“One of the hardest things in life is having words in your heart that you can't utter.”
-James Earl Jones
For once in my life, I am speechless. The flood of words I usually find so easily has run dry. I struggle now, to capture my emotions in letters. I drift in and out of consciousness, fading into reality only rarely. When asked something as simple as how my day was, I find no answer, and instead I stare blankly back at the one who asked as if I didn't understand the question, until they leave, muttering to themselves.
If I trace to what source I find, the dam of language lies mainly on one person. I passionately plead for an escape, but there's no escape to be found. Giving up would be breaking the silence, but breaking the silence would only be the opposite.
So I remain trapped inside myself, my tongue tied in endless knots. Without words, tears express from my heart what my lips cannot say. The silence is heavy, pressing down on me, swallowing me into its abyss, the loudest sound there is.
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Being Human
“The difference between dogs and people is that dogs know how to be dogs.”
-Peter Berger
A great sociologist, Peter Berger, tells us that people do not know how to be people. Spiders come into this world knowing how to build a web. Birds know when to fly south. Every animal knows how to be an animal. Except us. People don't know how to be people. We do not know why, and we can only begin to examine its effects. Many people believe that life is made up of a series of stages. Each stage holds its own conflict that must be resolved in order to move on. The teenage years are perhaps the most difficult, as they bring with them the conflict of identity. Perhaps it is that panic, the desperation to be someone, to be accepted, that sparks the cruelty, the unfairness, and the mockery. If that happens to be the real reason, I have no idea as to why I'm different. Or maybe I'm just the same.
The minutes have rolled into hours, many students long since drifted off. The lights speed by the window, screaming against the vast black sky. Souvenirs from the museum rest on the floor, gently nudging my ankle when the bus lurches. The hushed laughter from the back drifts up to the front of the bus, enticing, like a siren song. Laughter soon gives way to gossip, until one phrase floats over the rest. "Let's call someone." It seemed harmless. Simple, children will be children. Lights from phone screens shine up on the ceiling, reflecting the frenzy for a victim behind me. Suddenly, "Her." For the purpose of storytelling, let us refer to the following victims as X and Y.
"Oh, my God, you have her number? That's perfect! She's crazy!"
"What do I say to her?"
"Oh, she's obsessed with horses. Tell her one died. She'll flip."
With pained disbelief, I listen as they talk X into the death of her horse. X, my best friend for all of grade school. Even from my seat, I can hear hysterical panic on the other end of the line. The phone is clicked off, and it gives way to hysterical laughter behind me.
"Oh, my God! Did you hear her? She totally believed us!"
"Who next? Oh God, her! Call Y!"
"Perfect! I call her all the time. Just mention her weight, she starts crying, it's hilarious."
I cannot tear myself. I listen as they go through their phones, insulting everyone they can, reducing people to tears. My own throat burns from holding back sobs. The girl in the seat next to me slips her hand in mine, and I see she's close to tears too. "Tune them out." She whispers. I nod, and slip my earphones in. But, no matter how hard I try to focus on the music, I cannot. Their words echo in my mind. The rest of the ride is not at all better. They move on to impressions, and I'm an easy target. They mimic my voice, mock my clothing and hair, and make me out to be a bossy, over dramatic, self-centered outcast.
I do not know why people fight so desperately to find themselves that they only hurt others. However, I cannot blame them; it's only part of being human. I do not blame them. After all, they don't know how to be people. None of us do. Deep inside, I'm no different from them. Deep inside, none of us are any different. We're all human. We just don't know how to be.
"You may say I'm a dreamer, but I'm not the only one. I hope someday you will join us, and the world will live as one."
-Peter Berger
A great sociologist, Peter Berger, tells us that people do not know how to be people. Spiders come into this world knowing how to build a web. Birds know when to fly south. Every animal knows how to be an animal. Except us. People don't know how to be people. We do not know why, and we can only begin to examine its effects. Many people believe that life is made up of a series of stages. Each stage holds its own conflict that must be resolved in order to move on. The teenage years are perhaps the most difficult, as they bring with them the conflict of identity. Perhaps it is that panic, the desperation to be someone, to be accepted, that sparks the cruelty, the unfairness, and the mockery. If that happens to be the real reason, I have no idea as to why I'm different. Or maybe I'm just the same.
