A dream deferred does not dissapear. Dreams are "day-blind stars, waiting with their light" (Berry); you can't always see them, but they still exist. It is up to the dreamer to hold on to hope when life's obstacles, like clouds, obstruct a person from their goals. Wind pushes a dreamer even further off course, and precipitation fogs one's vision.
Every now and then, a shooting star carves its way out of the midnight darkness and makes its way onto the territory of a dreamer. If she so chooses, she can grasp that star and let it's light radiate off onto her skin. Such opportunities arise and allow a dream to fluorish, but one needs to have the sharp eyes to pick out these fleeting opportunities amongst many other miniscule stars.
Dreams never die--they evolve. When I was young, it was my dream to be an ice cream truck driver. Free ice cream whenever, whereever. Every child's fantasy. As I accumulated candles on my cake, this dream of "becoming (something)" transformed from ice cream woman to famous actress to author to veterinarean to marine biologist to rheumatologist to geneticist to anything but what I am now. Although what I wanted varied through the years, the mechanism and motivation behind said desires remained constant.
The key to achieving your dreams is persistence and a little bit of luck. Oh, did I say a little bit? I meant seventeen truck loads and eight oceans of luck. Because there are only seven oceans on Earth, and I'm writing to humans and not aliens on Jupiter, it may be somewhat of a difficulty to accumulate an eighth ocean of luck. This is where persistence comes into play. Never. Give. Up. Success stems from never stopping, having the strength given all life's unfavorable circumstances to TRUDGE ON through the rain and the snow and the wind and the clouds and the blinding sun. TRUDGE ON and let your shooting star find you.
Sunday, December 15, 2013
Sunday, December 8, 2013
Troy High Presents DJay Gatsby
If you're the least bit cool, you went to Snow Glow this weekend. Similar to Gatsby's exuberant parties, the dance attracts large flocks of social butterflies ready to mingle and have a good time. The characters in The Great Gatsby by Francis Scott Fitzgerald, upon a closer look, highly resemble personalities you may have noticed if you decided to be cool for a weekend and attend the school gathering.
Gatsby is the DJ who plays just barely tolerable music that nobody has ever heard of (no offense to DJ Ryan Richards). Although he initiates the party, he lacks the information about his guests to match the music to the atmosphere. In the novel, Gatsby is the mysterious observer who stays to the side of the room. Secluding himself as a DJ does behind a computer and detaching himself from the world as DJ's do beneath oversized pairs of headphones, Jay Gatsby might as well be called DJay.
Daisy is the girl who gets asked by five different guys even though Snow Glow isn't a "date dance". She's that desirable to the male population, receiving ten candy grams and sharing them with her classmates not because she truly wants to be generous, but so she can flaunt her admirers to the world.
Nick is a teacher with a flashlight, an observer of all the chaos, involuntarily thrown amid the mess of undeveloped relationships and confused, love-stuck teenagers who don't know how to express their feelings for each other through the artform of dancing.
Widely known throughout the school as "Haughty Taughty Tom", one can find Tom Buchanan in the dead center of the floor, dancing with any and every girl he can get his hands on. Surrounding himself with numerous options, he need not be worried about never having a dance partner.
On the opposite end of the spectrum, Owl Eyes is the freshman who is astonished that when they said "Snow Glow", they really meant it. He would marvel at the black lights and the plethora of glowing white teeth. Too distracted to dance, Owl Eyes steps back, tilts his head slightly to the right, mouth parted, staring at the wondrous neon rainbows flying across the gymnasium walls like shooting stars.
If you're the least bit cool, you not only went to Snow Glow, but you observed these dance-room personalities as well.
Gatsby is the DJ who plays just barely tolerable music that nobody has ever heard of (no offense to DJ Ryan Richards). Although he initiates the party, he lacks the information about his guests to match the music to the atmosphere. In the novel, Gatsby is the mysterious observer who stays to the side of the room. Secluding himself as a DJ does behind a computer and detaching himself from the world as DJ's do beneath oversized pairs of headphones, Jay Gatsby might as well be called DJay.
