Dec 31, 2010

Happy New Year

This week contains both my birthday and New Year's, which makes it naturally overly-contemplative. Thus, a year in review is born.

The ending of this year feels not only like the closing of 365 days, but the last year that can truly be classified as my youth. I realize that the twenties are also considered young, but this is the last year where there were more carefree days than not. In the coming years, I'm going to have to work my butt off, and I look forward to it, but that doesn't mean I can't mourn the eighteen years of relative coasting that are now dwindling to mere hours.

This year, I occasionally felt like an adult. I got a wonderful first job that I wouldn't trade for anything. In this job, I met amazing people who I now call friends, as well as finally found what I consider my true calling, if there are such things as callings. This year, I let a false calling slip away, gradually but assuredly, and embraced a new picture of my future that I grow more excited about all the time.

I feel like I broke free from some of the crippling shyness I've endured over the years, and even if it's not totally gone, I now consider it conquerable, and that's all I need to succeed.

I applied to my dream school, and they've given me many heart attacks along the way, and I still don't know if the damage to my cardiac system is worth it, but hitting that "submit" button felt like hitting the "submit" button on twelve years of education.

But I was also a kid in 2010. I took New York City with my Grandma and Dad, felt the allure of the concrete jungle under my feet and the security of my favorite people by my side.

I felt like a kid when I heard that terrifying word--cancer. I felt the almost cliched emotions that accompany it: this could never happen to me, somebody I love; it must be wrong; I must be dreaming. But I came to terms with it and though it still pains me every time I see a little of the happiness drained from my grandma's eyes, replaced with the dingy darkness of defeat and fatigue, it overjoys me to hear her laugh a laugh reminiscent of the pre-cancer days and hug me as tightly as she ever has.

I delighted my parents by belatedly taking an interest in one of their greatest joys, football. I've watched every Colts game this season, cheering alongside my parents, as they welcome the opportunity to finally share something so pivotal to them with me. And it really is fun, sitting on pins and needles, clutching my lucky quilt, as the Peyton leads the Colts down the field in an overtime drive towards the in-zone.

I read 22 books this year, and while I wish it had been more, those books are now a part of me, my subconscious. Many people say "you are what you eat" but I think "you are what you read" is much more accurate.

I also got thirteen new books waiting to be read. There isn't much better than a teetering stack of unread pages and uncreased spines just waiting to be enjoyed. These will soon become part of my 2011 year in review.

I'm sure there is much more I could say, but now it's late and I'm tired, so I will end. Here's to the amazing friends, new and old, that made 2010 great; here's to academic successes and learning experiences and a few mistakes along the way; here's to good health; here's to loving and supportive family; here's to sappy end of the year posts.

Happy 2011!

Dec 12, 2010

In a Box

The older I get, the more I feel like life is most akin to one of those money machines they have on game shows--those machines where the contestant stands in a little glass elevator-shaped contraption. Money, in various denominations, flies around them in a hectic furry and the poor person tries to grab as much as they can and stuff it anywhere they can until time runs out and it all disappears.

I'm standing in the middle of my own machine, perpetually grabbing at the little slips of paper around me. Written on those papers is everything important to me. Some have short term goals, scholastic things, stuff I have to get done, finish Christmas shopping. Some have people's names, family and friends that I want around. Others have long term goals. Get into college.

I'm standing in the middle of this chaos, grabbing at all of these things. There isn't enough time and they aren't slow enough to prioritize. I just have to snatch at them as they fly around, hoping I manage to grab something worth keeping.

And even once I do get hold of something I want or need, it's even harder to hold onto it. I try to put it in my pocket, but the wind sweeps it out again. It's a constant struggle, a constant fight against elements I can't control.

That's the worst part. I can't control it.

I hate not being in control. I can't control it when the Carolina admissions people lose my transcript three days before they want to seal my fate. I can't control what people think of me, how they interpret my actions. I can't control schedules made by others or the weather or the law.

I can only control my feeble little arm, reaching out into the uncontrollable, grasping for something worth it.

Some people believe if you grab one of those things, all the rest of them won't matter. For some people, it's God. I never got the hang of that one. For others, it's love. That one's out of my reach too. Others find it in their work. Well, my transcript's lost in translation.

Is my vital piece of paper still swirling undetected over my head? Or have I missed it completely? Has the thing I need to make life worth it slipped through my fingers already?

Nov 27, 2010

Some Things Never Change

Yesterday, my grandma excitedly ushered me to a drawer in her spare bedroom and produced a letter addressed to her in my ten year old handwriting. I knew embarrassment was nigh.

I'd written the letter just before my family moved from Texas to Virginia. It was in two different colors of gel pen, written on the back of the notebook paper, and a few words were misspelled, but I could see my current self plain as day in the childish cursive handwriting.

It was written with weirdly adult phrasing. "They're shipping us out today," I began like the enlisted protagonist of a Tim O'Brian short story. I continued, "Sorry I didn't write earlyier (I'm ashamed, fifth grade me. Very ashamed.) as I was tied down with school work." I was tied down with school work. I was ten. Some things never change.

I said I had to pack up my stuff for our "diddy move." Eighteen year old me doesn't even know what a diddy move is, or why ten year old me put quotation marks around it. Dad explained it to me, and I did use the quotation marks correctly. That redeems some of the earlier spelling errors.

That letter is a perfect example of why I think writing is so important. I would never remember the mindset of myself eight years ago without it. The feelings that seem so monumental one moment are completely forgotten the next. I don't remember writing that letter at all, but while I was reading it, I was sucked back into that time of my life in a way I wouldn't do without that small reminder.

It also goes to show you that despite all the changes people undergo, there are parts of us that just stay the same. If I wrote those two paragraphs right now, I would probably phrase some of it the same. I'm proud of how mature I sounded, even if I don't remember it.

Grandma carefully tucked the letter back in her drawer, remembering the old me, hugging the current me. I'm glad both mes could bring her joy, and I'm glad that's something else that will never change.

Nov 25, 2010

Yep, It's the Thankful Post

I can't get behind the religious ideology behind Christmas and Easter. I'm too old for the festivities of Halloween. I'm not old enough to get smashed on New Year's. But if I ignore the historical complications that brought us Thanksgiving, I think I can celebrate this one with an appropriate amount of fervor.

First of all, as all of these things begin, I am thankful for my family. I'm thankful for loving and supportive parents, who are fun loving and hilarious. I'm thankful a little brother who probably loves me even if he'd never admit it, and the true friend he really is.

I'm thankful for that, as a family, we can stand in our front yard while mom triumphantly presses the button on the snazzy new remote that controls the Christmas lights like Clark Griswold. I'm thankful that my house looks like a display from the decoration section of Lowe's Hardware, and especially thankful for the random lit-up dolphin wearing a Santa hat that my parents proudly purchased for me last year.

I'm thankful for my slightly redneck but well-meaning extended family, and even more thankful that they're being thankful somewhere else.

I'm thankful that there are wonderful people taking care of my sick grandmother, and thankful that she is looking forward to us decorating her house for Christmas tomorrow and thankful that she felt good enough to go out and eat yesterday.

I'm thankful for my cat, even when he uses me as furniture. He enjoys Thanksgiving more than anyone.

I'm thankful for my dear friends, who hopefully know who they are. I'm thankful they put up with my when I'm annoying and embrace me when I'm not.

I'm thankful for my education, which I'm so grateful to be receiving, even when it annoys me to no end.

I'm thankful for my job, which is the perfect job for me and for my excellent co-workers there.

I'm thankful for all the great books I've read and will read and the amazing people who wrote them. I'm thankful for the music that puts melody in my life and the many devices I use to play it. I'm thankful for my silly car that always starts and keeps on chugging.

And finally, I'm thankful to anyone who reads this thing, and thankful for the opportunity to write things people may someday read. And most of all, I'm thankful that Mom is cooking a turkey downstairs because I'm freaking starving.

Nov 9, 2010

Becoming John Lennon and Other Semi-Related Ideas

People have been entirely frustrating as of late. I feel very judged. This might be because I feel I have been acting inadequately, and maybe it's because they're really being judgmental, but it really shouldn't be bothering me. People make assumptions about the intentions of others all the time, especially when they think they have some particular insight into the person's mind, and they're often wrong because they try to make the complexity of the human mind simple. And it's just not.

That's only vaguely related to what I wanted to write about, but these things just fall out of my head sometimes and have to land somewhere. Sometimes I think people shouldn't write about what they don't know. Actually, I think that most of the time. Amateur writers, including myself, often try to write about something they know nothing of--a short story about a kidnapped crack addict with a tragic past trying to beat the odds in Cancun. They, we, confuse art with complexity. The familiar doesn't seem complex to us because we're used to it.