The minutes have rolled into hours, many students long since drifted off. The lights speed by the window, screaming against the vast black sky. Souvenirs from the museum rest on the floor, gently nudging my ankle when the bus lurches. The hushed laughter from the back drifts up to the front of the bus, enticing, like a siren song. Laughter soon gives way to gossip, until one phrase floats over the rest. "Let's call someone." It seemed harmless. Simple, children will be children. Lights from phone screens shine up on the ceiling, reflecting the frenzy for a victim behind me. Suddenly, "Her." For the purpose of storytelling, let us refer to the following victims as X and Y.
"Oh, my God, you have her number? That's perfect! She's crazy!"
"What do I say to her?"
"Oh, she's obsessed with horses. Tell her one died. She'll flip."
With pained disbelief, I listen as they talk X into the death of her horse. X, my best friend for all of grade school. Even from my seat, I can hear hysterical panic on the other end of the line. The phone is clicked off, and it gives way to hysterical laughter behind me.
"Oh, my God! Did you hear her? She totally believed us!"
"Who next? Oh God, her! Call Y!"
"Perfect! I call her all the time. Just mention her weight, she starts crying, it's hilarious."
I cannot tear myself. I listen as they go through their phones, insulting everyone they can, reducing people to tears. My own throat burns from holding back sobs. The girl in the seat next to me slips her hand in mine, and I see she's close to tears too. "Tune them out." She whispers. I nod, and slip my earphones in. But, no matter how hard I try to focus on the music, I cannot. Their words echo in my mind. The rest of the ride is not at all better. They move on to impressions, and I'm an easy target. They mimic my voice, mock my clothing and hair, and make me out to be a bossy, over dramatic, self-centered outcast.
I do not know why people fight so desperately to find themselves that they only hurt others. However, I cannot blame them; it's only part of being human. I do not blame them. After all, they don't know how to be people. None of us do. Deep inside, I'm no different from them. Deep inside, none of us are any different. We're all human. We just don't know how to be.
"You may say I'm a dreamer, but I'm not the only one. I hope someday you will join us, and the world will live as one."
Sunday, November 22, 2009
The Stranger in my Kitchen
Strangers are just family you have yet to come to know.
-Mitch Albom, The Five People You Meet in Heaven
She looks grandmother-ly enough. Silver streaked hair cropped close to her head. Wrinkles outlining her mouth and eyes. There must be something I'm missing. Perhaps it is the spark, or lack of which, in her eyes that I imagined should be there. This woman is my grandmother. This woman is a stranger.
When I was born, my family moved to Connecticut. Not all of my family, just my parents and I. Siblings followed. Grandparents did not. I see them once every few years, if I'm lucky, that is. Or perhaps, I'm lucky not to see them. I don't know, I barely know them.
I clip my hair up to the side, and take deep breaths in front of the mirror. She assumes every teenager is just like the rest, and therefore, her and my sister to get along. My sister has always been the cute chubby baby, the angelic blond child, and now, the stereotypical teen. I'm different. She will judge me. Just like everyone else.
When I'm finally satisfied, I go downstairs to say hello. She wraps me in an awkward hug, and studies my face for a minute. "You cut your hair," she observes, "Since when has it been curly?" My fingers jump to my head, self consciously trying to tame the mess. "I cut it two years ago, it curled on its own," I stammer. She nods, but her eyes still shine with disapproval.
I don't know what having a grandmother should be like. I guess I've created my own idea of it. I figure a grandparents house would be a home away from home, a place of smiles, a place to be spoiled. A safe, comforting, homey feeling. I'll never know for sure. I'm wearing an over sized knit sweater, I taught myself to knit. I've never tasted her cooking, nor listened to stories of her childhood. Perhaps it is the lack of grandparents that continuously drives me to make other people proud.
She talks to me like I'm still a child, naive. I don't blame her. She doesn't know me. She doesn't know my age, my birthday, my favorites, my friends, or even understand my acting. She has never heard me sing, never seen me perform.