Daisy is the girl who gets asked by five different guys even though Snow Glow isn't a "date dance". She's that desirable to the male population, receiving ten candy grams and sharing them with her classmates not because she truly wants to be generous, but so she can flaunt her admirers to the world.
Nick is a teacher with a flashlight, an observer of all the chaos, involuntarily thrown amid the mess of undeveloped relationships and confused, love-stuck teenagers who don't know how to express their feelings for each other through the artform of dancing.
Widely known throughout the school as "Haughty Taughty Tom", one can find Tom Buchanan in the dead center of the floor, dancing with any and every girl he can get his hands on. Surrounding himself with numerous options, he need not be worried about never having a dance partner.
On the opposite end of the spectrum, Owl Eyes is the freshman who is astonished that when they said "Snow Glow", they really meant it. He would marvel at the black lights and the plethora of glowing white teeth. Too distracted to dance, Owl Eyes steps back, tilts his head slightly to the right, mouth parted, staring at the wondrous neon rainbows flying across the gymnasium walls like shooting stars.
If you're the least bit cool, you not only went to Snow Glow, but you observed these dance-room personalities as well.
Sunday, November 24, 2013
What Has Changed is Not the Women
If a woman in the 1920s was considered a "new woman" decades later for wearing risqué dresses revealing sexy ankles, imagine what the women during present times will be considered in a few more decades. Will we be deemed as "newer women" for wearing leggings, v-neck shirts, and pencil skirts that are now deserving the name not because they are as straight as a pencil, but because they are the length of a pencil? Eh, probably.
People need to get over their fears of human anatomy. Women have curves--this is fact. You can cover her figure with as much fabric as you would like, though taking this precaution does not make her figure dissapear. She is there. Her shape is there. And you are there judging her for the body granted to her for having an extra x - chromosome. Only babies believe what they can't see does not exist. Stop being babies.
What causes distress and jostles society is how a woman portrays these natural curves. You act like it is such a surprise when a women wears tighter clothing, and curves are visible. Shock. Tragedy strikes! You can continue to pretend the world never knew of such information as a curve. She reveals a secret suppressed by fabric for decades. She is deemed a slut. Yes, s-l-u-t. Shun me because you are afraid of not only a woman's figure, but also a word. Letters are daggers. Watch out before they get you, too.
Slowly but surely, women's fashion inches closer and closer to the beginning of man, before Adam and Eve ate the Fruit of Sin, when clothes were a faint idea in the far away distance. When the "newest women" make history books for wearing nothing but the skin on their skeleton, society will--surprise--go berzerk. What has changed from the times both men and women of all ages strutted around the cave show-casing everything for everyone to see is not women's fashion. What has changed is the society itself that judges women's fashion. How can one civilization never think twice about revealing the human figure, yet a society we like to call "advanced" cares almost too much about what we show and what we don't?
People need to get over their fears of human anatomy. Women have curves--this is fact. You can cover her figure with as much fabric as you would like, though taking this precaution does not make her figure dissapear. She is there. Her shape is there. And you are there judging her for the body granted to her for having an extra x - chromosome. Only babies believe what they can't see does not exist. Stop being babies.
What causes distress and jostles society is how a woman portrays these natural curves. You act like it is such a surprise when a women wears tighter clothing, and curves are visible. Shock. Tragedy strikes! You can continue to pretend the world never knew of such information as a curve. She reveals a secret suppressed by fabric for decades. She is deemed a slut. Yes, s-l-u-t. Shun me because you are afraid of not only a woman's figure, but also a word. Letters are daggers. Watch out before they get you, too.
Slowly but surely, women's fashion inches closer and closer to the beginning of man, before Adam and Eve ate the Fruit of Sin, when clothes were a faint idea in the far away distance. When the "newest women" make history books for wearing nothing but the skin on their skeleton, society will--surprise--go berzerk. What has changed from the times both men and women of all ages strutted around the cave show-casing everything for everyone to see is not women's fashion. What has changed is the society itself that judges women's fashion. How can one civilization never think twice about revealing the human figure, yet a society we like to call "advanced" cares almost too much about what we show and what we don't?
