Tootzers

Salty. This word usually associates itself with taste, but I will use this descriptor to define my attitude this week. Weirdly enough, my salty demeanor leads me to become outrageously eccentric, including uncontrollable laughter and a high-pitched whiny voice that irritates my own ears. Anyway, today as I sulked over to my anatomy group, sat down without saying a word, and did my “group work” completely alone, my fellow AP English classmate, Elliot, pointed out my apparent impudent attitude. And somehow this turned into a “let’s all make fun of Becky” hour. I believe that Elliot created this bantering to discontinue the dirty looks that were thrown his way for trying to converse with me. The topic Elliot chose: my obsession with my dog. I do not feel that strong affection felt towards a pet in any way, shape, or form should be considered bad. I feel that excessive love for animals lives as a common feeling for teenage girls. But whatever, let’s all laugh about it. Once we fully divulged into my affection for my Pembroke Welsh Corgi, Tootsie, I realized how much I really am obsessed with her. Not only did I force my group members to “oooh” and “aahh” over Instagram-edited pictures of my pet, I forced my teacher to participate in the mandatory admiration. After my dramatic whining about how adorable my Champion in Show dog looked, many other peers decided to join in on making fun of my beloved K9. Maybe making Tootsie a Facebook two years ago with my family over winter break crossed the line. Maybe I deserved the harassment I received from my classmates. Maybe I should not have cried when my guy friends stole my dog right out of my house and drove her around my neighborhood for twenty minutes. I still cringe when I visualize my cherished dog in the back of Grant Lingafelter’s Jeep, immobilized by fear. (They claim she loved it, but I highly doubt it) Maybe the heated words I spat at my girlfriends for helping my friends dog-nap Tootsie did not need to leave my mouth. Maybe I should not routinely wear and flaunt my Corgi socks. Maybe the best Halloween costume for Tootsie this year was not a hotdog. Maybe I should not take it personally when my friends call Tootsie “fish dog” for her rancid breath, or make fun of her short legs and beady eyes. But I believe that a dog truly remains man’s best friend. And yeah, maybe my obsession with Tootsie remains on the extreme side, but I do not believe I am the only one with a pet obsession….ELLIOT.   

True Life: I'm Obsessed with Eye Lashes

Almost every dancer confidently affirms that their favorite part of dancing lives in the performance aspect. And the week leading up to a big performance sends nervous shivers and excited tremors through the dancer’s body. Every day this week, I have dreamt of my performance of Mama Mia this weekend. Not only performing, but embarrassingly enough, the pre-performance rituals. I strangely possess an obsession with eye lashes. Some of my friends make fun at me and call them spider lashes while the others compliment me on my weird obsession. Either way, I love them. And I kid you not, every day this week, I have dreamt of placing fake eyelashes on the rim of my eye and feeling the lashes stretch past my eyebrows and tickle my forehead. I understand how weird this sounds, but I am not the only one who feels this way! My fellow dancers and I all undergo this feeling of adoration toward fake eyelashes and putting on pounds of make-up. But, why? I feel that this act of concealment parallels to Gatsby’s disguising actions after he witnessed Daisy murder Myrtle in The Great Gatsby. Instead of frantically torching his car or running away to some desolate island, he took a long, peaceful swim in his private swimming pool. Then the question arises…does Gatsby actually not care about the violent murder? Or, is he just masking his emotions, like the concealing powers of make-up, with the thoughtless actions of a leisurely swim? We will never find out. But I know that in my case, I purposefully cake on the make-up, glue the fake eyelashes, and sprinkle the glitter, for my purpose remains to pretend to live as someone else. And just like a five year old child, I enjoy dressing up and playing pretend more than anything else in the world.

GUYS, I FIGURED IT OUT!

