Travel

Sun, sand, and Safeway. (Don’t ask. I’ll have to explain it anyway.)

I’ve decided that I’m going to turn my excerpt of my trip to Lake Tahoe, into three separate intervals. Representing each day we were there. Then it’ll be easier for me to release content. And for you guys to take a breather between posts so it doesn’t feel like you’re being hit in the face by all the alpine glory of Lake Tahoe.

So.

Lake Tahoe anyone?

Yeah I know, me neither.

(Just so we’re clear. This post is not sponsored by Safeway.

Or the sun.

Or every sand particle in existence.)

Fair warning, this post has a lot going on in one place, so you’ll have to be reading really carefully if ya wanna catch all the details before you go on to the next paragraph. I suggest you read with a timid pace. Also, you’ll seriously get confused if you just skim the whole thing(and probably question why I have access to a computer) . With this post, even I’ll start stumbling on a lot of details, because honestly, I think I’ve had too much human interaction for the past month.

Last month, my uncle and his family decided to visit the United States for a couple weeks. My uncle seemed to have some business that he needed to take care of for his company, mostly meetings and stuff. And it had been four years since the four of them had decided to come to the U.S. again, which really hyped up the whole thing for everyone. And I was pretty excited myself, because spending time with my uncle with all of us together as a big group, also meant that a lot of unexpected adventures were going to happen, and he did not disappoint.

Course that also meant a lot of preparation on our line of there trip, since they would be alternating between our house and my other uncle’s house. My mom and I got more blanket and pillows from the garage, took out the crib in the master bedroom so there would be more space. And since my brother was getting a bunk bed anyway(#notfair#why#Idontevenusehashtangs#what)the sleep situation wasn’t an issue in his room.

But, when they finally arrived at our house, I was kinda having an internal language crisis.

My brain got so wired to all the Tamil, mild Japanese, English, and Spanish, that it all started messing with my train of thought.

Two years worth of Spanish. English and Tamil for as long as I’ve been existing I guess. And the really light Japanese vocab that I’ve been trying to teach myself.

And it doesn’t make it any better than my Tamil isn’t all that great. A lot of my relatives know that. I mean I really wish I could just be able to say something lightning fast in Tamil and understand it at the same time. And if someone’s talking to me in Tamil, I wish I could just break it all down in my brain and then translate it myself “Oh here brain, what they just said all translates in English to (fill in the blank).”

Anyway, when my uncle and his family came, I was morally terrified and knew I was kinda screwed. But I tried my best to make sure I didn’t say gracias or arigatou gozaimasu. Anyone reading this would think I’m just trying to make a show of what I’m learning, but seriously, all the different vocabulary and such have totally messed up my brain. And it didn’t make it any better that I kept mixing my English with my Tamil, which just made me sound flat out stupid.

Usually, I don’t stutter, but when it comes to speaking Tamil, I have the same vocal coherency as a two year old spelling out the letters of the alphabet. And I didn’t want to give off the vibe that I’m an antisocial meal worm, but the language crisis didn’t help.

See, in India, it would’ve been different. Since I would in a setting that only has that language circulating with other people I can pick up new words and vocabulary that are used frequently by everyone else. And then incorporate it into my set of Magical Tamil Knowledge, and BAM I have attained the ability to communicate with other people in India with the very little and basic expertise I have. I can hold a steady conversation without as much stuttering as I would’ve if I was talking one on one with someone back here in California. But I’m still not to the oh-my-gosh-i’m-a-bilingual-god, level.

And don’t worry, I won’t reach that level of cockiness even if I do “master the art” of knowing another language on command.

Maybe.

Now besides the obvious stuff, I didn’t know where we would take road-trips to, I just knew that whatever peryiappa says, goes. That also meant that we would be taken meticulously to places we probably haven’t been to before. Therefore resulting in a circumstance that we would call “fun” but what professionals would call, “peril.” But you know, he’s my uncle, and ya gotta love the guy.

So, to my extent of knowledge(and eavesdropping on conversations conducted between my parents and my uncle on the phone.) We were going to Yosemite, along with my other uncle and his family who live in San Jose. We had everything planned, a hotel, what we would see, my mother was even getting everything packed and my bought stuff for the trip. It seemed like nothing was going to get in our wa-oh, oh wait.

Oh that’s right! I totally forgot!

 

We didn’t go.

YOU DIDN’T SEE THAT COMING DID YOU.

WELL ME NEITHER. NOW WE’RE BOTH ON THE SAME PAGE.

CONFUSED?

YEAH ME TOO.

So, since peryiappa didn’t tell us that he was coming to the United States until the very last minutes, my parents didn’t book three hotel rooms. You see, since we go to Yosemite almost every year, my parent just assumed that we were obviously gonna go this year without fail, at that time. But that was before we were informed that Babu peryiappa was gonna decide to mosey on over to the United States.

So the only thing my dad could really do was call the hotel that we were supposed to stay at, and ask if they had an extra room or two. The result?

They said no.

Multiple times.

At that point I think we all kinda knew that it wasn’t gonna work out since we’re such a big group, and there was only one room, and the fact that we wanted to go when it was the Memorial Day weekend made us realize that it would be easier to just go somewhere else.  So Lake Tahoe was basically the next best thing. Like president Yosemite was stepping down and Vice President Tahoe was takin’ the reigns of our summertime fun. (Advance apologies to every other national park in existence in California)

So, in total there was fourteen of us. My family which is five, peryiappa’s family which was four, and my other uncle in San Jose, was five. Peryiappa had rented a car recently after landing in California, so we had three cars in total. So transportation wouldn’t be a problem.

oR So We ThOuGhT.

THIS WHOLE THING IS JUST ONE BIG SHERLOCK HOLMES DEBACLE ISN’T IT?!

What I thought was going to end in a neat and organized fashion ended up with me wondering whether or not it would be easier if some of us older kids sat in the trunks of our respectable cars. Why?

Okay, let me back up a bit.

When we all decided Pip pip, cheerio, pack your bags everyone we’re going to circle an entire lake and you’re going to like it as it basks in it’s alpine glory. We all decided that we all should meet at my house, since it’s on the way to Lake Tahoe, it would be a quick breather for everyone before we got on the road. And everyone was there, except my uncle, aunt, and younger cousin from San Jose. My other two cousins were there, though. I asked my cousin why her parents weren’t with us, and she said that  her mother had work so they had to stay behind, but she said they would meet us in the house we were all staying at in South Lake Tahoe.

So that left us deprived of three people and a car.

But it was all okay since my peryiappa’s family plus my two cousins managed to all fit in the car peryiappa rented. And my family would be in our own car. So, no problem right?

We all started driving for a while before deciding we should take a break somewhere for a little bit. Now, this is is a major factor for me, mostly because;

I hate long car trips, with a burning passion.

Before all of you hardcore travelers out there attack with your passion for sitting in a hot, stuffy, uncomfortable, car for a prolonged period of time. I have my reasons:

  1. I have motion sickness. Nuff’ said.

  2. It’s bores me out of my mind.

  3. I can never find a comfortable sleeping position.

  4. T R A F F I C

Looking over this list, I’m just thinking to myself, “Wow, I sound like such a brat! What has my existence come to?” But, these are all my reasons for hating travel that involves staying in a mobile vehicle for an extended amount of time. And traffic is something I hate with a capital everything. And I’m sure a lot of you can relate.  I know you’re out there, and I feel you. And it’s not that I don’t like traveling. I adore seeing new places and experiencing new things, but when it comes down the form of travel and how long it takes to get to our location, well, I’d much rather stay home or just go to local places, like the library or a nearby store.

