It's Been Real

I thought this day would never come. And frankly, I thought I would possess more feelings of sadness and nostalgia. But sitting here on the second to last day of high school, I could not feel happier. I know for a fact that the sadness will set in, but not today. But for time’s sake, I want to take a trip down memory lane. Let’s time travel back to February. Oh, I do not like February. But, it’ll do. The first thing I notice makes me cringe. A blustering snowstorm can be seen through the third story window on this cold February afternoon. Despite the gloominess in the air, Ms. Serensky sits at her desk alert and ready to teach. Although it sometimes proved rather annoying, I admire Ms. Serensky’s dedication and determination. These two attributes make her the great teacher she is. As I sit in the back of the classroom, an imaginary figure looking over my old self, I notice Ms. Serensky’s commitment. Every one of my classmates, including myself, entered the classroom with misery written all over their faces. We slouched in our chairs, sighed, and whined when asked to put forth any sort of effort. But Ms. Serensky pulled it off. She successfully forced all of her students to learn and participate. Although the discussion topic sometimes deviated from the serious note of Rorschach’s arrest to the humorous, yet aggravating conversation about how much everyone hates Laurie, Ms. Serensky put us back in line when we had our fun. And watching our class as an outsider made me appreciate Ms. Serensky’s methods. Despite the fact that I dreaded every discussion and data sheet, I now know how much it helped me grow. Not only did the pain and misery help me grow as a student, but it helped me grow as a person. Without this trip down memory lane, I would not have realized how much AP English has impacted my high school career. I can complain and whine about it for hours on end, as I believe we all could. But in the end, we all know how much it has helped us. And we all know for sure that Ms. Serensky’s voice will always live in the back of our minds forever, telling us to shut up and move fast.
Thank you Ms. Serensky for two amazing years!!

Just Do It

You want to be a scholar? I congratulate you, and feel pretty bad for you at the same time. Sorry, I’m being honest. Please carefully read the following 10 steps. Let me help you receive a decent grade and make it out of there alive.

1.       Listen to everything Ms. Serensky tells you. She will remind you of this statement numerous times throughout your English career, but actually do it. If you follow her lead, you will reach success.

2.       Make sure you possess self-confidence. You will spend almost every single day of AP English discussing the events that transpired in your reading the previous night. And yes, you have to talk.

3.       Annotate your reading. Yes, I understand it sucks. I understand it kind of ruins the pleasure of reading. But you want to survive, don’t you?

4.       Learn how to perform under pressure. There’s never a dull moment in the ice cold classroom. (Bring a sweatshirt) It spans from writing essays, to speed dating worksheets, to stressful data sheets. Everything you do in AP English will bring you stress. You will just have to get used to it.

5.       Actually memorize every last detail of the literary devices you will receive. Do not think you can get away with doing the bare minimum with anything you do in English. You will use those particular literary devices and terms for the next two years of your life. And you will sound smarter if you use a bunch of different ones in your essay examples! Winner!

6.       Just do not ask questions. Wait and ask one of your smarter friends.

7.       Do not forget anything. Pens, pencils, books, binder, notes, and your brain. Also, do not forget to use the restroom before class. You cannot escape the room once you have entered.

8.       Do not miss school. Just go through the torture with everyone else instead of receiving a larger work load to do by yourself out of class.

9.       No matter who your writing partner is, make sure you keep them in your best interest. You will be getting rather close with them and enduring the pain right along with them. Remember, you have a 642034 point data sheet to do with them.

10.   Try to possess a positive attitude. I will be the first one to tell you that AP English is not the best part of your day. But it not only made me a stronger writer, but it made me a stronger person. Stick with it till the end. Never give up. Good luck.