Friday, November 15, 2013
Sarcastices Save the Day...or Not?
Although punctuation is helpful in expressing an author's message in a clear and concise way, there are some areas where the dots, lines, and tick marks fall short. Oftentimes, I find that the puncuation of the 21st century is not enough to express the intentions of my text messages. Incapable of using an emoji keyboard, many of my friends read my messages in the wrong tone. I find this especially true when I use sarcasm. I resort to using a pair of parentheses with the word "sarcasm" sandwiched between them. Can I be any more blunt?
I stumbled upon an article online that offers some ideas to further advance the evolution of puncuation. It turns out, there is a solution to this problem: sarcastices! These zigzag brackets inform a reader to read the passage with sarcasm. Convenient and perfect for the modern day teen, sarcastices insure that your sarcasm will come across as sarcasm and not snooty-stuck-up-brattiness.
But then again, these marks are essentially the same idea as my "(sarcasm)". If you're a thorough and analytical reader, you would be able to detect sarcasm through the author's use of irony and other literary devices. Sarcastices would not be necessary if the reader would read closer and the author would write better. But who wants to put in that kind of effort?
In this case, the evolution of punctuation is the direct result of lazy human beings, unwilling to put in the effort of using words instead of puncuation to create sarcastic undertones. There are trillions of word combinations that would indicate sarcasm, yet only one puncuation mark. Most would choose the easy route, using the puncuation to get his or her point across quicker. The use of sarcasticed paired with the youth's abbreviated language for texting ("C U L8R"), literature is becoming more and more geared toward the quick pace of modern living; however, without a proper mark for sarcasm, it's evolution remains not quite up to speed with the ever-changing English language.
Sunday, November 10, 2013
The Many Forms of Secrecy: Sophisticated to Slapdash
Secrets are the result of a flawed community, with close-minded members fearing judgment and imperfection. Hold secrets in and they shred you apart, but tell them to the world and they tear the shreds of you apart even further. There is no winner in the world of secrecy, for if there were, it would not be reality; secrecy is hidden reality. Reality will always surface, like like a booey in a lake. And thus, there is no point in attempting to camouflage the truth.
Here's a nice, little haiku to wrap up some mundane Sunday thoughts. Courtesy of moi.
"Do not run from me.
I am your reality.
Fear not, and you're free."
How about an acrostic.
"S lowly
E ating my insides
C hewing
R avenously
E ating
T o my
S kin"
Anybody in the mood for a limerick?
"There once was a man with secrets
Who had a red mark on his chest
Never let them see
Falsely feeling free
Oh boy did he fail time's cruel test"
My guess is by now you have figured out I am just trying to extend this post any way that I can. It's 11:30 pm on a school night. I am tired. Or maybe I am really not... Maybe I hold elementary literature near and dear to my heart... It will be my little secret.
Here's a nice, little haiku to wrap up some mundane Sunday thoughts. Courtesy of moi.
"Do not run from me.
I am your reality.
Fear not, and you're free."
How about an acrostic.
"S lowly
E ating my insides
C hewing
R avenously
E ating
T o my
S kin"
Anybody in the mood for a limerick?
"There once was a man with secrets
Who had a red mark on his chest
Never let them see
Falsely feeling free
Oh boy did he fail time's cruel test"
My guess is by now you have figured out I am just trying to extend this post any way that I can. It's 11:30 pm on a school night. I am tired. Or maybe I am really not... Maybe I hold elementary literature near and dear to my heart... It will be my little secret.
Sunday, November 3, 2013
Just Another Stripe in the Rainbow
My size is forever-shifting from miniscule to extraordinary. I am mute, yet you hear me in your every thought. If you let me control your life, you will never know happiness. What am I?
Answer: Guilt. A five letter word with such an influential impact on our lives that each letter carries significant weight. Guilt knaws at the innermost core of our beings. It is a chain around our limbs, with the other end tied to the memory of its origin. It is the sinking stomach sensation on a roller coaster.
You may choose to ignore it.