At first, I did not know the reason. Actually, I did not know a problem existed. If any of you happened to stumble upon my blog post from last week, you probably noticed that I kind of went on an emotional rampage, attempting to make excuses as to why I do not talk in class discussion. I knew I possessed a problem, and I did not know the answer. But I think I found it. Get ready, things are about to get personal. I surprisingly found the answer to my problem in the character Gatsby. But, I will not give all the credit to this tangled fictional character. Whether Ms. Serensky knows it or not, she assisted me in completing my search for what remains wrong with me. First, after asking what could possibly be wrong with me, Ms. Serensky went on to give me a little pep talk. And as I walked out of her classroom today, I discovered it. THE ANSWER! A man who possesses all the money anyone could ever ask for and enjoys the company of many people who remain enthralled by his existence holds a flaw. A single flaw that he covers up by his ravish parties and pleased smile. A flaw that I first discovered in my reading last night. The great and distinguished Gatsby lives as an insecure man. And I do not know if he even knows it. Then the light bulb went off! I can confidently state that I remain the busiest person I know. And I love every minute of my crazy lifestyle. Every day I go to school, go to the gym, go to dance until ten, and then do my homework. And most of the time, I end up waking up at five in the morning because I fell asleep doing my homework. Oh, and did I mention that I work three jobs!  The addiction to my hectic activities sometimes leaves me blind to what I actually am feeling. I discovered today that I have become insecure. Like Gatsby, I cover up my lack of self-confidence with mind boggling undertakings, as he covers up his anxiety with parties and money. The strangest thing subsides in the fact that I never have been insecure before. I lead the Varsity Cheerleading squad for the past two years. I received a lead in every dance production I took part in since tenth grade. I remain confident and positive during these moments. But once I step inside of a situation where I feel intellectually inferior to the people surrounding me, I lose it. Which remains why I struggle to talk in discussion and express my opinion. I keep putting myself down, but I know I possess what it requires to take Advanced Placement English. I just need to move past this bizarre feeling of self-doubt and know that I can do it.

The Silent Treatment

Lately, I’m always the one. The one who everyone glimpses at during the awkward silence, my peers speculating if I inhabit the will to fill the void with an intelligent discovery of Myrtle’s disposition. I remain the one who feels Ms. Serensky’s eyes glaring at my downturned head, unable to look up because I consciously feel the “Come on Becky, TALK!!” expression that shoots from her eyeballs. The cause might lay in the fact that my parents just paid my enrollment and housing deposit at The University of Alabama. The cause also might lay in the senioritis that runs through my veins, which were apparent my sophomore year of high school. Or finally, the cause might remain that I just don’t have anything to say. I will fully admit that I remain intimidated during the intellectual discussions that take place on a day to day basis. I know for a fact that I do not obtain a membership to the “smart group,” my own personal classification of who could easily write for The New York Times or become a prestigious doctor at The Cleveland Clinic. Don’t get me wrong, I do not think I view myself as stupid. But, I take Advanced Placement English to challenge myself. I know that I do not exist as the Ivy League type, but I like to surround myself with people who live as that type. But throughout class, I endure listening to my classmates discuss the points that I wanted to discuss. Not only do I endure just them taking my points, but they find a particular underlying meaning of the simple anecdote. But that’s not all! They also say it in a way, using literary devices and advanced vocabulary that leaves me speechless. Literally. But wait, it gets better. Other people find themselves in this same predicament. Their point already made, and they need to say something so a check can reside next to their name. So, they repeat the same exact point with the same exact quotes, and twist the wording up. Yay, overkill! And now, I remain completely speechless. I know I need to find an answer to this problem, for my grade will most likely suffer due to my silence during discussion. But sometimes, I just don’t have anything to say.

The World Outside "The Bubble"

Oh, the woes of arriving to a brand new school. Imagine, arriving to a school where everyone knows each other. LIFERS!! This term not only makes me nauseous, but makes me weirdly thankful. When I lived in Charlotte, North Carolina, I attended an extremely diverse elementary school and middle school.   A lovely mixture of African Americans, Indians, Asians, and Hispanics. I grew up around all different types of people, forcing me to accept and love any type of person, no matter their race. Imagine the culture shock I endured when I moved into the bubble! I lived as one confused thirteen year old. Consequently, as I read Roddy Doyle’s New Boy, a surge of memories swarmed my brain. I felt the same confusion and anxiety that young Joseph experienced. It happens to every new kid. The uncomfortable out-of-place sentiment. At the time of the move, I full heartedly believed that my life ended. I believed that I could not survive. Forced to leave my best friends behind and discover new friends. Forced to live in a sea of white. To my surprise, however, when I visited my friends in Charlotte this past weekend, I underwent an astonishing revelation. I missed the bubble. I missed the small town. I did not even know what to think! And get this…I discovered, when I made it back to Chagrin, that I missed Charlotte! So I guess the cliché phrase remains true. You always want what you cannot have. But no matter who I miss, and who I don’t, I am tremendously thankful for my past. It taught me more than I imagined. The difference between big city and small town and the difference between diversity and uniformity. I believe that moving at such a key time in my life really will positively impact me in the long run. I lived in both worlds, and I know what the world outside of the Chagrin bubble looks like. Hip hip hooray for non-lifers!

