"More Than The Moon" Publication Project
More Than The Moon
Sparks in your eyes when you met your beloved
Tiny hands of a baby sister in your arms
Friends that change in time with you from oceans away
Second-grade snow days
Long quiet nights with kith and kin
May’s first summer day with flowers in the air
Dancing around your living room as the sun rose
Finally going home
Winning the big game
(Or losing but laughing anyway)
These are the paramount moments of our lives
They are always there
And worth so much more than the moon
Humans of New York was started by Brandon Stanton and this is their website: http://www.humansofnewyork.com
All the photos used in this project are mine or my sister's, and of my sisters, brother or I, aside from a still from a Taylor Swift video ("Mine") and the picture of the border wait, which I borrowed from the Bellevue News.
I would also just like to say thank you to Ms. Kwan, for assigning this because although I wasn't keen at first, I really did enjoy reading everyone else's poems and writing my own. You've taught me a lot these past two years and that means a lot more than I'd care to admit as a teenager, so thank you, thank you, thank you.
Sparks in your eyes when you met your beloved
Tiny hands of a baby sister in your arms
Friends that change in time with you from oceans away
Second-grade snow days
Long quiet nights with kith and kin
May’s first summer day with flowers in the air
Dancing around your living room as the sun rose
Finally going home
Winning the big game
(Or losing but laughing anyway)
These are the paramount moments of our lives
They are always there
And worth so much more than the moon
Humans of New York was started by Brandon Stanton and this is their website: http://www.humansofnewyork.com
All the photos used in this project are mine or my sister's, and of my sisters, brother or I, aside from a still from a Taylor Swift video ("Mine") and the picture of the border wait, which I borrowed from the Bellevue News.
I would also just like to say thank you to Ms. Kwan, for assigning this because although I wasn't keen at first, I really did enjoy reading everyone else's poems and writing my own. You've taught me a lot these past two years and that means a lot more than I'd care to admit as a teenager, so thank you, thank you, thank you.
Spoken Word Changed My Life
If I should have a daughter
Like Sarah Kay, I would teach her
To always have on hand
Chocolate and rain-boots
Because chocolate, we know
Fixes everything
And rain will wash away anything
If you let it
That love is like finding the ocean
After years of puddle jumping
I would feed her lessons
From Megan Falley
To name her dog Taco
And eat those red-velvet cupcakes
And dance in public
Shirt off
Lights on
Make sure Taylor Mali changes
Her attitude towards education
By reminding her that teachers
Make dreamers
Silence
Integrity
Pride and
Compassion
And they still have time
To read your poetry
Let Terisa Siagatonu educate her
On lives outside of her own
The trauma of urban tragedy
The injustice of poverty
The terror of rejection
The necessity of advocates
The passionate,
Unwavering,
Scared
Love for a child
I would let them educate my daughter
Because writers are life-changing, it's true
They open up trapdoors to a part
Of your mind you didn't know existed
Shine new lights in the darkest
Corners of existence
But keep your Brownings, Byrons
Shakespears and Brontes
Give me your tired, your poor, your anxious
And I will bring them to the passionate support group that is
Spoken word
References:
Sarah Kay - If I Should Have a Daughter (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qt2JJydqtgQ)
The Type (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f-8jtBOorpE)
Megan Falley - Fat Girl (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vxgpCfPqQpk)
Taylor Mali - What Teachers Make (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RxsOVK4syxU)
Terisa Siagatonu - (and Javon Johnson) PTSD (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vJAb9HQ4lFI)
Trigger (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qMSA-H3btbM)
Catalina Ferro - Anxiety Group (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gVEf6jS8GdU)
Like Sarah Kay, I would teach her
To always have on hand
Chocolate and rain-boots
Because chocolate, we know
Fixes everything
And rain will wash away anything
If you let it
That love is like finding the ocean
After years of puddle jumping
I would feed her lessons
From Megan Falley
To name her dog Taco
And eat those red-velvet cupcakes
And dance in public
Shirt off
Lights on
Make sure Taylor Mali changes
Her attitude towards education
By reminding her that teachers
Make dreamers
Silence
Integrity
Pride and
Compassion