Or you may choose to spill every bit of your mind onto the cold, linolium floor at your feet, hoping that by expunging every screaming thought in your head, the origin of your guilt that has been suppressed for so long flows out amongst the rest. Once it leaves your stomach, passes your chest, and drains from your mind, you feel free. By splitting the experience among others, the guilt shrinks from extraordinary back to miniscule. And once again, you feel light. You could float. You are a cloud.
Clouds have no feelings, after all.
It would be nice to be a cloud.
I would like to be a cloud.
Birds could pass right through you. Birds with piercing beaks. It would never phase you. Never weigh you down.
Because you are a cloud.
Clouds have no feelings, after all.
But by being a cloud you could never experience the good feelings either. This is the heart of the human experience. Happiness and joy and surprise and peace.
Let's not be clouds.
Let's be dimensional personalities with great capacity to experience emotions.
You can think of guilt as a negative sensation that blankets your every mood. Or you can see it as just another stripe in the rainbow of human emotions. But when it comes down to it, to get from color to color, one must blend into the varying hues in between.
Blend on, folks.
Answer: Guilt. A five letter word with such an influential impact on our lives that each letter carries significant weight. Guilt knaws at the innermost core of our beings. It is a chain around our limbs, with the other end tied to the memory of its origin. It is the sinking stomach sensation on a roller coaster.
You may choose to ignore it.
Or you may choose to spill every bit of your mind onto the cold, linolium floor at your feet, hoping that by expunging every screaming thought in your head, the origin of your guilt that has been suppressed for so long flows out amongst the rest. Once it leaves your stomach, passes your chest, and drains from your mind, you feel free. By splitting the experience among others, the guilt shrinks from extraordinary back to miniscule. And once again, you feel light. You could float. You are a cloud.
Clouds have no feelings, after all.
It would be nice to be a cloud.
I would like to be a cloud.
Birds could pass right through you. Birds with piercing beaks. It would never phase you. Never weigh you down.
Because you are a cloud.
Clouds have no feelings, after all.
But by being a cloud you could never experience the good feelings either. This is the heart of the human experience. Happiness and joy and surprise and peace.
Let's not be clouds.
Let's be dimensional personalities with great capacity to experience emotions.
You can think of guilt as a negative sensation that blankets your every mood. Or you can see it as just another stripe in the rainbow of human emotions. But when it comes down to it, to get from color to color, one must blend into the varying hues in between.
Blend on, folks.
Sunday, October 20, 2013
The Declaration of the Independent
America gained independence and self-government upon the adoption of "The Declaration of Independence", but it is time to reevaluate the self-government within ourselves. Too many people in modern western culture depend on government support and/or the support of others around them to get by in life. Families with young children need to stress the value of the independent individual at an earlier stage in their child's life. If I had a nickel for every time a kid came into TCBY for frozen yogurt and payed with their parent's credit card... Let's just say I wouldn't be working at TCBY anymore, let alone writing this blog.
Calling all American adolescents! Be indepent! Earn your own money! Motivate yourSELF: don't wait for Dad's screams upon viewing your progress report!
Indepence means strength. It means the ability to provide for yourself without burdening others. It means an organized life. It means control.
What is an independent country without independent citizens? Sure, we have :The Declaration of Independence"; however, it is time to step it up a knotch and compose "The Declaration of the Independent".
"When in the Course of human events, it becomes necessary for one [person] to dissolve the [parasitic] bands which have connected them with another..."
Don't be a parasite. Live your own life as a fully independent American, free from the King and free from everybody else but yourself.
Calling all American adolescents! Be indepent! Earn your own money! Motivate yourSELF: don't wait for Dad's screams upon viewing your progress report!
Indepence means strength. It means the ability to provide for yourself without burdening others. It means an organized life. It means control.
What is an independent country without independent citizens? Sure, we have :The Declaration of Independence"; however, it is time to step it up a knotch and compose "The Declaration of the Independent".
"When in the Course of human events, it becomes necessary for one [person] to dissolve the [parasitic] bands which have connected them with another..."
Don't be a parasite. Live your own life as a fully independent American, free from the King and free from everybody else but yourself.