Anyway, we went and parked in the shade a parking lot in the center of a bunch of restaurants and stores. Babu peryiappa and the rest of our family came a couple minutes later, my dad pointing to a parking spot right next to our car. But peryiappa decided it would be funny to park in a spot that was one space away from where our car was, which resulted in my dad throwing his hands in the air like What the heck man? While everyone was getting out of the car, my cousin Surya said he would take the car and park it next to ours. After that statement was brought into the air, everyone in peryiappa’s car was rushing to get out. I had to hold back a snort because I mean, c’mon, the guy’s nineteen and has a license, it’s not like the car was going to blowup the minute he put his hands on the steering wheel spy-movie style.

At least I hope not.

Once everyone had safely assumed that we indeed weren’t going to be run over; everyone gathered together as my mom passed out food. I kid you not when I say that she basically hauled the entire kitchen with her. I’m talking Costco sized bags(with that unit of measurement you know that’s a massive quantity)At that point, I’m surprised she hasn’t received a special request from Costco asking her to join their team of super elite packing people of honour who save the world from the horrors of improperly packed goods and accessorizes. And if they do have an actual team like that in Costco, then I honestly don’t even know if I should be amazed or dumb founded.

Anyway, my mom pulled out a bowl of rice, some spinach stew that you eat with the rice, sliced, seasoned, and cooked potatoes, plates, spoons, and more. Everyone who wanted to eat, stood around both cars and ate. I didn’t eat because I wasn’t really up to downing some food at the moment. But I did get to have some purpose with my hands, which was to hold a large glass bowl that held the spinach stew. But I think that was a deplorable decision on my parent’s part, because glass+me=complete disaster. If someone hands me something that’s glass, in my head there are sirens blaring, and it’s screaming

redcardredcardredcardredcardredcardredcardredcardredcard

REDCARD

If you have something that you value, something that has high importance, but is equally fragile

Don’t give it to me.

So I was neck deep in anxiety and was just about ready to put that bowl of stew into someone else’s unsure custody. Finally I was able to do that, and I put it down safely inside the trunk where it hopefully wouldn’t descend into the consolidated void of concrete. Afterwards, it remained uneventful, and when we were all packing up to get back on the road Himani and I made a sound discovery. Our cousin Surya, and Himani’s brother Sanjay, were not there. We looked around everywhere, and by everywhere I mean in and around the perimeter of our two cars. Obviously, Himani did the rational thing and decided to call Sanjay to ask where the two of them went. And of all places they managed to go to, they went to Panda Express. Just the thought of eating food before driving for another hour or two, made my stomach lurch. But no judgement here, food is always a top priority.

Anyways, we were back on the road, and I was obviously not enjoying staying in my seat for such a long time. But I managed not to projectile vomit the whole time, so that was definitely an accomplishment on my part. I don’t think I can say the same for my sister though.

Driving through the Lake Tahoe area and residency spaces is like driving into a completely different state. It felt more like a city with relatively more tree’s, rather than a national park at first. We passed by dozens of stores, shops, hotels, resorts, cinemas, massive houses, grocery stores, fast food restaurants and drive-ins, and basically every amenity you could possibly find in a modern-ish city setting like regular ol’ Sacramento. Except there’s comparatively more wooded area. Also did you guys know that they have an AIRPORT?!

Now that I think about it, it does make sure to have an airport in such a popular tourist destination, since many people come from all around the world to see the lake and to stay, or from out of the state. So that I practical to a certain extent.

Anyway, by the time we arrived at South Lake Tahoe it was around nine at night and pretty dark. We were driving a bit slowly on this dirt path that literally had no lights or anything except one or two street lights placed next to some houses. I couldn’t see much, with it being so late, but I did notice that each house that we passed had different and unique structures and designs. Like styles pillars and boards in the porches, or windows that take up an entire wall. I even saw a house that looked like something straight out of The Hobbit.

Thinking back, it was a little irking to see no one else roaming about, except us. And it didn’t make anyone feel any better that peryiappa’s car was no where to be seen. And didn’t help that he decided to rent a black car. So even if he was driving right beside us, or in front or behind, we wouldn’t have been able to see. The road look abandoned of any else except us, and in all honesty, I don’t think anyone of us knew where our location was.

It was dark(like I said fifty times before, thanks for noticing.)so looking at the numbers on the houses was just a tad bit difficult. But after some minor confusion, some of us almost tipping off into a road rage, and taking a u-turn or two; we finally managed to find where we’re staying, and peryiappa came just in time. Surya, Sanjay, and my dad all got out and looked for the key, and opened the door to the house before coming back out to unload both cars. I got out and looked at the massive house in front of me.

I was tired, I was a little hungry, my eyes were bleary, and I was sore from having my left side completely pressed against my little sister’s car seat. So I might’ve been a little delusional, and had the moral sanity of a plastic bag,  but I clearly remember thinking;

“Wow.”

“This looks like Minecraft!”

From afar, someone would’ve thought the house was a solid wooden block just hanging out in a little neighborhood. But up close, it’s just a big two-story cabin. But still,

It looked like Minecraft.

Anyway, I lugged my backpack and a couple other things inside and just plopped them near a glass coffee table. I looked around, to the left of the entryway, there was a small room that had no lights on, which was home to a black metal bunk bed, and red and white duvets and pillows that classes miraculously with glass(or plastic)art piece, that hung on the wall above, that reminded me of explicitly of microorganisms, or empty cells. I tried turning on the lights by flipping the switch, but even the satisfying click didn’t carry out the expected result.

AKA, the lights didn’t turn on.

I tried clicking it again, and then thrice. But it still didn’t turn on, and this being the first room I walked into, my first impression was

“aaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH”

My second thought-while internally screaming, was;

“Welllet’sskedaddleoutofherebeforethisroomdecidesit’snotaroomanymoreandinsteadbecomethegatewaytoTartarus.”

It wasn’t that the room had a hostile atmosphere to it, I mean it was small and looked welcoming, but the fact that it had no light and there was a sketchy looking door in the corner in the room didn’t help. But my curiosity got the better of me as I crept into the other side of the room, and twisted the knob and I opened the closet door-half expecting something to jump at me. Luckily nothing did, it seemed to just be another storage closet. Although I was still half convinced that I had just opened the toran to another inter dimensional galaxy,

The house itself had a peculiar floor plan, the living room, kitchen+bathroom, one bedroom, and one coat closet downstairs, along with a fireplace situated between the kitchen and living room. Upstairs there were three bedrooms, if I was to be a bit more accurate, one of the rooms was massive, and seemed to be an entertainment room that was doubly used as a bedroom.  There were three smaller rooms, one with a bunk bed, and one with a queen bed. There were also two bathrooms upstairs which seemed to be convenient seeing as there was so many of us.

I went back downstairs to see what was going on in the kitchen, merely to find that some of my family members were huddled around island, which was overflowing with bags and bags of food, utensils, pans and pots, and snacks. I snuck behind them all to the side where there were open bags of chips, and grabbed one, munching away as everyone fussed over the food. About an hour later, we had all eaten dinner and some of us stayed up to wait for my uncle, aunt, and cousin.