Because of this, I end up writing about things I know for sure something about. My childhood experiences or personal observations cannot be disputed because they're mine and I'm the authority. But when writing begins to inch up on the margin of familiarity and leak out of the edges of the known plane, it gets dangerous. There is a risk of talking out of your proverbial hind end.

On the other hand, writing is how I figure out my thought process. I think things I'm unaware I'm thinking until I begin writing how I feel and it somehow organizes itself on the page. It's how I come to understand me. So if I don't write about things I don't know about, how will I ever form an opinion?

I was thinking about all of this during one of my classes. We were discussing a movie that dealt with a lot moral, ethical, and heavily religious themes. I do have opinions on these things, but for the same reasons I'm sometimes hesitant to write about them, I'm hesitant to speak of them in class. For one, my opinions are sure to be controversial for the setting; and two, I'm afraid of venturing into an area that I'm not capable of knowledgeably discussing.

But as the professor offered up valid and intriguing questions, I felt the familiar and usually squashed urge to answer. I kept squashing. But one other student kept offering up slightly-off-the-mark and thoughtless answers. The professor, not wanting to completely shut down his lone participant in the discussion, was helpless to correct his logical errors and simply asked "does anyone disagree?"

I disagreed. And I said so. And I prefaced my remark with, "not being a particularly religious person..." There was an uncomfortable shift in the room, but nobody said anything, and the professor ran with my actually-relevant-to-the-topic comments. I felt much better after I'd let my opinion be heard, and it was received positively.

I didn't think about this anymore until today, in another class with a different professor. He is an intelligent man and generally looked up to among my peers. But while I was first in his class a few years ago, some of my respect was withheld because he wore a cross around his neck. While I know I shouldn't judge people based on religious beliefs because the last thing I want is for people to judge me based on my lack of them, I can't help but think they are somehow deficient in logic and reason if they cling to a deity. This is especially the case if they are considered part of academia.

More recently, I noticed that his neck was now jewelry free. Assuming he'd abandoned his religion was a bit extreme, I figured, and I just guessed that the necklace had simply broken or gotten old or something.

But today in class, he made a statement that was music to my ears: "The older I get, the more I think like John Lennon: maybe we'd all be better off without religion."

There is something remarkably equalizing when an authority figure reveals that he had gone through a similar struggle you had, even much later in life than you had it. I felt like I had in class before when I spoke up--vindicated and relieved.

But that brought about a new worry. Why did I need the approval of these professors to feel vindicated, to be proud of my beliefs? I am sure they are what I believe in, so why do I always try to bury them? I will definitely defend them and admit to them if asked directly, but I never offer the information voluntarily. What good does it do to be ashamed? I'm just succumbing to the pressures I hate to think even exist.

Perhaps I should edit down this post into at least one coherent theme, since I have them running every which way. But I'm not going to. It demonstrates the very practice of my realizing my thoughts as I type them. All in the course of writing this blog post, I have complained about being judged, judged others, assumed others were judging me, and complained about the very idea of being judgmental. All in a day's work, I suppose.

I agree with my professor, as we all get older, we should all be more like John Lennon. John Lennon wasn't afraid to admit to his beliefs--he sang them over and over. Instead of being indignant, he tried to inspire change through his musical talents. Sure, he was judged so harshly somebody saw it fit to murder him. I still think we should all strive for that sort of confidence and peace and certainty.

You just might think I'm a dreamer, but I bet I'm not the only one.

Nov 8, 2010

Sex and Swings

I promised, more to myself than anybody unfortunate enough to read this, to tell the story of the rickety swing set behind my friend's house.

I was in forth grade, and he was in third. This, of course, meant that I was ever so much more worldly than he and could explain things he'd never fathomed. He looked up to me unquestionably, and I valued him highly as a dear friend and protegee of sorts on all things regarding neighborhood children politics.

Any serious discussions we had occurred in one of two places: the miniature-sized trampoline enclosed in the fence in his backyard (which is where he confessed what his parents called his "puppy love" for me and the first and definitely not the last place I disregarded honest affection for superficial and unattainable attention) or the swing set.

This afternoon, we had ventured to the swing set. Neither of our parents knew it existed and it was a few houses down from his place, so naturally we felt rebellious and isolated. In the safety of the weeds and rust, we were free to talk about the most taboo of subjects.

His sister had just called that morning to announce she was pregnant. This was her second child, after what I now realize was a deeply controversial teenage pregnancy that caused great rift in the family. My friend was deeply curious and deeply conflicted.

At first, his eyes were wide with pride at getting to be called "uncle," a grown-up title. He had been too young to fully enjoy the event the first time around. Then his thought process turned the idea over slowly and horror crept into his face, which he looked to me to absolve.

"How does it happen?"

Of course, he meant makin' babies.

Like an actual parent, a moment of panic struck me. Should I lie? All I knew I had gleaned from television and the forth grade version of sex ed and the "Alice" books from the school library, but it would probably be enough to satisfy his curiosity. I gathered my thoughts and answered deliberately. I was never good at sugar-coating.

"They had to have sex."

The word only garnered a small glint of recognition in his face. His parents were pretty over-protective, which explains his sister's adolescent behavior. He'd probably only heard the word in a negative context. A swear word, a forbidden action. Something that caused his parents and sisters to fight.

"Does it-- hurt her?"

Even at that young age, I remember being touched by his deep concern for his sister's welfare. "Maybe," I replied, "but it musn't be too bad if people keep doing it." I thought this was a good balance between honest and reassuring.

He contemplated this for a moment and then switched to new kind of possible damage. At this, the methodical pumping of his feet and the creaks of the rusty swing both halted, and the only sound was his voice and the ubiquitous Texas wind.

"Did she have to... be naked?"

I answered this question with odd clarity. I explained which parts essentially had to be uncovered, and that it didn't actually need to take that long for it to work. I left out, what I considered mercifully, that all the parts were probably uncovered and the length of their marriage suggested it probably took longer than he'd like to think.

I could almost hear his brain processing the information. All at once, his feet began pumping again. They scraped the bone dry ground and a plume of gritty sand enveloped him for a few minutes, and then he swung through it as if it were the confusion that clouded his brain moments before. The smile had returned to his face.

"Maybe they'll name him after me."

I ignored the assumption that the baby was to be a boy, and started my own swing back up. The thing rocked back and forth dangerously in the ground, but our innocent confidences ensured us that it would never tip over while we were sitting in it.

And it never did.

Nov 7, 2010

Barbie Jeeps

Maybe it's the weather. Something about this time of year, where it gets just a little bit colder every day, but not cold enough to warrant the full on Michelen-man winter coat, makes me think of the days I spent playing outside with all the neighborhood kids.

This weather was perfect because the combination of a light jacket and constant running kept your body temperature just perfect. The air was crisp and cold and felt good in your lungs. Gone was the dry hot Texas summer, replaced by the crunchy leaves of fall.

On my way home from school, I pass this little quaint house where two small children live. Many afternoons, they're playing in the limited but present backyard their middle-of-town location provides them. Their house is always decorated up for the holidays, currently displaying an array of pumpkins and turkeys.

My favorite playtime game to watch them engage in is the wonders of the electric Barbie jeep. Those little cars were the greatest thing ever when I was younger. Everybody wanted one. I never had one, but had friends who did, and their usefulness was never taken for granted. I watch the siblings squished into the seat, driving forward and then reversing in a slight semi-circle, laughing with pure joy. They couldn't be going more than seven feet, but their imaginations were taking them much further.

I miss those days when an electric powered Barbie Jeep and a fall afternoon were all I could've hoped for. Driving past them in my real life, gasoline powered car capable of traveling miles and miles, I envied their ability to go five feet and have great fun.

I miss playing on the jungle gym behind my house. On Base Housing, they installed random playground equipment in the grassy part between the houses on every block. Our block just happened to have an old, silvery steel jungle gym--my mom viewed it as public enemy number one. She was utterly convinced this jungle gym would cause us great bodily harm. Her favorite was "you will fall and get your mouth caught on one of those bolts and it'll rip your face clear in half!"

While that possibility was remote at best, one of my neighbors (a much older boy might I add) fell off and broke his arm. Of course, Mom was totally vindicated and we no longer had a good argument against her irrational prohibition of the beloved climbing apparatus. We still played many a game on it when she wasn't home, and it remained forever "home-base" during spirited games of tag. But eventually the powers that be over Base Housing also ruled the gym unsafe and had it removed.

We were forced to relocate to the rickety swing set behind my friend's house that Mom didn't know about. Oh, there's a good story on that swing set. I shall have to save that one!

I'm not sure how this went from talking about little neighborhood kids to the significant playgrounds in my life, but I do want to go outside and play now.

Oct 31, 2010

Into the Passion Pit

I exist in a weird place between the "I love Katy Perry, Lady Gaga, and Ke$ha" world of pop song, Glee-watching, mainstream teenyboppers and the "I love a bunch of bands you're not privileged enough to even listen to" band tshirt-wearing, skinny jean squeezing counter-culture teenager. I don't worship Kurt Cobain nor will I ever buy a Jonas Brothers concert ticket.