Sunday, October 13, 2013
Living for the Alphabet
Unless your name is Patrick Starr and you live under a rock, you have probably seen the drastic metamorphasis of Miley Cyrus from Disney Star to the risqué, female version of Draco Malfoy. Fans of the famous pop star have mixed responses to her transformation. Many claim she is merely seeking attention, realizing the fame since her Hannah Montana years is tapering to an end, while others believe she is expressing who she truly is and releasing her entire artistic being through a new style. Either way, the world judges Miss Cyrus left and right, up and down, north and south, east and west.
Miley Cyrus has created a new image for herself. When one hears her name, one may think "platinum blonde gone wrong", "eat a cookie", "put your tongue back in your mouth", "stop twerking", or "put some clothes on". When the same person hears the name Hannah Montana, different images pop into said person's head. Long, brown hair. Child star. Decent role model. Both names, even though they refer to the same person, carry unique weights. They stand for two different ideas: one--conformity, and the other--carefree. Each name has a reputation, as is also seen in the play "The Crucible" by Arthur Miller.
Worrying too much about how your name is viewed in your community can hold you back. It destroys your freedom of expression. Even if you hate Miley Cyrus, you have to give her credit for doing her own thing. For being her and not holding back through fear of outside opinions.
We are all artists after all. Though we don't all create through acrylic or oil or graphite, we are all capable of creating through the medium of existence, the purest form of creation. As we exist, our beings thrive around us. Or essence radiates off of our skin, and it is remembered through our names. But we must not always care so much about what others think of our names. People will judge you no matter what you do.
Live your life for yourself, not for randomly assorted letters of the alphabet.
Miley Cyrus has created a new image for herself. When one hears her name, one may think "platinum blonde gone wrong", "eat a cookie", "put your tongue back in your mouth", "stop twerking", or "put some clothes on". When the same person hears the name Hannah Montana, different images pop into said person's head. Long, brown hair. Child star. Decent role model. Both names, even though they refer to the same person, carry unique weights. They stand for two different ideas: one--conformity, and the other--carefree. Each name has a reputation, as is also seen in the play "The Crucible" by Arthur Miller.
Worrying too much about how your name is viewed in your community can hold you back. It destroys your freedom of expression. Even if you hate Miley Cyrus, you have to give her credit for doing her own thing. For being her and not holding back through fear of outside opinions.
We are all artists after all. Though we don't all create through acrylic or oil or graphite, we are all capable of creating through the medium of existence, the purest form of creation. As we exist, our beings thrive around us. Or essence radiates off of our skin, and it is remembered through our names. But we must not always care so much about what others think of our names. People will judge you no matter what you do.
Live your life for yourself, not for randomly assorted letters of the alphabet.
Sunday, October 6, 2013
Individuality Saves Lives
August 18th, 2006
Mumbai, India
Residents claim the polluted water of Mahim Creek has turned "sweet". Recieving thousands of tons of sewage and industrial waste every day, local officials have attempted to thwart the community's efforts in consuming the supposedly "holy" water without success. Many have gathered plastic bottles to fill with the sweet liquid, while others bath in what they think is "Baba's blessing". Fearing an outbreak of waterborne illnesses including gastroenteritis, officials are testing water samples from the Creek.
June, 1962
North Carolina, United States
Sixty-two employees of a United State's textile company have fallen ill, experiencing symptoms including nausea and vomiting. Workers have connected the sickness to the recent infestation of june bugs in the textile mill. Claiming to have been bitten, the number of workers experiencing symptoms has risen each day; however, health care officials have yet to find any bites on the victims.
1518
Strousburg, France
A dancing epidemic has enveloped the country. One woman started dancing, and soon enough, 400 joined her as they all danced their way until exhaustion. The majority died.
...
Mass hysteria affects only those who are gullible and weak enough to follow along. If one is brave enough to go against the grain, to be different, to be an individual... then maybe the instances described above would have never occurred. The masses would not have all drank toilet water, gotten sick with an imaginary bug, or danced to death. It takes only one brave soul to voice an outside opinion that could move the minds of the majority.
