I watched her skeptically as she spooned sugar into the empty pitcher. The tea in the pot simmered, making the plump tea bags dance. She quickly filled two glasses full of ice, then pulled the pot off the stove and poured its conents into the sugar pitcher. I could feel my lip curl as I watched the sugar at the bottom become molten before she stirred. Then, she poured the hot tea straight into one of the glasses, and the ice cracked and melted in protest. She smiled as she handed it to me,
"Just try it."
I looked down at it for several seconds and hoped that time would be enough for the tea to chill. But, the glass was still warm in my hand. My lips met icy drink, and the sweetness of it made be wince, but I tilted the glass a little more. The cold tea eddied from around the ice, accompanied by the warm tea just beneath. The sensation of warm and cold at the same time made my head swim a little. I'd never had such a sensation. Even with the sugar it was oddly...pleasing.
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
An Oedipus Complex?
This week, our class had a Bible project due. Each team had to create an interview-based documentary on what people in the area believed about God. One team went to the UNC: Chapel Hill campus, and they were the first to present their project. The room lulled into a glazed silence as the documentary began to play. Face after face appeared on the screen, each one spitting out words we only half-cared to hear. And then, his face appeared.
I noticed his hair first. It was thick, black, and styled with bangs sweeping across his forehead and flipped out around the sides and back of his head, like you would see in a shojo manga. Next, I saw his eyes, a glowing blue color. Blue eyes and black hair, the makeup of my dream-guy. He's cute, I thought upon first glance.
He wasn't exactly a supermodel. He was lanky, with wide lips and a broad nose. But, there was a sing-songy, almost British tone to his voice that charmed me. Still, I found myself disproportionately attracted to him. What is it about him? I pondered as I listened intensely to his atheistic responses. And then, it struck me: He looks like my dad.
His face was a slenderer, younger, charicatured version of my dad's. My dad has black hair--the only difference was the eyes. My dad has brown eyes. But other than that...
I leaned over in my desk and whispered the revelation to my friends. They'd just been over at my house that weekend to work on the project, and with their memory of meeting my dad fresh in their mind, they all agreed. One of my friends started teasing me about how "Frued was right!" and I insisted that, "It's not like that!" And it isn't. But when I saw his face, he reminded me of all the things I love about my dad, all the things I hope to find one day in a husband. I felt giddy--suddenly I was crushing on this guy I'd never even met.
After all, looks wasn't the only thing he had in common with my dad. He was a student at UNC, probably a freshman or sophomore. My dad went to grad school at UNC, which is where he met my mom, who was three years younger than him. I was probably two to four years younger than this guy, and UNC is where I want to go for undergrad. Maybe, just maybe...
Ten minutes passed, and the guy (the documentary never mentioned his name) shared his final thoughts on the last question, and the documentary was over. I let out a wistful sigh that made my friends giggle at me. Of course, I was wrapped up in a fantasy for a brief ten minutes, but now it was time to come back to earth and watch the next project. I'd been quietly rating the attractiveness of the guys in each documentary, but now none of them seemed as cute. I knew the saying "Girls marry their dad" was true, but I'd never experienced its meaning before. And now that I have, I have to admit it's not as creepy as it sounds. It's actually quite hope-inspiring.
I noticed his hair first. It was thick, black, and styled with bangs sweeping across his forehead and flipped out around the sides and back of his head, like you would see in a shojo manga. Next, I saw his eyes, a glowing blue color. Blue eyes and black hair, the makeup of my dream-guy. He's cute, I thought upon first glance.
He wasn't exactly a supermodel. He was lanky, with wide lips and a broad nose. But, there was a sing-songy, almost British tone to his voice that charmed me. Still, I found myself disproportionately attracted to him. What is it about him? I pondered as I listened intensely to his atheistic responses. And then, it struck me: He looks like my dad.
His face was a slenderer, younger, charicatured version of my dad's. My dad has black hair--the only difference was the eyes. My dad has brown eyes. But other than that...
I leaned over in my desk and whispered the revelation to my friends. They'd just been over at my house that weekend to work on the project, and with their memory of meeting my dad fresh in their mind, they all agreed. One of my friends started teasing me about how "Frued was right!" and I insisted that, "It's not like that!" And it isn't. But when I saw his face, he reminded me of all the things I love about my dad, all the things I hope to find one day in a husband. I felt giddy--suddenly I was crushing on this guy I'd never even met.