So I drift between these two worlds and never feel like I have complete credit in either of them.

Standing in the middle of a group of half-drunken, college-aged social deviants, I didn't exactly feel at home. Not being particularly into the music (while not a horrible sound, it was very...consistent to say the least and I never understood one word that was uttered), I turned my attention to the concert-goers that surrounded me.

The girls in front of me, blocking my view to the stage and bobbing up and down noncommittally the music, as if to say "I just happened to walk in here and saw a concert going on and decided to stay" even though they obviously made a concerted effort to attend, were a rather strange sight. One was dressed in a very non-hipster kid jeans and a sweatshirt, snapping a picture every three seconds and commencing to edit the quality of them in real time, very much unengaged with the performance unfolding a few feet in front of her.

What I presume was her friend stood beside her, much more into the music as evidenced by the occasional fist pumping to the beat and accidental tell-tale smile, was wearing a strange shirt-dress thing with loud and mismatched childish jewelry, including an over-sized monkey ring. In this weird demographic, it was difficult to tell the Halloween costumes from the personal "style" of the patrons.

Behind me was what can only be described as an obnoxious, oddly dressed and very drunk lesbian. She apologized to me a few times for her intoxicated dancing and bumping, but she did not apologize for her annoying habit of completely turning her back on the show and attempting to flirt with a tragically geeky-in-an-unattractive-way (Yeah, I'm confused too.) guy who was a little way too much into the band. Eventually, they both disappeared with their Coors Light aroma and impolite mosh pit etiquette.

Other notables include the threesome composed of a man and woman similarly dressed whose body language suggested a romantic couple and whose facial features suggested siblings accompanied by a girl who didn't fit at all; also present was what appeared to be a gay couple dressed as a gorilla and a banana, an obnoxious sounding kid who looked like Justin Bieber but was dressed as something I don't know about, and a super drunk guy who said hey to everyone and spit in the floor.

While I may never be part of this peer group (what a shame), it was nice to experience it for one night, a bobbing head among all the other bobbing heads in the crowd, unintelligible from an actual appreciator of electronica music.

I do enjoy passionate and eclectic people and loud music with a bass that reverberates through your very muscles and organs and contributing to the happiness of a beloved friend, so all and all, it was a night well spent.

Oct 27, 2010

Naive

I'm not naive.

It really bugs me when people assume I am. I guess they get that impression because I'm young-looking and short of stature. I get good grades and I don't cuss. I'm supposed to be some sweet, innocent little girl whose ears bleed at the mere mention of anything remotely sexual or illegal or otherwise in poor taste.

I rode in the back of the bus in middle school. I watch television and movies; I get on the internet. I am aware of the world around me, and the varying degrees of perversion it contains. It doesn't do me a bit of harm to hear it.

What does bother me is when people apologize to me for it. Maybe it's a base annoyance of being patronized or the underlying assumption that I'm automatically offended. The truth is, I'm truly not offended very easily at all. You would probably have to specifically try to offend me, and if you're doing that, you have more issues than I care to address.

It's a bit of a paradox, really, that I associate people apologizing for acting immature towards me with people not taking me seriously. Maybe people think I'm too serious for sexual humor. Maybe this is sort of a backward compliment. It's hard to be flattered by something that alienates me from the rest of my peers.

This sort of thing always reminds me of a middle school lunch table I hated very much. I didn't have any friends in the class that I was forced to eat lunch with, so I spent the time very nerdily reading. So of course, because I didn't happen to like anyone in that particular group of people (which included a gang of giggly, annoying girls, a section of rapid Spanish-speaking people with no interest in including a white kid, several boys who spent the whole time mixing random crap together and daring one another to eat it, and the group I'm about to describe my experience with).

This one group thought they were so mature because they liked to toss around some sexual slang and pretend they had sexual experience. They'd make off-color jokes and laugh heartily, then glance around like "I hope nobody heard that" but really meaning "I hope everybody heard that."

I was particularly irked by one story this wannabe-whore of a girl would frequently tell about how she donned nude-colored lingerie and turned a gay guy straight. First of all, they don't make lingerie in the size "awkward, under-developed thirteen year old girl." Second of all, you're 13! You didn't do anything. Quit making up dumb, improbable stories. It simply didn't happen.

Of course I could hear it, being right next to them. One day, one of them turned to me and says "I bet you don't understand any of this, eh?" I probably grimaced slightly, and then went back to my book. But I couldn't let it go, and after a few minutes, I politely interrupted their conversation and began pouring out all sorts of sexual crap I don't even remember. They left me alone the rest of the year, but I don't know if I really got my point across.

It's just so irritating. Or maybe I'm being unreasonable. I don't know, but please people, feel free to make "that's what she said" jokes in my vicinity. I might even laugh.

Oct 25, 2010

Eggs in a Basket

I have been struggling lately, for the first time in a long time, about what I want I want to do for the rest of my life. It is no longer a distant thought, something hazy in the distance to work toward in tiny steps, a small talk question made by distant relatives. It is real and it is now and I need to figure some things out. I don't like jumping into anything without my head clear and certain, especially not something this important.

Lots of small inhibitions nag at my subconscious when I think of possible careers, and I've lost sight of the big pictures I think.

The big picture that's been most alluring as of late is teaching. But why?

There's something about teaching people to write that appeals to me. While there are always some people who just don't care to learn, there are others who have been robbed of the opportunity. There is the person that has a writer within them, but nobody's taken the time to bring him or her out. I want to bring the writers out.

Once the intimidation is gone and they get past the "I'm just not a writer phase" they begin to see the merits in it. Expressing yourself is not as easy as Madonna makes it seem; people simply never learn how to do it. It opens up a world to them, a deeper world that connects them to humanity in ways they didn't know existed.

I also like watching confidence build. I like helping people own their words, realize they have thoughts that matter and the ability to articulate them. I love when somebody starts tutoring scared, nervous, and unsure and starts coming smiling, proud, and anticipatory. They can't wait to show what they've accomplished. They're actually excited.

I feel like that's the most efficient and humanitarian thing I have the ability to do.

But is it at the compromise of my own writing? That is the last thing I am willing to give up. But I don't like putting all my eggs in the basket of me, my writing, my career hinging on my unproven abilities. I feel safer cultivating the abilities of others.

I know it wouldn't be such a stretch to do both, but it seems like I have to somehow choose which takes priority now. I've spent 18 years working on me. Maybe the best way to improve myself is to help improve others?

And I'm not even into a college yet.

Oct 18, 2010

I Just Want To Go To College

I really don't think I'm asking a whole lot.

Ever since middle school, I have been thinking about how wonderful college will be. I am made to be at a university; I know it is where I belong. As a result, everything I've done and accomplished these past six years have been with one goal in mind. I want to go to college.

When I was afforded the opportunity to go to college in high school, I jumped at it. And it was sometimes everything I hoped it would be--intellectually challenging, diverse (more so than high school at least), and productive. As cheesy as it sounds, I grew as a writer, a thinker, and a person. I feel a million times more educated than I think I would have if I'd never stepped foot in college classroom. That is something that is hard to give up.

That makes it all the more frustrating now that my desire for college is getting in the way of admission to a university.

I wish there was a way to measure aptitude and desire that didn't require jumping through forty hoops and five acres worth of paper. I know I'm a competent person and I will succeed in the university setting. I have teachers and peers who agree. I have a transcript that shows responsibility and dedication. I know what I want to do and where I want to be. But all of that might be lost through technicalities, muffled by a seven-page application. I don't want to be silenced by bureaucracy.

I'm horribly frustrated and desperate. This is why I haven't been blogging lately. When I get this frustrated, the words just gum up inside me. A big pile of congealed, stunted writing. Is this what university is going to do to me?

Do I really want all of this after all?

Oct 9, 2010

Cheesy Musings

When small things get in the way of big things, and futures become slightly hazy, it makes you really think about what it is you really want in the future.

I want a library. A home library stocked with my favorite books, all of which I've completed at least once, and organized in some way that I love and is confusing to everyone else.

I want the library to be a sanctuary against all the clutter my personality won't allow me to not make. I want the walls (that aren't already lined in shelves, of course) to be covered in things I love. A wall of significant newspaper headlines, a wall of vintage propaganda posters, maybe my favorite records, and some antique typewriters that I've always been fascinated with. Frivolous things that look immature in living rooms will come together to create a space that only I'd put together.

And more than that, I want to be able to sit in that room and write things that people want to read. Maybe not a lot of people, but a few genuine ones.

I often find myself focusing on the school and career parts of my future, but there's definitely more important parts that I'll need more than anything else.

I'll need great friends that will hop into a ditch I backed into without hesitation and friends that clip perfect cartoons from newspapers and carry them around in their wallets so I can see them and friends that don't mind when my brother needs to tag along.