The Person I Want To Be

As I sat down yesterday, determined to start and finish my blog entry, a mental breakdown ensued. Writer’s block at its finest. I searched and scrambled through my notebook, certain I could find something that I could write about. And, to my dismay, I found nothing. I calmly told myself that everything would be okay, that something would pop into my head…the usual pep talk. After going to bed without writing a word, I felt defeated. As I walked into Ms. Serensky’s room this Halloween morning, I remembered my failure yesterday, and how disappointed she would be in me. My eyes automatically lingered above her head to her quote, written in neat blue letters. It read, “Never mind searching for who you are. Search for the person you aspire to be. – Robert Brault.” It was as if Ms. Serensky felt my pain and suffering and decided to put a quote on the board that I could write about for years. It pertained to my life, and better yet, it pertained to this very week. As many of my peers know, I aspire to dance for the rest of my life. I want to own a dance studio and ignite the passion in young dancers as my teachers did me. It’s my dream. I want to be a dancer. I want to be a dance instructor. The common reaction when I tell adults my aspiration remains a big, fake smile and a wimpy, “good luck!” But, I know I can do it. I searched for who I want to be, and I found it. Therefore, tomorrow morning, I will rise and shine many hours before the sun will rise and drive to Columbia, South Carolina, where I will audition to become a dance major at the University of South Carolina. I am not going to find out what kind of person I am, I am going to become the person I want to be.

Love is Life

"She did not want to leave it yet" (270). The juxtaposition. The change in feeling. The change of heart. Olive Kitteridge wanted to live. Only a few weeks before, Olive explained, "I don't care if i die...I'd like it" (254). Thinking about it, I do care if I die, I am just not afraid of death. Vast difference. Death does not loom over me like a haunting shadow. I know that it will come, and that it remains inevitable. I can not escape it. My heart will "someday stop, as all hearts do" (269). But, unlike Olive, I do care. I want to fight for my life, try to live as long as possible. Live everyday to the fullest. I believe Olive's change of heart came with the sensation of passion and love. Laying in the sunny room with Jack Kennison, feeling nothing but love and wanting. It lit her spark again. She wanted to live. Author, Elizabeth Stout, claims that every human being needs to be needed. No matter how old or how young, love remains what keeps people alive. I have seen it with my very own eyes. My grandfather had found a soul mate. Although lung cancer took my grandmother away from him at the ripe age of 62, he had found another love.  Zella Davidson. They were madly in love with each other, spending all day together. They decided it would be best not to marry, for they both knew how old each of them were becoming. After a happy two years together, Zella was diagnosed with stage four brain cancer. A month later, she passed away. My grandpa was ripped apart. We all knew he was not going to live much longer after Zella died. He did not have anything to look forward to when he woke up in the morning. All of the compassion and love in his life vanished. A short four months later, he was gone. Living proof. Love is life.

The Walking Dead

Let's play a game. Would you rather. The fun game where decision making meets humor. Would you rather have all the phobias known to man-kind, or have to slowly skin your family and pets alive? That's a good one. Ready for another? Would you rather die, or live as a vegetable? Well, in the case of Henry Kitterage, vegetable it is. Having suffered from a stroke, Henry, the once outgoing, friendly, popular man, now can not talk or see. Hearing remains the question. Can Henry hear his wife's whispers into his ear, telling him about his son and daughter-in-law? His wife, Olive, will never know. No sign of recognition or idenification in his movements. Just a confused, smiling stare. Olive tries to communicate with her husband. "'Squeeze my hand if you understand,"' she would whisper, hoping a small movement would occur in her husband's hand (147). But "his hand did not squeeze her's" (147). In the case of my Grandfather, vegetation was not an option. The moment he was rushed to the hospital and put on the ventilator, the cord was cut. As soon as we walked into the hospital, we told them to let him go. He always would ask me, who would want to live like that? It's not living. I believe that Olive's decision to let Henry live in a state where no one was sure if he was there or not is wrong. Nobody deserves to live like that. You're just the walking dead.