It's Hard To Always Win

I love pulling into school in the morning. I just love it. Witnessing the morning sun shining against my name and my accomplishment for the whole world to see. Girls in Science National Grand Prize Winner. Aww yeah. That’s me. What a great start to my day. As I walk from AP class to AP class, I know that everyone knows who I am. I am the winner. My name is displayed. I know that some people feel intimidated by my intelligence, but I try my best to be humble. I mean, I have only taken 57 AP classes and only got a 49 on my ACT. I could have done better, tried harder. I need to make sure I involve myself in more extracurricular actives. What do I do today? Hmm. Well right after school I need to go volunteer at the botanical gardens and make sure all the plants are in perfect condition. No worries, the science guru can help any withering flower. Once I am done there, I need to race (under 30 miles per hour) to the barn. Trotting around an excited white ribbon horse is a breeze for this horse whisperer. What time is it? 5:30 already?! Henry can’t be alone during the dinner hour. I rush over to my night job as a busser and help Henry clean tables. Our teamwork is unstoppable. Barker and I hold the national title for fastest bussed table in the country. Yeah, it’s whatever. After the restaurant is spotless, I head home to study. After I finish my 9.5 hours of homework, I write a 6 page persuasive essay on why the biodegradable mechanisms of trash bags are faulty. Hopefully it will win me another national title.

The Wannabe Southern Belle

I already made the mistake of doing it once, and I will not do it again. When my mother and I endured the 15 hour road trip down to Tuscaloosa, Alabama for the University of Alabama PanHellenic Preview Weekend, we did not know what we were getting ourselves into. I, along with 1,500 other anxious girls attending Bama next fall, watched a fashion show explaining each detail of what we should wear during rush, heard about the 16 recommendation letters we need, and toured all the sorority houses. As I placed my name tag around my neck at the beginning of the day, I did not know why I selected my real name. REBECCA BLACK. Although it served as a decent conversation starter, some people thought I lied. “Your name is Rebecca Black?!? Oh my God, no its not! Hahah Friday Friday!!” And…I was sung to the rest of the day. So for starters, I do not want to be known as THE Rebecca Black. We’re going to stick to Becky. I can’t endure mocking renditions of the hit song “Friday.” No way, no how. Furthermore, I want to stay true to who I am and let the people I meet see my true personality. I have heard from several sources about how rush this fall will easily be the most stressful event of my college career. Endless interviews, socials, parties, and judgment. I mean, The University of Alabama has the largest Greek Organization in the country. It’s cut-throat man. And although I truly want to be a southern belle with a thick southern accent, (and will be that girl one day) I need to remember where I came from and how I became the person I am today. I want to be viewed as the strong individual that I am. Full of confidence and always (well, usually) a great person to be around. I want people to understand and appreciate my blunt personality along with my usually inappropriate, yet funny, sense of humor. I hope that I can find classmates who take me for who I am and help me reach my full potential. I want to be viewed as someone who cares about others and wants the best for herself and everyone who she comes in contact with. But all in all, I know one thing for sure. I do not want to be known as THE Rebecca Black. I don’t even like Fridays that much.

The Simple Fix

Dear Pathetic Girlfriend,

If he does not love you anymore, dump him first. Stop spending so much time worrying about why he does not like you, and find someone who cares for you.

Ms. Serensky

Buddy the Elf, What's Your Favorite Movie?

Although I constantly fail at knowing the names of actors and actresses who star in chart-topping movies, I do consider myself a movie buff. Why? Well my mother and I, in an attempt to spend more time together, go to the movies almost every Sunday afternoon. So I do see movies quite often and I look forward to my Sunday movie day all week. Although I have seen many fantastic and memorable movies, it remains pretty easy to pick out my favorite. Many would assume I would say one of the Harry Potter movies since I read each book around 5 times, they came out on my birthday every year, and I dressed up as Hermione until I was seventeen. Yes, the world of Harry Potter is the definition of my childhood, but I just cannot pin-point one of the movies to name as my favorite. So, I picked another movie that I watched incessantly throughout my upbringing. Not only did it fill my heart with Christmas cheer, but it filled my mouth with hilarious one-liners. “Elf.” When I first saw that movie in 2003, I believe I watched it around twenty times that holiday season. Not only did it bring me holiday cheer while I lived in a place where it stood at 50 degrees during the winter (I’m not saying I like snow, because I despise it), but it made me happy at all times of the year. It became a family tradition of watching “Elf” at least three times during Christmas break, and it never ceased to make my entire family laugh. And throughout the rest of the year, my best friend Mason and I would watch it every single month. Whenever we needed a little pick-me-up or just had nothing better to do, we watched “Elf.” Hands down. We knew every single line, every single song, and every single sound effect. We spent the duration of the movie listening to our own interpretation of the movie instead of listening to the actual thing. And it made us happy every time. Therefore, I believe that the reason that “Elf” wins my favorite movie award is not just because it brings my family together and promotes the holiday cheer, but it reminds me of the memorable times I had with my best friend. I just wish that Mason and I could get together and watch it during the holiday season every year considering the fact that my family established a rule that I am not allowed to recite any lines. What’s the fun in that?