By the time they arrived, it was around eleven, my mother and peryiamma were fussing over my aunt and uncle and gave them some food. I was so tired  and tried my best to make good conversation for a bit before turning in to bed.

つ ◕_◕つ

Interesting Facts

  • Lake Tahoe is the largest alpine lake in the United States

  • Lake Tahoe is 2/3 in California and 1/3 Nevada.

  • Lake Tahoe is 2 million years old

  • Because of it’s depth, Lake Tahoe never freezes

  • The lake has a volume of 41 trillion gallons of water

  • Lake Tahoe is the second deepest lake in the United States, with a depth of 1,645 feet.

 

 

 

 

Art and Drawing, Personel Things

Art is not a crime.

I don’t really consider myself as a part of a category of anything. I’m fully aware that others do though. I’m a different thing in every else’s lives. A daughter, granddaughter, a sister, a niece, cousin, friend, acquaintance, etc. But, at some point in our lives, I feel like we all have that one moment, just one, where you know exactly who you are, to yourself and the rest of the world. This moment or moments can be scattered at different times in your life,

Obviously not everyone is mentally wired the same way as the next person, so you can just be scrolling your phone in a coffee shop and BAM, suddenly you’ve mentally acquired the cure for cancer. They can happen just like that, or a bit of time. No one can tell, because not only is everyone different, but you’ll never see it coming even if it’s taking years and years for you to find it.

Confused? Yeah me too.

On hindsight, have you ever read an autobiography, and the author seems to be putting extra care into a specific moment that they remember, and everything is so vivid, every single emotion they write just flows out of the pages to greet you. You can easily immerse yourself into the scene and watch it unfold in front of you. The pages practically pulse with despondency and it’s so vivid and just a massive wow moment for the reader, and just a nostalgia and happiness for the author.

That’s what these moments are! Congratulations! You just graduated from confused to moderately aware of what this random girl is talking about.

All jokes aside, when you start questioning your value, when you feel like everything you do is just wrong; when nothing feels right anymore. Just thinking about the moments in life that just ground you , and are such surreal experiences, no matter how simple or bizarre. No one can strip those memories away from you and that’s just, that’s just so alluring.

Finding my own peace time is usually me hiding out in my bedroom like a disgusting gremlin and the first thing you see is paint splattered onto my clothing, marks on my face, and my fingertips look like they’ve been bathing in a toned-out rainbow vomited by a unicorn. My hair will be in a really horrid bun. My glasses crooked, and paint living happily in my fingernails. My desk will be littered with paint tubes, brushes, my massive paint pallete, sketchbook, and in the center would be whatever project I’m working on. Paint usually ends up on my desk, the floor, and basically anything I end up touching afterwards like, paper, brushes, pencils, my phone, earbuds, my sister, etc.

Or, I’ll be sitting on my swivel chair without moving for like two hours, just drawing and sketching, and listening to music that is ridiculously loud. When I’m upset or angry, I can take out a piece of paper and a random old mechanical pencil and just draw. It’s calming, but sometimes the essence of my turmoil can lead to a lot of good things on paper. My anger can get white hot and it’s just terrible. I’m just a really hotheaded person in general, like some of my family members.

A lot of people say anger is damaging for the mind and body, and I get that; but it’s one of my strongest emotions, because that’s when I get everything I’ve had pent up inside me, and just let it out. And it’s not necessarily a good thing when that happens. But when it comes to art, having such a powerful rage like that can make some sick sketches.

On a more recent note, this was a picture that had been happening in my room more often than not. I’ve been sketching, planning, painting, mixing, cutting, pinning, whatever. At this point, I think I’ve had my own version of the renaissance take place in my own bedroom.

Yeah, that’s right, y’all are reading the words of the female reincarnation of Leonardo Davinci.x

I’m kidding I’m kidding.

The closest I’ll ever be to Davici will probably be my ability to squeeze a super precise amount of paint. But even that simile is pointless because about 2.6 seconds later the tube of paint decides to be a massive pain and basically squirt at least half the tube onto my pallete.

And then I proceed to scream.

In my pillow.

And in my head.

Both situations are valid.

All jokes aside, I feel like I’ve found the places where my soul really just, lights on fire you know? Where you feel like you’re just in element. Everything feels like it’s gravitating towards you and everything feels like pure magic and there’s just electricity in the air. And it feels like you’re serving your purpose.

When we were cracking down with the last couple days of school, my teachers kept emphasizing how close our futures our, how our generation is the one that will break down every barrier that is up, how each and every one of us needs to find the things that bind us as human, that keep us whole, and weave our futures with those strings of fate. To find the elements that make us who we are, and then use them as our superpowers.

So philosophical, I know.

*clap clap*

Now that I’m technically a freshmen(I’m really stretching that technically) I’ve got a lot to think about for my future.

What do I need to do to succeed?

What do I want to do to be happy?

Yeah, I’m still working on those bits.

¯\_(ツ)_/¯

But, in the meantime, I wanna take what I love doing, and incorporate it into a practical setting that could possibly land me into the starting point of incubating a career for myself, that not only will redeem my multiple purposes and abilities, but also keep me financially stable. It’s a tall order, but I have a lot of hope, and I’m really trying my best and working hard.

Even though to some people I might seem like I’m lazy and a procrastinator, I really do try a lot to succeed, and when I do fail, I beat myself up over it a lot and it makes me feel like I haven’t done enough. Like I’m not enough.

I have a lot of ambitions and hope for the future. I know that the next four years aren’t going to be a easy; and I know that I have to work harder and harder with every day that comes. I’m not a silly girl who obsesses over books and animes and things that don’t relate to real life. I know what I have to do, and I won’t let anyone stop me from doing so.

I try and I try and I try, and when I fail, I’m a little broken, but I try to keep going anyway. I’m not joking when I say that I’m willing to do whatever it takes to get into the college I dream about going to.

All of that doesn’t mean I’m going to let all the work and the things I need to do, slowly start breaking me apart, and if that happens, when my conscience isn’t as vivacious, then, I won’t know why I started in the first place. I’ll lose the passion because I was to busy trying to turn that passion into something that’ll get me a stable job in the future. And trust me, I will not let that happen, like it has for so many people out there. And that passion, well, besides writing, and words, and creating with my voice; all the passion I bear all comes down to my art too.

When I’m painting or drawing, I’m at peace. It’s just me, my music, and whatever I’m working on. Everything on my mind just disappears and the sweeping of the brush and the scratching of my pencils are the only sounds emitted. Music playing gently(more like screaming) in my ears, paint and pencils scattered all of my desk, my only focus is my art.

My art.

You have no idea how much I love saying that!

｡◕‿‿◕｡

Art is one of my loves, and it’s such a massive part of my life. It’s my life and love.

Ever since I was a little kid, I always felt like holding a crayon in my chubby little fists was the best way to express myself; in the classroom, or on the clean white walls of our apartment. It was a constant that never went away, it felt solid and whole. Something I can run to when I had enough of learning about grammar and scraping knees and palms on the hard black top at school. And it still is and always will be something I can receive comfort from. I can go headfirst and it’ll greet me with open arms. No questions, no hesitations. And it’s been like that ever since I could remember.

Me and my first grade buddies swinging my feet and humming happily as I coloured a(terribly drawn)picture with every shade of pink humanely possible, well, if the crayon box had it of course.