I'll need family that supports my frantic panicking and doesn't get mad when I call at random hours freaking out even though they're on vacation and laughs at me with more love than amusement.

These things are what make the bad parts bearable. Whether I'm teaching people who don't care at a brain dead community college or guiding vibrant and curious students at a prestigious university or writing magazine articles with topics I know nothing about or living on freelance writing and a prayer, I'll be okay.

Oct 4, 2010

Psuedo-Intellectual Creative Writing

She noticed she didn’t feel the same way anymore. The pang in her stomach was an automatic, superficial, uncontrollable action. She ignored it as a minor annoyance. Indigestion, hiccups, a pent-up sneeze.

Her hands remained steady, her priorities straight, her smile confident. She didn’t think about how the position of her limbs looked, if her hair was frizzy, if her voice was friendly enough. She just went about her business as usual.

And in that moment, she realized what growing up is. Her happiness depended not on outside forces, but something within herself. She knew who she was, what she liked, where she wanted to go. She owned her ideas and thoughts and all her actions moved in accordance to this plan. Her plan.

The others around her were the same. They still waved in recognition of the same body they thought they knew so well. They smiled a greeting, made small talk, laughed at jokes. Nothing had changed, really. But she felt fresh and brand new. She somehow wanted to explain to them that she wasn’t the same, but it was no use. They didn’t notice. It didn’t matter. Only she needed to know.

Outside, she scaled the mini-hills of her street, walking in step to the music coursing through her brain. She liked the exclusiveness of it. Nobody could hear the harmonies but her. She didn’t think how she looked to the curious neighbors peering at the curious girl in the street, singing and skipping to herself. But she didn’t care. Just kept marching to her own beat, happy and secure.

Sep 18, 2010

An Apple A Day

Why won't people go to the doctor?? I'm always saying how much my dad, grandmother, and I are alike, but in this respect, I defiantly break from the pack. It's the 21st century! They aren't going to bleed you with leeches, or mush around in your brains Abraham-Lincoln-post-assassination-style, so why do you still think they're incompetent and are only out for money?

Okay, maybe a lot of them are out for your money. But let's think this through. If they say, bleed you with leeches, or give you medicine that makes you worse, or are somehow counterproductive to your health, and assuming you're a logical person, you're going to switch to a hopefully more competent physician. And pay somebody else. And they are losing money. So even if, when the smiling middle schooler on career day asks why they became a doctor and they reply for the bundles of cash, you can bet they still want to help you out so you will continue to provide them with said bundles of cash. So get over that! I'm looking at you, Grandma!

And Dad. Dad who thinks he's invincible. Oh, my arm's broken in three places. It'll heal itself in a week. No, no it won't.

So that's an extreme example. But he has this weird growth on his head (yeah I know, mental images) that has been there for quite some time and he REFUSES to get it checked out. He has a family history of skin cancer and spent more of his childhood with sun poisoning than without AND has a bald spot right there allowing the sun an all-access pass to his poor little scalp.

Would it really be so terribly hard to go the doctor, get it looked at, and probably just have them lop the thing right off? If I'm being as paranoid as he says and it's not skin cancer, at least he'd be rid of a growth on his scalp, which has to be an improvement by any standards. And if it is something worse, than they can take care of it before it's really bad. I'm not seeing how any of the logic here points to the "wear hats and ignore it" philosophy.

Fine, Grandma, your generation isn't so doctor dependent. Fine, Dad, you're an impenetrable force with an immune system of steel. Fine. Don't do it for you.

Do it for me. Do it for the ulcer developing in my stomach, and for the fact that I need both of you, alive and healthy. And even if I'm not enough, do it for your husband (who ironically goes to the doctor TOO MUCH) and your three children and five other grandchildren. Do it for your wife and your other son who really needs a father figure who can admit he's not invincible and seeks help when he needs it.

An apple a day is not enough.

Sep 5, 2010

The House That Built Me

My parents often casually throw about the idea that they're going to move away from this place after my brother leaves home (which might be never, making my worries moot! ha). I always protest. Is it selfish that I don't want other people living in what is the closest thing I've got to a childhood home?

All my life, when we visited my grandma in the house my mom grew up in, I would sleep in Mom's old bedroom and play with Mom's old toys and read Mom's old books. I hugged her old worn-out-with-love teddy bear and looked through her yearbooks. My brother and I played her old board games and admired the pictures she'd hung up when she was our ages. As you can tell, my grandma never throws anything away.

I want my kids to have that.

But there are even more selfish reasons. I want a place to come home to that feels like home. My dad's parents are kind of opposite of my mom's and Dad's childhood home(s) are occupied by random people. Grandma and Grandpa built their own house in a totally different town. The house, while familiar, isn't home to Dad. He doesn't have a bedroom there and Grandma got rid of most of his stuff or stuck it away in the attic.

I want to be able to come home, to the place I call home, not just the house where my parents happen to live. Sometimes I think about how weird it will be coming home and sleeping in my bed as a visitor. If my bed still exists at that point...

I know my parent's happiness is what should be my priority, and if moving away is what makes them happy, then I should support it. But how can they not have any attachment to this place?

Maybe I'm growing overly sentimental since my time to move on with my life looms dangerously close or maybe I've heard this song one too many times on the radio, but I really want them to keep this house, my house. I'm afraid if they get rid of it and my room becomes somebody's home office, I'll lose all the memories attached to it. Seven years of my life, arguably the most significant ones yet, unfolded under this roof. The tangible wood and carpet and shingles tether me to something bigger, a whole person I identify with and might lose touch with later. How am I supposed to get her back if her home is gone?

Sep 1, 2010

Viva Las Vegas

Sitting in the Barter Theater last weekend, my dad and I made a starling discovery about ourselves.

We were talking to this older gentleman in front of us during the intermission of "Shake, Rattle, and Roll," an Elvis tribute show (which is the glorified and PC way of saying Elvis impersonator). As he listed off the the shows he'd been to and how they compared to the one we were currently watching, Dad got ready to announce that we'd also seen one he mentioned.

Then he realized this was making our third Elvis show this year. We were horrified.

At the three shows we've attended (one with my immediate family and two with my grandparents), we'd spent most of them making fun of the Elvis impersonator groupies that apparently form a disturbing subculture. At one, there was even a merchandise booth run by old ladies who probably saw the real Elvis when they were teenagers. The merchandise, from a safe distance, appeared to be your usual tshirts, coffee cups, buttons, and pins emblazoned with the familiar face of the King of Rock-n-roll, but as you moved closer, it became freakily apparent that it wasn't Elvis Presley's face on the cheap goods. It was the face of the impersonator.

Now going to see one perform is one thing, but having a man pretending be another man pasted across your chest is just weird. But far weirder is how these ladies acted during the impersonator's performance. They yelled "we love you Stephen!" with the same adoration and fanaticism as real 50's Elvis fangirls. They even threw their granny panties on stage. No, I'm not kidding. They did.

They also racketed off the names of all the "Elvis Tribute Artists" who participated in the annual contest in Las Vegas and where their precious Stephen ranked among them. "Oh the one in Myrtle Beach? He's so full of himself! Barter Theater? He's got nothing on Stephen! Just a hack."

So as we stood in this tiny, historic theater, surrounded by people old enough to be my great, great grandparents, we became shockingly self-aware. I looked down at the Elvis emblazoned on my chest (at least it's the real one and not Stephen or Scot or Bruce!), the light up purse on my shoulder. I thought about the Jailhouse Rock poster hanging up at home and the purple Elvis guitar cd case in the living room. I thought about the three Elvis shows we attended.

But I also thought of all the times Dad and I spent heartily singing along to our favorite Elvis songs, complete with dramatic hand gestures and lip quivers, and the time my second grade teacher marched tie-dye Elvis shirt clad eight-year-old me down the hall to show another teacher who was a huge Elvis fan. And I thought about all the times my brother and I had watched these two Elvis biography videos to kill time in the van, his four year old lips singing every word.

And maybe we aren't the fans who cry at the Presley grave site at Graceland and maybe my undergarments stay on during Elvis tribute shows, and maybe I don't know the name of every impersonator that ever breathed, but maybe, just maybe, we are one of those people.

Aug 25, 2010

A Breakfast Club Moment

Sometimes it would appear that microcosms only appear in the construed confines of literature, television, and movies, but if you look into any given room, you'll probably find a pretty good real life example. Though we can't all be the Breakfast Club, I've noticed a little bit of a college microcosm in my place of work, a tutor center.

Sitting idly at the well-worn but sturdy tables, waiting for the confused masses to seek our help, the tutors turn to discussing their life stories.