After a few minutes of inane chat, I join my neighbor on the couch. It strikes me that my neighbor is closer to being family then my grandmother will ever be. Strangers are just family you have yet to come to know, but really, our family is just strangers that we have come to know. The people you surround yourself with are your family. Surround yourself with love, love your family, and love the strangers in your life.
-Mitch Albom, The Five People You Meet in Heaven
She looks grandmother-ly enough. Silver streaked hair cropped close to her head. Wrinkles outlining her mouth and eyes. There must be something I'm missing. Perhaps it is the spark, or lack of which, in her eyes that I imagined should be there. This woman is my grandmother. This woman is a stranger.
When I was born, my family moved to Connecticut. Not all of my family, just my parents and I. Siblings followed. Grandparents did not. I see them once every few years, if I'm lucky, that is. Or perhaps, I'm lucky not to see them. I don't know, I barely know them.
I clip my hair up to the side, and take deep breaths in front of the mirror. She assumes every teenager is just like the rest, and therefore, her and my sister to get along. My sister has always been the cute chubby baby, the angelic blond child, and now, the stereotypical teen. I'm different. She will judge me. Just like everyone else.
When I'm finally satisfied, I go downstairs to say hello. She wraps me in an awkward hug, and studies my face for a minute. "You cut your hair," she observes, "Since when has it been curly?" My fingers jump to my head, self consciously trying to tame the mess. "I cut it two years ago, it curled on its own," I stammer. She nods, but her eyes still shine with disapproval.
I don't know what having a grandmother should be like. I guess I've created my own idea of it. I figure a grandparents house would be a home away from home, a place of smiles, a place to be spoiled. A safe, comforting, homey feeling. I'll never know for sure. I'm wearing an over sized knit sweater, I taught myself to knit. I've never tasted her cooking, nor listened to stories of her childhood. Perhaps it is the lack of grandparents that continuously drives me to make other people proud.
She talks to me like I'm still a child, naive. I don't blame her. She doesn't know me. She doesn't know my age, my birthday, my favorites, my friends, or even understand my acting. She has never heard me sing, never seen me perform.
After a few minutes of inane chat, I join my neighbor on the couch. It strikes me that my neighbor is closer to being family then my grandmother will ever be. Strangers are just family you have yet to come to know, but really, our family is just strangers that we have come to know. The people you surround yourself with are your family. Surround yourself with love, love your family, and love the strangers in your life.
Gives me Hope
I woke up one morning to hear the birds outside my window and my mother cooking breakfast downstairs. I've never cried so much in my entire life. I have been deaf since the age of 8.
Freshman year, there was a crippled girl bound to a wheelchair. For 4 years, she did physical therapy and progressed to crutches. When we graduated a few weeks ago, she handed her crutches to an officer and walked across the entire stage. The applause from the seniors was deafening. She cried the whole way.
Today, I found GMH. After reading all the heartwarming stories, I walked into my room, and tore my suicide journal to shreds. I'm shaking out of happiness.
The previous quotes are from posts on www.givesmehope.com . It's the optimistic equivalent of FML or MLIA. Instead of complaining, people share beautiful and heartwarming moments. If the book "Chicken Soup for the Soul" were to come in bite sized pieces, it would be here, on GMH. I read this site for nearly five hours yesterday, crying the entire time. People can be harsh, unforgiving, close minded, and cruel. Slowly, I'm finding my hope for the future again. People like this, determined, generous, kind people, are becoming my inspiration.
What little things in life can do! In my sadness, I've often failed to realize how much people care. Last year, after breaking up with my first boyfriend, I was heartbroken, absolutely shattered. I messaged one of my close friends online, and not only did she automatically figure out something was wrong, she arrived at rehearsal with open arms, a box of tissues, and a bar of chocolate. She held me while I cried all over her shirt. I remember this only yesterday, and it sent me into tears of happiness. Her love and care gives me hope.