And they still have time
To read your poetry
Let Terisa Siagatonu educate her
On lives outside of her own
The trauma of urban tragedy
The injustice of poverty
The terror of rejection
The necessity of advocates
The passionate,
Unwavering,
Scared
Love for a child
I would let them educate my daughter
Because writers are life-changing, it's true
They open up trapdoors to a part
Of your mind you didn't know existed
Shine new lights in the darkest
Corners of existence
But keep your Brownings, Byrons
Shakespears and Brontes
Give me your tired, your poor, your anxious
And I will bring them to the passionate support group that is
Spoken word
References:
Sarah Kay - If I Should Have a Daughter (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qt2JJydqtgQ)
The Type (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f-8jtBOorpE)
Megan Falley - Fat Girl (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vxgpCfPqQpk)
Taylor Mali - What Teachers Make (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RxsOVK4syxU)
Terisa Siagatonu - (and Javon Johnson) PTSD (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vJAb9HQ4lFI)
Trigger (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qMSA-H3btbM)
Catalina Ferro - Anxiety Group (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gVEf6jS8GdU)
Found Island
An island, a coral reef in the sea
Green feathers shimmering against the light
Water warmer than blood, a bath of heat
Protected from sun, dazzling delight
Miles away there is a sea of dark blue
Echos and birds fly through the thick, white dust
Past the still green and purple of the lagoon
Silent conch on the beach, a gleaming tusk
These creeper things in the jungle's scar
Coral in a sea of flowing peacock
Down a slope a rock marks the scar's start
A solemn island, no noises or talk
The beach interrupted by pink granite
Butterflies on a boat, a lone planet
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PjXyds2yZJA
Green feathers shimmering against the light
Water warmer than blood, a bath of heat
Protected from sun, dazzling delight
Miles away there is a sea of dark blue
Echos and birds fly through the thick, white dust
Past the still green and purple of the lagoon
Silent conch on the beach, a gleaming tusk
These creeper things in the jungle's scar
Coral in a sea of flowing peacock
Down a slope a rock marks the scar's start
A solemn island, no noises or talk
The beach interrupted by pink granite
Butterflies on a boat, a lone planet
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PjXyds2yZJA
I Love It All
I love the ache of legs after a long run
Bruises that come from hours of soccer
Against particularly fiery opponents
I love the warmth of candlelight
Music humming through the house
Reading old books again and again
I love the final pull of a difficult climb
Snow flying past as my skis slide away
Falling feels like flying in the snow
I love the dinnertime conversation
Playing cards around the table
And laughs over dessert
I love the entertainment
Watching a goal from across the field
Or a movie from across the room
I love the competition of it all
The dependence of players
In cards or sport
I love it all, I think
The ache and adrenaline of sport
The serenity and simplicity of home
I'm not one or the other
Or neither, I'm both
I am active and I am sedentary
Bruises that come from hours of soccer
Against particularly fiery opponents
I love the warmth of candlelight
Music humming through the house
Reading old books again and again
I love the final pull of a difficult climb
Snow flying past as my skis slide away
Falling feels like flying in the snow
I love the dinnertime conversation
Playing cards around the table
And laughs over dessert
I love the entertainment
Watching a goal from across the field
Or a movie from across the room
I love the competition of it all
The dependence of players
In cards or sport
I love it all, I think
The ache and adrenaline of sport
The serenity and simplicity of home
I'm not one or the other
Or neither, I'm both
I am active and I am sedentary
Messy Hands
Your hands move like butterflies
Trapped in a cardboard box
Like a bird caught in tree branches
Like a child unable to choose a candy bar
Like a criminal's voice under interrogation
In a tiny, lightless room, like a squirrel scampering
A wind gusting
A guitar string trembling
Like a marching band out of order
Like a toddler taking her first steps
Like a soccer ball hitting the back of the net
A knitter's needles, a collapsing bridge
With cars tumbling to the water
Like a stormy night in New York
Like flight attendants over the loudspeaker
A pancake on the griddle, like fuel in a fire
That warms your home, eighty-eight
Keys pushing on their strings, like someone