There's the middle-aged woman, proudly boasting of her kid's accomplishments and grumbling about her husband's inability to stick to a diet (as she shoveled chicken and gravy into her mouth), while grasping an anatomy book in her other hand. She tutors between singing in the college and church choirs, and has taken it upon herself to be the mother hen of the center. She councils one tutor about his less than perfect four year relationship for an hour after she's supposed to be off work, and even inquires into the nature of my relationship with another random tutor, who I actually only met three days ago. She's only known me a week but insists upon checking on my safety.

Then there's the college party movie walking stereotype. He failed out of a four year university and is now enthusiastically tutoring science and math. He walks around the school with music forever blaring from one headphone, which only parts from his ear during class and while tutoring. At all other times, he loops it up through his shirt for a constant stream of tunes. It often causes him to speak a little louder than necessary, but the volume matches his strange vibrancy in what seems to be a disappointing situation. But he's always all smiles, except for eight in the morning, when he slouches over his laptop, half-asleep. Ipod blaring.

Then there's the hesitant fatherly, criminal justice program types who usually just come in, do their jobs, and leave. But occasionally the social environment gets the best of them and they stay to chat about their latest parental woes, or gesticulate wildly about their hunting trips or NASCAR races.

And there's the guy who is always, always there, whether tutoring with extreme patience and skill or entertaining young (and, let's face it, dorky) students with his quick wit. He appears to tutor half the school as well as attending school himself, but is never frazzled. He's a regular staple of the place and everybody jokes with him because he takes it all so well. It's hard to tell how long he's been at the college (he randomly mentions so many different institutions of higher learning, including my beloved Chapel Hill) but he seems very content on his computer in the back corner of the room.

And of course, there are the fearless leaders. One always, always tutoring, and occasionally popping in to crack a joke at an understanding employee's expense. But the other one is full of surprises. Seemingly mild mannered, but in downtime conversation, he'll random through in a detail about being on probation in his younger years, a pop culture reference to Twilight, or mention how hyped up he gets on caffeine, with a maniacal glint in his eye.

And me. My friend and I are the youngest and most inexperienced, technically still being in high school, and we sit quietly off the side and watch the others interact, only joining ourselves at opportune moments.

The room to the tutor center is tucked away in the rarely trodden upstairs region of the library, unobtrusively going about its business. But inside, a whole separate social circle teems, representing the student body in the best ways possible.

Aug 22, 2010

A Cop Out

Here I go again, super failing at posting regularly! But inspiration simply cannot be forced... unless of course I scour the internet and find random writing exercises and use them when I don't have any independently generated thoughts. I must begin doing this when I have writer's block or else I'll never touch this thing again! So here I go...

I found these. They are not entertaining to anyone but me, so if you're one of the two or three unfortunate souls reading this, I apologize in advance.

1.Describe a landscape as seen by an old woman whose horrible old husband has just died. Do not mention the husband or death.

The birds splashed about in a puddle to the right of the sidewalk. Their pleasing chirps were like background music to Myrtle's life as she hobbled along, taking in the surrounding sights of pleasant suburbs in the evening. She was heading to her daughter's for supper, since her own house seemed vacant nowadays. The sidewalk was the dark, familiar gray of slightly wet concrete and blades of grass drooped with the burden of raindrops weighing them down. Yet the sun shone brightly, unaware of the recent downpour, promising to evaporate the water.

Alright, so that's not a landscape and the imagery isn't horribly subtle, but at least I avoided including the rainbow, only suggested the environment in which one would appear. And it's not really a landscape, but I prefer smaller settings. It's supposed to represent a new hope, as opposed to the "dark, familiar gray" of life with her "horrible old husband." How very Kate Chopin.

2. Describe a lake as seen by a young man who has just murdered someone. Do not mention the murder.

The moon was the only light now, and the house disappeared in the dark behind him as he approached the lake. There was not a single living creature to be seen, nobody witness his late night walk, but the quiet surface of the lake hid a teeming, hidden colony of probing eyes and ears. The sky was overcast with the grayish clouds of nighttime, making the lake look almost a sinister black. He tried to picture the freedom of happy vacationers
skiing on top of the water, laughing and splashing in the gentle wake, but the images remained hazy and distant in his mind. Only a deep, cold abyss laid at his feet.

How dramatic! I tried to include some feelings of guilt and paranoia and hopelessness. Nothing says hopeless like a big ole black body of water. But it seems very much like a werewolf should come out of the woods at any moment and gobble him up. I sort of was picturing how I picture the lake at Hogwarts, also, which might have affected my vision. haaa

3. Describe a landscape as seen by a bird. Do not mention the bird.

The mountains peaked through the clouds, emphasizing the alluring mystery of exclusive mountaintops. The snow remained untouched and untainted, a pure white blanket concealing the years of geographical history underneath. Trees stood defiantly in the seemingly uninhabitable terrain. They appeared almost impertinent. How dare the trees reach even higher than the mountains? How far above sea level is far enough?

That's all I got for this one. Like I said, I don't like big areas. It overwhelms the reader and the writer both, trying to envision so much makes each description less powerful. Even trying to describe an entire mountain range (which I've never seen in person and there's none in Harry Potter except perhaps when Hagrid visits the giants) is quite an undertaking, and so I personified a small detail--the trees--and left the rest pretty vague and cliched.

Well, my writer's block remains a formidable foe, only granting me a few mere paragraphs. But it's better than nothing and allows me to feel less blogger's guilt.

Aug 5, 2010

Growing Pains

On the first day of sixth grade, I sat beside a girl in homeroom. We talked. We became friends. We talked on the phone endlessly, even though I always hated talking on the phone. We killed half the Amazon Rain Forest writing notes, including one of the true cementing factors to our friendship: The Notebook. We passed the The Notebook back and forth every day at school after writing in it each night. We made up symbols for the names we didn't want exposed in case it fell into the wrong hands, and confessed our deepest worries in that black binder.

Always a private person, I found I could open up to her, and even now seven years later, I still tell her things I can't tell anyone else. Even though we never really had the most in common, we've remained friends through it all.

I don't know what I'd do without her. But the realization came crashing down tonight--I might have to.

I know there's the internet and letters and telephones, but it's not the same. It's not the same as being able to meet up at Talquepaque for lunch and the rain that always seems to accompany these trips. How do I survive without seeing her name pop up on my messenger list every day, and the typing style I've come to know so well spill out the worries of her day?

Even though I'm 18, applying to college, and generally on the threshold of adulthood, it never really seemed that real to me until my best friend from sixth grade tells me she's contemplating marriage and moving halfway across the country, away from everything she's known, away from me. I told her a million times in middle school that her beloved would come around and see her for the amazing girl she is, and now my prophecy is coming true to a dizzying degree.

But I'm also so excited for her. I'm excited that she gets a new and exciting life. Truly, there is not much here for her. She could reach her higher potential somewhere else, and maybe help her maybe-husband reach his too. There is room to grow outside of the little world she's always lived in, and it would be a shame if fear kept her from inhabiting this new life.

Just last week, we were sitting in my floor playing board games, one of which was Life. As we moved the cars through the rapidly progression lifetime, I never imagined her real life would move as quickly so soon.

But I wish her a little plastic husband who is devoted and loving, a career card that she enjoys with a salary card she doesn't want to trade, Life Tiles full of things she's always dreamed of, and maybe, someday, a plastic car full of beautiful plastic peg children. And when she gets to the end of the gameboard, I hope she takes it all at Millionaire Acres.

But most of all, I hope we can still mail back and forth our secrets and dreams and hopes in a proverbial The Notebook.

Aug 2, 2010

Applying in Pajamas

Today was an ordinary day. It's kind of overcast outside, the kind of sky that leaves everything looking a little gloomy and a little sad. The kind of day that makes you want to curl up with a book all day, or watch that list of movies you've been putting off watching, and certainly the kind of day that never provides enough motivation to change out of your obnoxious pink-flowered pajama pants.

But today was not an ordinary day. It was the day I began my application to my dream school.

Everything I've done in my life for the past four years, possibly the last seven, was at least partially motivated by the promise improving my college application. A far away mysterious and hazy goal, it hovered in front of me like a carrot dangling by a string, begging me to chase it through my adolescence. I would get frustrated with all the club meetings, events to coordinate, class load to bear, but I just kept those blank application fields in mind and kept plunging through.

But now it's over and I've sealed my fate, good or bad, and I'm documenting it all in those indifferent, character-restricting boxes. There is something about it that hardly seems fair.

I need twelve word documents, 10,000 characters, more checkboxes, to explain. I need to explain why I need Carolina, why I'm worthy, what I've been doing with my life, what I want to do with my life. I can't sum up myself in these confines!

But I must. I haven't got a choice. I have to find a way to squish myself into the tiny boxes without losing any of the desire, personality, and competency I hope I have and wish to convey. Every word I type onto that application carries so much meaning. I feel the weight of each one in my typing-wearying fingers, in my blurring eyes, in the knot forming at the back of my neck.