Sometimes just a simple kind word is enough to save a life. I've joined Operation Beautiful, www.operationbeautiful.com. I leave notes around, whenever I can. They're simple, saying something along the lines of "Smile! You're beautiful!" or "You're perfect the way you are". I slip them in lockers, in backpacks, and especially on bathroom mirrors, anywhere someone could use a boost in self confidence.
Please, continue to hope. Become an inspiration. After all, to make one person smile counts as a a success. Be generous, be loving, take that one extra step out of your way to help someone else, and I guarantee, you will not be disappointed.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Her Secret Battle
She sits angled away from me, her head down. She doesn't speak.
"I thought-" She cuts me off, waving me away with her hand. "I know." she whispers. "I know what you thought. It's what everyone thought. But I couldn't stop." I have no words. I was proud of her, so proud for overcoming this, for taking control of her own life again. But I was wrong. I let out a long sigh and lean back. "Why?"
"You know why. I want to be skinny." I lift my head, stare her straight in the eyes. "You are skinny. You're gorgeous. Why can't you see that?" Her eyes, an electric blue, stare back. She blinks quickly, fighting back tears, and shakes her head. "I wish I were you. If I were, I'd carry a mirror around everywhere. You're so pretty" She forces a sad smile.
This shocks me. I quickly shake my head, "No. I'm all messed up on the inside." I stare back at her. We're opposites, my dark curls juxtaposing her straight blonde, her light blue eyes boring into my deep brown, and my chubby face studying her slender one.
She lowers her head, and pushes a piece of hair behind her ear. She raises her eyebrows in question and opens her mouth, ask if to speak, but stops herself. I know what she was going to ask, and instinctively I wrap my arms around myself, pressing close against my chest, hidden. I shake my head no, answering her unasked question. I have won my own battle, for now.
Later, I am at home, and her words echo through my mind. Suddenly, I am grasping, reaching. For reasons I don't understand, I shove food in my mouth. Without thinking, I eat. Ice cream appears, and I shovel it into my mouth. I realize I'm crying. I stop. I feel fat, bloated.
I push my finger into my stomach, and watch as the soft fat forms a dimple under it. I think of her, how dainty, how small, and I cry as I realize that she always sees this. She always feels fat. Blinded by the media's definition of beauty, night after night, she'll look at herself, and never feel good enough. So she cannot stop. Bulimia has won her battle.
I cry freely, for her, for me, for everyone with their own secret battle that they must fight. Eventually, the tears slow, and I wipe my eyes. I stand up and clean myself off. We might never be good enough, but we must never give up the fight.
"I thought-" She cuts me off, waving me away with her hand. "I know." she whispers. "I know what you thought. It's what everyone thought. But I couldn't stop." I have no words. I was proud of her, so proud for overcoming this, for taking control of her own life again. But I was wrong. I let out a long sigh and lean back. "Why?"
"You know why. I want to be skinny." I lift my head, stare her straight in the eyes. "You are skinny. You're gorgeous. Why can't you see that?" Her eyes, an electric blue, stare back. She blinks quickly, fighting back tears, and shakes her head. "I wish I were you. If I were, I'd carry a mirror around everywhere. You're so pretty" She forces a sad smile.
This shocks me. I quickly shake my head, "No. I'm all messed up on the inside." I stare back at her. We're opposites, my dark curls juxtaposing her straight blonde, her light blue eyes boring into my deep brown, and my chubby face studying her slender one.
She lowers her head, and pushes a piece of hair behind her ear. She raises her eyebrows in question and opens her mouth, ask if to speak, but stops herself. I know what she was going to ask, and instinctively I wrap my arms around myself, pressing close against my chest, hidden. I shake my head no, answering her unasked question. I have won my own battle, for now.
Later, I am at home, and her words echo through my mind. Suddenly, I am grasping, reaching. For reasons I don't understand, I shove food in my mouth. Without thinking, I eat. Ice cream appears, and I shovel it into my mouth. I realize I'm crying. I stop. I feel fat, bloated.
I push my finger into my stomach, and watch as the soft fat forms a dimple under it. I think of her, how dainty, how small, and I cry as I realize that she always sees this. She always feels fat. Blinded by the media's definition of beauty, night after night, she'll look at herself, and never feel good enough. So she cannot stop. Bulimia has won her battle.
