Numbers (for a friend)
12-8-2008
Eighteen (and a half) years of breathing,
three years of living. Three years of knowing
you. One month of moving away. Three weeks
till I started an eight year journey of college.
5-31-2010
One year, five months, twenty three days
since I received a five a.m. phone call
with my 469 number at a 503 location.
12-8-2008
2,146 miles depicted by a jagged
8 inch line across google maps on my
15 inch computer. 300 dollars
I didn’t have for an economy flight
to comfort the loss of your father
too young to pass.
5-31-2010
I’m 20. It is your 21st birthday
this weekend. And today
is memorial day. I’m supposed
to remember the soldiers, the wars.
But all I can think of while working on
3 lessons, 65 problems of my
algebra homework is how you
have fought and braved more wars
then any other person I know.
I’m sorry I wasn’t there.
Monday, May 31, 2010
Memorial Day for the War Deadby Yehuda Amichai
Memorial day for the war dead. Add now
the grief of all your losses to their grief,
even of a woman that has left you. Mix
sorrow with sorrow, like time-saving history,
which stacks holiday and sacrifice and mourning
on one day for easy, convenient memory.
Oh, sweet world soaked, like bread,
in sweet milk for the terrible toothless God.
"Behind all this some great happiness is hiding."
No use to weep inside and to scream outside.
Behind all this perhaps some great happiness is hiding.
Memorial day. Bitter salt is dressed up
as a little girl with flowers.
The streets are cordoned off with ropes,
for the marching together of the living and the dead.
Children with a grief not their own march slowly,
like stepping over broken glass.
The flautist's mouth will stay like that for many days.
A dead soldier swims above little heads
with the swimming movements of the dead,
with the ancient error the dead have
about the place of the living water.
A flag loses contact with reality and flies off.
A shopwindow is decorated with
dresses of beautiful women, in blue and white.
And everything in three languages:
Hebrew, Arabic, and Death.
A great and royal animal is dying
all through the night under the jasmine
tree with a constant stare at the world.
A man whose son died in the war walks in the street
like a woman with a dead embryo in her womb.
"Behind all this some great happiness is hiding."
the grief of all your losses to their grief,
even of a woman that has left you. Mix
sorrow with sorrow, like time-saving history,
which stacks holiday and sacrifice and mourning
on one day for easy, convenient memory.
Oh, sweet world soaked, like bread,
in sweet milk for the terrible toothless God.
"Behind all this some great happiness is hiding."
No use to weep inside and to scream outside.
Behind all this perhaps some great happiness is hiding.
Memorial day. Bitter salt is dressed up
as a little girl with flowers.
The streets are cordoned off with ropes,
for the marching together of the living and the dead.
Children with a grief not their own march slowly,
like stepping over broken glass.
The flautist's mouth will stay like that for many days.
A dead soldier swims above little heads
with the swimming movements of the dead,
with the ancient error the dead have
about the place of the living water.
A flag loses contact with reality and flies off.
A shopwindow is decorated with
dresses of beautiful women, in blue and white.
And everything in three languages:
Hebrew, Arabic, and Death.
A great and royal animal is dying
all through the night under the jasmine
tree with a constant stare at the world.
A man whose son died in the war walks in the street
like a woman with a dead embryo in her womb.
"Behind all this some great happiness is hiding."
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Three Interesting Poems
Bright Star by John Keats
Although poetry has changed, poems like this should be remembered and reviewed. Keats was a master of making every word mean something and play a part to create something beautiful!
Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art--
Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night
And watching, with eternal lids apart,
Like nature's patient, sleepless Eremite,
The moving waters at their priestlike task
Of pure ablution round earth's human shores,
Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask
Of snow upon the mountains and the moors--
No--yet still stedfast, still unchangeable,
Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast,
To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,
Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
And so live ever--or else swoon to death.
Rite of Passage by Sharon Olds
Olds writes about childhood in such a unique way. This poem makes me think of how when I was younger, I had that wish to be a grown up.
As the guests arrive at our son’s party
they gather in the living room—
short men, men in first grade
with smooth jaws and chins.