The whole time, I felt this weird feeling that I should sit straighter. I should dress up. I should comb my hair. This apple juice wasn't fancy enough for the occasion. I was half-listening to "VH1's 100 Best Songs of the 90's." That isn't fitting. I should be sitting in complete, immaculate silence, dutifully focusing my attention on deciding my fate.

But alas, it was no production. Just a gloomy, overcast, pajamay day. The day I began the process that seals my fate.

Aug 1, 2010

Faith and Santa Claus

I heard a song today that included the line "I don't really miss god, but I sure miss Santa Claus."

And I thought, I don't really remember ever believing in either. I'm sure I did believe in Santa Claus at some point though, before I could remember. I wish I could remember.

That kind of excited, ardent faith is something I'm not sure I've ever felt. The only thing I remember regarding my feelings toward the existence of Santa Claus was laying awake at night, listening to parents argue about what they bought for who, because they thought I couldn't hear them. I was slightly insulted by the ruse. I was probably ten or eleven, but they still treated the event like I was younger. That was probably because my brother was still that young.

It's actually kind of amazing, like a worldwide conspiracy, to keep kids believing in Santa as long as they can. They didn't work very well on me, I guess. Always a skeptic.

I remember when I caught my mom snapping plastic eggs together on Easter. My dad, always the more sly, secretive parent, was TDY in Saudi Arabia, leaving Mom to man the holiday alone. I was still in elementary school, so I guess she assumed I still believed in the Easter Bunny and that I went to sleep instantly when my head hit the pillow, like my then-toddler brother.

My bedroom and hers shared a wall, and I could hear the plastic eggs and rustling of paper and her cussing when she dropped something that rolled all over the floor. When she came near the door, I slipped out of bed and cracked my door open, leaning against the frame with my hand on my cotton, Pikachu-adorned nightgown. "Hello Mom."

She froze in the hallway and threw her hands behind her back to conceal whatever bounty she was toting to the living room. "The Easter Bunny, uh, I scared... why are you out of bed??" She fumbled in the hallway like I was her mother and she was a teenager caught sneaking back home after breaking curfew.

I laughed, smiled knowingly, and went back to bed, leaving Mom confused with her bags of egg-shaped chocolates. It wasn't like I'd reached a milestone in my childhood or anything, but looking back, I think maybe it was the first time Mom noticed me growing into my own person, a doubting and thinking individual. And Dad wasn't there to deal with it.

The next morning, I reprised my role as the excited, gullible kid for the sake of my little brother's enjoyment and my mother's sanity, but it kind of sucked a little magic out of the whole deal. Maybe I was gypped too young, cheated out of a few more years of believing, or maybe I never really did believe and just pretended all along.

Maybe I'm still just pretending, always pretending.

Jul 26, 2010

Another Letter

Dear Aunt Janice,

I didn't know you very well, and now I never will, but I'm not sad about it.

I know this sounds horrible, but you never did anything to deserve my tears.

All my life, your name was synonymous with fights, grudges, petty family feuds. You tortured my grandmother, and you did it on purpose. As my grandma likes to put it, you sunk your claws into my uncle while he was too young to realize what he was getting into, and you didn't release him until yesterday. But worst of all, you tore apart her relationship with her brother.

They were once very close and you very jealous. She even named one of her children after him, a child who probably won't even bother making the drive to your funeral. Having two Uncle Dougs, I distinguished between them by "the one with the mean wife" and the one without.

As I grew up and learned more about your conflicts with the rest of the family, the more you became a picture of what a life shouldn't be. When I die, I don't want my nieces and nephews to bow out of my funeral. I don't want to only be remembered for the grief I caused.

I've always thought that grudges are a waste of time, and you prove that. Months and years of silent treatment is ridiculous and immature, especially when you're over twelve years old.

I hate to say it, but the world might be better with you not in it. You've shunned your children and cut your husband off from his family. Maybe now my grandmother and her brother can renew the relationship you tore away, and forgiveness can mend the wounds you caused.

But I'm afraid the scars you left on Grandma's fragile conscious will be hard to erase. She will feel guilty for the nature of your relationship, even if it was your own fault. That is because she is a better person, a bigger person, than you ever where.

So I guess I should thank you for leading by example and showing me how not to be. I hope you're happy now.

Samantha

(This is my 100th post. I wish it were happier.)

Jul 21, 2010

Fate

When my mom gets drunk enough (I can usually tell when this point has been reached because her left eye closes.), she likes to talk about fate. It has annoyed me most of my life, but I have to admit, there's some interest in it for the sober person.

My mom has never been completely happy with where we have lived. She always finds something wrong with it. With the exception of one place, I've always tried to find the good parts about the area and embrace them. In our current town, she swears the people "are just weird here." I try to tell her that people are weird everywhere, and the people of this town closely resemble those of her beloved and often romanticized hometown, but she'll have none of it.

Anyway, during her fate conversations, she always wonders what would have happened if Dad, while in the Air Force, had gotten orders somewhere else, or other things that would change the course of events that led to me sitting here in this house, in this town, in this state, in this country. Playing with what ifs is kind of fun.

What if my grandfather hadn't fallen dangerously ill in the months preceding my birth? Living in Japan, Mom wasn't qualified to fly or something while she was pregnant with me, and couldn't come home to Virginia and her ailing father, but I was born three months early and they were able to fly home with me to see him in his last months. If that hadn't have happened, I might have grown up in Japan. How different my life would have been! Perhaps if my grandpa hadn't smoked all his life, or worked in the coal mines, or had a better genetically engineered heart, I would live in Japan right now.

Or what if my dad hadn't joined the Air Force? I would still have been born, but I would reside in my parents' hometown. I wouldn't have the childhood I'm now grateful for. I would have been subjected much more strongly to the religious throes of my grandmother. I would probably be sheltered and devout and slightly redneck.

I could sit here all day and play out the what ifs. A lot of things had to happen in order for me to arrive here the person I am. It's easy to say I'm glad what happened happened because I'm grateful of any good qualities I've come to possess and can tolerate all my faults.

But perhaps there's a far better version of myself lost to the hands of chance.

A song goes "some believe in destiny and some believe in fate, but I believe that happiness is something we create, and you best believe that I'm not gonna wait." I love that line. It's so true, and something perhaps my mother should embrace. It's not about where we moved to, the people and places that shaped me. It's about what I choose to do with what I have, and creating my own happiness. I'm only doomed to be unhappy if I condemn myself to it.

No fate about it.

Jul 19, 2010

PostSecret

(This isn't mine, but I do love it so.)

I've been obsessed with PostSecret for over a year now. I don't remember where I found it, but I'm sure glad I did. Something about the whole concept, and the postcards themselves, just mesmerize me.

(For the sake of clarity, PostSecret is an art project started by a man named Frank Warren. He left blank postcards with instructions to write a secret that is completely true and nobody knows about on it and mail it to him. It started with him just leaving 3000 cards around his home town in Maryland and has exploded into a nationwide phenomenon and two bestselling compilation books.)

I guess it all operates off the idea that you need to get things off your chest before you can move forward. Some of the secrets are heavy and sad, some are funny and light. But I bet they all feel good to admit.

There are random quotes throughout the book people sent it about the experience of sending in their secret. Several of them say it gave them a feeling of renewed hope, others gained the motivation to confess to their loved ones. Some just felt a little lighter.

But what I like most about PostSecret is that it shows a common link between all of humanity. Everybody has secrets, things about themselves that they don't like, or experiences they've never been able to share. And when you read through the secrets, you can always find one or two that hit close to home. You're not alone; you're only choosing to be by keeping quiet. PostSecret allows you a unique kind of confessional anonymity.

Also, some of them are just beautifully made. It is art, after all, and how people choose to represent their secret aesthetically often says a lot about how they feel. Most of them express a new confidence with bold lettering, some display bright colors and vibrant pictures signaling new hope, and others are dark with pain and admittance.

I look forward to the weekly posting of new secrets on Sunday at www.postsecret.com. Frank still sorts through them by hand and chooses which ones to put on the website, and only the current week's secrets are available. It all adds to the experience.

Perhaps I'm a little overly fond of this project, and am treating it with more religious value than it actually serves, but I can't help it. Perhaps if we all used this kind of therapy, life would be a little less... secret.

Jul 18, 2010

Landscape Part One

In spite of myself, something I learned in school has seeped its way into my subconscious and is now slowly affecting the way I view the world. Education works, who woulda guessed it?

As I traveled various places in the last month and a half of summer, I stared out the large mini-van window to my right at the rapidly changing landscape.

The familiar fairly flat and slightly hilly land of my native area gave way to the metropolitan forests of the North. You see highway and more highway until all of the sudden you're surrounded by water, confused at the winding roads leading to tollbooths, and then BAM you're in the middle of New York City. There's nothing gradual about it. Lincoln Tunnel and then Manhattan, in all its polluted, crowded, and miraculous beauty.

