test) you have to switch lanes. This sounds simple enough, right? Well, I can't. I hesitate too much because I want to sit there and draw a map of the surrounding cars and calculate their speeds relative to mine as to find the optimum time to drive over, and there's really not that much time available... All in all, it seems as though I'll have to spend my life at places on one side of the road.
This frequent irrational panicking resulted in having a nervous breakdown in a random parking lot. I don't think my dad fully understood how much this driving thing plagues me until I quite uncharistically lost all of my composure, my ability to form coherent sentences, and just repeatedly beat my head against the steering wheel. With concerned patience, he talked me back into sanity until I even cracked a smile.
He must be the most patient man on earth. We've only been going through this driving fiasco since I turned 15. Still, he tries. I do make a little progress each time, but the leaps are so minute they're hardly detectable. But still he tells me "I did well" and that he's proud. He couldn't possibly be proud of the mess that was sitting in that driver's seat today.
At one point, he asked "would it help if somebody else taught you? Am I not doing this right?" and this alarmed me. I quickly reassured him that I wouldn't dare get into the car with anyone else. I hope he believed me. Anybody who could get into a car with someone who almost kills him at least twice daily, and not yell and scream at me, is a remarkable human being. My inability to drive my resign me to living with him for the rest of my life, but at least I know I'm safe with him.
But I simply cannot do it. After one epic fail at the driver's test, Dad began to grow alarmed at my shocking inability to effectively operate a motor vehicle. Now he takes me driving whenever he finds a spare second and it's stressful and awful and occasionally near-fatal.
I can do the basic things. I can drive around my little four-stoplight town without much problem. But put me on the highway and all hell brakes loose. (Get it!?)
In order to pass the test (and get back to the DMV, which I'm guessing is a slightly important part to passing the test) you have to switch lanes. This sounds simple enough, right? Well, I can't. I hesitate too much because I want to sit there and draw a map of the surrounding cars and calculate their speeds relative to mine as to find the optimum time to drive over, and there's really not that much time available... All in all, it seems as though I'll have to spend my life at places on one side of the road.
This frequent irrational panicking resulted in having a nervous breakdown in a random parking lot. I don't think my dad fully understood how much this driving thing plagues me until I quite uncharistically lost all of my composure, my ability to form coherent sentences, and just repeatedly beat my head against the steering wheel. With concerned patience, he talked me back into sanity until I even cracked a smile.
He must be the most patient man on earth. We've only been going through this driving fiasco since I turned 15. Still, he tries. I do make a little progress each time, but the leaps are so minute they're hardly detectable. But still he tells me "I did well" and that he's proud. He couldn't possibly be proud of the mess that was sitting in that driver's seat today.
At one point, he asked "would it help if somebody else taught you? Am I not doing this right?" and this alarmed me. I quickly reassured him that I wouldn't dare get into the car with anyone else. I hope he believed me. Anybody who could get into a car with someone who almost kills him at least twice daily, and not yell and scream at me, is a remarkable human being. My inability to drive my resign me to living with him for the rest of my life, but at least I know I'm safe with him.
Sep 23, 2009
A Weemba Whop, A Weemba Whop...
The world looks different set to music.
When I make my almost-daily pilgrimage to the bus, I always listen to music. Whatever song is playing makes everything appear differently, like background music in a movie. I just hit shuffle and the world shifts to suit whatever mood my ipod happens to be in.
Once, I was kind of stressed out and shook the ipod hastily to make it shuffle. "The Lion Sleeps Tonight" came pouring out of my headphones, instantly making everything around me look carefree and fun. The guy playing with his little dog in the parking lot, a group of kids doing something most likely borderline illegal in the back of a truck, a mother fussing at her son for being late to get picked up... and especially the barrage of students pouring out the school's doors and onto the buses. Goth kids just look hilarious against "A weemba whop a weemba whop". I bet everyone I pass thinks I'm insane though, since I'm probably smiling involuntarily.
On the actual bus, some random middle schoolers break out into a fight in the front, but all I can hear over the muffled cheers is "In the jungle, the mighty jungle..."
I have the feeling if my music was being played over an intercom like a movie, there would be more smiling and less fighting on the bus.
I don't always listen to happy songs about sleeping lions, but I think maybe I should. Life's more interesting as a montage.
When I make my almost-daily pilgrimage to the bus, I always listen to music. Whatever song is playing makes everything appear differently, like background music in a movie. I just hit shuffle and the world shifts to suit whatever mood my ipod happens to be in.
Once, I was kind of stressed out and shook the ipod hastily to make it shuffle. "The Lion Sleeps Tonight" came pouring out of my headphones, instantly making everything around me look carefree and fun. The guy playing with his little dog in the parking lot, a group of kids doing something most likely borderline illegal in the back of a truck, a mother fussing at her son for being late to get picked up... and especially the barrage of students pouring out the school's doors and onto the buses. Goth kids just look hilarious against "A weemba whop a weemba whop". I bet everyone I pass thinks I'm insane though, since I'm probably smiling involuntarily.
On the actual bus, some random middle schoolers break out into a fight in the front, but all I can hear over the muffled cheers is "In the jungle, the mighty jungle..."
I have the feeling if my music was being played over an intercom like a movie, there would be more smiling and less fighting on the bus.
I don't always listen to happy songs about sleeping lions, but I think maybe I should. Life's more interesting as a montage.
Sep 21, 2009
Typing and Typing and Typing...
I don't know why I'm so obsessed with defining things nowadays, as evidenced by recent writings.
Maybe it's a need to set parameters, unchangeable constants, unshakable realities. As the world shifts around me and pushes me forward, however reluctant I may be, I can try to give everything definition. I can try to dissipate my misty uncertainty.
But it doesn't really work. I guess it's my mind trying to play a trick on itself. Some sort of natural survival mechanism.