After all, looks wasn't the only thing he had in common with my dad. He was a student at UNC, probably a freshman or sophomore. My dad went to grad school at UNC, which is where he met my mom, who was three years younger than him. I was probably two to four years younger than this guy, and UNC is where I want to go for undergrad. Maybe, just maybe...
Ten minutes passed, and the guy (the documentary never mentioned his name) shared his final thoughts on the last question, and the documentary was over. I let out a wistful sigh that made my friends giggle at me. Of course, I was wrapped up in a fantasy for a brief ten minutes, but now it was time to come back to earth and watch the next project. I'd been quietly rating the attractiveness of the guys in each documentary, but now none of them seemed as cute. I knew the saying "Girls marry their dad" was true, but I'd never experienced its meaning before. And now that I have, I have to admit it's not as creepy as it sounds. It's actually quite hope-inspiring.
Friday, December 3, 2010
The Queer Question
A Little Rant on Societal Ills:
As the last book of the semester, all of the eleventh grade English classes read A Separate Peace. The predominant discussion among Juniors for the past three weeks—are Gene and Phineas gay?
The queer question surfaces a lot in older literature, and it drives me crazy. It reinforces every American macho stereotype and contributes as early as middle school to the undercutting of healthy male relationships. You may think I’m being overdramatic, but revisit some of the books you’ve read in school. Shakespeare is gay because he wrote a poem complimenting a guy, the entire Forrester (ha! I didn't realize that both this family and Gene share the same last name) family from The Yearling is gay because they ran around their house naked, and Gene is gay because he shows genuine affection towards his best friend Phineas, and in one scene mentions a guy’s prominent buttocks.
I’m not saying speculation in literature is the source of our problems, but it’s one of those little facets of our culture that contributes to the whole problem. We’ve forbidden guys from connecting with each other on a deep level of friendship. Anything less than a joking cut or a chest bump is bordering on homosexual. God forbid a hug, unless of course you’re only joking about it.
I don’t think men are as connected as they could or should be in today’s time, especially in America. I feel like it’s a recent development—not that I’ve done a lot of research on the subject, but from the cultural history I’ve looked at, men in the past seemed unabashed to express their affection for each other in a more intimate way than just “homeboys.”
The problem with this kind of speculation in school is that we instill the idea in middle and high school that any kind of intimacy between two guys must by default be sexual in nature. The jokes and borderline inappropriate debates are fun at the time, but subconsciously the message we’re sending sticks with the guys—no male affection aloud.
I feel like I’m beating a dead horse, so I’ll just end with this: Most people would agree that Jesus was not gay. And yet, at The Last Supper, he let John lean against his chest. Jesus displayed his love for his disciples with intimate, non-sexual, physical affection. Of course, I know that cultural perception changes, and that the transition back to closer male relationships has to be gradual, but if Jesus lived the perfect, godly life, then who’s to question the acceptability of affectionate male relationships?
As the last book of the semester, all of the eleventh grade English classes read A Separate Peace. The predominant discussion among Juniors for the past three weeks—are Gene and Phineas gay?
The queer question surfaces a lot in older literature, and it drives me crazy. It reinforces every American macho stereotype and contributes as early as middle school to the undercutting of healthy male relationships. You may think I’m being overdramatic, but revisit some of the books you’ve read in school. Shakespeare is gay because he wrote a poem complimenting a guy, the entire Forrester (ha! I didn't realize that both this family and Gene share the same last name) family from The Yearling is gay because they ran around their house naked, and Gene is gay because he shows genuine affection towards his best friend Phineas, and in one scene mentions a guy’s prominent buttocks.
I’m not saying speculation in literature is the source of our problems, but it’s one of those little facets of our culture that contributes to the whole problem. We’ve forbidden guys from connecting with each other on a deep level of friendship. Anything less than a joking cut or a chest bump is bordering on homosexual. God forbid a hug, unless of course you’re only joking about it.
I don’t think men are as connected as they could or should be in today’s time, especially in America. I feel like it’s a recent development—not that I’ve done a lot of research on the subject, but from the cultural history I’ve looked at, men in the past seemed unabashed to express their affection for each other in a more intimate way than just “homeboys.”