Crayons, aren’t really my medium anymore, but the picture hasn’t changed as much as one would expect:

Me sitting with my circle of friends just chilling out on the floor, I wag me feet side to side and sing along with my friends to whatever song we felt like belting out that very moment. I shade in a(somewhat decent drawing)with every mechanical pencil that my pencil case has stowed away, and rubbing the marks with my fingers tips, leaving dark smudges on my hands and on whatever ensemble I’m wearing that day.

When I got older, it became so much more than just making a statement. Art is where I find my home, where I’m at peace, I can connect with people by creating something that can make them visualize what you want them to see, or create a blank canvas they can let themselves go into, without a certain picture they have to be held by.

Art doesn’t require sophisticated thinking, a knowledge of a variety of things, there aren’t any rules that need to be applied in order to make something beautiful. It’s kind of like creating a confession, letting everything that lies inside of you, out. Everything meaning anything. Even the empty voids you don’t know how to fill. Art is my escape from everything I can’t run away from. All the work, practice, school, people, and just life in general.

When I’m in my room, I’m in my zone. It’s my own burrow out of the whole house and to me, the feeling I get from walking in there, nothing can hold a candle to it. Everything flows the way I want it, messily perfect and just reciprocates what I am as a person.

The random little things tacked onto my bulletin board, the fairy lights strung with no coordination (and a lot of struggling) a massive wooden desk with paint stains on the surface, the drawers attached, as messy as ever. Book over books in the shelves, my drawers, the nightstand, my desk, the floor, the shelves. Everywhere. My bed is a wrinkled mess, with an unnecessary amount of pillows and stuff animals throw randomly onto . but it’s cozy enough for me to become a tiny little burrito of darkness that fuels itself with lukewarm citrus tea and stale Goldfish crackers.

I can do anything and everything because it all holds my atmosphere, and I can control the way I want it to be.

With art, I don’t ever have to worry about getting it right, about perfecting it. Because art is messy and weird and peculiar, and just represents who you are and what message you want to repress onto the  paper or canvas. Literally or hypothetically, art is art. Just like love is love and life is life.

And, I love indulging myself with other people’s works,  I don’t take myself to be good at the things I love doing. It’s just the fact that I love doing them that keeps me going.  I don’t have very high self esteem either, actually, it’s pretty much lower than an average person’s when I think about it. A lot of people on first contact would probably say, “Hey, are you like, okay? Do you need a hug? Whatever it is I’m here for you bro, and yada yada yada.” No, no, I’m perfectly fine. I’m not going through an emo phase. I’M FINE. I just don’t think that highly of myself. But that doesn’t mean I’ll put random people on a pedestal that casts their shadow on me. I don’t idolize people, it’s not my thing.

But that’s not due to seeing other people’s works and  thinking, “Oh wow, there so much better than I am at(fill in the blank). I’ll never be as good as them.” I’m not gonna lie and say I don’t have some self doubt. I doubt myself in every aspect of anything. Like I said, low self esteem. But I don’t compare myself to other people and start damaging myself mentally. I know I’m not perfect and I never will be the exact definition of it either. But that doesn’t mean I’ll be bringing myself down in the process just because someone’s better at something that I am. I’ll applaud them and cheer them on. I will support them. But not without establishing a certain distance between my self esteem and a self destructive conscious.

(Before you read the next portion, I just want to give you a fair warning. For the record, I’m not super anime obsessed okay? I don’t watch some trash anime just so I can’t start conversation with someone. I have very specific tastes in what I watch and anime is one of them. I watch only a few others with interest, and only if I actually like them too. See, there you go, I am an anime connoisseur.

Haha lol, no I’m not.)

Anyway, one day, I was just in my room scrolling through my phone, looking for a reference for one of my drawings(I’m not plagiarizing don’t worry), and I was listening to the song History Maker from my absolute favorite anime Yuri!!! On Ice. I really like this anime because it’s so inspirational and breaks so many boundaries when it comes to regular anime. It has such an inspiring plot and each character is unique and different. The anime itself is really culturally diverse and I am absolutely in love with the music written for it.

Sorry, I just released my anime nerd side on you.

Oops.

Anyway, as I was scrolling through my phone, I turned my swivel chair lazily around it’s post, my feet barely brushing the wooden floor. I looked up for a second and scanned the other side of my bedroom, looking to the two wooden dressers, the fairy lights, and the various unnecessary accessories on the wall. My eyes finally fell onto my sweaters and jackets, and as I looked, I caught the sight of my dark blue jean jacket that a close friend gave me for my birthday this year. The jacket itself had no embellishments and is a kinda big on my too, the sleeves going over my knuckles and wrists. But it is really comfortable and my go-to jacket when I’m heading out.

But, after a good long stare, my eyes went to where my paints tubes were, the vary of pastel colours calling out to me with their vibrancy. The pinks and yellows pulsing with life that I knew needed to be brought into another piece.

But then it hit me.

I looked at the paints, then the jacket, then my brushes.

I practically threw myself off my chair and ran to my paint crate, grabbing paint’s brushes, a pallete, and a pallete knife. Then I yanked the jacket of it’s wooden hanger and cleared off my desk, laying the jacket flat so the backside faced me. Every one of my actions was frantic and searching with purpose. And as I sat down, my mind was buzzing with ideas on what to do.

“Should I paint a landscape? An abstract design? A portrait?”

Okay, sorry to break the oh-my-gosh-i-just-had-a-possibly-life-altering-breakthrough-with-my-art-and-maybe-even-my-artistic-reminisence-oh-good-glory, vibe. But I actually wanted to paint the jacket for a while, but never got the chance because of school. The reason I practically threw myself off of my own feet was because in my head I was thinking oh my cheese whiz I actually have time to do things with my life.

I had History Maker on loop the entire time, and at that point, I was in a daze. I leaned back in my chair, staring up at the wooden ceiling, then at the open window. The tree’s were a pulsing green, the sky an uncalling grey. Clouds were clustered together, hiding away the sky. Inspiration was a destination I was yet to hit.

But then, when the song started again, I snapped out of my stupor and listened a bit more carefully to the first verse of the song.

“Can you hear my heartbeat?
Tired of feeling never enough
I close my eyes and tell myself
That my dreams will come true
There’ll be no more darkness
When you believe in yourself
You are unstoppable
Where your destiny lies
Dancing on the blades
You set my heart on fire
Don’t stop us now
The moment of truth
We were born to make history
We’ll make it happen
We’ll turn it around
Yes, we were born to make
history.”

YES. YEEEEEEES DON’T YOU FEEL SO PUMPED RIGHT NOW. DON’T YOU FEEL UNSTOPPABLE. DON’T YOU FEEL LOVED. DON’T YOU FEEL CAPTIVATED. DON’T YOU FEEL-okay I’ll stop.

The line, “Born to make history.” started to just repeat in my head, like a broken record player. I let out a little squeak of joy and grabbed all my stuff. But hey, you can’t blame a girl for tryin’ right?

After all,

I had found my muse.

Being the very sophisticated artist I am, my train of thought was as follows:

WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOH
YEAH, THAT’S WHAT I’M TALKIN’ ABOUT
IT’S RAZZLE DAZZLE TIME

 

why am i like this.

After I changed into a different top that I would be more comfortable painting with, I grabbed my favorite scrunchie and tied my hair up into a bun so it would stay out of my face while I worked.