I cry freely, for her, for me, for everyone with their own secret battle that they must fight. Eventually, the tears slow, and I wipe my eyes. I stand up and clean myself off. We might never be good enough, but we must never give up the fight.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
A World on Fire
Outside the window, the sky is white.
The sky is perfect.
A perfect white, washed out by clouds, flawless and pure.
It forms the perfect background against the trees. Emerald green, they blend together, like slender fingers reaching from the ground. There is one different. On the far right, it screams with color, flaming red and orange. Fire. In time, the others will catch its flame, burning as brightly as it does now. Frozen in time, it's on the edge. One flame. A row of green. Waiting for the world to burst into flames.
I met with the high school counselor for the first time today. My stomach dropped, and I hesitated outside her door. Yet again I swallowed down countless words, things I could never share. I paste on a smile and rehearse answers in my head. Things to make her nod her head, to make her not worry, to keep up the facade of the happy student.
A perfect white, washed out by clouds, flawless and pure.
We began talking about basics. Simple things, grades, schoolwork. She asked me what I wanted to do after high school. I froze. The look on her face stunned me. She understood. She saw right through me. There was something different about her, and she challenged me to test her. To tell the truth. So I did. I choked out "musical theater". Her face hardened, out of habit, perhaps. After all, its so ambitious, so untouchable, and her job is to set realistic goals. Suddenly, the hardness melted. She looked curious, and nodded at me to continue.
It screams with color, flaming red and orange.
A dam broke then, and I sputtered out something about the high unemployment rates of actors and actresses. Her expression was unchanged, and I swelled slightly. "I can do it. I know I can. I'll be the one that makes it. I'll work hard at it, I swear. I belong onstage, I know it..." I trail off, ashamed, and wait for her to stop me. But she doesn't. "You will." Two words. That's it.
Frozen in time, it's on the edge.
I look up at her, and this time, it’s my face that asks to continue. “You will,” she repeats, “You speak with such passion, and you’re poised and well spoken. You’re going to succeed. I can tell.” I can tell that she’s confused by this, she’s making a promise that’s easily broken, but the doubt is soon gone. She is sure. And suddenly, so am I. I will. I wait now for my opening night, for the flames and excitement that will decide my future. I can sense something big approaching.
Waiting for the world to burst into flames.
The sky is perfect.
A perfect white, washed out by clouds, flawless and pure.
It forms the perfect background against the trees. Emerald green, they blend together, like slender fingers reaching from the ground. There is one different. On the far right, it screams with color, flaming red and orange. Fire. In time, the others will catch its flame, burning as brightly as it does now. Frozen in time, it's on the edge. One flame. A row of green. Waiting for the world to burst into flames.
I met with the high school counselor for the first time today. My stomach dropped, and I hesitated outside her door. Yet again I swallowed down countless words, things I could never share. I paste on a smile and rehearse answers in my head. Things to make her nod her head, to make her not worry, to keep up the facade of the happy student.
A perfect white, washed out by clouds, flawless and pure.
We began talking about basics. Simple things, grades, schoolwork. She asked me what I wanted to do after high school. I froze. The look on her face stunned me. She understood. She saw right through me. There was something different about her, and she challenged me to test her. To tell the truth. So I did. I choked out "musical theater". Her face hardened, out of habit, perhaps. After all, its so ambitious, so untouchable, and her job is to set realistic goals. Suddenly, the hardness melted. She looked curious, and nodded at me to continue.
It screams with color, flaming red and orange.
A dam broke then, and I sputtered out something about the high unemployment rates of actors and actresses. Her expression was unchanged, and I swelled slightly. "I can do it. I know I can. I'll be the one that makes it. I'll work hard at it, I swear. I belong onstage, I know it..." I trail off, ashamed, and wait for her to stop me. But she doesn't. "You will." Two words. That's it.
Frozen in time, it's on the edge.