The problem with this kind of speculation in school is that we instill the idea in middle and high school that any kind of intimacy between two guys must by default be sexual in nature. The jokes and borderline inappropriate debates are fun at the time, but subconsciously the message we’re sending sticks with the guys—no male affection aloud.
I feel like I’m beating a dead horse, so I’ll just end with this: Most people would agree that Jesus was not gay. And yet, at The Last Supper, he let John lean against his chest. Jesus displayed his love for his disciples with intimate, non-sexual, physical affection. Of course, I know that cultural perception changes, and that the transition back to closer male relationships has to be gradual, but if Jesus lived the perfect, godly life, then who’s to question the acceptability of affectionate male relationships?
Object Lesson
Love is like an orange, and we're losing the art of picking from the orchard.
One of the problems is that most have begun to pick and choose by looking at the peel. People want the brightest, cleanest, biggest, orange-est orange they can find. Spots of dirt or discoloration are unacceptable. Some spend their whole lives looking for this Holy Grail of fruit, but other lucky pickers actually find that perfect orange. With giddiness on their face and butterflies in their stomach, they put that perfect orange up to their lips and take that first big bite--and suddenly the bitterness of the peel makes them gag. Many throw their orange down in disgust and hurry to find the next perfect orange. The first orange just "wasn't the one." That's for sure.
Some figure out that the peel isn't all there is to eat. With courage and investment they take the time to scrape away the outer shell and find the sweet, juicy fruit. However, they don't expect the bitter white pieces of flesh that still cover the orange slices. All they wanted was the sweet fruit--they didn't ask for this other stuff. After tasting this bitter meat, they back out of their commitment to their orange.
If you want a happy, healthy relationship with your orange, you have to take the time to peel away the thick, deceiving skin. Then, you have to see past the little pieces of white flesh in order to enjoy the sweet, juicy fruit.
I might edit this later, these are just my thoughts. :)
One of the problems is that most have begun to pick and choose by looking at the peel. People want the brightest, cleanest, biggest, orange-est orange they can find. Spots of dirt or discoloration are unacceptable. Some spend their whole lives looking for this Holy Grail of fruit, but other lucky pickers actually find that perfect orange. With giddiness on their face and butterflies in their stomach, they put that perfect orange up to their lips and take that first big bite--and suddenly the bitterness of the peel makes them gag. Many throw their orange down in disgust and hurry to find the next perfect orange. The first orange just "wasn't the one." That's for sure.
Some figure out that the peel isn't all there is to eat. With courage and investment they take the time to scrape away the outer shell and find the sweet, juicy fruit. However, they don't expect the bitter white pieces of flesh that still cover the orange slices. All they wanted was the sweet fruit--they didn't ask for this other stuff. After tasting this bitter meat, they back out of their commitment to their orange.
If you want a happy, healthy relationship with your orange, you have to take the time to peel away the thick, deceiving skin. Then, you have to see past the little pieces of white flesh in order to enjoy the sweet, juicy fruit.
I might edit this later, these are just my thoughts. :)
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
NaNoWriMo
I did it. I really did it. I wrote 50,000 words in 30 days, and now my novel is only a few scenes from being completed. It will be the first novel I've ever finished. I've broken down a wall, a barrier that for years stood between me and the success of completion.
Usually, I'll start a great novel idea, and either give up, get bored, or get busy after the first several pages. The story usually doesn't even make it to the computer. But now, now I have 50,000+ words of one continuous story, the most I've ever written for a single idea.
Some days were grueling.Some days I wanted to give up. I did last year, after only 10,000 words. But this year, I had the time, the energy, and the drive to go all in. This was my year, and now, I'm a novelist.
The new title excites me. And it will become even more exciting tomorrow when I can activate my prize for winning. If you reach the 50,000 word goal by November 30, NaNoWriMo will give you a free proof copy of your book. There are six months to edit, and then you email the publishing company your text, and a few days later you receive a bound, tangible copy of your book
I'm excited about what I've done. I'm excited about the editing that's to come. I know most of what I wrote was less than quality, and I look forward to shaping the skeleton that I wrote into something beautiful. I'm excited about getting a copy of my very own novel to place on my bookshelf along with some of my favorite books. I don't know if I can wait until June to get my proof copy.