Or maybe I just want to find my own beliefs amongst a sea of other people's that float around in my head. Or are my beliefs just a collage of everybody's I've ever heard or read? Does anyone think original thoughts anymore? Are all the thoughts in the world used up? What would it be like to live in a world where everything I think is obvious was just being discovered, brand new?
Enough with the incoherent paragraph of rhetorical questions.
This blog has no point. No cohesive meaning I'm trying to convey. No preliminary thought went into this at all, as I'm sure is glaringly obvious as I just type and type. But it matches the state of my brain lately. Incoherent, incohesive. All those words that start with "in" and usually a "c".
I find the best thing to do when I feel like that is write and write and eventually I get to the bottom of things. No thinking, just typing. And a lot of sentence fragments for emphasis.
I'm sorry about this pile of nothing, but sometimes you have to get all the nothing out before you can get to the somethings.
Maybe it's a need to set parameters, unchangeable constants, unshakable realities. As the world shifts around me and pushes me forward, however reluctant I may be, I can try to give everything definition. I can try to dissipate my misty uncertainty.
But it doesn't really work. I guess it's my mind trying to play a trick on itself. Some sort of natural survival mechanism.
Or maybe I just want to find my own beliefs amongst a sea of other people's that float around in my head. Or are my beliefs just a collage of everybody's I've ever heard or read? Does anyone think original thoughts anymore? Are all the thoughts in the world used up? What would it be like to live in a world where everything I think is obvious was just being discovered, brand new?
Enough with the incoherent paragraph of rhetorical questions.
This blog has no point. No cohesive meaning I'm trying to convey. No preliminary thought went into this at all, as I'm sure is glaringly obvious as I just type and type. But it matches the state of my brain lately. Incoherent, incohesive. All those words that start with "in" and usually a "c".
I find the best thing to do when I feel like that is write and write and eventually I get to the bottom of things. No thinking, just typing. And a lot of sentence fragments for emphasis.
I'm sorry about this pile of nothing, but sometimes you have to get all the nothing out before you can get to the somethings.
Sep 18, 2009
You're Such a Smart Kid!
What is smart?
What is our criteria for intelligent?
These are terms we often apply to various people, concepts, all sorts of different things.
But the criteria couldn't possibly be universal. How does anyone decide what is intelligent?
For example, the seemingly unanimous response is that Martin Luther King, Jr. was an intelligent man. He fought for a worthy cause, helped people, gave amazing speeches with expertly crafted rhetoric, and now we celebrate his birthday as a holiday. He should be unquestionably considered smart, right?
Well, he also stuck his neck out on the line, put his family at risk, landed himself in jail, and eventually was murdered. Is it really the smartest thing to do to put yourself in that much danger? Would discrimination have not ended in there was no Martin Luther King Jr., if nobody ever heard "I Have a Dream"? I think it might've.
Not that I don't admire or appreciate King; I'm just trying to prove a point. If one considers bravery and strong convictions and good speeches intelligent, he definitely was. But if you consider simply doing what you need to survive the most intelligent life path, then Martin failed majorly.
So how do we decide what is intelligent and what is stupid? For all unanswered questions, I consult my friend dictionary.com.
Intelligent: having good understanding or a high mental capacity; quick to comprehend, as persons or animals
Interesting. The definition is just as vague and relative as the functional meaning of the word. "Good understanding"? "High mental capacity?" How do you decide those things?
What about smart? It's even broader in its functional definition. We use smart for everything!
7.
quick or prompt in action, as persons.
8.
having or showing quick intelligence or ready mental capability: a smart student.
9.
shrewd or sharp, as a person in dealing with others or as in business dealings: a smart businessman.
10.
clever, witty, or readily effective, as a speaker, speech, rejoinder, etc.
11.
dashingly or impressively neat or trim in appearance, as persons, dress, etc.
12.
socially elegant; sophisticated or fashionable: the smart crowd.
13.
saucy; pert: smart remarks.
14.
sharply brisk, vigorous, or active: to walk with smart steps.
15.
sharply severe, as a blow, stroke, etc.
16.
sharp or keen: a smart pain.
17.
Informal. equipped with, using, or containing electronic control devices, as computer systems, microprocessors, or missiles: a smart phone; a smart copier.
18.
Computers. intelligent (def. 4).
19.
Older Use. considerable; fairly large.
Wow. We really do use it a lot. I find the second definition interesting. It's almost the same as intelligent, so I feel less weird about using them almost interchangeably above.
Most of my life, people have stuffed me into the "smart" category. "Smart kids" in the gifted and talented program, at the "smart school". A nerd. But I never really liked being considered "smart" based on the fact that I get good grades. It doesn't take a Martin Luther King, Jr. to memorize a bunch of stuff and regurgitate it for a test. It doesn't take "intelligence" to tell a teacher everything they want to hear. So how do A's make me "smart"? It took me forever to make this website let me stop italicizing. A lot of people would consider that a "dumb" move.
I guess this boils down to one of those annoying debates on relativity, which can be applied in pretty much every situation. Humans view everything through their own experiences, so virtually nothing is universal. It's all relative. That doesn't really stop me from wanting to define everything.
Nobody ever comments these, but if anybody would like to weigh in on what they consider "smart" or "intelligent", I'd love to hear some thoughts other than my own. Anybody, anybody?
What is our criteria for intelligent?
These are terms we often apply to various people, concepts, all sorts of different things.
But the criteria couldn't possibly be universal. How does anyone decide what is intelligent?
For example, the seemingly unanimous response is that Martin Luther King, Jr. was an intelligent man. He fought for a worthy cause, helped people, gave amazing speeches with expertly crafted rhetoric, and now we celebrate his birthday as a holiday. He should be unquestionably considered smart, right?
Well, he also stuck his neck out on the line, put his family at risk, landed himself in jail, and eventually was murdered. Is it really the smartest thing to do to put yourself in that much danger? Would discrimination have not ended in there was no Martin Luther King Jr., if nobody ever heard "I Have a Dream"? I think it might've.