A Tasty Afternoon Snack

He reaches his pudgy fingers into his greasy hair

Itching around with his overgrown fingernails.

He tries to keep his craving a secret,

But he doesn’t know that I am watching

When he feels that he has enough under his talons,

He excitedly examines the treasure that he acquired,

And rapidly munches on the scalp skin he found.

If you think I am kidding, I am sorry to say

I watched this boy eat what he picked off his oily head

Every. Single. Day.

Honestly, I found it difficult picking a topic that remained school appropriate. So, I thought I could write about something disgusting that happened during school. I thought back to a time where I wanted to vomit sitting in Spanish 3 my junior year. Said boy, to my dismay, loved eating his own scalp skin. Not only was his body odor enough to make me sick to my stomach, but his greasy snack literally made me gag every single day.  I believe that many of my descriptive word choices enhance the grotesque scene, allowing the reader to gain an image of what I went through every single day. Also, the fact that this event actually happened arouses discomfort. The idea that that person sitting next to you could feast on their left over skin left in their slimy hair. I believe this story not only arouses discomfort, but arouses fear. The fear of witnessing this occurrence. The fear of watching this boy devour his afternoon snack.

YOBEO: You'll Only Be Eleven Once

Dear Becky,

You keep on rocking the moose and seagull logos. However, you really can show up to school without wearing Abercrombie or Hollister. But if you really want to wear plaid Hollister bermudas with the matching layered polo with the popped collar, you go for it. You might want to think about losing the black and pink etnie skater shoes though. Kind of clashes with your preppy, Abercrombie model wannabe look.  

I applaud you on listening to music all the time. My eighteen year old self heard a fact not too long ago about how the music you listen to when you are eleven and twelve mean the most to you in your life. And I still shamelessly whimper and reminisce when I hear any of the billboard top 100 from fifth grade. Play “Hollaback Girl,” “1,2 Step,” “Gold Digger,” and “Candy Shop” on repeat. They’ll still make you happy in seven years.  

I know that you were just shoved into middle school a year early. It’s not your fault that you have 540 kids in your grade and they don’t have room for you at the elementary school anymore. I know you get frustrated being in class with 40 other kids, but you’ll learn just fine. You’re actually considered smart! I’m going to break the news to you now. You’re going to move in three years. 800 miles away. But, you’ll survive! Spend as much time as you can with your friends, and cherish every moment you have with them. They will still be your best friends in seven years.

There remains only one piece of advice that I really want you to understand. You need to cherish every moment. You will think about your middle school years very frequently when you grow up. You are not normal, therefore, you’re middle school years will be some of your favorite years of your life. Make memories every day. Take a million pictures. Make as many friends as you can. Be fearless. Involve yourself in a million activities. And have fun! You can only be eleven once.

The Miracle of the Second Hand

Not everyone gains a second chance at life.  Thankfully, miracles do happen. This miracle in particular took place right before my eyes.

My best friend’s father voyaged to the doctor’s office after battling what he believed to be common cold. After a quick examination, he was immediately life-flighted to the hospital and diagnosed with viral and bacterial pneumonia, then swine flu. After the news reached my household, I was told to prepare for the worst, for the chances of survival were slim to none. I learned that as the sickness crept deeper into his body, he started to shut down. For two and half months, the machines remained the only thing keeping him alive. On seven different occasions, his family received a call from the doctors, asking them to come to the hospital and say their goodbyes. Seven times they traveled to the hospital, prepared to see their loved one for the last time. He lived as the sickest man in the entire nation. His name was seen on prayer lists of churches around the country. Miraculously, his soul never perished. He fought on. Slowly and steadily he made progress with the help of the innovative technology. At the end of it all, the machines only sustained his vital organs. Both legs and his right arm were amputated.

And he received a second hand.

Not only a second hand, but a second chance at life. Through the power of prayer, combined with his resilient fight for life, he lives as one of the happiest men I know today. Every time he uses his second hand, he remembers the miracle that occurred. And every single day, when he attaches his second hand to his arm, he remains thankful for the life he was given.  He does not become frustrated when his second hand does not do what he wants it to do. He does not feel anger when he remembers all of the things he used to be able to do when he possessed an ordinary hand. He views his second hand as a gift. His second hand is a miracle.