After setting out all my paints on my pallete, I set to work.

First I planned out the design with a silver fabric marker and a gel pen that had ink that flowed really well. While I worked, I was also freaking out, mostly because I was paranoid of messing up the whole thing. So, while I was fearing for my life and self dignity, I got the words all on the back of the jacket in a swoopy font kinda style. At that point, I must’ve been in my room to long without making a single sound, because my mom poked her head through the door and said “What are you doing Kanmani?” with a questioning look in her eyes.

“Oh, I’m just painting.” I replied.

“Painting what?”

“My jacket.”

“Oh.” She said before falling silent.

“Yeah.”

“Why?” Now she was looking at me like I lost my mind.

But honestly, at this point I can’t really blame her for being exasperated. I mean, some days I’ll be doing absolutely nothing. Like literally nothing. I’ll just be staring at a wall in my room, or sitting out on the deck just staring out into space, nothing is on my mind AT ALL.

Other days, I won’t come out of my room, or I won’t get up from the computer, because I’m doing something with somewhat of a breakthrough. And when my parents ask me what I’m doing, or tell me to get up and take a break for a bit; I look up and I probably look like a racoon that accidentally drank coffee that wasn’t decaffeinated(can you say #raccoonproblems).

Anyway, I gave my mom a look, like Um, exsqueez me ma’am but I’m workin’ here so if ya don’t mind can you mosey on over back to where ya came from so I can paint this article of clothing in peace?”

After that mild interruption, nothing was going to be stopping me from finishing my project. So, getting my attention under any other circumstance was basically a hopeless case. I had my heart set on finishing off that jacket and letting it dry overnight. It felt like I had this mental adrenaline rush that wasn’t going to end very soon.

My colour scheme was different pastel colours, like a deep mint green with a hint of aquamarine; and little pink, blue, and yellow dots. It took me at least two hours to paint and repaint the letters properly so the colour would show up in such a dark background. That seemed to be the most frustrating part for me, and you could tell from a distance(and start backing away in muted horror) that I was not a mood that reciprocates sunshine, rainbows, and unicorns. Or any peace for that matter.

I had paint brushes stuck in my hair, my eyebrows were furrowed, and my eyes probably looked really bewildered, or just plain pissed off. I probably looked like I needed to go to a  mental hospital. I was tempted to start throwing my brushed onto the wall or break things, that was how frustrated I was. But, I tried to keep my cool(like I said, I tried) because A) I wanted to finish painting my jacket without potentially annihilating anything. And B) I didn’t wanna get a supreme scolding from my parents.

But you couldn’t blame me, or any artist for going into terminator mode once in a while from the process of making art.

My advice, that you never asked for, is just irritate someone when their drawing, or painting, or whatever. That is just plain dangerous on your part. So go ahead and do the complete opposite of what I said, if you want a pallete knife thrown at you.

After a lot of hard work(an a lot of internal screaming) I finally finished painting the jacket. I’m personally really proud of it. I love the colours and how I made it look, and sure the y in history looks like it was wresting with a curling iron, and there’s random smudges and stuff. But I still love wearing it. And it makes me proud too. I made art and now I can walk around like a boss.

And every time I look at it, I always think “I did it. Good job me.” Because, to be honest with you, I’m never ever sure if my art, or my writing, or the way I play my instruments are even decent. But, with this I don’t understand why, but it’s different. I didn’t have to take a good hard look at it to know that those hours spent working on something that made me so happy, and the others around me, it was totally worth it.

Why am I ranting. I’ve been talking this whole time about this jacket and you guys barely even know what it looks like(well except my parents of course) Here’s a picture!:

 

Every time I put it on, I feel super suave and it makes me feel powerful. And every time I look at it, and it just makes me happy. And since it’s so big on me, I can wear a hoodie underneath without making it look weird but actually really good. Plus, I can be comfortable and not freeze to popsicle levels when it’s winter time.

Next time I wear it (it’s nearly a nightmare to wear jackets now because it’s so hot in the good ol’ summertime of California) I’ll totally wear sunglasses, pull my hair back, wear a bunch of rings on the joints of my finger, and wear like a super dank outfit with the jacket. Like black jeans, Converse, and a ratty old t-shirt. And then I’ll get someone to take a picture of me and I’ll send it to everyone with the caption #Thuggin’.

Hey, if they make a remastering of the movie The Outsiders(I love the book though, you should read it. 10/10 would recommend to anyone) They should keep me inline as a new female character or something. Cause I totally think I can pull of the look.

 “Go into yourself. Find out the reason that commands you to write; see whether it has spread its roots into the very depths of your heart; confess to yourself whether you would have to die if you were forbidden to write.

This most of all: ask yourself in the most silent hour of your night: must I write? Dig into yourself for a deep answer. And if this answer rings out in assent, if you meet this solemn question with a strong, simple “I must,” then build your life in accordance with this necessity; your whole life, even into its humblest and most indifferent hour, must become a sign and witness to this impulse. Then come close to Nature. Then, as if no one had ever tried before, try to say what you see and feel and love and lose…

…Describe your sorrows and desires, the thoughts that pass through your mind and your belief in some kind of beauty – describe all these with heartfelt, silent, humble sincerity and, when you express yourself, use the Things around you, the images from your dreams, and the objects that you remember. If your everyday life seems poor, don’t blame it; blame yourself; admit to yourself that you are not enough of a poet to call forth its riches; because for the creator there is not poverty and no poor, indifferent place. And even if you found yourself in some prison, whose walls let in none of the world’s sounds – wouldn’t you still have your childhood, that jewel beyond all price, that treasure house of memories? Turn your attentions to it. Try to raise up the sunken feelings of this enormous past; your personality will grow stronger, your solitude will expand and become a place where you can live in the twilight, where the noise of other people passes by, far in the distance. – And if out of this turning-within, out of this immersion in your own world, poems come, then you will not think of asking anyone whether they are good or not. Nor will you try to interest magazines in these works: for you will see them as your dear natural possession, a piece of your life, a voice from it. A work of art is good if it has arisen out of necessity. That is the only way one can judge it.”
― Rainer Maria Rilke

I found these quotes to be really, broadening for me. I don’t know this writer well, I don’t even know if she even is a writer! But, the things that she’s saying feels like her thought match mine. Except I’m not sure how to answer some of the questions she tells us to ask ourselves. And I feel like all she’s saying, also applied to everything that you immerse yourself into, in whatever occupation you’re in, or even if it’s just a hobby.

Here’s another excerpt that I found by Leo Tolstoy, a famous writer.

#1. In order correctly to define art, it is necessary, first of all, to cease to consider it as a means to pleasure and to consider it as one of the conditions of human life. Viewing it in this way we cannot fail to observe that art is one of the means of intercourse between man and man.

#2. Every work of art causes the receiver to enter into a certain kind of relationship both with him who produced, or is producing, the art, and with all those who, simultaneously, previously, or subsequently, receive the same artistic impression.

#3. Speech, transmitting the thoughts and experiences of men, serves as a means of union among them, and art acts in a similar manner. The peculiarity of this latter means of intercourse, distinguishing it from intercourse by means of words, consists in this, that whereas by words a man transmits his thoughts to another, by means of art he transmits his feelings.

