I was just catching up on all "The Office" episodes I've missed in the last year so, but I had to stop after the "Goodbye, Michael" episode. After seven real years and twenty television ones, Michael Scott worked his last day at Dunder Mifflen, and it was the second saddest thing I've ever seen on television (number one being the Gilmore Girls series finale, which still tears me up even though I've seen it several times). Though the show is mostly silly and the characters over the top, the goodbyes were just so heartfelt and sad.
The whole time, I kept thinking of my community college. Maybe it was because I haven't really got the closure on high school yet, but I'm pretty much done with the college. Maybe it was because the college seems a little bit like Dundler Mifflen. Maybe it's just because every goodbye is hitting harder these days.
Whatever the reason, I feel like I should pay a little tribute to good ole SCC. I spent much of my time there ragging on the place, ashamed of walking among some of the least intelligent people I've ever met. But SCC is great because I also met some of the most intelligent people I've ever met there. It's a place of extremes: really young and really old, really lazy and really ambitious, really homegrown and really exotic.
A few of the professors, one in particular, set me on course. Essentially, isn't that what community college is for? I went from studying something everybody else assumed I loved to something I know I love. The professor saw in me what I refused to admit was there; he kept me from settling. As cheesy as it sounds, he gave me the confidence I needed to pursue the path I know, however difficult, I should be going down. Though I never expected to find it on community college campus, I found challenge and direction. I wonder if he knows how much his words hit home. If I had never gone to that school, I might still be plodding down the wrong path.
I also got my first job, the best job I could ever have, at SCC. It furthered reinforced what I had just realized--I need to be a teacher. It showed me I could do it and that I would love it. It allowed me to meet people both inspirational and infuriating. It let me feel some of what it is like to part of an office a la The Office. That experience, something I could never have anywhere else, is now an essential part of me, thanks to SCC.
I'm going to miss eating artery-clogging meals in the grill with whatever random people found in there. I'm going to miss everyone freaking out when the water in the fountain outside the grill freezes over. I'm going to miss being the only person in the library looking for a book instead of watching "That 70's Show" on Youtube. I'm going to miss teachers start considering you less students and more humans, friends. I'm going to miss being in classes of all ages and all walks of life and meeting people who are getting construction degrees so they can build their own houses. I'm even going to miss the taxidermy conferences and spending forever looking for a parking space.
I'm probably still going to try to deny the community college credits on my transcript, even though I earned them while still in high school. But even though I never would've attended SCC if it weren't for my weird little high school, I wouldn't trade my time there for the world. It made me who I am, and while I might not be the ultimate version of myself, I can't image I'd be a superior me without SCC.
During their emotional goodbye, Jim tells Michael that "goodbyes are a bitch." He was definitely right. I never thought I'd say it, but I'm going to miss you, SCC.
May 15, 2011
May 10, 2011
Who Knows
The blinking cursor mocks me mercilessly as I stare at the empty page. With every digitized blink, I wonder more and more if I have the power to move it across the white expanse, send it on a harrowing journey to the bottom of the page, make it disappear on a freshly printed document.
I do the busy work, providing a false sense of accomplishment. My name, the date, the header. They don’t really matter but make my idle hands feel useful for a moment, the worry welding up within me temporarily quelled.
My mind races about everything but the topic at hand. I run my hand over the spines of the books lining the shelf behind me. Dust stirs up in plumes at my touch. All of these words. They’ve all passed through my brain, have all influenced me somehow. I envy the names printed on the dust jackets. How I long to do what they’ve accomplished: they’ve written something somebody else wanted to read. Their cursors moved, their abilities proven; they found the secret ingredient so elusive to me. I hope I could absorb their abilities by proxy, but all I manage to do is sneeze.
In the movies, characters just go on some adventure where they find the inspiration they need to write the story that’s been lying dormant inside them all along. I go outside and walk down the street, hoping something miraculous will happen.
It’s a nice day, kind of sunny with a slight breeze. Pretty non-descript. The road is same as it always is with its faded white line marking the division between coming and going, the mailboxes patiently waiting to gobble up deliveries, the trees quietly standing guard over the silent houses. The familiarity erases any chance of inspiration. A cat eyes me suspiciously where the road dead ends. As I approach his territory, he backs up but never diverts his piercing green pupils. I stop to keep him from running, and we reach an impasse.