Not that I don't admire or appreciate King; I'm just trying to prove a point. If one considers bravery and strong convictions and good speeches intelligent, he definitely was. But if you consider simply doing what you need to survive the most intelligent life path, then Martin failed majorly.
So how do we decide what is intelligent and what is stupid? For all unanswered questions, I consult my friend dictionary.com.
Intelligent: having good understanding or a high mental capacity; quick to comprehend, as persons or animals
Interesting. The definition is just as vague and relative as the functional meaning of the word. "Good understanding"? "High mental capacity?" How do you decide those things?
What about smart? It's even broader in its functional definition. We use smart for everything!
7.
quick or prompt in action, as persons.
8.
having or showing quick intelligence or ready mental capability: a smart student.
9.
shrewd or sharp, as a person in dealing with others or as in business dealings: a smart businessman.
10.
clever, witty, or readily effective, as a speaker, speech, rejoinder, etc.
11.
dashingly or impressively neat or trim in appearance, as persons, dress, etc.
12.
socially elegant; sophisticated or fashionable: the smart crowd.
13.
saucy; pert: smart remarks.
14.
sharply brisk, vigorous, or active: to walk with smart steps.
15.
sharply severe, as a blow, stroke, etc.
16.
sharp or keen: a smart pain.
17.
Informal. equipped with, using, or containing electronic control devices, as computer systems, microprocessors, or missiles: a smart phone; a smart copier.
18.
Computers. intelligent (def. 4).
19.
Older Use. considerable; fairly large.
Wow. We really do use it a lot. I find the second definition interesting. It's almost the same as intelligent, so I feel less weird about using them almost interchangeably above.
Most of my life, people have stuffed me into the "smart" category. "Smart kids" in the gifted and talented program, at the "smart school". A nerd. But I never really liked being considered "smart" based on the fact that I get good grades. It doesn't take a Martin Luther King, Jr. to memorize a bunch of stuff and regurgitate it for a test. It doesn't take "intelligence" to tell a teacher everything they want to hear. So how do A's make me "smart"? It took me forever to make this website let me stop italicizing. A lot of people would consider that a "dumb" move.
I guess this boils down to one of those annoying debates on relativity, which can be applied in pretty much every situation. Humans view everything through their own experiences, so virtually nothing is universal. It's all relative. That doesn't really stop me from wanting to define everything.
Nobody ever comments these, but if anybody would like to weigh in on what they consider "smart" or "intelligent", I'd love to hear some thoughts other than my own. Anybody, anybody?
Sep 10, 2009
A Load of Cliches and a Silly Commentary on Humanity
It's easy to be cynical and write everyone off as all the same, or simple. But what is easiest is not always right. Rarely, really.
It seems like, with people, there's always a little something you don't know about them that makes you see everything else in a different light. It's surprising how much everything really does have a reason, even if it's sometimes hard to see. Buried way down deep inside is a motivation for every behavior, no matter how absurd.
Generally, I do think people can be placed into categories, but we don't recognize just how many categories there are. There are a bunch of different traits, disorders, tendencies, whatever that we can have, but there's just so many combinations possible that it creates the everybody-is-a-unique-snowflake allusion.
There's a billion paths our lives can take and all these small, varied circumstances mold people into the complex creatures they are. Unless we follow a person around every second of every day, we'll never completely understand what, to use a cliche, makes them tick.
I guess my point is that we shouldn't judge people, but that's stupid because we are always going to judge people. It cannot be helped. Plus it sounds dreadfully after school specialish. I guess, then, that my point is we should keep an open mind about people and allow the inevitable judgments to be altered by inevitable developments as you get to know a person.
After all, who wants to be over-simplified?
It seems like, with people, there's always a little something you don't know about them that makes you see everything else in a different light. It's surprising how much everything really does have a reason, even if it's sometimes hard to see. Buried way down deep inside is a motivation for every behavior, no matter how absurd.
Generally, I do think people can be placed into categories, but we don't recognize just how many categories there are. There are a bunch of different traits, disorders, tendencies, whatever that we can have, but there's just so many combinations possible that it creates the everybody-is-a-unique-snowflake allusion.
There's a billion paths our lives can take and all these small, varied circumstances mold people into the complex creatures they are. Unless we follow a person around every second of every day, we'll never completely understand what, to use a cliche, makes them tick.
I guess my point is that we shouldn't judge people, but that's stupid because we are always going to judge people. It cannot be helped. Plus it sounds dreadfully after school specialish. I guess, then, that my point is we should keep an open mind about people and allow the inevitable judgments to be altered by inevitable developments as you get to know a person.
After all, who wants to be over-simplified?
Sep 7, 2009
Everybody's a Winner
I've heard my generation occasionally referred to as the "overpraised generation". I usually hate when they name generations like that because it's so generalizing and usually judgmental. But in this case, I have to agree.
Nobody loses anymore. I think to be a well-rounded and well-functioning human being, you have to lose sometimes. After all, you can't know the joy of victory if you don't know the sting of defeat.
Even as a little kid, I hated those "everybody gets a prize" games. It cheapens the prize. Why work at all if you get the same result no matter the amount of effort? I never considered myself overly competitive, but a little competition is fun and healthy.
Why did we eliminate "loss" from our vocabularies? Because somebody's feelings might get hurt. Well, I hate to break it to all those parent-by-the-self-help-book parents, but the kid is going to come up short eventually and because they never had to deal with second place growing up, they're not going to know how to deal with it. Instead of being a little kid crying at the end of his first youth league basketball game, he'll be a grown man crying when he doesn't get a promotion at work. Which is better?
Whenever my dad's side of the family gets together, a game of 500 Rummy always commences. I don't remember ever not knowing how to play 500 Rummy. I think it's an instinctive familial gene. Anyway, this weekend was no different. I have horrible luck in cards, and I was in a very distant fourth place. I'm talking negative numbers. But I was still having a lot of fun, talking trash with my grandparents. I know a lot of kids that could not have fun in last place.