Hands in pockets, they stand around
jostling, jockeying for place, small fights
breaking out and calming. One says to another
How old are you? —Six. —I’m seven. —So?
They eye each other, seeing themselves
tiny in the other’s pupils. They clear their
throats a lot, a room of small bankers,
they fold their arms and frown. I could beat you
up, a seven says to a six,
the midnight cake, round and heavy as a
turret behind them on the table. My son,
freckles like specks of nutmeg on his cheeks,
chest narrow as the balsa keel of a
model boat, long hands
cool and thin as the day they guided him
out of me, speaks up as a host
for the sake of the group.
We could easily kill a two-year-old,
he says in his clear voice. The other
men agree, they clear their throats
like Generals, they relax and get down to
playing war, celebrating my son’s life.
Purple Bathing Suit by Louise Gluck
I adore this poem because with one scene it shows the complexity of relationships. It depicts that desire to have the person who also annoys you. This is so full of emotion and it is just down to earth and real.
I like watching you garden
with your back to me in your purple bathing suit:
your back is my favorite part of you,
the part furthest away from your mouth.
You might give some thought to that mouth.
Also to the way you weed, breaking
the grass off at ground level
when you should pull it up by the roots.
How many times do I have to tell you
how the grass spreads, your little
pile notwithstanding, in a dark mass which
by smoothing over the sruface you have finally
fully obscured? Watching you
stare into space in the tidy
rows of the vegetable garden, ostensibly
working hard while actually
doing the worst job possible, I think
you are a small irritating purple thing
and I would like to see you walk off the face of the earth
because you are all that's wrong with my life
and I need you and I claim you.
Although poetry has changed, poems like this should be remembered and reviewed. Keats was a master of making every word mean something and play a part to create something beautiful!
Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art--
Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night
And watching, with eternal lids apart,
Like nature's patient, sleepless Eremite,
The moving waters at their priestlike task
Of pure ablution round earth's human shores,
Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask
Of snow upon the mountains and the moors--
No--yet still stedfast, still unchangeable,
Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast,
To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,
Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
And so live ever--or else swoon to death.
Rite of Passage by Sharon Olds
Olds writes about childhood in such a unique way. This poem makes me think of how when I was younger, I had that wish to be a grown up.
As the guests arrive at our son’s party
they gather in the living room—
short men, men in first grade
with smooth jaws and chins.
Hands in pockets, they stand around
jostling, jockeying for place, small fights
breaking out and calming. One says to another
How old are you? —Six. —I’m seven. —So?
They eye each other, seeing themselves
tiny in the other’s pupils. They clear their
throats a lot, a room of small bankers,
they fold their arms and frown. I could beat you
up, a seven says to a six,
the midnight cake, round and heavy as a
turret behind them on the table. My son,
freckles like specks of nutmeg on his cheeks,
chest narrow as the balsa keel of a
model boat, long hands
cool and thin as the day they guided him
out of me, speaks up as a host
for the sake of the group.
We could easily kill a two-year-old,
he says in his clear voice. The other
men agree, they clear their throats
like Generals, they relax and get down to
playing war, celebrating my son’s life.
Purple Bathing Suit by Louise Gluck
I adore this poem because with one scene it shows the complexity of relationships. It depicts that desire to have the person who also annoys you. This is so full of emotion and it is just down to earth and real.
I like watching you garden
with your back to me in your purple bathing suit:
your back is my favorite part of you,
the part furthest away from your mouth.
You might give some thought to that mouth.
Also to the way you weed, breaking
the grass off at ground level
when you should pull it up by the roots.
How many times do I have to tell you
how the grass spreads, your little
pile notwithstanding, in a dark mass which
by smoothing over the sruface you have finally
fully obscured? Watching you
stare into space in the tidy
rows of the vegetable garden, ostensibly
working hard while actually
doing the worst job possible, I think
you are a small irritating purple thing
and I would like to see you walk off the face of the earth
because you are all that's wrong with my life
and I need you and I claim you.
Hammocks
When I think of a hammock I think of spring days, skipping math class, and thirty minutes of hanging the stupid thing.
But after the hammock was hung, relaxation and peace.