Don't be afraid to be different; individuality saves lives.
Sunday, September 29, 2013
Smartphone Society
Material possessions run modern society. These possessions come down to technology, and technology today comes down to just one rectangular piece of metal (or plastic, if you live in China). That’s right folks; one piece of metal the size of your hand runs our entire population. Seven billion people. One piece of metal. We call it the “smartphone”.
Imagine if every single smartphone in the existence of Earth disintegrated in the same fire as in Anne Bradstreet’s poem, “Upon the Burning of Our House”. Our relationships between each other could no longer be formulated over the Internet. Life would be turned upside down.
On Thursday of last week, tragedy struck the Yeskey household: I broke my own smart phone. Oh, my precious Samsung Galaxy S4! (Yes, you heard correctly. I’m in the minority here with a Droid). My S4 squealed as it leapt out in front of me, hitting the hard, tile floor face-first. Upon picking it up, I discovered, to my terrible dismay, that its screen would no longer turn on. Black forever, like the hole where my heart used to be.
Just three days without the device has caused a significant amount of strife in my daily life.
First, I missed a notification from my work that my shift had been cut for the night. The struggles of a slow Sunday scooping frozen yogurt… I swear. Not only had I planned my entire day around going to work, but so did my dad, because he had to drive me. Sorry Pa.
Second, my homework has taken double the amount of time to complete. Without quick Google searches for definitions of words or diagrams of mitosis, my entire weekend became engulfed in academics.
Third, I have been forced to take a step back in time to the ages of the cave man and use an alarm clock to wake up in the morning. The sound of incessant beeping is forever engrained into my brain.
Fourth, I can’t Twitter stalk. Or Instagram stalk. Or Facebook stalk. What am I supposed to do with my life?
Fifth, I have to type this blog on a “computer”, using oddly shaped buttons called a “keyboard”. Such a strange contraption it is. Not to mention it's just about as fast as a sloth with chained legs trying to walk through a pool of straight-up honey.
Sixth, seventh, eighth, ninth, tenth… The list goes on forever like the blackness of my S4 screen. Luckily, I have insurance on my phone, and I will be getting a replacement in the mail tomorrow. Life will go on! I will survive!
. . .
And this is what society has come down to. Material possessions --> Technology --> Smart phones --> Psychotic, human interaction-deprived, sore-eyed teenagers with faces lit up by the artificial light that radiates from their smart phones. Whatashame.
Imagine if every single smartphone in the existence of Earth disintegrated in the same fire as in Anne Bradstreet’s poem, “Upon the Burning of Our House”. Our relationships between each other could no longer be formulated over the Internet. Life would be turned upside down.
On Thursday of last week, tragedy struck the Yeskey household: I broke my own smart phone. Oh, my precious Samsung Galaxy S4! (Yes, you heard correctly. I’m in the minority here with a Droid). My S4 squealed as it leapt out in front of me, hitting the hard, tile floor face-first. Upon picking it up, I discovered, to my terrible dismay, that its screen would no longer turn on. Black forever, like the hole where my heart used to be.
Just three days without the device has caused a significant amount of strife in my daily life.
First, I missed a notification from my work that my shift had been cut for the night. The struggles of a slow Sunday scooping frozen yogurt… I swear. Not only had I planned my entire day around going to work, but so did my dad, because he had to drive me. Sorry Pa.
Second, my homework has taken double the amount of time to complete. Without quick Google searches for definitions of words or diagrams of mitosis, my entire weekend became engulfed in academics.
Third, I have been forced to take a step back in time to the ages of the cave man and use an alarm clock to wake up in the morning. The sound of incessant beeping is forever engrained into my brain.
Fourth, I can’t Twitter stalk. Or Instagram stalk. Or Facebook stalk. What am I supposed to do with my life?
Fifth, I have to type this blog on a “computer”, using oddly shaped buttons called a “keyboard”. Such a strange contraption it is. Not to mention it's just about as fast as a sloth with chained legs trying to walk through a pool of straight-up honey.