I look up at her, and this time, it’s my face that asks to continue. “You will,” she repeats, “You speak with such passion, and you’re poised and well spoken. You’re going to succeed. I can tell.” I can tell that she’s confused by this, she’s making a promise that’s easily broken, but the doubt is soon gone. She is sure. And suddenly, so am I. I will. I wait now for my opening night, for the flames and excitement that will decide my future. I can sense something big approaching.
Waiting for the world to burst into flames.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
C-
Dear Reader,
If we truly learn from our mistakes, then we should all have learned, correct?
Evidently not, as I make more mistakes then anyone, and yet I don't seem to learn anything from them. Our essays were graded today, dear reader. C-. She gave me a C-.
I do not lack in language, no, my "language is effective and rich". Nor is it mechanics, as I had "few errors" and "effective paragraphing". She told me, dear reader, that the structure of my writing was "sophisticated". But there, dear reader, is where the success ended.
My style lacked proper sense of audience or purpose. This, dear reader, explains why I am addressing you now, simply to bring out the irony of this accusation. My organization was "awkward" as well, and my focus "limited". However, dear reader, her most painful accusations were the following. I "lacked original ideas", had "little insight", and my voice was "awkward". Do you agree, dear reader?
Overall, I was simply "effective". Simply borderline. This, dear reader, is not good enough. I write to show, to tell, to teach, to learn. I write to free myself, to spill my soul all over the world. I write to capture thoughts, to put together pieces and find truth and meaning in life. Writing allows us to speak directly to a person's soul, which would not be possible otherwise. It's the reason for this blog, dear reader, and yet, I am only a C-.
In frustration, I ask you, how many more mistakes must I make before I can learn? How much more must I talk before I find my voice? How much more must I think before I can think for myself? How much more must I look before I can find profound insights? I ask you, reader, how much more? The answer, dear reader, does not exist. For people too often look at the world in the wrong way. Saying "I am learn from my mistakes" implies that there is a period for which I learn, and when that ends, I will know, and I will no longer make mistakes. This is not true. I will forever be learning, and even after I have learned, I will still be learning and making mistakes.
She is wrong, dear reader, for I already have a already learned some. My style may be weak, it may be cliche and awkward, but I am speaking to you now, am I not?
If we truly learn from our mistakes, then we should all have learned, correct?
Evidently not, as I make more mistakes then anyone, and yet I don't seem to learn anything from them. Our essays were graded today, dear reader. C-. She gave me a C-.
I do not lack in language, no, my "language is effective and rich". Nor is it mechanics, as I had "few errors" and "effective paragraphing". She told me, dear reader, that the structure of my writing was "sophisticated". But there, dear reader, is where the success ended.
My style lacked proper sense of audience or purpose. This, dear reader, explains why I am addressing you now, simply to bring out the irony of this accusation. My organization was "awkward" as well, and my focus "limited". However, dear reader, her most painful accusations were the following. I "lacked original ideas", had "little insight", and my voice was "awkward". Do you agree, dear reader?
Overall, I was simply "effective". Simply borderline. This, dear reader, is not good enough. I write to show, to tell, to teach, to learn. I write to free myself, to spill my soul all over the world. I write to capture thoughts, to put together pieces and find truth and meaning in life. Writing allows us to speak directly to a person's soul, which would not be possible otherwise. It's the reason for this blog, dear reader, and yet, I am only a C-.
In frustration, I ask you, how many more mistakes must I make before I can learn? How much more must I talk before I find my voice? How much more must I think before I can think for myself? How much more must I look before I can find profound insights? I ask you, reader, how much more? The answer, dear reader, does not exist. For people too often look at the world in the wrong way. Saying "I am learn from my mistakes" implies that there is a period for which I learn, and when that ends, I will know, and I will no longer make mistakes. This is not true. I will forever be learning, and even after I have learned, I will still be learning and making mistakes.
She is wrong, dear reader, for I already have a already learned some. My style may be weak, it may be cliche and awkward, but I am speaking to you now, am I not?
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Social Paradox
Not quite a new beginning, but most certainly a new chapter, I turn the page to reveal yet another set of adventures, waiting to be discovered. There is drama, fights, romance, friendship and so much more in store. It seems, however, that the more I learn about myself, the less I seem to know.