The only sounds are the birds chirping and us breathing, sounds so familiar they hardly count as sounds at all. The cat is looking at me like I’m the most interesting and frightening thing in the world. In that moment, his whole existence hinges on whether I am friend or foe. As my feline acquaintance contemplates flight or fright, I take a few steps forward. He arches his back in retaliation. “It’s okay, kitty,” I say in the baby voice people reserve for animals and infants.
Immediately, I regret it. Who am I to assume the cat should be regarded as a child? He and I treated the encounter with strikingly similar approaches. I would be offended if he meowed at me condescendingly. “Hello cat,” I replied, in a regular tone.
The cat remained frozen at the edge of his driveway, blocked by an invisible boundary, but unarched his back. I stood in the uncomfortable silence for a few more minutes before turning around to head back towards home. When I glanced back, the cat was gone. He certainly knew to cease his opportunity for escape.
Sitting back in front of my blindingly white computer screen, I rested my hands on the keys and waited. The stubborn story rests within me, arching its back, blocked by fear and boundary lines. With every step forward, it backs up. My approach is wrong. If I turn my back, it will disappear. But I coax it and coax it, and eventually, it has to come.
Apr 29, 2011
Grandma Meg
When I was young, I never wanted to leave Grandma Meg’s house. In order to coax me from her side and into the car, my parents would have to appease me with a plush refrigerator magnet that happened to greatly resemble Grandma. I would clutch the magnet, christened Little Grandma Meg, so I would miss her little less on the ride home.
It’s no mystery why I would never want to leave her. Some of my best memories come from simple summer evenings at her house. One of the few times I’ve laughed until I cried was on her back porch playing Yahtzee. I accidentally picked up the dice and put them in my cup of Pepsi instead of the game’s red cup. We laughed so hard at my silly mistake. That was one of the reasons Grandma was so great: she could have fun doing the smallest, simplest things.
I loved going shopping with her. There was never a person more at home perusing the racks at a department store. She could spot a deal as soon as she walked in the door and had eye for the most perfect purchases. Soon after my family moved back closer to home after living for awhile in Texas, Grandma wanted to take me shopping for back to school clothes. I was nervous at first because the distance had made me forget the intricacies of her character. Without the buffer of my parents, I was afraid it would be awkward. That was a foolish fear.
She flitted from rack to rack, holding up a shirt or a dress against my body and seeing immediately whether it was up to par. She chose clothes I would never pick out myself, but they would always end up being my favorite outfits. Soon, my friends at school were following up any compliments on my outfit with “was that a Grandma Meg purchase?” She was the trendiest Grandma anywhere. Soon I remembered the person I was so attached to, hilarious, happy, and loving. Her love and compassion never left any room for awkwardness.
When time for my senior prom rolled around, I knew exactly who to call. We all tried to keep up with her as she searched through hundreds of dresses. Annoyed at my hesitance to try anything on, she heaped my arms with beautiful gowns. Eventually, she draped an amazing black dress over my arms at an expensive specialty store. Of course, I loved it, and so did she. But the price tag was shocking. Still, Grandma had found the dress we were meant to buy, and we were not leaving the store without it. “What about Dad?” I asked, concerned for his cardiac health. “Don’t worry about him,” she said, waving her hand dismissively, “I will take care of him.” And so I got my perfect dress, and I felt wonderful in it all night.
Grandma always knew what would make you happy, and she wouldn’t rest until she did everything she could for it to happen. Compassionate to a fault, she was always worried about everyone else’s welfare before her own. She loved giving. Many times, if we visited her just before the holidays, she wanted to give us our gifts right then. She wanted to work so hard to make us happy, but the truth is she didn’t need to. All she had to do was be there, and maybe give us one of those warm, loving Grandma Meg hugs.
She was always up for anything. How many grandmothers would plunge down a waterslide at maximum speed, her purple swim suiting earning her the nickname “Meg the Missile”? How many would take on the streets of New York City, posing in character with a Dracula double in the wax museum and showering street hustlers with money because she was just that nice? She would go anywhere, do anything, and always have a good time doing it. She loving traveling and having good stories to tell and spending time with her family.