Trying to get a spark off two sticks
A car stuck in mundane traffic
The sound of glass shattering
Like coconuts being cracked open with stones
Like lightning hitting the ground
Like a village raising a child
And loving him all the while, a big family
Teaching him to cook and drive, like thunder in the night
Like an elephant in the room
Like tears on my cheeks
Like the sound a violin humming
And you're playing the piano
With those messy hands of yours
Trapped in a cardboard box
Like a bird caught in tree branches
Like a child unable to choose a candy bar
Like a criminal's voice under interrogation
In a tiny, lightless room, like a squirrel scampering
A wind gusting
A guitar string trembling
Like a marching band out of order
Like a toddler taking her first steps
Like a soccer ball hitting the back of the net
A knitter's needles, a collapsing bridge
With cars tumbling to the water
Like a stormy night in New York
Like flight attendants over the loudspeaker
A pancake on the griddle, like fuel in a fire
That warms your home, eighty-eight
Keys pushing on their strings, like someone
Trying to get a spark off two sticks
A car stuck in mundane traffic
The sound of glass shattering
Like coconuts being cracked open with stones
Like lightning hitting the ground
Like a village raising a child
And loving him all the while, a big family
Teaching him to cook and drive, like thunder in the night
Like an elephant in the room
Like tears on my cheeks
Like the sound a violin humming
And you're playing the piano
With those messy hands of yours
Copy Change Poem, "Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening"
Whose words are these I think I know
Her home is on the island, though
She'll never hear you quoting her
You're ruined now, forever so
My little heart must think it queer
Grieving words that stick like a spear
All the agony for your sake
The longest evenings of the year
I give my tattered brain a shake
I think you've made a pained mistake
The only other sound's my weep
You cannot hear when you're awake
You've changed to burnt, no longer sweet
Her home is on the island, though
She'll never hear you quoting her
You're ruined now, forever so
My little heart must think it queer
Grieving words that stick like a spear
All the agony for your sake
The longest evenings of the year
I give my tattered brain a shake
I think you've made a pained mistake
The only other sound's my weep
You cannot hear when you're awake
You've changed to burnt, no longer sweet
Bird's Eye View
Art done by 'sinkshipsink' on Tumblr.
[note: modern day version of Romeo and Juliet. Julia is Juliet, Rory is Romeo, Parker is Paris, Rosie is Rosalind and so on.]
Julia lingered outside the back of the building. She checked her phone nearly once a minute, waiting for someone. At 3:41pm, precisely, she slid her phone back into her pocket and started to desert her watch, a little sadly. As sudden as fireworks in the night sky, a young, lanky, boy, swung around the corner. He mumbled an apology about being late, but her embrace crushed it. She, 4 years and 6 inches his junior, looked up into his eyes and the moment could’ve been frozen in a picture. He kissed her and she looked blissful.
“You’re late.” She whispered, still face to face with her lover, his hands still on her waist.
“You’re beautiful.” He replied, nonchalantly, as if he knew nothing could keep her mad at him for more than a split second.
“I- Come on. You know if I don’t get home by five I’m in deep trouble with my father, and if we get caught, we’re both in even deeper.” She pulled away from him, slightly.
“Julia, I know. We’ve been through this a hundred times. Don’t get caught. Don’t be late.” said the boy.
“Rory, I just don’t know… I love you so much, would they really be that mad?” asked Julia.
“Our families have hated each other since your brother and my brother got into that fight in the second grade. It’s been almost 15 years. You honestly think they’re going to miraculously get along, just because their kids are in love?” Rory tried.
“But if we could just…” Julia trailed off.
“Besides. You know what they’d say. They’d say it’s just a phase, that our love will fade, that we’re just too young to understand.” Rory finished. Julia looked down. She was angry, and he knew it. “Does it matter, Julia, does it matter what they think? All I know is I love you… You’re the only one for me.” He said, and with that, he kissed her.
Only a hot, seventeen-year-old could get away with those lines. They walk away, hand in hand. She looks rather odd next to him from behind. He is grown, his body developed, and he walks with a certain finality to his footsteps. She is young, her body malleable, and her footsteps fade away leaving a lingering sense of something forgotten.
