To the Beautiful Girl

In the morning, the bathroom is harshly lit, and I stare back at the painted face in the mirror. I do not recognize myself. Suddenly, out of frustration and anger, I turn on the sink, and splash the cold water on my face. Looking up again, the mirrored face is distorted, black eyes dripping down blotchy cheeks. Empowered, I splash more water, scrubbing off the face that matches everyone else. Gingerly lifting my face from the towel, I recognize my own smile in the mirror.


To the girl staring through racks of clothes. Do you think you're beautiful? You can't be older then 11 or 12. You haven't even hit puberty. Yet, your dark hair is bleached a platinum blond. Your nails are painted plasticy pink, and your gangly arms are plastered in bangles. Do you think that makes you beautiful? A tank-top. Torn shorts. An expensive-looking purse, plastered with designer labels. Do you think you're beautiful?
I can see you staring at me, judging me through the fabrics on hangers between us. An older, chubbier girl with frizzy curls, no makeup except for dark red lipstick, in overalls and an old tee-shirt. I can see the disapproval in your eyes, but your glossy lips stay shut. Would it shock you to know that I think I'm beautiful? Or would it surprise you more to know I'm staring back?
I see something in your eyes that you might not know is there. Even outlined in black liner, caked behind eyeliner and clumpy mascara, there's a childish uncertainty.
To the girl on the other side of the rack. Do you think you're beautiful?

This I Believe

I believe in stopping. Not just slowing down, or taking a break, I mean fully stopping. Every now and then, I think that everyone needs to take enough time for a full stop.


When we were little, my brother, sister, and I, we were loud. We were messy. We made noise. We moved fast. I might find my brother trekking muddy footprints across the house as he paraded around the dead bull-frog he had scraped off of the driveway. My sister would engage herself in her "masterpieces", flinging gallons of paint onto construction paper; ruining carpets and wallpaper in the process. Me, I was a mastermind of battle and works of construction, pulling apart whatever I can get my hands on in order to string up whatever fortress tickled my fancy. Whenever we all got out of control, my dad would march up to us with this big swinging gait that he had, like he owned the world. My father is a pretty big guy, and when he wanted our attention, he got it. So he'd march up to us, the whole room would shake, and usually, it'd pull us out of our own worlds enough to whip our heads in his direction. But every now and then, it wasn't enough and we'd go on parading, and painting, and creating a general ruckus. It was at times like these that my father would plant his feet on the ground, and bellow, "FULL STOP!"


And so, we stopped. And suddenly, my brother would realize that his prize was actually a crushed amphibian, and sister would realize that her hair was now painted green, and I'd realize that a colander didn't really function as a helmet. I learned this from my father; when you take just a moment, and fully stop, just freeze everything, you'll see everything around you in a whole new way.


Even now, far from construction paper and childhood, I can still hear my dad's voice in my head, telling me to "full stop" when I need a break. It might be during a fight, or when I'm sad, or simply acting loopy. I need to take a deep breath, and stop. Full Stop.


It's not always enough just to slow down enough to balance multitasking. It's about being able to freeze everything you're doing, and step back in order to look at the world. Whenever you bite into something really delicious, you know how you close your eyes to enjoy it more? That's your body's way of stopping everything else so you can focus better.


Everything today moves fast, people run blindly through their lives, but I believe in stopping. Fully stopping everything around us to really see what is around us. Take a deep breath. Full Stop.

On Relationships

"9, 10, 11, 12, 14... Wait, where's 13?"
The car bumbles along the uneven road, searching for a number that doesn't appear to exist. Suddenly, a glimpse of red catches my eye. As my mom and I drive closer, it seems to grow bigger, flourishing its own branches, electric among the somber green around it. We roll to a stop, staring up in breathless awe at the twelve foot masterpiece. Planted there is a trio of steel girders, painted flaming red. The massive metal curved around itself, seemingly alive, stretching out its arms like a tree above us. "I think we're here," she whispers. A few minutes later, we're inside, sitting across from a quirky redhead. Her hands move nearly as fast as her mouth, gesturing wildly about the room. We're surrounded by more metalwork, compliments of her husband. She's my new voice teacher. We discuss old teachers I've had and as I explain why the last one didn't work out, I realize that it's just like a relationship. We were together, it didn't work out, and we broke up. Everything in life is a relationship.

I suppose that even those of us who'd rather withdraw, tuck themselves away and avoid others, those who are scared of dating or romance, must end up in a relationship. Going to school, having friends, dating, having a job, driving a car, everything. Our entire lives are built upon other people, impossible without some form of commitment. To live requires commitment. We make choices.We take chances. We're human.

Jhai Jhai

You'd assume she was disconnected. Her own world fits into a bubble, bouncing and shimmering with her energy. Her big brown eyes pulse with excitement, her face framed with shimmering bits lining each ear. Each day poses a new adventure to her, but you'd never guess how much those beautiful eyes saw. She can sense anything off balance, no matter how small. Don't bother trying to pretend, she can read your mind. And why bother? She's brilliant with advice, and a great shoulder to cry on. For anyone who needs her, her twitching fingers calm down enough to hold them.

Two words. That's all it took. And she could tell.
"What's wrong?" she pressed.
"Nothing, I-"
"It's those boys isn't it?"
"Don't be ridicul-"
"You like him."
And with a sigh, I tell her everything. And she lets me. She picks me back up and sets me right side up.

Isn't it funny how she can hold so much pain, yet never show a scratch herself? But even if one could, nobody dare ever rain on her parade. So march on, my dearest. Smile, and march on. And thank you.