Starting high school has been like taking one step forward and two steps back. I've found an entirely new world. The bell rings, and I drift out into the hallway. In seconds, it's flooded with people. The noise alone is overwhelming. Set to the beat of footsteps and an occasional drum beat (compliments of a student never found without drums around his neck), noises pervade the air. The temporary freedom between classes breathes life into the students, and suddenly, there is action, vigor, chaos. Gossip swirls, and the air is colored by different voices, different languages even. Lovers find one another, as though their connection is magnetic, hand in hand. We can quickly spot stereotypes and cliques. And that always leads me to ask... where do I fit?
Surely I'm not a jock, not one of the soccer players parading through the hallways on game days, proudly twisting this way and that to show off their jerseys, big white numbers clearly labeling them. They know who they are. Artist, Actress, Nerd, Prep, Popular, Druggie, none of them fit either. As a freshman, I shouldn't be so quick to label myself, but doesn't everyone get tired of just being invisible?
Starting high school has been like taking one step forward and two steps back. I've found an entirely new world. The bell rings, and I drift out into the hallway. In seconds, it's flooded with people. The noise alone is overwhelming. Set to the beat of footsteps and an occasional drum beat (compliments of a student never found without drums around his neck), noises pervade the air. The temporary freedom between classes breathes life into the students, and suddenly, there is action, vigor, chaos. Gossip swirls, and the air is colored by different voices, different languages even. Lovers find one another, as though their connection is magnetic, hand in hand. We can quickly spot stereotypes and cliques. And that always leads me to ask... where do I fit?
Surely I'm not a jock, not one of the soccer players parading through the hallways on game days, proudly twisting this way and that to show off their jerseys, big white numbers clearly labeling them. They know who they are. Artist, Actress, Nerd, Prep, Popular, Druggie, none of them fit either. As a freshman, I shouldn't be so quick to label myself, but doesn't everyone get tired of just being invisible?
Friday, August 14, 2009
The Fourth Thing
Biologists tell us that all animals have three primal drives. Food, shelter, and reproduction. Being animals, this is what we are driven to do. Find food. Find shelter. Reproduce.
I believe that there's something more, a fourth drive, that makes us uniquely human. Curiosity. Along with food, shelter, and family, we seek a fourth thing. Knowledge. Turtles don't ponder the meaning of existence. Cows don't look up at night and wonder what stars are. People do. But, as Thomas Edison once said, "We don't know a millionth of one percent about anything."
He was right. We know next to nothing. We don't know what life is. Or love. Or consciousness. Or electricity. Or gravity. Or even light. We barely understand what's in our own backyards, and there's so much more out there. Think about this. In the very small town where I live, the library has 74,144 books. Just books in print, mind you, I'm not counting books on tape, CDs, or anything else they have. Just books. 74,144. If you read one book a day, for one hundred years, you won't have even reached the halfway point. The entire world, even the smallest parts of it, is filled with things you don't know. Even the things we think we know, we are often wrong. Everything we know about history, we've learned in the past 200 years. Compared with the billions of years our planet has been around, we've barely existed. And for most of that time, we were mute and illiterate.
Now, we have language. We have culture. We have civilization. And where has it gotten us? Nowhere. We've already started to forget. To stain English with slang. To turn art into offensive doodles. To degrade music to the point of grunting and heavy beats.
I was told once by a friend of mine that we have no purpose on Earth but to learn. I disagreed, but I understand, for isn't that what we do? Learn from everything. Hold to that thirst for knowledge! There is so much more to learn, see, and do! Knowledge is never perfect. It always entails the possibility of mistake. Risk it. It's part of being human. Knowledge is in our destinies.
I believe that there's something more, a fourth drive, that makes us uniquely human. Curiosity. Along with food, shelter, and family, we seek a fourth thing. Knowledge. Turtles don't ponder the meaning of existence. Cows don't look up at night and wonder what stars are. People do. But, as Thomas Edison once said, "We don't know a millionth of one percent about anything."