Should I try and publish? I would have to make it truly amazing. I would have to find an agent and an editor. I would have to pay for an agent and an editor. No, I decide. It's too soon for that kind of success. For now, I should content myself with what I've already accomplished, and continue to develop my writing skills in preparation for the publishing world.
Even if a little of the joy of victory was drowned in the stress of homework last night, I'm still proud of myself, and excited, and ready to jump up and down and upside down and all around the room. I'm ready to run down the halls screaming, "I'm a novelist! I'm a novelist!!" Of course, I'm going to contain my joy; I won't be a nuisance to my peers. For now, I'll quietly celebrate my victory.
Usually, I'll start a great novel idea, and either give up, get bored, or get busy after the first several pages. The story usually doesn't even make it to the computer. But now, now I have 50,000+ words of one continuous story, the most I've ever written for a single idea.
Some days were grueling.Some days I wanted to give up. I did last year, after only 10,000 words. But this year, I had the time, the energy, and the drive to go all in. This was my year, and now, I'm a novelist.
The new title excites me. And it will become even more exciting tomorrow when I can activate my prize for winning. If you reach the 50,000 word goal by November 30, NaNoWriMo will give you a free proof copy of your book. There are six months to edit, and then you email the publishing company your text, and a few days later you receive a bound, tangible copy of your book
I'm excited about what I've done. I'm excited about the editing that's to come. I know most of what I wrote was less than quality, and I look forward to shaping the skeleton that I wrote into something beautiful. I'm excited about getting a copy of my very own novel to place on my bookshelf along with some of my favorite books. I don't know if I can wait until June to get my proof copy.
Should I try and publish? I would have to make it truly amazing. I would have to find an agent and an editor. I would have to pay for an agent and an editor. No, I decide. It's too soon for that kind of success. For now, I should content myself with what I've already accomplished, and continue to develop my writing skills in preparation for the publishing world.
Even if a little of the joy of victory was drowned in the stress of homework last night, I'm still proud of myself, and excited, and ready to jump up and down and upside down and all around the room. I'm ready to run down the halls screaming, "I'm a novelist! I'm a novelist!!" Of course, I'm going to contain my joy; I won't be a nuisance to my peers. For now, I'll quietly celebrate my victory.
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Self-Vomit
Inspired by Langston Hughes's poem "Theme for English B," my AP English teacher told us to write a page about ourselves, that spilled out of us, "like vomit." Here was mine (I know it's not that grammatically sound in all places, but we're making corrections in class, and I might post that later.):
Who am I? Does anybody know? Does anybody even see me? Or are they all staring? They're all staring. Eyes down, don't make a scene. Don't let the secret out. Don't let them know I'm weird. Just act normal.Don't answer the questions the teacher asks. Oh, but I have such a good thought. But what if you're wrong? Everybody will be talking about me. They think I'm weird.
What if I had time, more time? Time to show my peers that I'm not weird, I'm creative! What if I had time to show them the fruits of my creativity? What if school was all Creative Writing, English, Art, Psychology, Piano, Dram, and Animation? Then I could honestly say I love school, and I could hone my crafts to show all my peers. I could share my ideas, my stories.
But no, they're not all that great. Not in their primitive form. And I have no time to evolve my every talent. So, I have to pick and choose just a few to go along with all the important things like Calculus and Chemistry, which we are all destined to use some day.
But until I can prove myself, I must fade into the background and wait for the opportune time--for just the right joke or just the perfect input to come to me. Until then, I have no right to speak. Otherwise, I am weird.
I know I am weird. I watch kids cartoons instead of crime scene dramas, I squeal about books that aren't Twilight, I pace in circles around my room to generate ideas. I hardly get on Facebook to chat, or pull out my phone to text. Instead, I have witty conversations with my favorite story characters. But, I'm not weird in a creepy way, right? I mean, I watch cartoons because I'm interested in animation. And there are thousands of books out there that are more squeal-worthy than Twilight. I get my best ideas when I pace, and the internal dialogue I have with my "imaginary friends" is just an exercise in characterization. It's all explainable, and not all that strange when you hear the full story.
So why am I so afraid of being misjudged? My friends (all 2 1/2 of them) and I joke about how my favorite character is always the one who's misunderstood. I thought it was sympathy, but maybe it's empathy I'm feeling.