Now I need my little Grandma Meg more than ever. I don’t know whatever happened to that little magnet, but I have the equivalent with me everywhere I go. I have the memories of her love and laughter preserved forever in my mind and heart. The taste of Pepsi and Mentos, the crinkle of shopping bags, the clean flowery smell of her house, and the sound of shuffling cards about to be dealt in a round of rummy will always remind me of the many cherished memories I’ve made with her. I could fill up a hundred files writing out all the good memories she helped make and those memories will help me and all my family go on living in a world without Grandma Meg. It devastates me that she won’t be there for my high school graduation, but I know she was so proud of me, and I will think of her as I walk across the stage. She always liked to point out the characteristics in me that seemed to come from her: picky and peculiar eating habits, affinity for shiny jewelry, being tight with money. I’m glad to know that I can carry on little bit of her because I know the world was a better place for having my Grandma Meg in it.
Apr 1, 2011
Of Blogs and Blogging
Bloggers, on average, are irritating people. They're usually self-absorbed, thinking people care about what they ate for breakfast and saw on the drive to work. They're usually egotistical, thinking their previously under-appreciated writing talents will one day be discovered. They're usually annoying, whiny people who the internet afforded a place to whine annoyingly.
But not all of them. Some just like having an outlet to write in. If you stop writing with an audience in mind, then the writing becomes more worthy of an audience. People can tell when things are thinly veiled attempts at catering to readers who really don't exist. Some people are just passionate about a subject and need a place to pour all the creative energy their hobby or lifestyle creates into something outside of themselves. Others blog to chronicle their own lives; there's something interesting about watching yourself progress, month by month, along the sidebar of the blog.
But the former types of bloggers give bloggers everywhere a bad name. It's easy to dump on the idea, and it's easy for the concept to become another technology-created narcissistic fad. The only real way to save it from being such a thing is to use it in a more meaningful way.
Sure, I could type all these thoughts onto a word document in my computer, but I know I wouldn't write with such regularity (arguably regular, anyhow) without such a specific place to go to write. That date on the blogger dashboard shows me how long it's been since I've sat and thought about where my mind is at (which seems kind of odd... thinking about where your mind is at, but that's truly what it feels like). It's easy to get caught up in the humdrum of life and forget to think about anything at all. I don't think there's anything narcissistic about evaluating life from time to time, and I know I can't do that effectively without writing.
Writing is so, so precious, and blogs are one of the few places on the internet that really allow the good, productive sort of writing. It takes no thought to write a 140-character "witticism," but it takes thought to plan out an entire blog entry. If only people would write thoughtful blogs, and people would give thoughtful blogs a chance, they could be something meaningful. But the internet is not the place for anything meaningful much, and it's overly idealistic to think that could happen.
I follow quite a few blogs and a few them are truly good. The people writing them are the sort of people I might like to know in real life, but since I can't, I can reap the benefits of their thoughts and productivity and insight through blogger. I don't see how that can be anything but good.
When I go off to college, I will probably retire this blog. It only seems fitting to let it sit as the person writing it will invariably be different. I don't know if I will start another one. Part of me thinks I will definitely need to, more than I do now, and part of me thinks it will just seem like something time-consuming and in the way. I guess I will know when I get there. For now, I will keep writing and reading because I can't help but feel there is just something inherently important in it all.
But not all of them. Some just like having an outlet to write in. If you stop writing with an audience in mind, then the writing becomes more worthy of an audience. People can tell when things are thinly veiled attempts at catering to readers who really don't exist. Some people are just passionate about a subject and need a place to pour all the creative energy their hobby or lifestyle creates into something outside of themselves. Others blog to chronicle their own lives; there's something interesting about watching yourself progress, month by month, along the sidebar of the blog.
But the former types of bloggers give bloggers everywhere a bad name. It's easy to dump on the idea, and it's easy for the concept to become another technology-created narcissistic fad. The only real way to save it from being such a thing is to use it in a more meaningful way.