I appreciate the fact that my parents (and grandparents!) have always let me lose. Dad never let me win 500 Rummy once in my life, even when I was very young. I am bad at sports, so knowing how to lose is invaluable skill.
Family tradition states that the person that wins has to sign the bottom of the page "El Champo" and the score sheet hangs on the nearest refrigerator until the next rematch. When we left my grandparents' house this weekend, three sheets hung on the fridge, none of which with my name signed at the bottom. But I still could reflect positively on the whole weekend. Thanks, Mom and Dad, for making an expection of me, a member of the "overpraised generation."
Nobody loses anymore. I think to be a well-rounded and well-functioning human being, you have to lose sometimes. After all, you can't know the joy of victory if you don't know the sting of defeat.
Even as a little kid, I hated those "everybody gets a prize" games. It cheapens the prize. Why work at all if you get the same result no matter the amount of effort? I never considered myself overly competitive, but a little competition is fun and healthy.
Why did we eliminate "loss" from our vocabularies? Because somebody's feelings might get hurt. Well, I hate to break it to all those parent-by-the-self-help-book parents, but the kid is going to come up short eventually and because they never had to deal with second place growing up, they're not going to know how to deal with it. Instead of being a little kid crying at the end of his first youth league basketball game, he'll be a grown man crying when he doesn't get a promotion at work. Which is better?
Whenever my dad's side of the family gets together, a game of 500 Rummy always commences. I don't remember ever not knowing how to play 500 Rummy. I think it's an instinctive familial gene. Anyway, this weekend was no different. I have horrible luck in cards, and I was in a very distant fourth place. I'm talking negative numbers. But I was still having a lot of fun, talking trash with my grandparents. I know a lot of kids that could not have fun in last place.
I appreciate the fact that my parents (and grandparents!) have always let me lose. Dad never let me win 500 Rummy once in my life, even when I was very young. I am bad at sports, so knowing how to lose is invaluable skill.
Family tradition states that the person that wins has to sign the bottom of the page "El Champo" and the score sheet hangs on the nearest refrigerator until the next rematch. When we left my grandparents' house this weekend, three sheets hung on the fridge, none of which with my name signed at the bottom. But I still could reflect positively on the whole weekend. Thanks, Mom and Dad, for making an expection of me, a member of the "overpraised generation."
Sep 2, 2009
Coping With Life's LazyBoy Chairs
I do a lot of weird things. Last night, I became conscious of one them that had become so second-nature, I forgot I even do it.
Whenever I'm in some sort of overwhelming or generally suckish situation, I pause for a moment to commit to memory this one moment of crushing dread. I then think about how great it will be when I'm on the other side of whatever is weighing me down and can think back on the moment and say "Yay! That's over!" This somehow provides me with a small comfort, and motivation to get through whatever it is I need to do.
I realized I was doing this last night. I was laying on my bed, staring up at the ceiling, dreading the seemingly insurmountable amount of homework that lay ahead of me. Mother had forced me into an impromptu shopping trip for my brother, thus reducing my homework time by several pointless hours. I lay there, scanning my mental to-do list and dreading entering the homework-filled abyss. So I paused, and studied myself. I thought about how I felt, looked, and generally was.
A few hours later, three printed essays (one with three individual versions), an annotated article, a read 30 page boring textbook chapter later, I was again lying in bed, this time for slumber. I thought back to that moment earlier, before the homework was completed, and smiled. I'd gotten through it. I was somehow better than the person lying in almost the same place a few hours earlier. Accomplishment.
I know. I'm weird.
Realizing this bizarre thought process, I wondered why I do it. I think it all started when I was pretty young, maybe 6 or 7. My parents had travelled a few hours away from home to buy a new LazyBoy chair for the living room. I was with them. After purchasing the chair, they realized it wasn't going to fit in the back of the car. They had to stuff parts of it in the backseat, where I sat. For some reason, this required leaning heavy chair parts on my then-little legs. It was possibly the most uncomfortable physical position I've ever endured. The chair pressed my legs with enough pressure to restrict blood flow and I was so afraid they wouldn't awaken when the burden was finally lifted. (I was young, okay?) So I thought, "Think about how good it will feel when you get to crawl out from under this thing!" And, indeed, it felt great when after what felt like an eternity, the chair was removed. Ever since then, this same technique has gotten me through all of life's most unpleasant moments.
I bet you all are thinking, "Imagine how great it will be when I finish reading this blog post and can go on with my life..." Wish granted.
Whenever I'm in some sort of overwhelming or generally suckish situation, I pause for a moment to commit to memory this one moment of crushing dread. I then think about how great it will be when I'm on the other side of whatever is weighing me down and can think back on the moment and say "Yay! That's over!" This somehow provides me with a small comfort, and motivation to get through whatever it is I need to do.
I realized I was doing this last night. I was laying on my bed, staring up at the ceiling, dreading the seemingly insurmountable amount of homework that lay ahead of me. Mother had forced me into an impromptu shopping trip for my brother, thus reducing my homework time by several pointless hours. I lay there, scanning my mental to-do list and dreading entering the homework-filled abyss. So I paused, and studied myself. I thought about how I felt, looked, and generally was.
A few hours later, three printed essays (one with three individual versions), an annotated article, a read 30 page boring textbook chapter later, I was again lying in bed, this time for slumber. I thought back to that moment earlier, before the homework was completed, and smiled. I'd gotten through it. I was somehow better than the person lying in almost the same place a few hours earlier. Accomplishment.
I know. I'm weird.
Realizing this bizarre thought process, I wondered why I do it. I think it all started when I was pretty young, maybe 6 or 7. My parents had travelled a few hours away from home to buy a new LazyBoy chair for the living room. I was with them. After purchasing the chair, they realized it wasn't going to fit in the back of the car. They had to stuff parts of it in the backseat, where I sat. For some reason, this required leaning heavy chair parts on my then-little legs. It was possibly the most uncomfortable physical position I've ever endured. The chair pressed my legs with enough pressure to restrict blood flow and I was so afraid they wouldn't awaken when the burden was finally lifted. (I was young, okay?) So I thought, "Think about how good it will feel when you get to crawl out from under this thing!" And, indeed, it felt great when after what felt like an eternity, the chair was removed. Ever since then, this same technique has gotten me through all of life's most unpleasant moments.