Well, I'm out of my page, and I've probably estranged myself from my English teacher, so I shall part with this:
Is it bad that I can relate to all the Paranoid Parrots on Tumblr?
Who am I? Does anybody know? Does anybody even see me? Or are they all staring? They're all staring. Eyes down, don't make a scene. Don't let the secret out. Don't let them know I'm weird. Just act normal.Don't answer the questions the teacher asks. Oh, but I have such a good thought. But what if you're wrong? Everybody will be talking about me. They think I'm weird.
What if I had time, more time? Time to show my peers that I'm not weird, I'm creative! What if I had time to show them the fruits of my creativity? What if school was all Creative Writing, English, Art, Psychology, Piano, Dram, and Animation? Then I could honestly say I love school, and I could hone my crafts to show all my peers. I could share my ideas, my stories.
But no, they're not all that great. Not in their primitive form. And I have no time to evolve my every talent. So, I have to pick and choose just a few to go along with all the important things like Calculus and Chemistry, which we are all destined to use some day.
But until I can prove myself, I must fade into the background and wait for the opportune time--for just the right joke or just the perfect input to come to me. Until then, I have no right to speak. Otherwise, I am weird.
I know I am weird. I watch kids cartoons instead of crime scene dramas, I squeal about books that aren't Twilight, I pace in circles around my room to generate ideas. I hardly get on Facebook to chat, or pull out my phone to text. Instead, I have witty conversations with my favorite story characters. But, I'm not weird in a creepy way, right? I mean, I watch cartoons because I'm interested in animation. And there are thousands of books out there that are more squeal-worthy than Twilight. I get my best ideas when I pace, and the internal dialogue I have with my "imaginary friends" is just an exercise in characterization. It's all explainable, and not all that strange when you hear the full story.
So why am I so afraid of being misjudged? My friends (all 2 1/2 of them) and I joke about how my favorite character is always the one who's misunderstood. I thought it was sympathy, but maybe it's empathy I'm feeling.
Well, I'm out of my page, and I've probably estranged myself from my English teacher, so I shall part with this:
Is it bad that I can relate to all the Paranoid Parrots on Tumblr?
Thursday, November 11, 2010
There's no pot of gold at the end of this Rainbow...
Every Wednesday night, around 9:30, I stand in my shower, washing away spit, finger paint, and goldfish crumbs, thinking There has to be a better way... I volunteer in the toddler (ages 2-4) class at our church, called the "Rainbows," and it can be a nightmare. The situation is already precarious by itself, and with the lack of order and discipline that there is (no, I'm not a dictator, but there has to be some way to keep two four-year-olds from erupting into a screaming contest in the middle of the Bible lesson), the class normally dissolves into utter chaos.
The situation:
There are six Rainbows who come almost weekly to class; they're the Regulars. I'll only use their first initials, just because this is going out on the internet. First, we have E and N, both four, best friends, and the worst trouble-makers in the class, possibly of all time. They yell everything they say, exclude other kids from playing with them, call other kids names, erupt into screaming or kicking contests, and cause general mayhem. Then, there's J and C, our two youngest Rainbows, who are either not really or just barely old enough to be in the class. They don't have much perception for what's actually going on in class, and tend to stray from the craft table, or burst into tears, or get injured by the older kids. A is J's older brother, who is four. He's the goody-good, and thank God for that, but he's also the usual target of E and N's bullying, yet still insists on playing with them. Finally, we have O, who's not really a toddler. He's at least six, but he has autism. He would probably fare better in the nursery, where there's not an actual class going on and he can roam and play with toys to his liking. But, it's just not safe for him to be around the babies. Therefore, he's in the toddler class. If you don't know any of the symptoms of autism, then I'll tell you that O normally runs around the class yelling and babbling, opens and slams the door, eats crayons, glue, and anything he can put in his mouth, and escapes from the room. He has a fascination with the TV and the TV remote, and will go to great lengths to mess with either, which includes standing on chairs, toy tubs, and the train table in order to reach them. He can't help his behavior, but when the other kids see him up and running around the room, they think it's okay for them to do the same. Thus, whenever we try to sit down and have craft time, the kids will start talking or yelling or playing with each other, or they'll get up and start playing with toys. The only time they'll actually come sit at the table is during snack time, and usually then O starts apple juice-binging, drinking up every drop of juice he can get his hands on, and often taking the other kids cups.