A Juxtaposing Mixture

When first diving into the chapter, Starving in Elizabeth Strout's book, Olive Kitteridge, I met Harmon. And I admit, I judged Harmon too quickly. At first I saw him as a uncanny, elderly man, lurking around and staring at young, juvenile girls. But he grew on me. I gained access into his everyday life. Living a life with a woman who he do not love anymore. Secretly seeing Daisy Foster. Most would view this complicated love fiasco as immoral. I, on the other hand, feel a juxtaposing mixture of pride and dissapointment. Pride in the fact that Harmon found an escape from his nagging wife, Bonnie. Finding a distraction from his pathetic life. He "felt blue" around the happiest time of the year, spending it with his non-existent grandchildren and his badgering wife (100). Pride that Harmon admitted to "have fallen in love with [Daisy]), fully confessing his compassion for his secret mistress (102). Pride that Harmon realized that everyone searches and desires the intimate feelings of love and benevolence. Pride in the fact that Harmon found "ferocious and full blown love" in Daisy (103). Dissapointment in his cowardly deceptions to his wife. Strout, making the assertion that all humans want to be wanted, forced me to feel more happiness in Harmon's deceitful ways than dissapointment. But, however, Bonnie deserves the right to the harsh truth. Her realtionship with Harmon remains distant and not what it used to be. She deserves to know that he has moved on. She deserves the opportunity to move on and find her spark again. She deserves love too.

All Wrong

It was one of those moments when you're wondering, what is happening? Why is that happening? And how can I make it stop? All at once, the island of San Lorenzo turned into mass chaos. One thing after another. "Papa" Monzano died. A plane crashed into the castle. The castle turned to ruins. Ice-nine killed almost every person on the island. All because of Felix. It all came back to him. The clash of science, religion, and destiny. And "no life" could be seen (269). There "were thousands upon thousands of dead" (272). But why? How could this happen to all the citizens of San Lorenzo? Why are the only surviors the visitors to the island? Oh, the irony. They had given nothing to benefit the desperate island, and they were the only ones alive. I just kept asking myself, why? The end of Kurt Vonnegut's novel left me angry and troubled. The wrong people had lost their lives. And the wrong ones lived.

You Can

I am a firm believer that if you work hard enough, you can live anywhere in the world. Anywhere your heart desires. Save your money, look for jobs, and make things work. It is your life and you have full control of what you do with it. Yes, I understand that people are poor and get stuck in ruts, feeling so overwhelmed that they can't seem to get out of the downward spiral of poverty. Yes, I might be a little biased since I have never faced any adversity in my life, living in the wealthy bubble of Chagrin Falls. But why would anyone choose to live in a place like San Lorenzo? Described in Kurt Vonnegut's novel, Cat's Cradle, San Lorenzo was founded by Johnson and McCabe, two hopeful men looking to build a prosperous nation. They found the nation in a miserable state. San Lorzenzo was built of "twigs, tin, crates, and mud" and was a "sour mash of slop" (133). Looking to turn the island in the other direction, Johnson and McCabe failed horrendously. And so did the new leader, "Papa" Monzano. Therefore, "everybody was bound to fail" in the helpless country (133). With the depressed diciton of "helpless," Vonnegut creates a dispairing tone, indirectly characterizing the citizens of San Lorzenzo as hopeless, inflicting pathos on them. And to my surprise and dismay, I learned that there lived four hundred and fifty inhabitants for every square mile. With such a depressed and forlorn economy, I couldn't help but question myself why so many individuals took to living there? The only wealthy people of San Lorzenzo were the people in charge of the government, letting their citizens struggle. I just wanted them all to leave. Find a better place, before it is too late.

Love at first sight?