But it's amazing how fast a hammock can fall - a rope snaps and BAM! You are on the ground. But for some reason, we just laughed.
In life, we spend so much time building up these perfect environments of peace and happiness. We try so hard to create the best circle of friends whom we can lean on and trust.
And ALWAYS, yes, always. The hammock will fall. Friends will let you down, things get uncomfortable, and peace, we forget it exists. And when it all falls, we just forget to laugh.
So come on!! Just laugh when the hammock falls - and go find a better place to hang it.
pessimistic
(dictionary.reference.com)
"A tendency to stress the negative or unfavorable or to take the gloomiest possible view: "We have seen too much defeatism, too much pessimism, too much of a negative approach" (Margo Jones).
The doctrine or belief that this is the worst of all possible worlds and that all things ultimately tend toward evil.
The doctrine or belief that the evil in the world outweighs the good."
Of this I am accused. I am too negative and pessimistic. WRONG. You see, sometimes I look at life and I notice some disgusting things about humans. We treat each other terrible, pretend to love, pretend to hate, sometimes we really do hate. But I notice these things because it is my belief that if humans created the problem, my goodness, we should try to fix it!
I'm 20. 20. 20! But this does not exempt me or any other aged person from having some pretty amazing ideas that might not be solutions, but would simply help. I dare some of the so called optimistic people to look at the world with out shutters or shades. Then, and only then, will your optimism be of use.
Get up and do something people! I'm so sick of sitting around myself and seeing not only MY generation sit around, but previous generations sit in comfort and ease pretending to be paving a way and being a real "trail blazer".
Sometimes, I love life. Often, I love life. But those are the times that I am realizing that God has given me something to do and ways to do it.
Because REALIZING that you (through the help of God and others) CAN make a difference, well, that's something to be optimistic about.
"A tendency to stress the negative or unfavorable or to take the gloomiest possible view: "We have seen too much defeatism, too much pessimism, too much of a negative approach" (Margo Jones).
The doctrine or belief that this is the worst of all possible worlds and that all things ultimately tend toward evil.
The doctrine or belief that the evil in the world outweighs the good."
Of this I am accused. I am too negative and pessimistic. WRONG. You see, sometimes I look at life and I notice some disgusting things about humans. We treat each other terrible, pretend to love, pretend to hate, sometimes we really do hate. But I notice these things because it is my belief that if humans created the problem, my goodness, we should try to fix it!
I'm 20. 20. 20! But this does not exempt me or any other aged person from having some pretty amazing ideas that might not be solutions, but would simply help. I dare some of the so called optimistic people to look at the world with out shutters or shades. Then, and only then, will your optimism be of use.
Get up and do something people! I'm so sick of sitting around myself and seeing not only MY generation sit around, but previous generations sit in comfort and ease pretending to be paving a way and being a real "trail blazer".
Sometimes, I love life. Often, I love life. But those are the times that I am realizing that God has given me something to do and ways to do it.
Because REALIZING that you (through the help of God and others) CAN make a difference, well, that's something to be optimistic about.
Monday, May 24, 2010
We (don't) Meet Again
Disclaimer: I'm not a stalker... I just happen to run into the same people many times. Ha!
I'm pretty sure this is the 3rd time I've seen you this week. On Monday and Wednesdays you ride the same bus, same time as I do. And now, sitting in Starbucks, I see you again. Honestly, I don't find you insanely attractive. But you look like a person with whom someone can talk or laugh.
(Ok. You also have a nice smile.)
But really, I see you all the time. But somehow fate has had it that all I do is SEE you. I've never bumped into you and had to apologize. We don't have any classes together, and no one I know has happened to know you too.
So here I am blogging on my Dell (about you) while you sit 20 feet away doing something on your HP. And in the end, one of us will leave, I'll see you around nine-ish tomorrow, and I still won't know you.
*Sigh*
And so, this is how life goes.
I'm pretty sure this is the 3rd time I've seen you this week. On Monday and Wednesdays you ride the same bus, same time as I do. And now, sitting in Starbucks, I see you again. Honestly, I don't find you insanely attractive. But you look like a person with whom someone can talk or laugh.