I bet you all are thinking, "Imagine how great it will be when I finish reading this blog post and can go on with my life..." Wish granted.
Aug 28, 2009
Friday Night Lights
High school football games are curious things.
As with all high school, everybody is sorted quite well, but there is a place for everyone. The jocks, obviously, on the field and their girlfriends are cheering for them. Other popular kids sit in the student section with obnoxious school-colored decorations, yelling back and forth with the cheerleaders. Proud parents and high school has-beens adorn the stands, yelling everytime something remotely good happens. Musically talented geeks or those who can wave flags semi-gracefully join the band, and other various geeks perform for the ROTC colorguard. "Rebels" and kids with skinny jeans and blue hair hang out around the sidelines, far away as they can get from the field while still being at the game, looking like they're above it all but they're still there. And, my personal favorite, the high school wannabe gang, usually from middle school, dressing like the older kids and wearing way too much makeup and pretending they're having the greatest time.
This various slightly, but pretty much the formula at every high school in every city in every era. There's a slight beauty in it though, when everybody from every clique or group, is screaming at the top of their lungs in celebration when the team pulls out a difficult win.
The high school football game is indeed a curious thing. I'd like to shoot a documentary about it, Discovery Channel-style. Instead, I'll sit in the stands amongst the many groups, not really fitting into any of them as usual, and enjoy the microcosm and the game.
As with all high school, everybody is sorted quite well, but there is a place for everyone. The jocks, obviously, on the field and their girlfriends are cheering for them. Other popular kids sit in the student section with obnoxious school-colored decorations, yelling back and forth with the cheerleaders. Proud parents and high school has-beens adorn the stands, yelling everytime something remotely good happens. Musically talented geeks or those who can wave flags semi-gracefully join the band, and other various geeks perform for the ROTC colorguard. "Rebels" and kids with skinny jeans and blue hair hang out around the sidelines, far away as they can get from the field while still being at the game, looking like they're above it all but they're still there. And, my personal favorite, the high school wannabe gang, usually from middle school, dressing like the older kids and wearing way too much makeup and pretending they're having the greatest time.
This various slightly, but pretty much the formula at every high school in every city in every era. There's a slight beauty in it though, when everybody from every clique or group, is screaming at the top of their lungs in celebration when the team pulls out a difficult win.
The high school football game is indeed a curious thing. I'd like to shoot a documentary about it, Discovery Channel-style. Instead, I'll sit in the stands amongst the many groups, not really fitting into any of them as usual, and enjoy the microcosm and the game.
Aug 27, 2009
Hola Frustration
Language is an odd thing.
I can't remember not being able to speak English. I've taken for granted how easily the words slip off my tongue, how simple it is to connect words to my ideas. No more.
Trying to learn another language is like reverting to Huggies and high chairs. You're back at square one, except your brain isn't half so spongelike. I never thought it would be this frustrating to stare down at a page and not recognize a single word. It's weird. I'm used to seeing a word and its meaning instantly presenting itself in my brain, with little to no effort. Now I must slave over the simplest of phrases to glean half-correct, ill-translated English equivalences out of them. Struggling to communicate has to be the most frustrating thing one can encounter.
I feel a whole new level of respect for people entering new countries without knowing the language, or those who rely on Braille or sign language. It takes them twice the effort to achieve what we do every day without even thinking. Great, now I sound like an after school special.
But there are also positives to the pitfalls of new language learning. It shows that some things are universal, unequivocally human. Every person who has a heart that beats and a brain that thinks understands some things unquestionably. There's something a little amazing in that. Sometimes, there's a bazillion ways to say something (in fourteen tenses, perhaps) but you only need to understand one.
I can't remember not being able to speak English. I've taken for granted how easily the words slip off my tongue, how simple it is to connect words to my ideas. No more.
Trying to learn another language is like reverting to Huggies and high chairs. You're back at square one, except your brain isn't half so spongelike. I never thought it would be this frustrating to stare down at a page and not recognize a single word. It's weird. I'm used to seeing a word and its meaning instantly presenting itself in my brain, with little to no effort. Now I must slave over the simplest of phrases to glean half-correct, ill-translated English equivalences out of them. Struggling to communicate has to be the most frustrating thing one can encounter.
I feel a whole new level of respect for people entering new countries without knowing the language, or those who rely on Braille or sign language. It takes them twice the effort to achieve what we do every day without even thinking. Great, now I sound like an after school special.
But there are also positives to the pitfalls of new language learning. It shows that some things are universal, unequivocally human. Every person who has a heart that beats and a brain that thinks understands some things unquestionably. There's something a little amazing in that. Sometimes, there's a bazillion ways to say something (in fourteen tenses, perhaps) but you only need to understand one.
Aug 25, 2009
A library is a hospital for the mind
I often feel sorry for people who don't read good books;they are missing a chance to lead an extra life.~ Scott Corbett ~
I've been reading like a crazy person lately. Hundreds of pages in one sitting. I suppose this proves I have no life, but I do enjoy it. Is the definition of life simply enjoying whatever you're doing? If so, maybe I do have a life every now and then.
Every so often, I forget the unadulterated joy that lies in a book, until I randomly pick one up that reignites my need for literature. Sometimes it's a classic, with ancient words and lexiconed lines and enduring characters. Sometimes it's something nobody's ever heard of, randomly plucked from the library shelf in the between-classes rush. No matter where it comes from, the words of another person brings emotions out of me I don't typically get from anywhere else. Maybe that's why I love reading so much. I can live vicariously through Elizabeth Bennet, Winston Smith, or Cassandra Mortmain. I can experience the bizarre real lives of David Sedaris and Augusten Burroughs. I can entertain the advanced thoughts of Vincent Campbell or Joshua Halbertan or Anna Quindlen. I can go places I never get to go.