The very first thing we saw was an extremely narrow street (the streets get wider as you work towards the middle of the island) flanked by delivery vans with complete disregard for awestruck tourists, and a foreign system of street signs. I wasn't the only one marveling at the concrete-shock. Dad could only say, "Samantha, take a picture of this":




Soon we began to pick up the nuances of the city, and it became less overwhelming and easy to enjoy. But I was always aware of the contrast to home. Once, while we were walking around in Battery Park, we heard a fellow tourist behind us sum it up so well: "You really are transparent in New York City!"

Transparent. That is the perfect word. While the rudeness of New Yorkers is often exaggerated in the name of stereotype, it is perfectly true that while you walk up and down the streets, nobody cares about you. The nodding of heads and "how are yous?" of small-town North Carolina do not exist there. Nobody makes eye contact, even when swerving out of your path. Ipods, newspapers, frappecinos--these are what hold attention.

Is the anonymity born of the landscape? If you stopped to talk to every New Yorker that you passed by, nothing would ever be accomplished. After all, eight million people live on that tiny island, and that doesn't count the commuters that flood in every day and the tourists that pour in from all over the world. It isn't practical to be friendly. You have to look out for yourself, because you haven't the time or ability to look after anyone else.

I kind of enjoyed the fact that nobody was paying any attention to me. It's a different kind of freedom. It eliminates an air of self-consciousness. Maybe that's why New Yorkers appear more confident. They aren't raised with the feeling that everyone is watching them, because they simply aren't. Being pulled into a flood of millions of people allows you the freedom to concentrate on yourself.

But I also enjoy the feeling of community and the togetherness of home. I like passing by people you know in the grocery store, and even ones you don't, and having them acknowledge you. The sense of belonging. If everyone is watching you, then everyone has the opportunity to help and you have the added drive not to let them down.

It's amazing how one species, so spread out, can be so different. A human is a human, whether surrounded by skyscrapers or cornfields. I'd like to be a person that can enjoy both.

Jul 7, 2010

Charge!

I've been so horrible about writing lately! I really must get back into the habit. But I've been far too lazy to even convey a coherent thought. So I'll just rant about war re-enactments.

I do not understand them. They look so horribly hot and boring, especially the guys that get shot outside of the small relief created by shady trees. I saw one guy die expertly in the creek. That was smart.

And what do they accomplish? Why do we need to redo the war? Why do people need to watch? I guess it's human nature to revel in the violent, but there's not even fake blood in war re-enactments.

Also, they were redoing a fake Civil War re-enactment on the 4th of July. Shouldn't it have been a Revolutionary War re-enactment? I guess nobody wanted to be the British, or the red coats were more expensive? I'm pretty sure these Civil War soldiers were using Revolutionary War style muskets though. This thing isn't even historically accurate.

But the thing that bugs me the most is that the South won this battle, and all of the audience was pulling for the South! I understand that we live in the South, but they lost the war! Thankfully! They were fighting for slavery and secession and all sorts of things that probably would make dear old North Carolina a much less habitable place had they won. Yet, we're pulling for them! This is an inexcusable ignorance or denial of American history, I'm not sure which, that is kind of frightening. After all, it was taking place on the 4th of July. I'm sure the founding fathers way back then would've loved if we'd re-acted the Revolutionary War but had the British win.

All the little kids were surrounding the battle scene, using those toy rifle things that shoot out a cork on a string to get into the action. People eating picnic lunches and funnel cakes and ribbon fries while a battle raged on around them. It's so funny if you just step back and look at it.

I wonder if in like fifty years, there will be Iraqi war re-enactments. The thought seems kind of morbid and appalling right now, while the war is still raging. Why do two hundred years make it okay to make the war a form of entertainment at a street festival?

Perhaps I'm being a bit severe, but it must be admitted that humans are very strange creatures.

Jun 27, 2010

Faucets and Family

Sometimes it's hard to see how strong family ties are until three generations sit around a disassembled bathroom sink for twelve hours.

My dad and I are horribly similar in personality, as my mom frequently points out in frustration, and my grandmother is just another in the set.

My dad promised her he'd replace the sink hardware in the bathroom after we got back from our trip to New York City. He began attacking the thing with several wrenches and a pair of pliers at about 9:30 in the morning.

At 9:30 that night, he was still wedged under the sink, cussing the pipes and nuts and bolts while Grandma stood unhelpfully in his way, brimming with concern and guilt. I stood by and handed him wrenches.

My dad is a pretty smart guy. Straight A's throughout his Master's Degree, Teacher of the Year, plaques from the Air Force abound, etc. He is not, however, mechanically inclined and he is definitely not a plumber. But he is a good son and a determined individual and refused to give up on the sink.

My very, very cheap grandfather even told him that it was okay, to give up, he'd pay for a plumber. Dad had just emerged from the sink, his hands raw and covered in grease and filth and WD-40. His sides were almost completely absent of skin from squeezing into the cabinet. He'd just driven nine hours to New York City, spent three days navigating the streets in sweltering heat, and drove nine more hours; he was exhausted. The sink was still not installed. We were due back home at least six hours ago and Mom kept calling and telling Dad to give up. Grandma was on the verge of tears because she felt so guilty about putting her son through this.

But still, he would not quit. He started a job, and he was darn sure going to finish it. I didn't know whether to consider this stupid stubbornness, a kind of unnecessary plumbing martyrdom, or an admirable display of will and determination. All I knew for sure is that I longed to go home but a drain stopper and a hot water valve stood solidly in my way, and Dad was not going to quit.

Now, Grandma definitely considered this stupid stubbornness, but I know she's exactly where her son got it from. Just the in the preceding days, the woman had followed us all over the streets of New York City in ninety degree heat for miles and miles. Every time we turned around to check on her, she'd insist that she was just fine and kept plugging along. She's painted her entire house solo in recent years, and takes care of my whiny, self-centered, sickly, helpless, and thankless grandfather all by herself. Her 75th birthday is next week.

My dad is his mother's son and I'm my father's daughter. Even if they're determined to the point of stupidity sometimes, I can't help but hope I share in some of their strength. I have their eyes, their sense of humor, and their love of travel. I hope that, like Dad, I would also finish the sink.

Jun 14, 2010

Gossip and Underwear

A bad thing happened to me in second grade, which like the Sunday School incident, I have been unable to forget.

There was this very strange girl in our class named Briana. I was always nice to Briana, because, while strange, she wasn't mean or anything. She liked me well enough and we got along decently. We weren't best friends, but we'd say hi if we saw each other in Walmart.

Well, one day, Briana's strangeness must have overwhelmed her.

The class poured out onto the playground for what appeared to be a normal recess period. But then kids started accumulating under the bridge. The bridge was this typical playground structure, composed to where there were holes in it and you could see through it. By natural curiosity, I joined the ever-growing group.

They were all staring at Briana, who was standing innocently on the bridge. In a skirt. With no underwear on.

Being about seven years old, everybody had a good giggle, then ran off to tell their friends. I shall note here that I did not go off and tell anyone. I found it more embarrassing than hilarious, and just went off to swing or what have you and thought nothing more of it.

We came back to the classroom and quickly noticed that Briana was missing and the teacher was staring at us with those stern "you did something wrong" eyes. We all nervously awaited our punishment.

She began lecturing us on the hurtful nature of gossip, and slowly we pieced together that the news of Briana's bare butt had spread quickly throughout the playground and eventually made it to the teacher's bench. Briana was off somewhere crying, and being given proper undergarments.

The teacher then took it upon herself to locate the perpetrator of this vicious "rumor." (I put rumor in quotes because it most obviously and glaringly true.) She chose the child that she apparently heard it from and asked him where he'd heard it, tracing it back through the rows of desks, until somebody provided my name. This somebody was my best friend Erica.

After Erica's accusation, the teacher was staring at me, asking where I'd heard it from. This was quite the predicament, considering I certainly hadn't told Erica, and nobody had told me. I just saw for myself, as most of the kids in the class had. It had been an incriminating line of lies. A line that I felt should stop, not being able to falsely accuse anybody. I simply sat there and received a lecture on why gossiping was bad. The teacher must've suspected what had happened a little because I received no further punishments.

I don't think Briana ever found out that I was pinned for the alleged crime, and I had many strange and sometimes regrettable encounters with her in the future, but she was wearing underwear throughout all of them, and I didn't tell a soul.

Jun 13, 2010

Something Nice

A really long time ago, I used to go to Sunday school and Wednesday night youth every week with the same rag tag bunch of preteens. I actually kind of liked going, but we never really talked about anything churchy. We did some community service, and that was about the closest thing to a religious experience.