(Ok. You also have a nice smile.)
But really, I see you all the time. But somehow fate has had it that all I do is SEE you. I've never bumped into you and had to apologize. We don't have any classes together, and no one I know has happened to know you too.
So here I am blogging on my Dell (about you) while you sit 20 feet away doing something on your HP. And in the end, one of us will leave, I'll see you around nine-ish tomorrow, and I still won't know you.
*Sigh*
And so, this is how life goes.
Surrounded
Constantly we come into contact with others. I ordered a coffee, asked for someone to keep an eye on my laptop, had someone ask me if a chair was taken, and happened to see someone I know all within an hour.
But sometimes it is when I am constantly around people I feel the most distant. Unfortunately, I don't have an insanely impressive vocabulary to articulate everything that is going through my mind. At least it makes sense up there (kinda).
It goes something like this though: the more people are around and the less connection that actually occurs, the more I (and others I'm sure too) get lost in the crowd. Yes, little contacts occur. But where's the connection? The chemistry?
Sometimes, I think it's this epidemic spreading in the Pacific Northwest. We are so surrounded by our business, selfishness, and our own interests that we somehow forget to just say "hello" to another person... simply because they are another human and deserve a bit of recognition.
Sometimes I smile at a person - and they look lost, confused. "A smile? Who does that anymore?"
YES! A smile. Goodness. It should just be a common thing. "How are you?" is reserved for people we know - and even though we normally could care less. Families and friends get the brunt of our aggravations while strangers receive a slight formality which is barely civic. And honest, genuine love? It is somehow reserved for those who smash down every hurt, broken trust, and the simple hustle and bustle of life.
So I conclude with this: smile at someone. Say hello to someone. And when you say "how are you?", mean it. And then.... just listen.
But sometimes it is when I am constantly around people I feel the most distant. Unfortunately, I don't have an insanely impressive vocabulary to articulate everything that is going through my mind. At least it makes sense up there (kinda).
It goes something like this though: the more people are around and the less connection that actually occurs, the more I (and others I'm sure too) get lost in the crowd. Yes, little contacts occur. But where's the connection? The chemistry?
Sometimes, I think it's this epidemic spreading in the Pacific Northwest. We are so surrounded by our business, selfishness, and our own interests that we somehow forget to just say "hello" to another person... simply because they are another human and deserve a bit of recognition.
Sometimes I smile at a person - and they look lost, confused. "A smile? Who does that anymore?"
YES! A smile. Goodness. It should just be a common thing. "How are you?" is reserved for people we know - and even though we normally could care less. Families and friends get the brunt of our aggravations while strangers receive a slight formality which is barely civic. And honest, genuine love? It is somehow reserved for those who smash down every hurt, broken trust, and the simple hustle and bustle of life.
So I conclude with this: smile at someone. Say hello to someone. And when you say "how are you?", mean it. And then.... just listen.
Friday, May 21, 2010
Life is a Masquerade
Nearly a week a go I darkened the door of the Melody Ballroom for a Masquerade Ball. My mask was gorgeous: black and silver with sparkles. But it wasn't until today that I realized that the mask I had was just another one in addition to the masks and layers I've added to my life since I was younger.
Sad? Mask it with a smile.
Depressed? Psh! Pretend like I'm happy.
Disappointed? "It's perfect!"
Each of us have been programmed by society, families,or friends to put on masks which cover up all traces of emotion. We've become like the computers we are so accustomed too. Except we are not the owners. Society and the culture we live in owns who we are and they download beliefs, morals, expectations, and restrictions. Even our so called individuality is programmed into us.
We've become a generation of stone walls that are fractured on the inside. A stoic people afraid to break out of what society and culture deems "right". I'm no longer allowed to be a Christian who believes that things are wrong. That would make me a close minded conservative who doesn't think logically.
Well, I'm saying WRONG. Computers eventually break down with excessive use. Walls with interior fractures crumble. And my fate will not be that of a computer or wall.
If one person actually got the guts to take of the masks and layers then maybe others would have the courage to do the same. Because you see, the masks will one day remove themselves when we may be unprepared. And the layers just make us like onions... and onions smell and make people cry.