Sure, I could type all these thoughts onto a word document in my computer, but I know I wouldn't write with such regularity (arguably regular, anyhow) without such a specific place to go to write. That date on the blogger dashboard shows me how long it's been since I've sat and thought about where my mind is at (which seems kind of odd... thinking about where your mind is at, but that's truly what it feels like). It's easy to get caught up in the humdrum of life and forget to think about anything at all. I don't think there's anything narcissistic about evaluating life from time to time, and I know I can't do that effectively without writing.
Writing is so, so precious, and blogs are one of the few places on the internet that really allow the good, productive sort of writing. It takes no thought to write a 140-character "witticism," but it takes thought to plan out an entire blog entry. If only people would write thoughtful blogs, and people would give thoughtful blogs a chance, they could be something meaningful. But the internet is not the place for anything meaningful much, and it's overly idealistic to think that could happen.
I follow quite a few blogs and a few them are truly good. The people writing them are the sort of people I might like to know in real life, but since I can't, I can reap the benefits of their thoughts and productivity and insight through blogger. I don't see how that can be anything but good.
When I go off to college, I will probably retire this blog. It only seems fitting to let it sit as the person writing it will invariably be different. I don't know if I will start another one. Part of me thinks I will definitely need to, more than I do now, and part of me thinks it will just seem like something time-consuming and in the way. I guess I will know when I get there. For now, I will keep writing and reading because I can't help but feel there is just something inherently important in it all.
Mar 21, 2011
Passionate People
Sometimes, I think there's nothing so great in the world than a person who is passionate about something.
There's something enchanting, attractive, magnetic about a passionate person. They're the people that people gather around. They inspire the groups that inspire change. People want to be where the action is, and sometimes you can just feel potential radiating from people.
That's why local news channels always feature "hometown heroes"--people pursuing passions in their little communities, with captivated local audiences looking to them to see some good in the world. End the newscast on this happy note, and people will associate the station with passionate people.
Maybe my life is just a pursuit of these individuals. By putting yourself in proximity, you can hope for a little of their magic to rub off on you. I attended gifted programs in elementary school taught by passionate people and ended up with a passion for reading. My high school was created by a group of passionate people, and I ended up with a passion for education. I've always been a compulsive club-joiner; I like the feeling of sitting in a room of people with a common purpose and understanding, all working towards the same goal. When everybody comes together to create something successful, each person adding something that wouldn't have been there without them, it sparks little seeds of passion in all the participants.
Every day, I grow a little more sure that I'm supposed to be a teacher. Teachers are in a prime position to notice sparks of passion in students and ignite them. And maybe they'll rub off a little on me, too.
There's something enchanting, attractive, magnetic about a passionate person. They're the people that people gather around. They inspire the groups that inspire change. People want to be where the action is, and sometimes you can just feel potential radiating from people.
That's why local news channels always feature "hometown heroes"--people pursuing passions in their little communities, with captivated local audiences looking to them to see some good in the world. End the newscast on this happy note, and people will associate the station with passionate people.
Maybe my life is just a pursuit of these individuals. By putting yourself in proximity, you can hope for a little of their magic to rub off on you. I attended gifted programs in elementary school taught by passionate people and ended up with a passion for reading. My high school was created by a group of passionate people, and I ended up with a passion for education. I've always been a compulsive club-joiner; I like the feeling of sitting in a room of people with a common purpose and understanding, all working towards the same goal. When everybody comes together to create something successful, each person adding something that wouldn't have been there without them, it sparks little seeds of passion in all the participants.
Every day, I grow a little more sure that I'm supposed to be a teacher. Teachers are in a prime position to notice sparks of passion in students and ignite them. And maybe they'll rub off a little on me, too.
Mar 17, 2011
Another Letter
Dad,
You have to know this is ridiculous. You have to. I refuse to believe otherwise.
I'm obviously old enough to know parents aren't perfect, and I can see your faults clearly. But I shouldn't have to see them all at once, and they shouldn't be doing what they're doing to Mom right now. Or me. I don't care what twisted logic is going on in that head of yours; we don't deserve this.
I know you well enough to guess why you're so mad.
You think we're disappointing. We're cramping your style. We can't live up to your standards because we can all only hope to be as efficient and perfect as you are.
You know what you sound like? What you're acting like? A teenager.