***
They met back in the same place everyday but Wednesdays because her father insisted she be home early at least once a week, and Mondays, because he can’t bear to miss a single football game on television. Each time, they’d spend less time talking, and more time just with each other. She worried, but felt safe with him. He worried, but loved her anyway.
One day, he sat against the wall and she leaned into his lap. He toyed with her curly, blond hair and she joked about cutting it off and giving it to him. He laughed, because when you’re so much in love, you laugh at the other person’s jokes, no matter if they’re funny or not. He told her that his girlfriend, the girl he was supposed to be going on a date with (“in… 2 hours and 18 minutes.” He says, checking his watch), Rosie, would never be as lovely as her. She replied that the boy her parents want her to go out with, Parker, would never measure up to the love she had with him, Rory.
Another day, he brought her a tiny teddy bear and she said she loved it. She put it into the side pocket of her bag and he reminded her to hide it.
A day, months later, she started to cry when she saw him. Honestly, their relationship was tiring. Over and over, they faced the dilemma over the people who didn’t want them together. After a few weeks, the romantic asset of ‘sneaking around’ becomes exhausting, rather than thrilling.
“Rory, why is your last name Montgomery… Why couldn’t you be born into some other family…” She trailed on and on about him. How she wished they could just run away and how she wished they could be together. He told her how he wished for the same thing.
This repeated over and over. Until one day, he looked down at her, nearly in hysterics.
“We could go, you know. We could just leave… Together…” He said. From the tone of his voice, he regretted as soon as he said it. He didn’t regret the offer, he regretted saying it. The idea of running away made him vulnerable to her refusal, a position he obviously wasn’t accustomed to.
“Rory…” She started to say, but he cut her off.
“It’s fine. It’s a stupid idea. Just pretend I didn’t say it.” He coughed to conceal the tightness in his throat.
“Rory, let’s go. Let’s leave. Together. Just us.” She said. She sounded more certain about it than she had anything in weeks. They both left, soon after that, with a plan in place.
***
He came the next day alone. He sat for hours, holding a stuffed backpack. Until dusk fell, he stayed. He got up wordlessly, emotionlessly, and sulked out, with his backpack slung over his shoulder.
She arrived a day later, with a bruise formation on the side of her face and a cut on her shoulder. Exhaustion littered her clear features, in the way you could tell she was up all night but didn’t want to look it. She met him, but never met his eyes, and looked at the sidewalk the whole time.
“Rory, my dad found out… We can’t be together anymore… Listen, I can’t do this. I’m sorry.” She said and left him with no room for a response. It was the first time that they hadn’t left together.
She came in the wee hours of the morning, when the sun hadn’t yet risen. She lay down a pillow and a few blankets. The heat of an impending summer kept her warm. She lay awake for hours before taking a bottle of Ambien out of her bag and taking two capsules. Within minutes, she was out, the pill bottle still resting in her sleeping hand.
He came hours later, when the sun was up and the area deserted. He waited for a moment, looked around and saw Julia resting in the doorway. I watched from my perch while he panicked. He looked at her for a long time. He slid the pills out of her hand.
Effortlessly, it seemed, Rory dumped the bottle into his mouth. He took a swig of whatever he kept in his thermos and lay down next to Julia. I watched as the light left his eyes and I watched as it returned to hers. She awoke slowly, and then all at once. She sat bolt upright and looked at Rory. She took his pulse, and upon feeling nothing let out a strangled cry. His moves were calculated, whereas hers were frantic. She screamed and cried and held him and tried to wake him up, over and over and over. To no avail, she sat next to him. Tears stained her cheeks, her brown eyes flooded.
Julia picked up Rory’s bag and picked through it. She tossed aside a binder, textbook, and football jersey. She pulled out of the pocket, a Swiss Army knife. She lay next to him. She put a slash on each damned wrist, and left the knife on the ground next to her.
I watched from my perch as she bled. I watched as police swarmed the scene the next morning. I noticed the calmness of him, almost as though he was sleeping, and her conspicuousness, her clothes soaked in blood. Their love was love between a tree branch and an electric telephone wire. When the branch grows too close to the wire, at the right time, with the right intensity, there is blissful warmth. Then, nothingness.