So don't be a
computer.
wall.
mask.
layer.
Just be (the complete, social pressures removed, sometimes absurd, perhaps strange) you.
Oh, and at Masquerade balls, you dance. And in life, dancing without the masks is so much easier.
Sad? Mask it with a smile.
Depressed? Psh! Pretend like I'm happy.
Disappointed? "It's perfect!"
Each of us have been programmed by society, families,or friends to put on masks which cover up all traces of emotion. We've become like the computers we are so accustomed too. Except we are not the owners. Society and the culture we live in owns who we are and they download beliefs, morals, expectations, and restrictions. Even our so called individuality is programmed into us.
We've become a generation of stone walls that are fractured on the inside. A stoic people afraid to break out of what society and culture deems "right". I'm no longer allowed to be a Christian who believes that things are wrong. That would make me a close minded conservative who doesn't think logically.
Well, I'm saying WRONG. Computers eventually break down with excessive use. Walls with interior fractures crumble. And my fate will not be that of a computer or wall.
If one person actually got the guts to take of the masks and layers then maybe others would have the courage to do the same. Because you see, the masks will one day remove themselves when we may be unprepared. And the layers just make us like onions... and onions smell and make people cry.
So don't be a
computer.
wall.
mask.
layer.
Just be (the complete, social pressures removed, sometimes absurd, perhaps strange) you.
Oh, and at Masquerade balls, you dance. And in life, dancing without the masks is so much easier.
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
Rambling...
Sometimes, I have to force myself to write. It doesn't always flow. I'm not always inspired. In fact, I'm rarely "inspired". Tonight is one of those nights. I'm sitting here listening to the Script, I've had an eventful day, and there's things I've began to write that I should finish.
I almost feel like writing. But not enough to actually put the work into writing something worthy of being read. So instead, I pretend like I am writing a spectacular piece of art while I am actually rambling about nothing - just like I am now.
Something that has been on my mind is how much people change. Sometimes it is a puzzle figuring out the who and how. Did I change or did they? Or both? And how? Positive change? Negative change? Or something neutral?
Last year at this time of year I was spending my team being irresponsible and failing classes. This year, I'm being responsible, working two jobs, and doing my best not only to pass, but to excel in my classes. But the fun factor is lacking. I'm caught in the everyday cycle of work, school, homework, sleep. And I'm not sure exactly how to break the cycle. I'll be twenty in four days. And I'm scared that this is only the beginning of this overly mature, boring life. And that's the end of my rambling.
I almost feel like writing. But not enough to actually put the work into writing something worthy of being read. So instead, I pretend like I am writing a spectacular piece of art while I am actually rambling about nothing - just like I am now.
Something that has been on my mind is how much people change. Sometimes it is a puzzle figuring out the who and how. Did I change or did they? Or both? And how? Positive change? Negative change? Or something neutral?
Last year at this time of year I was spending my team being irresponsible and failing classes. This year, I'm being responsible, working two jobs, and doing my best not only to pass, but to excel in my classes. But the fun factor is lacking. I'm caught in the everyday cycle of work, school, homework, sleep. And I'm not sure exactly how to break the cycle. I'll be twenty in four days. And I'm scared that this is only the beginning of this overly mature, boring life. And that's the end of my rambling.
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Childhood Poems Speak
I'm being killed off
and a recycle bin graveyard
is my destination. In five
short years, you somehow became
too good for me. You will recycle
the part made of trees
and may see me again in the form
of a bench, an egg carton, or a dress
swaying at a green fashion show.
But what once was painted words
of art are now blotted stains
of immaturity. And you can't
find a concrete reason to save me.
Dumbstruck (Random Draft)
I saw you on the bus
with a bag, a bagel, and a book.
William Stafford, huh? You were
attractive. It reminded me
of that country song. Except
you didn't have a sexy tractor,
but pages with the same
poems as mine. I think you felt
me thinking about you like
someone can feel another
looking at them. But when
you said hi, I promise
with a bag, a bagel, and a book.