Sixth, seventh, eighth, ninth, tenth… The list goes on forever like the blackness of my S4 screen. Luckily, I have insurance on my phone, and I will be getting a replacement in the mail tomorrow. Life will go on! I will survive!
. . .
And this is what society has come down to. Material possessions --> Technology --> Smart phones --> Psychotic, human interaction-deprived, sore-eyed teenagers with faces lit up by the artificial light that radiates from their smart phones. Whatashame.
Sunday, September 22, 2013
Go You!
"Indian" is not the only stereotype circulating the block. Sherman Alexie is not alone in his battle against this judgemental classification of human beings.
In middle school, I was "that emo kid." Hair as black as an abyss, eyeliner so thick I could pass for a raccoon, and skinny jeans so tight that belts lost their purpose.
I was emo. Emo was I.
I was goth. Goth was I.
I was stereotyped. Stereotyped was I.
I was hurt, too. Hurt, too, was I.
Fifth grade. No, this early on I had not built up an emo wardrobe, but my personality reflected such a label. Silent, glaring, and (constantly) swearing, the label stuck to my forehead like gum under a dining room table.
Sixth grade. When my pre-algebra teacher assigned the class seats, I inevitably got paired with an "Asian nerd". Christine was forced to sit next to my spiked head. "You scared me when I first met you," she confided in me.
Others were sincerely afraid of me. Funny thing is, in retrospect, I was afraid of myself, too. Not my emoness, but rather my true personality. My true being. And for that reason, I hid myself in the dark, under layers of black fabric. There was no way in the world that my true essence was worth radiating to others. Who was I anyway? How was I supposed to communicate my individuality to others if I had no idea what this meant? Thus, I clung for dear life to the character that was easiest to be--emo Bri.
Seventh grade. The harassment continued
. On the bus, kids stroked my hair as they walked through the isle. They secretly snapped photos of me at seven in the morning from the back of the bus. My personal paparazzi. However, by this time, my caramel roots began to show and I no longer had the energy to maintain such a drastic style. Nor the money. (Decent eyeliner is seven bucks a pop!)
Eighth grade. I impulsively chopped my hair off. I was now strutting a preppy bob. Jaw-length. The stereotyping ceased, but an air of labels still lingered as I walked through the halls of Smith Middle School.
I needed to go through that experience. Some call it a phase, I call it a stepping stone. A stepping stone to the discovery of who Brianne Yeskey really is:
Amiable.
Bri.
Creative.
Dedicated.
Be you. Create your own label, because if you don't, others will do it for you. Don't be afraid to be yourself. Don't be afraid of yourself. Today you are you, and that's truer than true... Woohoo! Go you!
In middle school, I was "that emo kid." Hair as black as an abyss, eyeliner so thick I could pass for a raccoon, and skinny jeans so tight that belts lost their purpose.
I was emo. Emo was I.
I was goth. Goth was I.
I was stereotyped. Stereotyped was I.
I was hurt, too. Hurt, too, was I.
Fifth grade. No, this early on I had not built up an emo wardrobe, but my personality reflected such a label. Silent, glaring, and (constantly) swearing, the label stuck to my forehead like gum under a dining room table.
Sixth grade. When my pre-algebra teacher assigned the class seats, I inevitably got paired with an "Asian nerd". Christine was forced to sit next to my spiked head. "You scared me when I first met you," she confided in me.
Others were sincerely afraid of me. Funny thing is, in retrospect, I was afraid of myself, too. Not my emoness, but rather my true personality. My true being. And for that reason, I hid myself in the dark, under layers of black fabric. There was no way in the world that my true essence was worth radiating to others. Who was I anyway? How was I supposed to communicate my individuality to others if I had no idea what this meant? Thus, I clung for dear life to the character that was easiest to be--emo Bri.
Seventh grade. The harassment continued
. On the bus, kids stroked my hair as they walked through the isle. They secretly snapped photos of me at seven in the morning from the back of the bus. My personal paparazzi. However, by this time, my caramel roots began to show and I no longer had the energy to maintain such a drastic style. Nor the money. (Decent eyeliner is seven bucks a pop!)