And with finality, I flew away, into another story.
The End
Major credit to Michelle, for making sure I didn't screw this up and keeping me sane, for the most part.
Julia lingered outside the back of the building. She checked her phone nearly once a minute, waiting for someone. At 3:41pm, precisely, she slid her phone back into her pocket and started to desert her watch, a little sadly. As sudden as fireworks in the night sky, a young, lanky, boy, swung around the corner. He mumbled an apology about being late, but her embrace crushed it. She, 4 years and 6 inches his junior, looked up into his eyes and the moment could’ve been frozen in a picture. He kissed her and she looked blissful.
“You’re late.” She whispered, still face to face with her lover, his hands still on her waist.
“You’re beautiful.” He replied, nonchalantly, as if he knew nothing could keep her mad at him for more than a split second.
“I- Come on. You know if I don’t get home by five I’m in deep trouble with my father, and if we get caught, we’re both in even deeper.” She pulled away from him, slightly.
“Julia, I know. We’ve been through this a hundred times. Don’t get caught. Don’t be late.” said the boy.
“Rory, I just don’t know… I love you so much, would they really be that mad?” asked Julia.
“Our families have hated each other since your brother and my brother got into that fight in the second grade. It’s been almost 15 years. You honestly think they’re going to miraculously get along, just because their kids are in love?” Rory tried.
“But if we could just…” Julia trailed off.
“Besides. You know what they’d say. They’d say it’s just a phase, that our love will fade, that we’re just too young to understand.” Rory finished. Julia looked down. She was angry, and he knew it. “Does it matter, Julia, does it matter what they think? All I know is I love you… You’re the only one for me.” He said, and with that, he kissed her.
Only a hot, seventeen-year-old could get away with those lines. They walk away, hand in hand. She looks rather odd next to him from behind. He is grown, his body developed, and he walks with a certain finality to his footsteps. She is young, her body malleable, and her footsteps fade away leaving a lingering sense of something forgotten.
***
They met back in the same place everyday but Wednesdays because her father insisted she be home early at least once a week, and Mondays, because he can’t bear to miss a single football game on television. Each time, they’d spend less time talking, and more time just with each other. She worried, but felt safe with him. He worried, but loved her anyway.
One day, he sat against the wall and she leaned into his lap. He toyed with her curly, blond hair and she joked about cutting it off and giving it to him. He laughed, because when you’re so much in love, you laugh at the other person’s jokes, no matter if they’re funny or not. He told her that his girlfriend, the girl he was supposed to be going on a date with (“in… 2 hours and 18 minutes.” He says, checking his watch), Rosie, would never be as lovely as her. She replied that the boy her parents want her to go out with, Parker, would never measure up to the love she had with him, Rory.
Another day, he brought her a tiny teddy bear and she said she loved it. She put it into the side pocket of her bag and he reminded her to hide it.
A day, months later, she started to cry when she saw him. Honestly, their relationship was tiring. Over and over, they faced the dilemma over the people who didn’t want them together. After a few weeks, the romantic asset of ‘sneaking around’ becomes exhausting, rather than thrilling.
“Rory, why is your last name Montgomery… Why couldn’t you be born into some other family…” She trailed on and on about him. How she wished they could just run away and how she wished they could be together. He told her how he wished for the same thing.
This repeated over and over. Until one day, he looked down at her, nearly in hysterics.
“We could go, you know. We could just leave… Together…” He said. From the tone of his voice, he regretted as soon as he said it. He didn’t regret the offer, he regretted saying it. The idea of running away made him vulnerable to her refusal, a position he obviously wasn’t accustomed to.
“Rory…” She started to say, but he cut her off.
“It’s fine. It’s a stupid idea. Just pretend I didn’t say it.” He coughed to conceal the tightness in his throat.
“Rory, let’s go. Let’s leave. Together. Just us.” She said. She sounded more certain about it than she had anything in weeks. They both left, soon after that, with a plan in place.
***
He came the next day alone. He sat for hours, holding a stuffed backpack. Until dusk fell, he stayed. He got up wordlessly, emotionlessly, and sulked out, with his backpack slung over his shoulder.