William Stafford, huh? You were
attractive. It reminded me
of that country song. Except
you didn't have a sexy tractor,
but pages with the same
poems as mine. I think you felt
me thinking about you like
someone can feel another
looking at them. But when
you said hi, I promise
I was looking out the window
at the pond where the ducks
bobbed their heads into the water.
I identified, because at that moment,
I could only duck my head,
and say, hello.
Monday, May 10, 2010
Hope
Today, I am wondering. When Socrates was trying to develop definitions for things such as piety, love, and beauty who did he ask for input about hope?
He should have asked me. Because today, I realize that hope is a word for which we each have a personal definition.
My hope in life comes primarily through my faith. Which is ironic since "faith is the things hoped for and the evidence of things not seen". Without this foundation, I would be hopeless.
So today, I am thankful to be a follower of Christ.
He should have asked me. Because today, I realize that hope is a word for which we each have a personal definition.
My hope in life comes primarily through my faith. Which is ironic since "faith is the things hoped for and the evidence of things not seen". Without this foundation, I would be hopeless.
So today, I am thankful to be a follower of Christ.
Sunday, May 9, 2010
Courage
Courage - a word defined by those who take action. But not just to take action like a prince riding on a white horse to save his damsel in distress.
Courage is selfless. And even in the face of hopelessness, courage moves.
Courage is NOT to lack fear. Courage is to move WITH fear.
Courage is the mother, the father who raises the child with a disability. Courage is the child, the adult who rises above the disability.
Courage is not the spoiled adolescent who must drag up enough bravery to convince parents to buy the latest clothes, or car of their dreams.
Courage is a treasure that may still lead to tragedy. Courage is operating with that nagging voice still haunting you, telling you that you just may fail.
Courage makes itself manifest in those who die for what they believe: Martin Luther King Jr., JFK, soldiers, and even the unknown.
Courage isn't about popularity.
Courage gives.
Courage isn't convenient.
Courage hopes.
Courage is trials, tribulation, and fear mingled together with unknown strength humans often lack.
Courage is selfless. And even in the face of hopelessness, courage moves.
Courage is NOT to lack fear. Courage is to move WITH fear.
Courage is the mother, the father who raises the child with a disability. Courage is the child, the adult who rises above the disability.
Courage is not the spoiled adolescent who must drag up enough bravery to convince parents to buy the latest clothes, or car of their dreams.
Courage is a treasure that may still lead to tragedy. Courage is operating with that nagging voice still haunting you, telling you that you just may fail.
Courage makes itself manifest in those who die for what they believe: Martin Luther King Jr., JFK, soldiers, and even the unknown.
Courage isn't about popularity.
Courage gives.
Courage isn't convenient.
Courage hopes.
Courage is trials, tribulation, and fear mingled together with unknown strength humans often lack.
Saturday, May 8, 2010
The Other Girls
The other girls used to make me cry. I would say that tears flowed like a river, but that would be too cliche.
The other girls used to laugh. Mostly at me. I saw the looks and the smirks at my pink tights and funky hair. I heard the whispers and felt the glances. Maybe I should assume the other girls were admiring my fantastic fashion forwardness. Maybe. But then I remember that they are the other girls.
They are the girls with the perfect waist size, glistening smiles, and with my crush always hanging on them.
The other girls. They smelled like cotton candy with the heavy doses of Brittney Spears perfume. Ah, the other girls with their high expectations of wearing that pretty dress and staying in that comfortable spot I identify as mediocre.
The other girls. They taught me to fear myself, control sparks of personality, and by all means, do NOT wear the pink tights.
The other girls. For years the pressure escalated until finally - a realization.
The other girls laugh at me, while I can laugh at myself. Which means I live with a constant comedian called my brain. I win.
The other girls stare at themselves in the mirror for unreasonable lengths of time. But when the make-up comes off, I win.
The other girls can wear the perfect size and find the perfect clothes that will never match their empty and shallow personalities. I win.
I laugh too loudly, cry to despairingly, write to abstractly, don't eat sparingly, make-up is my enemy.
But FYI, other girls, I live fully.