#4. The activity of art is based on the fact that a man, receiving through his sense of hearing or sight another man’s expression of feeling, is capable of experiencing the emotion which moved the man who expressed it. To take the simplest example; one man laughs, and another who hears becomes merry; or a man weeps, and another who hears feels sorrow. A man is excited or irritated, and another man seeing him comes to a similar state of mind. By his movements or by the sounds of his voice, a man expresses courage and determination or sadness and calmness, and this state of mind passes on to others. A man suffers, expressing his sufferings by groans and spasms, and this suffering transmits itself to other people; a man expresses his feeling of admiration, devotion, fear, respect, or love to certain objects, persons, or phenomena, and others are infected by the same feelings of admiration, devotion, fear, respect, or love to the same objects, persons, and phenomena.

#5. And it is upon this capacity of man to receive another man’s expression of feeling and experience those feelings himself, that the activity of art is based.

#6. If a man infects another or others directly, immediately, by his appearance or by the sounds he gives vent to at the very time he experiences the feeling; if he causes another man to yawn when he himself cannot help yawning, or to laugh or cry when he himself is obliged to laugh or cry, or to suffer when he himself is suffering – that does not amount to art.

#7. Art begins when one person, with the object of joining another or others to himself in one and the same feeling, expresses that feeling by certain external indications. To take the simplest example: a boy, having experienced, let us say, fear on encountering a wolf, relates that encounter; and, in order to evoke in others the feeling he has experienced, describes himself, his condition before the encounter, the surroundings, the woods, his own lightheartedness, and then the wolf’s appearance, its movements, the distance between himself and the wolf, etc. All this, if only the boy, when telling the story, again experiences the feelings he had lived through and infects the hearers and compels them to feel what the narrator had experienced is art. If even the boy had not seen a wolf but had frequently been afraid of one, and if, wishing to evoke in others the fear he had felt, he invented an encounter with a wolf and recounted it so as to make his hearers share the feelings he experienced when he feared the world, that also would be art. And just in the same way it is art if a man, having experienced either the fear of suffering or the attraction of enjoyment (whether in reality or in imagination) expresses these feelings on canvas or in marble so that others are infected by them. And it is also art if a man feels or imagines to himself feelings of delight, gladness, sorrow, despair, courage, or despondency and the transition from one to another of these feelings, and expresses these feelings by sounds so that the hearers are infected by them and experience them as they were experienced by the composer.

#8. The feelings with which the artist infects others may be most various – very strong or very weak, very important or very insignificant, very bad or very good: feelings of love for one’s own country, self-devotion and submission to fate or to God expressed in a drama, raptures of lovers described in a novel, feelings of voluptuousness expressed in a picture, courage expressed in a triumphal march, merriment evoked by a dance, humor evoked by a funny story, the feeling of quietness transmitted by an evening landscape or by a lullaby, or the feeling of admiration evoked by a beautiful arabesque – it is all art.

#9. If only the spectators or auditors are infected by the feelings which the author has felt, it is art.

#10. To evoke in oneself a feeling one has once experienced, and having evoked it in oneself, then, by means of movements, lines, colors, sounds, or forms expressed in words, so to transmit that feeling that others may experience the same feeling – this is the activity of art.

#11. Art is a human activity consisting in this, that one man consciously, by means of certain external signs, hands on to others feelings he has lived through, and that other people are infected by these feelings and also experience them.

#12. Art is not, as the metaphysicians say, the manifestation of some mysterious idea of beauty or God; it is not, as the aesthetical physiologists say, a game in which man lets off his excess of stored-up energy; it is not the expression of man’s emotions by external signs; it is not the production of pleasing objects; and, above all, it is not pleasure; but it is a means of union among men, joining them together in the same feelings, and indispensable for the life and progress toward well-being of individuals and of humanity.

#13. As, thanks to man’s capacity to express thoughts by words, every man may know all that has been done for him in the realms of thought by all humanity before his day, and can in the present, thanks to this capacity to understand the thoughts of others, become a sharer in their activity and can himself hand on to his contemporaries and descendants the thoughts he has assimilated from others, as well as those which have arisen within himself; so, thanks to man’s capacity to be infected with the feelings of others by means of art, all that is being lived through by his contemporaries is accessible to him, as well as the feelings experienced by men thousands of years ago, and he has also the possibility of transmitting his own feelings to others.

#14. If people lacked this capacity to receive the thoughts conceived by the men who preceded them and to pass on to others their own thoughts, men would be like wild beasts, or like Kaspar Houser.

#15. And if men lacked this other capacity of being infected by art, people might be almost more savage still, and, above all, more separated from, and more hostile to, one another.

#16. And therefore the activity of art is a most important one, as important as the activity of speech itself and as generally diffused.

#17. We are accustomed to understand art to be only what we hear and see in theaters, concerts, and exhibitions, together with buildings, statues, poems, novels. . . . But all this is but the smallest part of the art by which we communicate with each other in life. All human life is filled with works of art of every kind – from cradlesong, jest, mimicry, the ornamentation of houses, dress, and utensils, up to church services, buildings, monuments, and triumphal processions. It is all artistic activity. So that by art, in the limited sense of the word, we do not mean all human activity transmitting feelings, but only that part which we for some reason select from it and to which we attach special importance.

#18. This special importance has always been given by all men to that part of this activity which transmits feelings flowing from their religious perception, and this small part of art they have specifically called art, attaching to it the full meaning of the word.

#19. That was how man of old — Socrates, Plato, and Aristotle – looked on art. Thus did the Hebrew prophets and the ancient Christians regard art; thus it was, and still is, understood by the Mohammedans, and thus it still is understood by religious folk among our own peasantry.

#20. Some teachers of mankind – as Plato in his Republic and people such as the primitive Christians, the strict Mohammedans, and the Buddhists — have gone so far as to repudiate all art.

#21. People viewing art in this way (in contradiction to the prevalent view of today which regards any art as good if only it affords pleasure) considered, and consider, that art (as contrasted with speech, which need not be listened to) is so highly dangerous in its power to infect people against their wills that mankind will lose far less by banishing all art than by tolerating each and every art.

#22. Evidently such people were wrong in repudiating all art, for they denied that which cannot be denied – one of the indispensable means of communication, without which mankind could not exist. But not less wrong are the people of civilized European society of our class and day in favoring any art if it but serves beauty, i.e., gives people pleasure.

#23. Formerly people feared lest among the works of art there might chance to be some causing corruption, and they prohibited art altogether. Now they only fear lest they should be deprived of any enjoyment art can afford, and patronize any art. And I think the last error is much grosser than the first and that its consequences are far more harmful.

#24. Art, in our society, has been so perverted that not only has bad art come to be considered good, but even the very perception of what art really is has been lost. In order to be able to speak about the art of our society, it is, therefore, first of all necessary to distinguish art from counterfeit art.

#25. There is one indubitable indication distinguishing real art from its counterfeit, namely, the infectiousness of art. If a man, without exercising effort and without altering his standpoint on reading, hearing, or seeing another man’s work, experiences a mental condition which unites him with that man and with other people who also partake of that work of art, then the object evoking that condition is a work of art. And however poetical, realistic, effectful, or interesting a work may be, it is not a work of art if it does not evoke that feeling (quite distinct from all other feelings) of joy and of spiritual union with another (the author) and with others (those who are also infected by it).