But we did have long "discussions" and I guess the leader, Tammy, was under the impression she was making a difference because us kids didn't talk so candidly to anyone else. While this was totally false, at least in my case, it created a weird sort movie-esque environment that wasn't a horribly bad experience. We even spent a day decorating the room so it would be "cooler." Some of the stuff we did in there still exists today, and it's still just as lame as it was then. But it's kind of nice seeing my handywork survive.

Anyway, one day during Sunday School, Tammy started to say something like "speaking of good deeds, I heard Samantha did something really good the other day" or something like that. Obviously this got my attention, because I wasn't aware of preforming any miracles lately.

But something distracted her and she never finished the story. There was never a spare moment to ask what I'd done, and I felt it slightly rude to demand her to tell me why I'm a good person.

So I never found out. Every time I saw Tammy after that, I wondered what she had been about to say. Such a mystery. I racked my brain trying to think of something that could be construed as a good deed, but not a single thing came to mind.

This is my strongest memory of that year of youth group. I think perhaps not knowing what I did was more powerful than actually knowing. It made me think "hey I did something nice without intending to, without thinking 'hey my youth leader will congratulate me on this later.'" That's the kind of good I'd like to be, unconscious and automatic.

That lesson was never taught in the brightly colored, glossy teen bible study pamphlets that were forever opened in front of us but never really read.

Jun 11, 2010

Pomp and Circumstance

Graduations are weird. Even though I was partially participating in the event, I couldn't help but wonder why it was such a celebrated "accomplishment" to have attended school, a compulsory thing. You're pretty much expected to pass all the way through, and then you get to the end, and people act like it's some great feat. Almost everybody who started out finished. Woohoo? I guess I'm being too cynical.

The whole thing just seemed to really lack real sentiment. All five of the students who spoke said almost exactly the same thing, most of which I consider to be hardly true. They all used the over tired "just four years ago we walked into this gym as freshmen, and now we're here as graduates" device, and then said how the school had taught them all it's okay to be unique. (Nevermind the traditional practice of them all wearing identical graduation robes, which I understand, but find ironic.) I know most of those people in some capacity, and I'm in high school, and being unique is the last thing they cherish. They all listed the same accomplishments, and the people who got cheers from the audience members were hardly those who chose to "walk their own path." Again, with the cynicism, but it just seemed like one big show that didn't nearly reflect the experience that those people actually had.

The administrators sounded bored (one of them kind of angry), and a few even let the softness of preferential treatment and partiality taint their voice as they called each student across the stage. That was perhaps the most honest moment in the whole thing.

They promise great things for the class of 2010. In my head, I'm thinking half of them will hate college and drop out, some will stick with it even though they realize they picked the wrong major halfway through, and a select few may actually love their college experience and the subsequent job. The chances of any of them changing the world? Slim to none. It's just semantics that nobody believes but everybody has to say.

They'll all land somewhere and I hope the majority of them will be happy. I hope standing in that crowded gym wasn't the the happiest they'll ever be, and I hope holding that diploma isn't their highest accomplishment in life. That's what they should be wishing upon the robed masses at graduations--I hope this isn't it. I hope you do something beyond get through high school. Your track team's going to state your Senior year should not be what you're talking about in ten years as the best moment of your life. They should just hope that they go far beyond the "realizing that it's okay to be yourself" lie they kept repeating.

Most of all, graduation made me grateful I chose my school and grateful that all the tearful accomplishments we name at our graduation won't be lies, and that I will sit among people I admire instead of tolerate. I found where I'd be in the line-up and smiled at my preferred seat in the bleachers. A good decision can never be reinforced too many times.

I also just realized that they didn't throw their hats. In what kind of graduation do they not throw their hats?

May 28, 2010

Goodbye

There have only been a few times in my life where I felt the unique sadness that comes with the thought that you will never see some one again.

Even if it's not even someone you're incredibly close to, just some one that fills up your days, it's sad to let them go. You lose the security of knowing that if you ever did want to talk to them, they would be there. The familiar faces you've come to know will soon be replaced by strange ones, ones that do not know you or your past. Most of the time, I consider this an exciting idea, but today, as I did many things that I've done for the past four years for the very last time, I couldn't help but feel fond of a sea of familiar faces.

I think I often under-appreciate the simple feeling of sitting in a room full of people that know you. They understand your quirks and your mannerisms, they know where you came from, and they know where you want to go. A room full of people bonded from similar experiences is truly a great thing.

And when you're about to leave it, it's so sad.

The first time I felt this, I was about eight, and I came home from school and sat down on the couch beside of my mom. She told me we were moving to Texas. I remember just crying and crying. By the time my tears had dried, Mom was on the phone in the kitchen. I got up and wrote lengthy notes to my two best friends, begging them not to move on and forget me. Of course we've long since forgotten each other; it was but first or second grade. While I only have a few vague memories of them, the sadness I felt while writing those notes remains sharp in my memory.

The next time, I was leaving the place I'd so dreaded moving to--Texas. Leaving was the hardest thing I'd ever done, and now (seven years later), it still ranks pretty high. I loved all those people so much and I still remember a lot of my time there, but again, the strongest memory is of writing a note. I was sitting in a classroom in my new town, fuming. I missed my old school and friends terribly, and hated the new one with a passion. We had some random free time, and I yanked a piece of notebook paper out and scribbled a furious note about how much I hated everything in Virginia to my Texas best friend. I remember the smell of the black pen's ink, all the strength it took to hold back my tears, and the relief I felt after I mailed it. I don't talk to her anymore, but the kind reply I received to that angry, angry letter carried me through the next few months in a place I hated.

More and more of these are coming to me as I type, and I just keep getting sadder and sadder, but still I write.

I remember the last time I saw another Texas best friend. This time, it was he who was moving. I ran to his house, the grass where I'd run so many times before worn into an oft-beaten path. He was sitting in the back of his moving truck, possessions piled high behind him. He threw a gift at me--a beanie baby cat that I still have. I don't remember the conversation we had, but I remember the realization that I would never see him again as that truck pulled out of view.

The most recent time I remember (excluding today) was the last day of middle school. While I wasn't truly going anywhere this time, I knew I'd be at a different high school than most of my classmates. It was kind of surreal walking to the bus after that final day. I remember looking around, walking alone, at all the people around me saying goodbye. Even though I didn't really love middle school, I was grieving for the familiarity of it all. The sea of familiar faces. There was nothing left to fear there, nothing unknown. While this a great comfort, it also means you have to get on that bus for the last time and pull away.

Now it's time for what is the greatest goodbye yet. While I know there's next year, I also know it won't be the same, and it's the loss of the familiarity and safety of my high school class that I grieve for. I hate counting life in "lasts" but it's simply unavoidable. I'll never be in that place again, and for that I'm horribly sad.

I may really suck at being sentimental, but I'm great at feeling sad.

May 19, 2010

Freshmen

"Please tell me we weren't like that when we were freshmen!"

I hear that sentence a lot. And what's scary is, we probably were. I choose not to think about it too hard for fear of remembering too vividly.

I do remember various parts of my first day of freshman year quite well. It was a pretty important day in relation to the rest of my life, looking back. I finally got the perfect reassurance that I'd made the right choice regarding my secondary education. What reassurance that was!

I remember what I wore and I remember walking sheepishly into the auditorium for the first time. I remember scanning around for a familiar face and making a beeline towards it, and even though those faces weren't entirely familiar, they accepted me without question. The auditorium clumped into middle school groups.

I remember the Bon Jovi song "Welcome to Wherever You Are" blaring, and the line "that right here, right now, you're exactly where you're supposed to be" sticking out to me. I sat there, pulling at my already-annoying nametag, and hoping with all my heart that Bon Jovi was correct. He was.

I remember my teacher (who would later become one of my favorite people in the world) telling me to write on the poster cause I looked like I'd have good hand writing, and panicking inwardly cause my look is deceiving. I remember being scared of a large, gothic kid, who would later become a good friend and the most unscary person I know.

I remember the cheesiness of getting little pieces of metal with words of inspiration on them. A level of cheesiness that was to permeate my high school experience.

But what I remember most of all was sitting there with my pencil poised above the first fresh sheet of notebook paper of the year, trying to figure out where I was from for my poem. I don't really remember what I said, but I'm pretty sure I'd write a totally different version now. I'm from this weird school and these exceptional classmates and this strange ride I embarked on what feels like so long ago.

This week, I've been standing in front of groups of freshmen with four years of experience behind me. They couldn't even fathom what the next four years hold in store for them. Knowing what I know now, I would want freshman me to jump at the chance to talk to an ECHS Senior, though I know I was just as naive as those are, and wouldn't see the value. There are just some things you have to learn on your own.

I never really appreciated how much maturing occurs during those years until I was staring it right in the face. I'm both glad it's over for me and jealous of their unfolding opportunity. I feel so old.

My "I Am From" poem may change many more times as I meander through life, but I'm pretty sure "I Am From ECHS" will be a permanent fixture.