I am a teenager, and I know this is stupid and immature. Nothing ever gets worked out by locking your bedroom door and blasting Simple Plan, but you're doing the grown man equivalent right now.
Maybe some of your problems are legitimate. Your mother is slowly dying, and you don't know how to deal with it. Well, it's killing me as much as it's killing you. I think about it all the time. Do you think I can deal with it on my own? Don't you think I need you? Don't you think you might need your family too?
Oh but we're just burdens now. Mom is fat, Zack can't do his homework, and I don't keep the kitchen clean enough for you. If those are really the worst problems you have, shouldn't you feel pretty freaking lucky?
I've been the easiest child to raise. I'm self-motivated, pretty self-sufficient. I'm going to one of the best universities in the state. I respect my parents; I love my brother. I would do anything for any of you. I've never caused a bit of trouble. I don't deserve to be shut out.
I used to attribute a lot of my success to you, but I have to rethink that. It scares me because I'm so much like you, but I never want to be this version of you. I don't want to hurt people who I supposedly love because I'm vain and selfish.
The worst part is you'll never understand why this hurts me so much. You'll never understand that you're wrong. Everything you're doing is wrong. You'd probably think I'm silly, over-reacting. Nobody can be right because you're right. Always.
Well, you're not. I'm already losing my grandmother sooner than I'd thought. Please don't make me lose you too, because I don't think I can deal with that. I will always love you, but I don't always have to respect you. Respect is earned, even from children.
My whole world is changing in a few months. I need something to be the same, concrete, dependable. The one thing I thought I could always depend on, my father, suddenly isn't so dependable. That just isn't fair to me.
I didn't do anything wrong. I don't deserve this. Please stop.
Samantha
You have to know this is ridiculous. You have to. I refuse to believe otherwise.
I'm obviously old enough to know parents aren't perfect, and I can see your faults clearly. But I shouldn't have to see them all at once, and they shouldn't be doing what they're doing to Mom right now. Or me. I don't care what twisted logic is going on in that head of yours; we don't deserve this.
I know you well enough to guess why you're so mad.
You think we're disappointing. We're cramping your style. We can't live up to your standards because we can all only hope to be as efficient and perfect as you are.
You know what you sound like? What you're acting like? A teenager.
I am a teenager, and I know this is stupid and immature. Nothing ever gets worked out by locking your bedroom door and blasting Simple Plan, but you're doing the grown man equivalent right now.
Maybe some of your problems are legitimate. Your mother is slowly dying, and you don't know how to deal with it. Well, it's killing me as much as it's killing you. I think about it all the time. Do you think I can deal with it on my own? Don't you think I need you? Don't you think you might need your family too?
Oh but we're just burdens now. Mom is fat, Zack can't do his homework, and I don't keep the kitchen clean enough for you. If those are really the worst problems you have, shouldn't you feel pretty freaking lucky?
I've been the easiest child to raise. I'm self-motivated, pretty self-sufficient. I'm going to one of the best universities in the state. I respect my parents; I love my brother. I would do anything for any of you. I've never caused a bit of trouble. I don't deserve to be shut out.
I used to attribute a lot of my success to you, but I have to rethink that. It scares me because I'm so much like you, but I never want to be this version of you. I don't want to hurt people who I supposedly love because I'm vain and selfish.
The worst part is you'll never understand why this hurts me so much. You'll never understand that you're wrong. Everything you're doing is wrong. You'd probably think I'm silly, over-reacting. Nobody can be right because you're right. Always.
Well, you're not. I'm already losing my grandmother sooner than I'd thought. Please don't make me lose you too, because I don't think I can deal with that. I will always love you, but I don't always have to respect you. Respect is earned, even from children.
My whole world is changing in a few months. I need something to be the same, concrete, dependable. The one thing I thought I could always depend on, my father, suddenly isn't so dependable. That just isn't fair to me.
I didn't do anything wrong. I don't deserve this. Please stop.
Samantha
Mar 1, 2011
Live From New York...
Tina Fey is a small contributor to my horrible posting habits. A small one. Most of it can be attributed to laziness and an uninspired existence.
I spent much of this weekend ignoring my homework by watching episode of episode of 30 Rock on Netflix. Though I watched all of these episodes when they originally aired, they're just as entertaining the second time around.