Then why is it I forget this every so often? Does my life get interesting suddenly, and I don't need a fictional fix? I think we can rule that one out. I don't really know. Maybe it's so I can feel the full greatness of rediscovery. Time and time again, this is the one source of comfort that can never be changed or removed.
Now, I think I'll go finish my book. =]
I've been reading like a crazy person lately. Hundreds of pages in one sitting. I suppose this proves I have no life, but I do enjoy it. Is the definition of life simply enjoying whatever you're doing? If so, maybe I do have a life every now and then.
Every so often, I forget the unadulterated joy that lies in a book, until I randomly pick one up that reignites my need for literature. Sometimes it's a classic, with ancient words and lexiconed lines and enduring characters. Sometimes it's something nobody's ever heard of, randomly plucked from the library shelf in the between-classes rush. No matter where it comes from, the words of another person brings emotions out of me I don't typically get from anywhere else. Maybe that's why I love reading so much. I can live vicariously through Elizabeth Bennet, Winston Smith, or Cassandra Mortmain. I can experience the bizarre real lives of David Sedaris and Augusten Burroughs. I can entertain the advanced thoughts of Vincent Campbell or Joshua Halbertan or Anna Quindlen. I can go places I never get to go.
Then why is it I forget this every so often? Does my life get interesting suddenly, and I don't need a fictional fix? I think we can rule that one out. I don't really know. Maybe it's so I can feel the full greatness of rediscovery. Time and time again, this is the one source of comfort that can never be changed or removed.
Now, I think I'll go finish my book. =]
Aug 24, 2009
Stupid College...
The applying to college is unnecessarily complicated. Why do we make it so hard? It's just this constant cloud of stress hovering over me, no matter what I do.
Everything feels too inadequate. Somebody's always preparing better than I am, sending me into a fury of panic. "There goes one more spot in my dream school!"
It seems so silly. Almost everyone that wants to go to college gets in somewhere. Why do we make it such a big deal when if we all relaxed, it wouldn't have to be? The right people can get the right education without facing almost unbearable stress in the preceding years. For some reason, we've decided to create this intimidating aurora around college that probably does more scaring off than anything else.
I know where I want to go; I know what I want to study; I know I could succeed. But that's not enough. I have to prove this by jumping through six thousand unnecessary hoops. My needs get lost in a sea of test scores, statistics, and transfer credits. Somewhere along the way, my voice gets drowned out by the paper trail that consumes me. Every breathing second, I'm supposed to be doing something so I can make a mark on those blasted applications.
I just want to get in, get my degree, and get out. Is that too much to ask?
Everything feels too inadequate. Somebody's always preparing better than I am, sending me into a fury of panic. "There goes one more spot in my dream school!"
It seems so silly. Almost everyone that wants to go to college gets in somewhere. Why do we make it such a big deal when if we all relaxed, it wouldn't have to be? The right people can get the right education without facing almost unbearable stress in the preceding years. For some reason, we've decided to create this intimidating aurora around college that probably does more scaring off than anything else.
I know where I want to go; I know what I want to study; I know I could succeed. But that's not enough. I have to prove this by jumping through six thousand unnecessary hoops. My needs get lost in a sea of test scores, statistics, and transfer credits. Somewhere along the way, my voice gets drowned out by the paper trail that consumes me. Every breathing second, I'm supposed to be doing something so I can make a mark on those blasted applications.
I just want to get in, get my degree, and get out. Is that too much to ask?
Aug 18, 2009
Sweet Reassurance
Today, I got a taste of my possible future. I liked it. This is reassuring.
I liked the frantic feeling in the air that signifies something is about to happen. People in suits running everywhere. The abnormal events just make everything feel different; the air is different. I love that feeling. I want to chase that feeling.
And document it. I was afraid that my notes were inadequate and that I wouldn't be able to force the words out of my head and onto the paper. I sat, staring for a brief moment at the blinking cursor, impatiently urging me to write something. I started to type. It was rough at first, but the words did come. And they weren't half bad.
After my teacher read them, she made sure I wanted to do this for the rest of my life. I confidently answered yes. I'm glad those words were in me, that confidence was in me, that passion is in me. This was the kind of reassurance I needed to give me the motivation to power through this year. I was losing faith in my ability to do much of anything. Today, I tasted a little of my old fervor.
Now I'm excited for the future. Temporarily, at least. =]
I liked the frantic feeling in the air that signifies something is about to happen. People in suits running everywhere. The abnormal events just make everything feel different; the air is different. I love that feeling. I want to chase that feeling.
And document it. I was afraid that my notes were inadequate and that I wouldn't be able to force the words out of my head and onto the paper. I sat, staring for a brief moment at the blinking cursor, impatiently urging me to write something. I started to type. It was rough at first, but the words did come. And they weren't half bad.
After my teacher read them, she made sure I wanted to do this for the rest of my life. I confidently answered yes. I'm glad those words were in me, that confidence was in me, that passion is in me. This was the kind of reassurance I needed to give me the motivation to power through this year. I was losing faith in my ability to do much of anything. Today, I tasted a little of my old fervor.
Now I'm excited for the future. Temporarily, at least. =]
Aug 13, 2009
Summer Goals Revisited
As today marks the Open House for my Senior year, I figure now's an appropriate time to evaluate myself on my summer goals, which are here.
1. Read. This was generally a fail. I only read two books all summer, one the required reading project and "When You Are Engulfed in Flames" by David Sedaris (which I recommend). Both were enjoyable, but I wish I'd been able to get to the library more.
2. Get my license. Another fail, but not completely. I've made much improvement in my driving and drove a lot this summer, more than I've driven previously. I should be able to get my license fairly soon if I keep it up.
3. Exercise. Yet another fail, and there's no redeeming points on this one. Just fail.
4. Room clean. Semi-win. I did alright. It's never going to be effortlessly perfectly beautiful, but it's not that bad. It's been that way for a few weeks. Still not a complete success.