She arrived a day later, with a bruise formation on the side of her face and a cut on her shoulder. Exhaustion littered her clear features, in the way you could tell she was up all night but didn’t want to look it. She met him, but never met his eyes, and looked at the sidewalk the whole time.
“Rory, my dad found out… We can’t be together anymore… Listen, I can’t do this. I’m sorry.” She said and left him with no room for a response. It was the first time that they hadn’t left together.
She came in the wee hours of the morning, when the sun hadn’t yet risen. She lay down a pillow and a few blankets. The heat of an impending summer kept her warm. She lay awake for hours before taking a bottle of Ambien out of her bag and taking two capsules. Within minutes, she was out, the pill bottle still resting in her sleeping hand.
He came hours later, when the sun was up and the area deserted. He waited for a moment, looked around and saw Julia resting in the doorway. I watched from my perch while he panicked. He looked at her for a long time. He slid the pills out of her hand.
Effortlessly, it seemed, Rory dumped the bottle into his mouth. He took a swig of whatever he kept in his thermos and lay down next to Julia. I watched as the light left his eyes and I watched as it returned to hers. She awoke slowly, and then all at once. She sat bolt upright and looked at Rory. She took his pulse, and upon feeling nothing let out a strangled cry. His moves were calculated, whereas hers were frantic. She screamed and cried and held him and tried to wake him up, over and over and over. To no avail, she sat next to him. Tears stained her cheeks, her brown eyes flooded.
Julia picked up Rory’s bag and picked through it. She tossed aside a binder, textbook, and football jersey. She pulled out of the pocket, a Swiss Army knife. She lay next to him. She put a slash on each damned wrist, and left the knife on the ground next to her.
I watched from my perch as she bled. I watched as police swarmed the scene the next morning. I noticed the calmness of him, almost as though he was sleeping, and her conspicuousness, her clothes soaked in blood. Their love was love between a tree branch and an electric telephone wire. When the branch grows too close to the wire, at the right time, with the right intensity, there is blissful warmth. Then, nothingness.
And with finality, I flew away, into another story.
The End
Major credit to Michelle, for making sure I didn't screw this up and keeping me sane, for the most part.
English Presentation: http://prezi.com/stvhhkx2gppw/the-flip-side/
First Day of School: 9th Edition
I have had a lot of first days of school
Eight or nine by now
But by far the best
And the worst
Started here, right here
I was still thirteen
Barely a teenager at all
I had moved from an island of sunshine
To a city of rain
From the vivid green of the palm trees
To the stunning red, orange and gold of maple
Starting in a musty building
Where the smell of wood reminded me of my father
People greeted me
Or asked me if I liked certain singers
To which I replied a tentative, "They're alright."
I was quiet
I was shy
I was soft-spoken
I was everything I'm not
Prim and proper
Girly, studious, introverted
It was a sunny day, the first one
I ate alone
On the grass behind the flower beds
Reading a book I didn't quite love
"Deadline"
I read that book for a long time
Over and over
Until one day
Someone walked into my sunshine
"What are you doing? Come eat with us."
And I joined a group of people
Who were very odd
Loud, funny and very, very odd
Much like myself
Over the weeks I grew to love them
And care about them
They are now the people I call my favorites
Eight or nine by now
But by far the best
And the worst
Started here, right here
I was still thirteen
Barely a teenager at all
I had moved from an island of sunshine
To a city of rain
From the vivid green of the palm trees
To the stunning red, orange and gold of maple
Starting in a musty building
Where the smell of wood reminded me of my father
People greeted me
Or asked me if I liked certain singers
To which I replied a tentative, "They're alright."
I was quiet
I was shy
I was soft-spoken
I was everything I'm not
Prim and proper
Girly, studious, introverted
It was a sunny day, the first one
I ate alone
On the grass behind the flower beds
Reading a book I didn't quite love
"Deadline"
I read that book for a long time
Over and over
Until one day
Someone walked into my sunshine
"What are you doing? Come eat with us."