Perhaps it was this Tina-filled marathon that prompted me to further ignore my homework by watching a documentary-ish feature on VH1 (for some reason?) about Saturday Night Live in the years 2000-2010. Knowing Tina was a writer during some of this time, I had to watch it.
I've always kept up relatively with SNL, but haven't been a faithful watcher since Tina departed. I mostly tune in now when there's a host a like (Elton John on April 2nd!); I'll catch the popular sketches on the internet later. But this documentary renewed my fallen interest in the variety show.
SNL, having been around for a bazillion seasons, is much more culturally relevant than jumpstarting the careers of some our most popular comedians. Each episode serves as a time capsule of sorts. The people and events the show parodies weekly are very topical and very temporary. I won't get many of the jokes from the episodes in the 80's, because largely, you had to be there. Even Tina Fey's famous Sarah Palin sketches aren't as funny if you haven't seen the original (and hilarious in their own right) incidents.
Yet, reruns of SNL are a Saturday television mainstay and many of the characters and lines stay in the pop culture conscious long after the events that spawn them.
The documentary suggested that this was because SNL serves as the people's voice. Like my favorite Molly Ivins said, "Satire is traditionally the weapon of the powerless against the powerful."
This is illustrated best by the first episode after the tragedy on September 11th. SNL was particularly affected, being so close to Ground Zero. Nobody felt very funny that week, especially those who were still breathing the smoke on their daily commutes.
But SNL had to go on. The first joke was told by none other than Rudy Guiliani, surrounded by a few firemen (with ashes from the site still clinging to their clothes), and the tension broke, and the funny could happen again. Though the laughter may have felt unnatural for awhile, SNL pushed the nation a little further towards normalcy.
People say SNL sways elections, which they vehemently deny, and they tend to occasionally piss off Mark Walhberg. But there's no denying that it's been on air for so long for a reason. Maybe they don't sway votes, but they get people to google "David Paterson." And in this day and age, that's a pretty good accomplishment.
I spent much of this weekend ignoring my homework by watching episode of episode of 30 Rock on Netflix. Though I watched all of these episodes when they originally aired, they're just as entertaining the second time around.
Perhaps it was this Tina-filled marathon that prompted me to further ignore my homework by watching a documentary-ish feature on VH1 (for some reason?) about Saturday Night Live in the years 2000-2010. Knowing Tina was a writer during some of this time, I had to watch it.
I've always kept up relatively with SNL, but haven't been a faithful watcher since Tina departed. I mostly tune in now when there's a host a like (Elton John on April 2nd!); I'll catch the popular sketches on the internet later. But this documentary renewed my fallen interest in the variety show.
SNL, having been around for a bazillion seasons, is much more culturally relevant than jumpstarting the careers of some our most popular comedians. Each episode serves as a time capsule of sorts. The people and events the show parodies weekly are very topical and very temporary. I won't get many of the jokes from the episodes in the 80's, because largely, you had to be there. Even Tina Fey's famous Sarah Palin sketches aren't as funny if you haven't seen the original (and hilarious in their own right) incidents.
Yet, reruns of SNL are a Saturday television mainstay and many of the characters and lines stay in the pop culture conscious long after the events that spawn them.
The documentary suggested that this was because SNL serves as the people's voice. Like my favorite Molly Ivins said, "Satire is traditionally the weapon of the powerless against the powerful."
This is illustrated best by the first episode after the tragedy on September 11th. SNL was particularly affected, being so close to Ground Zero. Nobody felt very funny that week, especially those who were still breathing the smoke on their daily commutes.
But SNL had to go on. The first joke was told by none other than Rudy Guiliani, surrounded by a few firemen (with ashes from the site still clinging to their clothes), and the tension broke, and the funny could happen again. Though the laughter may have felt unnatural for awhile, SNL pushed the nation a little further towards normalcy.
People say SNL sways elections, which they vehemently deny, and they tend to occasionally piss off Mark Walhberg. But there's no denying that it's been on air for so long for a reason. Maybe they don't sway votes, but they get people to google "David Paterson." And in this day and age, that's a pretty good accomplishment.
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