I've always been unsure on how I feel about love at first sight. Granted, I have never been in love, so how could I judge such a thing? Well, I did. The protagonist Jonah, in Kurt Vonnegut's Cat's Cradle, conveys his love for "the girl on the cover" of the New York Sunday Times (80). Jonah claims that he "had fallen in love with [Mona] on sight" (80). Without knowing anything about this mysterious Mona Aamons Monzano, Jonah uses this enigmatic woman as the force behind his meaningless life (85). He dreames of being with Mona for the rest of his life, and uses Mona as the purpose behind him living. I would like to believe that this can possibly happen in life, finding a beautiful girl to devote your life and love, but I can't. Actually, I find it somewhat immoral. Basing love off of looks seems iniquitous to me, for I believe that many more aspects go into true love. I feel that once Jonah had the pleasure of being with Mona, he realized that too. Although he did love her for her beauty and grace, he found that she "loves everyone" because it makes people happy (207). He only wanted Mona to love him and only him. With this conflict, Jonah became controlling and jealous, ordering Mona to stop loving others. With this I question, would he have fallen in love with her if he knew of her loving personality? Who knows.

Indecisive

After finishing the book, "The Submission" by Amy Waldman, I felt very indifferent. Good and bad. Right and wrong. These juxtaposing feelings left me at the end of the novel. After Mohammad Khan's grueling fight for justice and equality, he gave in. Khan had given up his life to show the nation that he should build the memorial for the September 11th attacks. Residing in hotels, disconnecting his phone, and barely showing up for work, all for the contest. But in the end, was it all worth it? He dropped out of the contest, gave up his fight. To prove what? A innocent Muslim American women died for the fight. Mohammad could not walk down the street without starting an argument with a pedestrian against his design. And he gave up. But, twenty years later, Khan lives as a successful business man. Owning his own firm, designing buildings for major individuals. Good and bad. Right and wrong. He should have won. He should have fought. But at what cost? These numerous questions raced in my head afer finishing the novel. I'm indecisive.

The Sunday Night Dinner

Not regularly does the Black family gather around the dining room table. But this past Sunday, there remained no other option. "Family night!" my mom exclaimed. A way to trap your kids inside, take away all electronic devices, and just sit and talk. Through the course of my meal, we chatted about colleges, applications, some more colleges, and......colleges. Eager to change the topic of conversation, I introduced my family to Mohammad Khan from Amy Waldman's novel, "The Submission." After explaining the fictional controversy faced in the novel, I asked my parents their opinions on the topic of morality. The conflict being a Muslim American winning a contest to build the memorial for the September 11th attacks. Right or wrong? Both Mom and Dad thought intensely, chewing their food slowly and glancing at the ceiling. And, not surprisingly, they both held the same opinion. "He won fair and square." They both felt, however, that many families of the deceased would feel hurt and betrayed by a Muslim building the memioral for their loved ones, due to the fact that Muslims remained the ones who took their family member away. But, however deep the feelings against him, Mohammad Khan remained the victor. This universal confict truly uncovers the issues with different religions and races aparent in today's society.

The Question of Morality

Ever since the attacks on September 11, 2001, Muslim Americans live as a target for blame and critizism for their religion. I personally have watched Muslim Americans go through rigorous pat-downs at airports, witnessed Americans pointing and staring at women clothed in traditional Muslim headscarfs, and seen the discrimination Muslim Americans face when they bare the name Mohammad or Aamir. Amy Waldman's novel, "The Submission," uncovers the prejudice Muslim Americans faced after the horrifying attacks. After submitting his design in the anonymous contest for choosing the memorial for the September 11th attacks, Mohammad Khan won. Well, kind of. After the selective jury, who picked Khan's design, "The Garden," learned the name of the Muslim winner, everything went haywire. The American public did not want a Muslim American designer to build the memorial for the thousands of lives lost in the tragety caused by Muslim terrorists. Khan, urged to drop out of the contest and abdicate his win, stood strong. I believe that Khan's actions remained morally correct. Winning the contest fair and square due to his astonishing design, Khan deserved to win the contest. Background check after background check, interview after interview, Khan remained an innocent, clean-cut American. Although the news of a Muslim designing the memorial caused the families of the deceased great alarm and hurt, the true nature of a contest already ran it's course and chose it's winner. Now, the question of morality begins.