Bun Head Hardships

6:00. It’s time. Run. My fellow prima ballerina’s race down the salt covered hallway, into the back nook of the dance studio where the race begins. Who will make it into ballet class first, winning the spot at the front of the barre?! I choose to start with the bun. My disheveled ponytail, tousled by my previous jazz class, is quickly swept up into a tight, neat ponytail. I quickly snatch my convenient handheld hairspray and harden the wispy baby hairs into an invincible mold. I quickly twist the horse mane into a cinnabon shape, tying another hairband around the snug knot. I scramble to find the four extra-long bobby pins I need to accurately secure my professional grade ballerina bun. I bite open my first pin, and stab it into my skull. I wince when I feel the piercing pain, but I do not want to be sat out because my bun fell apart. Not this girl. After I inserted the remaining three pins, I violently shake my head, checking that my bun remains immovable. What’s next?! I panic, looking around at my supplies that surround my feet. JAZZ SHOES? Fix it! I hastily strip my jazz shoes off my feet and sit down to endure the process of putting on my pointe shoes. I cram my foot into the hard shoe, forcing my toes to face the solid block of wood that resides at the bottom of the shoe. Once my heel enters, I quickly wrap the ribbons around my ankles. Over, under, over, under, knot, tuck. I regained my focus and repeated the process on my other foot. Only one thing left, the easiest task of them all. Leotard. I rapidly slip the bright blue leotard onto my body, untangling the straps around my shoulders. I am ready. I gallop to the studio, dodging the salty residue on the floor due to the snow storm. I made it. I won. Front of the barre for me!

TBH :) lol like my status and i'll tell you how I feel

TBH. This expression, which exploded over social media in the past year, still makes me laugh. Immature eighth graders posted their Facebook status as, “TBH!! ;) Like & I will post what I think about u in ur inbox lol.” The anxiously awaited message most likely read, “To be honest, I love you soooo much and you’re soooooo pretty and sooooo cool.” Oh, the honest truth! After trying to describe my blog entries for this semester, I can firmly say that most of my posts were “TBH” material. It started with my life ambitions and how I so desperately want my dreams to come true. The next blogs consisted of how much I hate the term, Chagrin “lifers,” how I did not talk in class and did not care, and how I realized that I feel stupid all the time. The serious tone transitioned to a more embarrassing honesty, such as how I am obsessed with eyelashes, and my unfaltering love for my Pembroke Welsh Corgi. Through all of these honest writings, I believe my most well-written blog post, and coincidentally my most truthful and heartfelt blog, remained “GUYS, I FIGURED IT OUT!” This blog describes my obviously exciting discovery to the fact that I feel inferior when surrounded by people who I believe retain a higher intelligence level than myself.  I wondered in the past week’s blog as to why I did not talk in discussion, which completely juxtaposes my personality. After soul searching and a little help from my dedicated English teacher, I found the answer to my problem. And since writing the blog, I regained my confidence to speak in class, which remains a plus. Even your own writing will impact you, who knew?! Moreover, my most interesting blog post, “The World Outside ‘The Bubble,’” also proves to highlight my honesty, even though it might turn out to offend some of my peers. The blog describes my hatred of the term “lifers,” which remains a highly celebrated term in the Chagrin Falls community. The school celebrates the fact that the student has never lived anywhere else other than the safe bubble of Chagrin Falls. It makes me nauseous. I am outwardly proud of the fact that I resided somewhere else before I unwillingly moved to the bubble.  I feel that this piece remains interesting due to my juxtaposing opinion, for most Chagrin students feel that being a lifer remains something to be proud of. Furthermore, after reading Jessica’s comment about her love for her animals, it made the top of my list for best comments. Not only did her comment make me laugh, describing her dog’s marital status and her belief that her dog is a reincarnation of a 40 year old man, it made me feel less crazy about myself. My blog described my obsession with my dog, Tootsie. I questioned whether or not my obsession remained irrational, or if I possessed good reason to love my K9. And reassuringly, Jessica told me that I did not remain crazy, but just possessed a love for dogs, which she felt as well. And Jessica, you best believe I will keep dressing Tootzers up in a hot dog costume every year!

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.