Needless to say, the teacher and I are regularly overwhelmed. I don't want you to think these are horrible kids--they're all wonderful, but put together they're a cocktail of disaster. We're constantly having to keep O from hurting himself, and then E and N from disrupting class, and then J and C from wandering away. Then, A and any other kid who comes to the class gets pushed out of the picture, in essence being punished for their good behavior. Isn't there a way to fix this? These kids are preschool age, and I doubt most preschools are this chaotic, even with twice the kids. I feel like there needs to be a discipline and rewards system. Like, a card system, where if your card is green, you're okay; if your card is yellow, you have a warning; and if your card is red, you lose snack. Then, maybe if you do something good, you get a blue card, the reward being something like a cool sticker; and if you get a white card, you get a sticker and a cookie with your snack. Would this work? I don't know. I feel there would be fierce retaliation at first, but after a few weeks, it might help. But, because I'm only the teacher's assistant, and not an adult, I don't feel it's my place to suggest new teaching methods. Besides, this doesn't solve the problem with O, who needs special attention that we can't give him when trying to teach five other kids at the same time. Still, I'm thinking of ways to bring it up without sounding...like I know better than the teacher. But until that day, every Wednesday night will be a chagrin. At least I'm getting community service hours.
The situation:
There are six Rainbows who come almost weekly to class; they're the Regulars. I'll only use their first initials, just because this is going out on the internet. First, we have E and N, both four, best friends, and the worst trouble-makers in the class, possibly of all time. They yell everything they say, exclude other kids from playing with them, call other kids names, erupt into screaming or kicking contests, and cause general mayhem. Then, there's J and C, our two youngest Rainbows, who are either not really or just barely old enough to be in the class. They don't have much perception for what's actually going on in class, and tend to stray from the craft table, or burst into tears, or get injured by the older kids. A is J's older brother, who is four. He's the goody-good, and thank God for that, but he's also the usual target of E and N's bullying, yet still insists on playing with them. Finally, we have O, who's not really a toddler. He's at least six, but he has autism. He would probably fare better in the nursery, where there's not an actual class going on and he can roam and play with toys to his liking. But, it's just not safe for him to be around the babies. Therefore, he's in the toddler class. If you don't know any of the symptoms of autism, then I'll tell you that O normally runs around the class yelling and babbling, opens and slams the door, eats crayons, glue, and anything he can put in his mouth, and escapes from the room. He has a fascination with the TV and the TV remote, and will go to great lengths to mess with either, which includes standing on chairs, toy tubs, and the train table in order to reach them. He can't help his behavior, but when the other kids see him up and running around the room, they think it's okay for them to do the same. Thus, whenever we try to sit down and have craft time, the kids will start talking or yelling or playing with each other, or they'll get up and start playing with toys. The only time they'll actually come sit at the table is during snack time, and usually then O starts apple juice-binging, drinking up every drop of juice he can get his hands on, and often taking the other kids cups.
Needless to say, the teacher and I are regularly overwhelmed. I don't want you to think these are horrible kids--they're all wonderful, but put together they're a cocktail of disaster. We're constantly having to keep O from hurting himself, and then E and N from disrupting class, and then J and C from wandering away. Then, A and any other kid who comes to the class gets pushed out of the picture, in essence being punished for their good behavior. Isn't there a way to fix this? These kids are preschool age, and I doubt most preschools are this chaotic, even with twice the kids. I feel like there needs to be a discipline and rewards system. Like, a card system, where if your card is green, you're okay; if your card is yellow, you have a warning; and if your card is red, you lose snack. Then, maybe if you do something good, you get a blue card, the reward being something like a cool sticker; and if you get a white card, you get a sticker and a cookie with your snack. Would this work? I don't know. I feel there would be fierce retaliation at first, but after a few weeks, it might help. But, because I'm only the teacher's assistant, and not an adult, I don't feel it's my place to suggest new teaching methods. Besides, this doesn't solve the problem with O, who needs special attention that we can't give him when trying to teach five other kids at the same time. Still, I'm thinking of ways to bring it up without sounding...like I know better than the teacher. But until that day, every Wednesday night will be a chagrin. At least I'm getting community service hours.
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