#26. It is true that this indication is an internal one, and that there are people who have forgotten what the action of real art is, who expect something else form art (in our society the great majority are in this state), and that therefore such people may mistake for this aesthetic feeling the feeling of diversion and a certain excitement which they receive from counterfeits of art. But though it is impossible to undeceive these people, just as it is impossible to convince a man suffering from “Daltonism” [a type of color blindness] that green is not red, yet, for all that, this indication remains perfectly definite to those whose feeling for art is neither perverted nor atrophied, and it clearly distinguishes the feeling produced by art from all other feelings.

#27. The chief peculiarity of this feeling is that the receiver of a true artistic impression is so united to the artist that he feels as if the work were his own and not someone else’s – as if what it expresses were just what he had long been wishing to express. A real work of art destroys, in the consciousness of the receiver, the separation between himself and the artist – not that alone, but also between himself and all whose minds receive this work of art. In this freeing of our personality from its separation and isolation, in this uniting of it with others, lies the chief characteristic and the great attractive force of art.

#28. If a man is infected by the author’s condition of soul, if he feels this emotion and this union with others, then the object which has effected this is art; but if there be no such infection, if there be not this union with the author and with others who are moved by the same work – then it is not art. And not only is infection a sure sign of art, but the degree of infectiousness is also the sole measure of excellence in art.

#29. The stronger the infection, the better is the art as art, speaking now apart from its subject matter, i.e., not considering the quality of the feelings it transmits.

#30. And the degree of the infectiousness of art depends on three conditions:

  1. On the greater or lesser individuality of the feeling transmitted;
  2. on the greater or lesser clearness with which the feeling is transmitted;
  3. on the sincerity of the artist, i.e., on the greater or lesser force with which the artist himself feels the emotion he transmits.

#31. The more individual the feeling transmitted the more strongly does it act on the receiver; the more individual the state of soul into which he is transferred, the more pleasure does the receiver obtain, and therefore the more readily and strongly does he join in it.

#32. The clearness of expression assists infection because the receiver, who mingles in consciousness with the author, is the better satisfied the more clearly the feeling is transmitted, which, as it seems to him, he has long known and felt, and for which he has only now found expression.

#33. But most of all is the degree of infectiousness of art increased by the degree of sincerity in the artist. As soon as the spectator, hearer, or reader feels that the artist is infected by his own production, and writes, sings, or plays for himself, and not merely to act on others, this mental condition of the artist infects the receiver; and contrariwise, as soon as the spectator, reader, or hearer feels that the author is not writing, singing, or playing for his own satisfaction – does not himself feel what he wishes to express – but is doing it for him, the receiver, a resistance immediately springs up, and the most individual and the newest feelings and the cleverest technique not only fail to produce any infection but actually repel.

#34. I have mentioned three conditions of contagiousness in art, but they may be all summed up into one, the last, sincerity, i.e., that the artist should be impelled by an inner need to express his feeling. That condition includes the first; for if the artist is sincere he will express the feeling as he experienced it. And as each man is different from everyone else, his feeling will be individual for everyone else; and the more individual it is – the more the artist has drawn it from the depths of his nature – the more sympathetic and sincere will it be. And this same sincerity will impel the artist to find a clear expression of the feeling which he wishes to transmit.

#35. Therefore this third condition – sincerity – is the most important of the three. It is always complied with in peasant art, and this explains why such art always acts so powerfully; but it is a condition almost entirely absent from our upper-class art, which is continually produced by artists actuated by personal aims of covetousness or vanity.

#36. Such are the three conditions which divide art from its counterfeits, and which also decide the quality of every work of art apart from its subject matter.

#37. The absence of any one of these conditions excludes a work form the category of art and relegates it to that of art’s counterfeits. If the work does not transmit the artist’s peculiarity of feeling and is therefore not individual, if it is unintelligibly expressed, or if it has not proceeded from the author’s inner need for expression – it is not a work of art. If all these conditions are present, even in the smallest degree, then the work, even if a weak one, is yet a work of art.

#38. The presence in various degrees of these three conditions – individuality, clearness, and sincerity – decides the merit of a work of art as art, apart from subject matter. All works of art take rank of merit according to the degree in which they fulfill the first, the second, and the third of these conditions. In one the individuality of the feeling transmitted may predominate; in another, clearness of expression; in a third, sincerity; while a fourth may have sincerity and individuality but be deficient in clearness; a fifth, individuality and clearness but less sincerity; and so forth, in all possible degrees and combinations.

#39. Thus is art divided from that which is not art, and thus is the quality of art as art decided, independently of its subject matter, i.e., apart from whether the feelings it transmits are good or bad.

#40. But how are we to define good and bad art with reference to its subject matter?

Now, I didn’ t write this entire blog post just so I could rant about my everyday interests and bore you guys to death, even though it may sound exactly like the latter.

In fact, this post isn’t even about me.

When I started this blog, my sole goal was to help people find who they truly are, uncover what happiness really is, to open new windows of opportunities and maybe even spark interest in you. Sharing my interests with other people opened up new potential and a realization of Hey, I should try this. And it isn’t just about telling people about a new hobby or sport or whatever, it’s about letting others, and yourself, know that there is always something that will call out to you and say this is what you were born to do. Telling other people what you like to do, and why it feels so magical, can be broadening for them and you. It’ll be the most subtle thing ever, or just scream in your face but you’ll know why I meant all of this.

Find what you really love doing, and do it.

Always, always question yourself in these terms.

“Does this make me happy?”

“Am I doing this for myself or for the mere sake of it?”

“How much did I do to get here?”

I want everyone to realize that you don’t have to have a future where you’re unhappy, but you have enough pay to live a proper life.

And always remember, that whatever art you’re pursuing,

It’s never a crime.

 

Writing

Sine fine sapientiae, et insanire. Translation: “Endless wisdom, and madness.

Here is a paper I wrote for Accelerated English about the educational burden, that is Common Core.

(Please don’t take my opinions the wrong way, I don’t have anything against you if you support this new education system. You are entitled to your own opinion and I respect every bit of that.)

A child in America, on average, receives about twelve years of schooling, starting from the age of five or six depending on the parent guardian’s preference. That’s twelve years of adults filling thousands of minds with math problems, decades worth of vocabulary, a variety of facts about the multiple areas in science. Don’t be surprised if you see a student spontaneously combusting from the amount of knowledge they’ve attained in their eighteen years of education.(Please note that, that statement merely was an exaggeration to give you a sense of what generations of generations of educational standards have come to for students. I assure you that homo sapiens haven’t evolved to the point where we can spontaneously combust at our on will.)

Of course, education is extremely crucial when it comes down to enriching our minds to be successful later on in our lives, but the way education is presented to students is something that the United states seems to be struggling with, in recent “studies” done by professors and educators. In terms of education, the United States is in a rough patch. But of course some esteemed persons over the age of eighteen would maintain their own opinion of, “Our education system is flawless in terms of how the curriculum is presented to the students!”  But boys and girls in elementary through high school would beg to differ.

Common Core education was introduced by state leaders in 2009 as a way to improve student’s general knowledge and expand problem-solving and other mind skills. According to Corestandards.org,

“The Common Core State Standards are a clear set of shared goals and expectations for the knowledge and skills students need in English language arts and mathematics at each grade level so they can be prepared to succeed in college, career, and life.”

To make this statement evidently clear, the text is essentially articulating that Common Core State Standards(CCSS)will have a set of goals for the students to reach in English language arts and math, with each predestined grade level. Thus preparing them for futures in college, a suitable career; and life.