And I joined a group of people
Who were very odd
Loud, funny and very, very odd
Much like myself
Over the weeks I grew to love them
And care about them
They are now the people I call my favorites
Drop by Drop
"Every cloud has a silver lining."
They write a lot of songs
Describing the clouds
The rain, the sky
They say it symbolizes pain
Or hope, or love
Maybe the sky's beauty
Is in a raindrop
Perfect, simply, beautiful
Falling on your forehead
Or a child splashing in puddles
This life is hard
That's no secret
But maybe something about the rain and clouds
Purple and silver lined, or not
Changes us
Drop by drop
Error 204: Inactivity Detected
A few years ago, if I were asked 'Are you sedentary or active?' My answer would be simple. 'Active.' Without a doubt. But now, I would say I'm almost evenly a mix of the two. (Partially because I'm ridiculously indecisive.) Many people would scoff, and call me completely sedentary. Because I eat whatever I want and I am addicted to Tumblr and I really, really love my couch. But the point is, even with my delicious food, internet addiction and couch love, I am, I'd say, a relatively active person.
I run, even though I hate it, because I know it's good for me. I skin in the winter, play soccer all year and windsurf in the summer
So, even though I don't play soccer at lunch with the boys, or basketball in the afternoons or run at the track every night, I would consider myself both active and sedentary. Because as much as I love digging into a fresh pie, I love blasting a soccer ball down a field just as much. As much as I love my couch, I love feeling the sea on my face and the wind in my hair on a board. Just as much as I love Tumblr, I love the snow flying into my face and sliding off the ski lift. I am both.
I run, even though I hate it, because I know it's good for me. I skin in the winter, play soccer all year and windsurf in the summer
So, even though I don't play soccer at lunch with the boys, or basketball in the afternoons or run at the track every night, I would consider myself both active and sedentary. Because as much as I love digging into a fresh pie, I love blasting a soccer ball down a field just as much. As much as I love my couch, I love feeling the sea on my face and the wind in my hair on a board. Just as much as I love Tumblr, I love the snow flying into my face and sliding off the ski lift. I am both.
Yesterday, I Was a Camera Girl and My Dress Was Yellow
When you were a kid, did your parents let you walk in between them, hold their hands and swing on their arms? Mine definitely did. It may seem irrelevant, but that’s how my story starts. Swinging on the arms of my two, very tall parents, down the un-crowded street of my hometown, Nelson. Nelson is a storybook town. It looks like the Christmas village people set up every Christmas in the dining room. But at this time, it was without the snow, as it was the middle of June. June 17th, 2000, the date of my mother’s graduation.
I wore a yellow dress, that awkward satin-like fabric that went down to my knees and had a tie around the middle. I was three years old. The street we walked down smelled entirely like baked goods from Lucky Cupcakes, the cupcake store on Baker Street. We stepped onto the train platform and boarded the train to wherever we were going. My mom looked nice, I remember, with her dark hair tied into a knot, in a burgundy dress and black blazer. My dad looked like always, white t-shirt, khaki shorts and sandals. The same ‘uniform’ he’d worn since long before I was born. We sat down on the train in between an old man and a teenage couple making out. Lovely.
The next thing I remember, is sitting in a huge audience hall in front of a stage. I’d tied the ribbon around my waist in the front, since I couldn’t figure out how to tie it behind my back, and of course my father couldn’t possibly do it for me. That would be an abomination. I looked around the room, and saw mostly adults and no kids at all. There were no toys to play with and no people to tell me I was adorable. I told my dad I was bored, and he gave me the same advice he still gives me today. “Count the dots on the ceiling.” But of course, I was three, and really couldn’t count past twenty. So I sat, and fiddled with my dress tie and pretended like I was counting dots on the ceiling.
