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.

Missing Lewis

We study each other through the glass, his fins swirling the water around him. He blinks at me. Slowly, his mouth opens, and he blows a bubble. As it floats to the top, I can feel my heart grabbing in my chest. It pops. Wolfgang's a Betta, and trying to build a bubble nest, meant to house his offspring. Except, there will never be any offspring. He'll never even meet another Betta. I run my fingers over the surface of the bowl, and he follows them. When I pull away, he stays pressed up against the glass, watching me with his dark eyes.

The most painful part of an animal being sad, is that it's all they know. With people, we can pretend not to be, or blame others, or find a way to cope. But animals, they only know sad, an overwhelming depression that fills every part of them, and simply radiates pain to everything around them.

We just lost our duck, Lewis. His mate, Ping, couldn't be sadder. She won't leave the coop, she just stays tucked into her nest, wrenching heartbroken quacks into bedraggled feathers. Our dog, Jake, lays beside the fence door, waiting for a playmate who will never again come outside to play. Our chicken steps out, and he excitedly raises his head, clutching at the hope that this white feathered bird might be Lewis. I bite my lip as his head sinks back down.

Here's to you, Lewis. Your unmistakable squeak of a quack that always made me laugh. Your stunningly blue eyes. The way you dipped entirely underwater when you swam. The one curly feather that stuck out from your tail. The way you played with Jake and ruffled your feathers. The way you so lovingly protected Ping. Here's to you, Lewis. I love you, baby.

Heartbeat

My head lies curled up in my arms on my desk, so I can hear the tick of my watch, a gentle tug back into reality. It murmurs quietly, clicking metallicly. The bell sends me sweeping through the hallway, and I suddenly realize that I'm invisible. Without my telltale chaos of curls, I blend in, unrecognized. Later, they paint on someone else's skin, until I'm completely unrecognizable. The extra rolls of flesh aren't mine, and my own face is smooth beneath the painted wrinkles.

In the wings, I feel lost. I am not myself, where have I gone? Fear and sadness begin to well up inside of me, until I suddenly feel my heart, pounding against my chest. A gentle tug, back into reality, my heart. I am myself. And as it murmurs gently to me, I smile. I have found myself.

Wake-up Call

The hammock rocks back and forth, a searing orange in the earthen scene around it. My arms stretched over my head, my fingers and toes tangled in the strings. I can see the shafts of sunlight filtering through the trees, brushing over the soft dirt on the ground and lighting up parts of my skin. I'm surrounded by tree trunks, adorned with shuffling leaves and whistling birds. Rolling on my side, the hammock swings with a renewed vigor, and I shut my eyes, losing myself completely. Much later, I hear something moving in front of me. Opening my eyes, I find myself to be face to face with a white chicken. She cocks her head at me, ruffles her feathers, and continues to scratch at the ground. Laughing, I pull myself upright, finding the sun has already ran to the other side of the sky. Feeling strangely perfect, I return to reality, realizing that sometimes, all we need is a strange wake-up call.

Onstage

She watches me mouth the words to myself. Closing my eyes, I close myself in a different world, trying to remember what to say, but the words remain stuck on the page. With a sigh, I flip open the script in front of me, searching for them. Her voice interrupts.
"You know, you look crazy. Like you're talking to yourself."
I laugh, shaking my head. Out loud now, I read the words, gently coaxing them off paper. She's clearly not amused, glancing around to see if any one's staring. Two people are, as entranced with my mutterings as she had been. I hadn't noticed. Her own words jest, but her tone turns authoritative, a mix of begging and reprimand.
"We're not exactly 'onstage'..." she says gently, trying not to offend. I shake my head yet again.

"All the world's a stage," I whisper," and all the men and women merely players..."

12 Angry Jurors

"I love it here," I whisper to him, both of us glowing. His face is cartoon-ish, but worn, the eyeliner smudged around his face, the lipstick clinging only to the edges of his lips.
"I love our tech, I love our stage, I love our lights, I love our costumes, I love the smell of the dressing rooms right before a show..." I don't realize that by the end of this, I'm nearly crying. The broken lipstick breaks into a smile.
"You're using your monologue voice," he teases. I laugh away the welling tears.
"It's the only voice I have."

Every actor has a "monologue voice." It's louder. More supported. Projected. Slightly more dictated. For some, it may belong to a different person entirely, but some may be unnoticeable. I don't believe these are the voices of acting. These are the voices we use to tear out out innermost raw emotions, and everything else, is just acting.
Some people belong onstage. Like this boy in front of me, the brilliant star of a brilliant show. His voice can draw you into any world he likes, and within seconds, he's already holding onto your heart. Even standing in the back of the theater, I love the way his voice fills the room, curving into every crevice and mind, painting whatever he fancies. His character is nearly fluid, pour him into any form, and he'll fit perfectly, shrugging into it the way one may put on a jacket one's been wearing their whole life.

Even without being in the show, I belong there. I'm not used to the clunky weight of a tech flashlight against my belt loop, blending with the shadows in anonymity, but I'm recognized in the dressing room, quickly finding my perch on the edge of the counter, even after being missing for months. An extra hot iron is pushed into my hand, and I quickly become a part of the counter itself, belonging. The hairspray mixes with the anxious energy, filling the room with a comforting and familiar smell.

I worried that I was wrong about the theater, that coming back would be disappointing, at best. But I was wrong. How wonderful, how familiar, how incredible, to be back at home. I'm home.

Life in Bloom

"You must not lose faith in humanity. Humanity is an ocean; if a few drops of the ocean are dirty, the ocean does not become dirty." -Mahatma Gandhi

Gandhi begs us not to lose faith in humanity, describing humanity as an ocean that's not entirely dirty. However, I didn't understand what he meant, until I was surrounded by it.
Pressing close to the nose of the ship, the sky and water blend together in an endless expanse of blue. The wind runs its fingers through my hair and throws it against my face, aglow in the screaming sun. Waves crash around themselves as though they have no idea what they're meant to be.

I always thought he meant that we aren't a bad people just because some of us are bad, and I always disagreed. I thought that humanity was doomed, that our shared human nature was in itself, corrupt. I was wrong. Nobody is a bad person, because the drops are not individual people. The ocean is each of us as a whole, our humanity in one great swirling blue. We may have bad parts, but we're not bad people.

On the beach, I kneel in the warm sand, and scoop up water between my fingers. It sparkles in the light. Spreading my fingers, it trickles back, glittering like jewels, and is quickly lost in the ocean. I stand, and slowly take a step into the inviting waves. The warm water laps around my ankles. I walk farther, until all but my head is submerged. With a sharp breath, I let the water cover me, and I'm suspended in the brilliance of it, bobbing up and down with its current as it pleases.
People behave with the same acceptance, but only if you're willing to swim out far enough.

Back at home, I return once again to the English room on the top floor, and a glimmer from the window catches my fancy. I turn, and gasp as a realize all the trees have grown back their leaves. The decrepit branches have been replaced by those with a renewed promise of life. Each boasts its own colors, shaking gently in the light breeze. I never realized how beautiful life was in bloom.