5. Be more social. Semi-win. I did a few things, but not much.
Well, in conclusion, I didn't complete anything I want to this summer. Yet, I'm not really all that discouraged. Maybe I'm growing apathetic to failure on my self-made goals, which is probably not good. I would make a goal to work on that, but that seems a little counter-productive.
I think I'll take a new approach to this fall and see how it goes.
1. Read. This was generally a fail. I only read two books all summer, one the required reading project and "When You Are Engulfed in Flames" by David Sedaris (which I recommend). Both were enjoyable, but I wish I'd been able to get to the library more.
2. Get my license. Another fail, but not completely. I've made much improvement in my driving and drove a lot this summer, more than I've driven previously. I should be able to get my license fairly soon if I keep it up.
3. Exercise. Yet another fail, and there's no redeeming points on this one. Just fail.
4. Room clean. Semi-win. I did alright. It's never going to be effortlessly perfectly beautiful, but it's not that bad. It's been that way for a few weeks. Still not a complete success.
5. Be more social. Semi-win. I did a few things, but not much.
Well, in conclusion, I didn't complete anything I want to this summer. Yet, I'm not really all that discouraged. Maybe I'm growing apathetic to failure on my self-made goals, which is probably not good. I would make a goal to work on that, but that seems a little counter-productive.
I think I'll take a new approach to this fall and see how it goes.
Aug 12, 2009
"If I could write a letter to me...
and send it back in time to myself at seventeen..."
What would it say?
Brad Paisley already knows because he's 40something and successful and has plenty of evidence to reassure his young self.
What would reassure me? After all, I'm seventeen and in need of some reassurance. So if I got a letter tomorrow from my adult self, what words would I want to hear?
I would want to hear, first and foremost, that everything worked out decently and I'm not living at home with my parents. I want to know I got into college and got a job I like or love, and am not struggling to merely survive. My worst fear in all the world is being a failure, in my own eyes and the eyes of the rest of the world. I don't want to wake up when I'm 40, hating my life, myself, and everything else. I'm afraid I'm already on a road that's leading in that direction and I'm only seventeen years old.
Second, I'd like to hear that I didn't really waste my youth like I'm always convinced I'm doing. My fatal flaw is that I criticize myself constantly but never take any real action. I want reassurance that one day I do take action.
"Have no fear, these are nowhere near the best years of your life..." sings Mr. Millionaire Brad Paisley. I hope he's right, though. I truly hope these are nowhere near the best years of my life. I know there's no letter coming in the mail telling me it all worked out. I know it's up to me to make sure it works out.
But a letter wouldn't hurt...
What would it say?
Brad Paisley already knows because he's 40something and successful and has plenty of evidence to reassure his young self.
What would reassure me? After all, I'm seventeen and in need of some reassurance. So if I got a letter tomorrow from my adult self, what words would I want to hear?
I would want to hear, first and foremost, that everything worked out decently and I'm not living at home with my parents. I want to know I got into college and got a job I like or love, and am not struggling to merely survive. My worst fear in all the world is being a failure, in my own eyes and the eyes of the rest of the world. I don't want to wake up when I'm 40, hating my life, myself, and everything else. I'm afraid I'm already on a road that's leading in that direction and I'm only seventeen years old.
Second, I'd like to hear that I didn't really waste my youth like I'm always convinced I'm doing. My fatal flaw is that I criticize myself constantly but never take any real action. I want reassurance that one day I do take action.
"Have no fear, these are nowhere near the best years of your life..." sings Mr. Millionaire Brad Paisley. I hope he's right, though. I truly hope these are nowhere near the best years of my life. I know there's no letter coming in the mail telling me it all worked out. I know it's up to me to make sure it works out.
But a letter wouldn't hurt...
Aug 4, 2009
You would not believe your eyes...
if ten million fireflies lit up the world as I fell asleep, cause they'd fill the open air and leave teardrops everywhere. You'd think me rude but I'd just stand and stare.
(Stolen from Owl City...)
Fireflies are so cool. What other living thing can light up? (Okay, there's probably some obscure creature I'm not aware of, but let's ignore that for the sake of my musings.)
I always liked sitting on the deck and watch them put on a show in my backyard. They light up the edge of the woods, making it look all Christmas in July. It's so simple and pretty.
More fun than watching them is catching them, however. I spent many nights catching them at my grandma's house and temporarily imprisoning them. Imprisonment for being pretty? That kinda sucks. I remember my cousin and I forgot to poke holes in the jar once and they all died and we felt horribly guilty. We had a firefly funeral and everything.
At bible school this summer, one of the mascots of the day was a firefly. When the preacher asked all the little kids if they'd ever seen fireflies, their little faces lit up like the bugs in question. They must've been remembering all the nights like the ones I was just thinking of. One of the other teachers corrected the preacher, "we call them lightning bugs around here." I guess she was right; that seems to be the regional term. But I much prefer the term firefly. It just sounds prettier, cooler (haha cooler, fire!) and does the little creature more justice.
On a blog I read, the post
mentioned catching fireflies. One of the commenters remarked that she lived on the West Coast and had never seen real fireflies. I'd never thought about that before. I kind of assumed they were just everywhere, but apparently not. Which does make more sense. I never really consider the benefits of living the country very much, but I finally found one in my firefly-filled backyard.
Imagine if you just visiting the East Coast or something and nobody ever told you about fireflies and all the sudden little balls of light come flying out of the grass around you. How would you react to that? I imagine I might jump a little. I sort of wish I hadn't grown up taking the bugs for granted just to experience that small moment of wonder.
I'm not one to talk about miracles and the splendor of nature and all that kind of thing, but I have to be a little sentimental when I see those little buggers zooming around the yard. I just need to find me a mason jar with a lid and a companion willing to go bug hunting with me. =]
(Stolen from Owl City...)
