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!

Day-blind Dreams

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.

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.

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?