He was right. We know next to nothing. We don't know what life is. Or love. Or consciousness. Or electricity. Or gravity. Or even light. We barely understand what's in our own backyards, and there's so much more out there. Think about this. In the very small town where I live, the library has 74,144 books. Just books in print, mind you, I'm not counting books on tape, CDs, or anything else they have. Just books. 74,144. If you read one book a day, for one hundred years, you won't have even reached the halfway point. The entire world, even the smallest parts of it, is filled with things you don't know. Even the things we think we know, we are often wrong. Everything we know about history, we've learned in the past 200 years. Compared with the billions of years our planet has been around, we've barely existed. And for most of that time, we were mute and illiterate.
Now, we have language. We have culture. We have civilization. And where has it gotten us? Nowhere. We've already started to forget. To stain English with slang. To turn art into offensive doodles. To degrade music to the point of grunting and heavy beats.
I was told once by a friend of mine that we have no purpose on Earth but to learn. I disagreed, but I understand, for isn't that what we do? Learn from everything. Hold to that thirst for knowledge! There is so much more to learn, see, and do! Knowledge is never perfect. It always entails the possibility of mistake. Risk it. It's part of being human. Knowledge is in our destinies.
Saturday, August 8, 2009
This is Ourselves
"It's the terror of knowing what this world is about, watching some good friends scream, 'Let me out!' "-Under Pressure ( Queen and David Bowie)
Everyday, we're put under an enormous amount of pressure. Judgments, expectations, limits, responsibilities, luck. For me, it's judgments. Why is it that society expects girls to have long hair? Yes, scientifically speaking, it's more attractive, (see Evolution of Attraction) but what law binds us to be attractive?
My new haircut is shorter then I've ever had it, barely covering my ears. My neck is shorn and the curls press close to my head. It roughly resembles a flapper from the 1920s. Vintage meets modern. It's perfectly me, but it's also terribly out of style. In today's world, short hair is childish, and with my old fashioned curls, I just can't wear it long. I'm forever "cute". I'm always going to look younger. I'll never fit society's definition of "beautiful".
For others, it's pressure in a different way. A close friend of mine just broke up with his girlfriend of two years. Pressure. Guilt, responsibilities, and heartbreak. My comfort is in vain. No matter how many times I tell him it simply wasn't meant or that it wasn't his fault, he doesn't listen. Quoting "Under Pressure" again... "Love dares you to care for the people on the edge of the night and love dares you to change our way of caring about ourselves. "
Pressure or not, he refuses to let me help. He's convinced that I don't understand. I want to roll up my sleeves and show him my own scars, figuratively, of course, but I cannot. And so comes back the curse of age. Yes, I'm younger, but I'm far from naive and immature. Just this once, I wish I was older and he was younger, and I could comfort him.
"This is our last dance. This is ourselves, under pressure."
Everyday, we're put under an enormous amount of pressure. Judgments, expectations, limits, responsibilities, luck. For me, it's judgments. Why is it that society expects girls to have long hair? Yes, scientifically speaking, it's more attractive, (see Evolution of Attraction) but what law binds us to be attractive?
My new haircut is shorter then I've ever had it, barely covering my ears. My neck is shorn and the curls press close to my head. It roughly resembles a flapper from the 1920s. Vintage meets modern. It's perfectly me, but it's also terribly out of style. In today's world, short hair is childish, and with my old fashioned curls, I just can't wear it long. I'm forever "cute". I'm always going to look younger. I'll never fit society's definition of "beautiful".
For others, it's pressure in a different way. A close friend of mine just broke up with his girlfriend of two years. Pressure. Guilt, responsibilities, and heartbreak. My comfort is in vain. No matter how many times I tell him it simply wasn't meant or that it wasn't his fault, he doesn't listen. Quoting "Under Pressure" again... "Love dares you to care for the people on the edge of the night and love dares you to change our way of caring about ourselves. "
Pressure or not, he refuses to let me help. He's convinced that I don't understand. I want to roll up my sleeves and show him my own scars, figuratively, of course, but I cannot. And so comes back the curse of age. Yes, I'm younger, but I'm far from naive and immature. Just this once, I wish I was older and he was younger, and I could comfort him.
"This is our last dance. This is ourselves, under pressure."
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