Fireflies are so cool. What other living thing can light up? (Okay, there's probably some obscure creature I'm not aware of, but let's ignore that for the sake of my musings.)
I always liked sitting on the deck and watch them put on a show in my backyard. They light up the edge of the woods, making it look all Christmas in July. It's so simple and pretty.
More fun than watching them is catching them, however. I spent many nights catching them at my grandma's house and temporarily imprisoning them. Imprisonment for being pretty? That kinda sucks. I remember my cousin and I forgot to poke holes in the jar once and they all died and we felt horribly guilty. We had a firefly funeral and everything.
At bible school this summer, one of the mascots of the day was a firefly. When the preacher asked all the little kids if they'd ever seen fireflies, their little faces lit up like the bugs in question. They must've been remembering all the nights like the ones I was just thinking of. One of the other teachers corrected the preacher, "we call them lightning bugs around here." I guess she was right; that seems to be the regional term. But I much prefer the term firefly. It just sounds prettier, cooler (haha cooler, fire!) and does the little creature more justice.
On a blog I read, the post
mentioned catching fireflies. One of the commenters remarked that she lived on the West Coast and had never seen real fireflies. I'd never thought about that before. I kind of assumed they were just everywhere, but apparently not. Which does make more sense. I never really consider the benefits of living the country very much, but I finally found one in my firefly-filled backyard.Imagine if you just visiting the East Coast or something and nobody ever told you about fireflies and all the sudden little balls of light come flying out of the grass around you. How would you react to that? I imagine I might jump a little. I sort of wish I hadn't grown up taking the bugs for granted just to experience that small moment of wonder.
I'm not one to talk about miracles and the splendor of nature and all that kind of thing, but I have to be a little sentimental when I see those little buggers zooming around the yard. I just need to find me a mason jar with a lid and a companion willing to go bug hunting with me. =]
Aug 3, 2009
Singing to Turn Back the Time
Sometimes, songs are like mini-time machines.
When I, as most people do, hear certain songs, it instantly zips me back in time. I experienced this very vividly last night.
As usual, I couldn't sleep, so I turned to my trusty ipod to entertain my restless brain until it decided to let me sleep. The first song that came pouring from the headphones to flood my weary head was "I'm Still Breathing" by Katy Perry. Instantly, it was last summer, and I was lying in approximately the same position in my bed, but my headphones were plugged up to side of my cd player.
I'd just spent the day with my dad and grandmother in her town, shopping. It had been an above-average day. It had been a long time since the three of us, a multigenerational group, had been together without the pressures of the rest of the family. These two are perhaps my two favorite people in the world, and if you add them up, you get roughly myself. We laughed and had more fun in a Sam's, a pool store, and a furniture place than anybody ever should. At the furniture store, a distant acquaintance of my grandma's attacked us, desperate for a sale. Dad and I laughed, sipping on the free Cokes in glass bottles that you get upon entering the store, as Grandma tried to keep the persistent sales lady at bay.
At Sam's, we impulsively purchased a gigantic jar of pickles that still remains in our fridge. Mom gawked at it for weeks, cursing our sillyness and love of pickles.
At Target, we inconvenienced the sales people to the point where we thought we'd have to make a great escape before they tied us up in the back with packing tape and price stickers and leave us for dead because Grandma tried on every knee brace in the store, leaving a trail of open packages and frustrated employees in her wake. She didn't even buy one. One girl ran the length of the store in pursuit of a tape measure that turned out unnecessary. We only found this abundantly funny, but she probably didn't.
After that long day of shopping and bonding, I couldn't sleep when I got home. Eager to listen to the new CD I'd gotten at Target, I popped it into my CD player since I didn't want to go through the trouble of turning on my computer to put it on my ipod. I used the headphones as not to awake the rest of the household.
Now every time I hear any Katy Perry song, I remember that day with my grandma and father. The events that took place probably seem mundane to anyone else, but to me it meant a lot. I'm glad I have this sort of mental soundtrack to take me back whenever I wish to relive it.
When I, as most people do, hear certain songs, it instantly zips me back in time. I experienced this very vividly last night.
As usual, I couldn't sleep, so I turned to my trusty ipod to entertain my restless brain until it decided to let me sleep. The first song that came pouring from the headphones to flood my weary head was "I'm Still Breathing" by Katy Perry. Instantly, it was last summer, and I was lying in approximately the same position in my bed, but my headphones were plugged up to side of my cd player.
I'd just spent the day with my dad and grandmother in her town, shopping. It had been an above-average day. It had been a long time since the three of us, a multigenerational group, had been together without the pressures of the rest of the family. These two are perhaps my two favorite people in the world, and if you add them up, you get roughly myself. We laughed and had more fun in a Sam's, a pool store, and a furniture place than anybody ever should. At the furniture store, a distant acquaintance of my grandma's attacked us, desperate for a sale. Dad and I laughed, sipping on the free Cokes in glass bottles that you get upon entering the store, as Grandma tried to keep the persistent sales lady at bay.
At Sam's, we impulsively purchased a gigantic jar of pickles that still remains in our fridge. Mom gawked at it for weeks, cursing our sillyness and love of pickles.
At Target, we inconvenienced the sales people to the point where we thought we'd have to make a great escape before they tied us up in the back with packing tape and price stickers and leave us for dead because Grandma tried on every knee brace in the store, leaving a trail of open packages and frustrated employees in her wake. She didn't even buy one. One girl ran the length of the store in pursuit of a tape measure that turned out unnecessary. We only found this abundantly funny, but she probably didn't.
After that long day of shopping and bonding, I couldn't sleep when I got home. Eager to listen to the new CD I'd gotten at Target, I popped it into my CD player since I didn't want to go through the trouble of turning on my computer to put it on my ipod. I used the headphones as not to awake the rest of the household.
Now every time I hear any Katy Perry song, I remember that day with my grandma and father. The events that took place probably seem mundane to anyone else, but to me it meant a lot. I'm glad I have this sort of mental soundtrack to take me back whenever I wish to relive it.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)