Shut up and eat your cake.

I love my father dearly, but he is just about as stubborn as a pack mule. As his youngest daughter, I reflect his stubborn nature like water reflects the sunlight. Not only am I never not right and always never wrong, but I adore pushing his buttons. Claiming to be Independent regarding politics, my dad unknowingly leans Republican. Whenever his Republican tendencies stick out like a sore thumb, I lean Democrat just to burst his elephant-sized bubble. It is a recurring cycle of debating and argumentation, but an oh-so-fun one at that. We become so frustrated with one another that we can't bare to be in the same room as the other. Our bantering expands further than politics. It reaches religion and philosophy and the mundane thoughts of everyday living. It kind of goes like this, but replace "cake" and "pie" with complex, well-developed thoughts.

Father Yeskey- "I would rather have Cake than Pie."
Daughter Yeskey- "Yes, Cake is fluffy and goodly and sweet. Nice texture too. My favorite is red velvet. Cream cheese frosting. Rainbow sprinkles and I'm sold.  But... I also like Pie. So, I support Pie. Sorry, Cake, but you just didn't make the cut."

Upon further analysis, I have come to realize that it is not our differences that separate us, but rather our likemindedness. I am in denial that we may actually be alike, and I use my stubborn demeanor to mask our oneness. I would rather argue with my father than admit we share the same views. It is a strange idea, but it is true. We should just shut up and eat the cake, huh?

(**Totally off topic, but if you're reading this... Come see the musical, Godspell, this Friday at 7pm! It's going to be awesome!)

Vive Mademoiselle

The vibrations of the orchestra seep into her skin and tickle her ears. As she fans her powdered face, she fans away the men she never needed. Independently living and thinking and breathing, she confidently supports herself on a crimson cushion. It is her personal podium, stained with the blood of the battles she fought to reach her current position. She is a woman of wealth. She wears her power around her neck as a string of pearls. Her hair shines golden like her riches. Her white gloves, her purity. The glistening chandelier--perched above her head like a crown--declares her royal presence. C'est la vie.

From across the theatre, the men, pretending to be absorbed in the music below, let the corners of their eyes deceive their front-facing postures as they eye Mademoiselle. Her blushed pink beauty and foreign femininity intimidate them. But Mademoiselle notices not. She leans comfortably to her side. Contempt with her current situation, she expresses a reserved yet elegant smile. With her chin tipped above the crowd below her loge, Mademoiselle finds herself contempt for once in her female existence. La vie est formidable. 

The orchestrations radiate through the Theatre. Soaring. Humming. They are birds. Floating. Swimming. They are fish. Tiptoeing. Spinning. They are ballerinas. They travel, attracted to Mademoiselle's demeanor. In the air, they speak her joy. They celebrate. Vive Mademoiselle!

(*The second is my personal rendition of Mary Cassatt's "At the Theatre" in acrylic. It's in the never ending hallway if you are interested. I must admit that I don't enjoy viewing the two side by side. It's a bit like comparing the Statue of Liberty in New York to the one in Las Vegas.)

Bloopers

The following passage was a potential conclusion for my essay re-write. Fortunately, I realized I would rather have the grade over the giggle. Enjoy.

"It is interesting to think that Nancy Mairs manipulates language herself in order to communicate her idea that dressing up language distracts the reader or listener from the truth. For that matter, it remains important to always read for a deeper understanding of an author's true intentions. In this way, language reveals itself to be a powerful tool in influencing the innocent and vulnerable minds of the youth (who are not taking AP English, at least.) Having read Mairs' piece, AP Englishers will "swagger" their way to freedom of language. This is ironic because, in reality, AP students lack the swagger gene. But that's okay because that is evolution. Manipulating language, I have tricked you that: I am intelligent. When in reality, I end my essays with swagger, evolution, first person, and misplaced colons."

I thought it was funny at the time. Oh, the effects of sleep deprivation on a poor "AP Englisher's" mind.

I actually enjoyed Nancy Mairs piece, though. Language is a fascinating tool. By manipulating itself, it can manipulate people. One must always read with caution, for the truth lies between the lines. Oh boy, did I just unknowingly create a paradox? The truth lies...

Fight to Love

Back in the day, my sister and I would bicker more than we played Polly Pockets. With only 18 months between us, we butted heads like a couple of mountain goats. You lost my favorite pair of overalls? I'm losing my voice screaming at you. You used my hairbrush? Here, let me rip out a hundred follicles. You ate my Charleston Chews? The chocolate and knuckle sandwich combo is a house favorite.

Sharing a room did nothing to soften our calloused hearts. I can remember reverting to duct tape to divide our periwinkle room in two. Rule number one: my side is mine. Rule number two: your side is yours. Rule number three: your side is also mine. Evil me, evil me. They say duct tape fixes everything. Folks, it does not fix a broken relationship. Our differences seemed to grow with each candle atop our birthday cakes.

Finally 2009 marked the calender, and Jess moved off to bigger and better things. And by bigger and better, I mean highschool (which I later discovered to be bigger and badder). Being at two different schools, my sister and I developed a new perspective on our relationship. We no longer endlessly argued. We had come to accept each other's differences. Through fighting, we learned to love.

As with Joe Louis' match against his white opponent in The Champion of the World, fighting is the Bridge to Taribithea. Erm. I mean love. Fighting is the Bridge to Love. Blacks and whites fought only to conclude with accepting one another. Just as an agreement begins with an argument, love oftentimes begins with hate.

Let's take a walk to love! Rosey hearts and rainbows and unicorns await!