The other girls used to laugh. Mostly at me. I saw the looks and the smirks at my pink tights and funky hair. I heard the whispers and felt the glances. Maybe I should assume the other girls were admiring my fantastic fashion forwardness. Maybe. But then I remember that they are the other girls.
They are the girls with the perfect waist size, glistening smiles, and with my crush always hanging on them.
The other girls. They smelled like cotton candy with the heavy doses of Brittney Spears perfume. Ah, the other girls with their high expectations of wearing that pretty dress and staying in that comfortable spot I identify as mediocre.
The other girls. They taught me to fear myself, control sparks of personality, and by all means, do NOT wear the pink tights.
The other girls. For years the pressure escalated until finally - a realization.
The other girls laugh at me, while I can laugh at myself. Which means I live with a constant comedian called my brain. I win.
The other girls stare at themselves in the mirror for unreasonable lengths of time. But when the make-up comes off, I win.
The other girls can wear the perfect size and find the perfect clothes that will never match their empty and shallow personalities. I win.
I laugh too loudly, cry to despairingly, write to abstractly, don't eat sparingly, make-up is my enemy.
But FYI, other girls, I live fully.
Humanity (I Belong)
Today, humanity is beautiful.
I realized this when I though of the angry person who yelled at me as I j-walked and a mother let her daughter be overly rowdy on the bus.
I saw, I see couples fight, friends hurt each other, accidents happen, rain, snow, possible a peek of sunshine.
I heard, I hear dramatic fights, rude remarks, anger.
Depressing? Some say yes. I say that today, humanity is beautiful. Because today, each of us (no exclusions apply) must fight all of the before mentioned to see that these stupid mistakes, frenzied feelings, and life situations somehow even everything out amongst us humans.
I say, today, humanity is beautiful because no one is exempt from the struggle of overcoming evil with good.
And this makes me say, I belong (you belong).
I realized this when I though of the angry person who yelled at me as I j-walked and a mother let her daughter be overly rowdy on the bus.
I saw, I see couples fight, friends hurt each other, accidents happen, rain, snow, possible a peek of sunshine.
I heard, I hear dramatic fights, rude remarks, anger.
Depressing? Some say yes. I say that today, humanity is beautiful. Because today, each of us (no exclusions apply) must fight all of the before mentioned to see that these stupid mistakes, frenzied feelings, and life situations somehow even everything out amongst us humans.
I say, today, humanity is beautiful because no one is exempt from the struggle of overcoming evil with good.
And this makes me say, I belong (you belong).
Anti-Assimilation
The pressure to "fit in" surrounds me (and you) constantly. I (and you) think that once we exit high-school we will enter into a free world where people will understand our desire to be individual.
This is where the game begins. You (and I) hear shouts to "be yourself" while all the while little signals - small warning signs flash in our faces. Each stop sign, yellow light, and siren tell me (and you) to let go of who. we. are.
I am - you are, encouraged to drop the identifying factors which make me Tsionah and you (you).
I laugh too loud.
My hair is too long.
I'm fat.
I'm too conservative.
I'm too liberal.
Expectations of equal (being interpreted, the same) opinions bully me (and you) into believing that somehow our own identity isn't enough.
And then. Assimilation.
We are each expected to give up pieces of ourself in order to be socially acceptable and politically correct. Our personal beliefs, lifestyles, and dreams are picked apart and we are left with a fractured culture, a broken identity.
I say, "I'm Tsionah". I tell a lie.
This is where the game begins. You (and I) hear shouts to "be yourself" while all the while little signals - small warning signs flash in our faces. Each stop sign, yellow light, and siren tell me (and you) to let go of who. we. are.
I am - you are, encouraged to drop the identifying factors which make me Tsionah and you (you).
I laugh too loud.
My hair is too long.
I'm fat.
I'm too conservative.
I'm too liberal.
Expectations of equal (being interpreted, the same) opinions bully me (and you) into believing that somehow our own identity isn't enough.
And then. Assimilation.
We are each expected to give up pieces of ourself in order to be socially acceptable and politically correct. Our personal beliefs, lifestyles, and dreams are picked apart and we are left with a fractured culture, a broken identity.
I say, "I'm Tsionah". I tell a lie.
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