Eighth grade. I impulsively chopped my hair off. I was now strutting a preppy bob. Jaw-length. The stereotyping ceased, but an air of labels still lingered as I walked through the halls of Smith Middle School.
I needed to go through that experience. Some call it a phase, I call it a stepping stone. A stepping stone to the discovery of who Brianne Yeskey really is:
Amiable.
Bri.
Creative.
Dedicated.
Be you. Create your own label, because if you don't, others will do it for you. Don't be afraid to be yourself. Don't be afraid of yourself. Today you are you, and that's truer than true... Woohoo! Go you!
Sunday, September 15, 2013
Heritage Schmeritage
The genes we inherit from our ancestors create our entire outward appearance. They establish the color hair we have on our heads to the size of our feet and everything in between: however, is it possible that our genetic makeup dictates who we are on the inside as well? In other words, are our thoughts, feelings, morals, and behavior all a result of our DNA?
In The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, Mark Twain explores the possibility that human beings are all equal through the use of his character Jim. Initially presenting Jim as the stereotypical black slave--dumb and lacking humanity-- Twain develops Jim's emotions and personality as the novel progresses. Jim escapes the society that frowns upon his skin color via a raft with Huck. Jim becomes Huck's caretaker. He mourns for his family, and he regrets beating his deaf daughter. Jim is able to let go of his life as a slave. He is able to let go of his heritage. On the raft, it no longer defines him. He is able to freely express his true thoughts and feelings. Preconceived notions of how a certain race should act is nothing more than a stereotype. Heritage is a label. If we can break free of said label, as Jim does in The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, we will have more room to radiate our true essence to others.
Huck grows up in a situation that allows him to formulate his own opinions toward society. If genetic makeup decided Huck's true self, his white skin would have meant that he disgraced African Americans. However, Huck does not let his southern, white heritage define him. He breaks free of the stereotype, loving Jim and pursuing the morals that he believes are right in his heart.
When the Nazis systematically murdered Jews in the holocaust, the Nazis allowed the label of being a Jew to justify a person's death. Adolf Hitler imagined a perfect society of blonde hair and blue-eyed humans. However, the Jews were more than just a three-letter title. Like anybody, they had different personalities, morals, behaviors, thoughts, feelings, and interests. The Nazis allowed heritage to define the Jews, killing hundreds of thousands.
People are more than their heritage.
Our true beings are decided through upbringing and are not a result of inheritance or physical appearance. One's inside character may be suppressed by society's view of said person's background, but it is not background that creates one's inner being.
In The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, Mark Twain explores the possibility that human beings are all equal through the use of his character Jim. Initially presenting Jim as the stereotypical black slave--dumb and lacking humanity-- Twain develops Jim's emotions and personality as the novel progresses. Jim escapes the society that frowns upon his skin color via a raft with Huck. Jim becomes Huck's caretaker. He mourns for his family, and he regrets beating his deaf daughter. Jim is able to let go of his life as a slave. He is able to let go of his heritage. On the raft, it no longer defines him. He is able to freely express his true thoughts and feelings. Preconceived notions of how a certain race should act is nothing more than a stereotype. Heritage is a label. If we can break free of said label, as Jim does in The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, we will have more room to radiate our true essence to others.
Huck grows up in a situation that allows him to formulate his own opinions toward society. If genetic makeup decided Huck's true self, his white skin would have meant that he disgraced African Americans. However, Huck does not let his southern, white heritage define him. He breaks free of the stereotype, loving Jim and pursuing the morals that he believes are right in his heart.
When the Nazis systematically murdered Jews in the holocaust, the Nazis allowed the label of being a Jew to justify a person's death. Adolf Hitler imagined a perfect society of blonde hair and blue-eyed humans. However, the Jews were more than just a three-letter title. Like anybody, they had different personalities, morals, behaviors, thoughts, feelings, and interests. The Nazis allowed heritage to define the Jews, killing hundreds of thousands.
People are more than their heritage.
Our true beings are decided through upbringing and are not a result of inheritance or physical appearance. One's inside character may be suppressed by society's view of said person's background, but it is not background that creates one's inner being.
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