An announcer called something, using words I couldn’t understand, but looking back now, they were probably about starting the ceremony. He called twelve people up (I know, because I counted, because I ran out of dots on the ceiling.) Before he called my mother up. It was strange to hear someone, much less some announcer in a stuffy room, call my mother by anything other than “Mom.” But he called her “Kathleen Beechinor.” My father stood up and cheered at my mother. I didn’t see why, she looked so silly in her long gown and funny hat. But he cheered anyway, loudly. I stood on my seat trying to see better. My mother shook the strange man’s hand, and some other people’s hands and then stood with her peers. My father stood beside me, cursing at the camera, trying to get it to work. This is the part I remember very, very clearly. “Oh Daddy, you’re so silly. Give it to me.” I said, and ripped the camera out of his hands. We were pretty poor then, so a digital camera was not the thing you wanted your three year old to break. But I picked it up, aimed it at the stage and hit all the buttons until one of them worked. My dad clapped for me, and the people behind me said to each other, “Oh, isn’t she a-DOR-able!”
Oddly enough, the photos turned out very well. Which is ironic, because twelve-thirteen years later, I haven’t taken another good photo of anyone or anything. Ever. I’m glad that my mother’s university graduation is my first memory. Even though she was thirty-nine and even though it isn’t perfect, for me, it’s the day my life begins. Not too far off after that we were on a plane to Hawaii, starting Kindergarten, watching my life unfold before my eyes. But that is for another essay.
I wore a yellow dress, that awkward satin-like fabric that went down to my knees and had a tie around the middle. I was three years old. The street we walked down smelled entirely like baked goods from Lucky Cupcakes, the cupcake store on Baker Street. We stepped onto the train platform and boarded the train to wherever we were going. My mom looked nice, I remember, with her dark hair tied into a knot, in a burgundy dress and black blazer. My dad looked like always, white t-shirt, khaki shorts and sandals. The same ‘uniform’ he’d worn since long before I was born. We sat down on the train in between an old man and a teenage couple making out. Lovely.
The next thing I remember, is sitting in a huge audience hall in front of a stage. I’d tied the ribbon around my waist in the front, since I couldn’t figure out how to tie it behind my back, and of course my father couldn’t possibly do it for me. That would be an abomination. I looked around the room, and saw mostly adults and no kids at all. There were no toys to play with and no people to tell me I was adorable. I told my dad I was bored, and he gave me the same advice he still gives me today. “Count the dots on the ceiling.” But of course, I was three, and really couldn’t count past twenty. So I sat, and fiddled with my dress tie and pretended like I was counting dots on the ceiling.
An announcer called something, using words I couldn’t understand, but looking back now, they were probably about starting the ceremony. He called twelve people up (I know, because I counted, because I ran out of dots on the ceiling.) Before he called my mother up. It was strange to hear someone, much less some announcer in a stuffy room, call my mother by anything other than “Mom.” But he called her “Kathleen Beechinor.” My father stood up and cheered at my mother. I didn’t see why, she looked so silly in her long gown and funny hat. But he cheered anyway, loudly. I stood on my seat trying to see better. My mother shook the strange man’s hand, and some other people’s hands and then stood with her peers. My father stood beside me, cursing at the camera, trying to get it to work. This is the part I remember very, very clearly. “Oh Daddy, you’re so silly. Give it to me.” I said, and ripped the camera out of his hands. We were pretty poor then, so a digital camera was not the thing you wanted your three year old to break. But I picked it up, aimed it at the stage and hit all the buttons until one of them worked. My dad clapped for me, and the people behind me said to each other, “Oh, isn’t she a-DOR-able!”
Oddly enough, the photos turned out very well. Which is ironic, because twelve-thirteen years later, I haven’t taken another good photo of anyone or anything. Ever. I’m glad that my mother’s university graduation is my first memory. Even though she was thirty-nine and even though it isn’t perfect, for me, it’s the day my life begins. Not too far off after that we were on a plane to Hawaii, starting Kindergarten, watching my life unfold before my eyes. But that is for another essay.
Black and White
The world is not so simply black and white. I said that a few times today, over various things. There is a very, very large grey area. The grey area, it's why a wife can forgive her cheating husband. Why high school dropouts can go back to school. The grey area, it gives us allowances instead of grudges, mercy instead of justice, it gives us... Everything. Maybe I'm crazy, but I think that someone can do anything, from stealing a stick of gum, lying to their friends or even committing the worst of crimes, and be forgiven.
Just because you do a terrible thing, doesn't make you a terrible person.
Just because you do a terrible thing, doesn't make you a terrible person.