It seems that CCSS’s main goal is to build off of what a child already has developed and expand it to create a deeper, more extended mindset to cultivate a deeper understanding when analyzing texts or arithmetic that is greatly more ambitious. To further confirm this claim, here is another excerpt from the Corestandards.org:

“These standards are directed toward fostering students’ understanding and working knowledge of concepts of print, the alphabetic principle, and other basic conventions of the English writing system. These foundational skills are not an end in and of themselves; rather, they are necessary and important components of an effective, comprehensive reading program designed to develop proficient readers with the capacity to comprehend texts across a range of types and disciplines. Instruction should be differentiated: good readers will need much less practice with these concepts than struggling readers will. The point is to teach students what they need to learn and not what they already know—to discern when particular children or activities warrant more or less attention.”

Common Core education seems to taking basic and understandable methods of education and complicating our studies and knotting it into a thousand-foot ladder intertwined with brambles. Pricking your fingers as you try to climb higher and higher to reach a decent understanding of the curriculum. But you stumble and the brambles tear through the palms of your skin as the briars are coated with crimson. The vital fluid is a subtle reminder of how you’re slowly sinking into the boiling pool of failure as the heat rises and clouds your thoughts.. Common Core State Standards is an unnecessary addition to school systems across the country and a nuisance in the sense that these “standards” seem to be setting students up to fail. This new curriculum hasn’t been accepted graciously by my brother’s tutor, my parents, or his eldest sister; which is me.

To better understand this issue, research and quiet observation over my younger brother’s shoulder resulted in a fleeting conclusion that could have anyone ripping their hair out at the roots. A simple equation like 7+7 now has a generous amount of fear wafting into a child’s mentality. Seeing as “number bonds” and having a first grader, a child, doing ten times more work than they should be doing.

In an image posted on Twitter, this complicated method is shown on paper:

The question states, “Add 26 + 17 by breaking apart numbers to make a ten. Use a number that adds with the 6 in 26 to make a 10. Since 6 + 4 = 10 use 4.” After the previously stated instructions were read, the paper showed how to get the answer for the equation by using the method described antecedently:

“Think: 17 = 4 + 13

Add 26 + 4 = 30

Add 30 + 13 = 43

So, 26 + 17 = 43”

As you can see, simplicity is now a foreign term in the terrains of these newfound “mathematics.” Using traditional arithmetic would’ve given you the same answer and more practically, without wasting time on numbers that don’t even remotely relate to the problem presented to the student.

Keep note that this problem was most likely designed for a first grader to attempt and decipher. What is this teaching the student? How would an algebra like complexity help with a simple two-digit number addition problem?

To further support my claim, here(beside this paragraph, sorry for the inconveniently placed image)is a picture posted online that went viral, causing an ongoing debate about Common Core Curriculum.

Now turning away from the precision and logic of mathematics, let’s take a look at a subject that is also widely beloved: English.

English is a subject that fluctuates like the sea. Words weaving through one another to create one drapery, to tell a story, to perform a song bleeding with vehemence. Sentences crashing against each other time and time again to calm the readers soul, to enlighten the writer’s mind. Words embody what we scream for the world to hear, just through the way we speak, think, and act. If you’re blessed enough to have access to a digital device, than writing can be more than just your eyes darting across a sheet of paper with writing filling every square inch of space.

Writing and storytelling require no statistics, no straightforward directions on what needs to be done. Yes, their are terms and literature references and methods in writing, but they all are used to expand the way you manipulate the words to create something that can reap emotions from an actual person.. Whether it being fiction or nonfiction, writing can’t be put behind bars and encased to be orderly and compos mentis.

But, Common Core somehow managed to ambush English language arts in a manner that picks apart every wonderful thing there is to writing. The ever fluctuating colours of creative freedom have been turned into a sickly pale norm that would repel anyone. It’s a constant criterion that needs to remember what chromaticism feels like again. Now, the last few lines may sound over-exaggerated and melodramatic, but you must realize that life isn’t just about preparing for the near future when there’s so much that hasn’t been said yet.

In order to “prepare” students for high school level literature, Common Core leans towards non-fictional texts rather than have a coalition of fiction and the latter. The CCSS seems to have a personal and biased preference over non-fiction and there seems to be no clear end. Here is some informational text from edreform.com:

“To complicate an already confusing picture, Common Core also says that English teachers will need to increase nonfiction reading instruction. It is therefore still not at all clear what Common Core really wants English teachers to do. How can Common Core expect students to engage in literary study (or do literary reading) for 30% of their reading instructional time when they are in a high school English class for only about 20% of the school day or year (typically one period per day or a two-period block per day for one semester)? How can English teachers at the same time increase the relatively small amount of nonfiction they already teach and have always taught? It is obvious that they can increase the amount only by teaching informational or nonfiction reading 50% of English class time. But how are they to do so when Common Core’s architects insist that the high school English class should continue to focus on literary study, and they expressly want students reading literature for 30% (not 20%) of their school reading experience?”

The developers behind Common Core have taken to assume that teachers are going about with too many literary works in their classes, therefore having lower than adequate educational performers unprepared for high school level reading and text. This claim is also stated in the same article introduced before:

“The architects of Common Core assume that the major cause of this educational problem is the failure of our public schools to teach low-performing students in K-12 adequately or sufficiently how to read complex texts before they graduate from high school. That is, their English teachers have given them too heavy a diet of literary works and teachers in other subjects have deliberately or unwittingly not taught them how to read complex texts in these other subjects.”

CCSS has given many people doubts about it’s “equal” support of both genres of text, but clearly non-fiction seems to have more leverage than the heart and soul poured into fictional texts that have just as much power and detail as any work relying on the facts of life. Reading itself is better than any organized education system, flipping through countless numbers of pages and actually understanding the words; instead of struggling to decipher the meaning of a single word because the directions say to do so.

Some may argue that Common Core will enrichen an educational mindset, as well as team-building skills, critical-thinking, etc. But many high school students would disagree:

“You’re put into a group and you guys are supposed to try to solve a problem that you’ve never been taught before,” said another. “How are you supposed to do that? None of your group members know what they’re doing, and you don’t either.”

This bit of text taken from chalkbeat.org. Their article explained how Common Core has affected high school teaching methods; thus resulting in them asking students about Common Core and how their opinion stands. As you can see, it isn’t as good as anyone would want it to really be. Obviously, these methods of teaching have only really further confused the students, and the teacher’s themselves. Math should just be math. English language arts shouldn’t just be a set of boundaries you can’t cross.

CCSS’s main goal is to, obviously, help students. But the way their presenting their help is affecting student’s minds in a twisted way that adds so much unnecessary pressure and stress

Now, if we were to break Common Core State Standards, all you really have to do is look at the title itself. The keys words being “common” and “standards,” both of which literally meaning average, ordinary, regular, approved.

Approved.

Meaning that if Common Core education is implemented into your mind for at least eighteen years, what have you really learned to do in life? To, have a five second equation take as long as five minutes and twice the work? To read a fictional book, only to blankly stare instead of truly marvel at their meaning? To never see those crystalline waves crash onto that sea of altercation and freedom. To forever have thorns and brambles burying into your palms as you reach the end of that ladder waiting the end.

We would embody what the United States CCSS would want us to be. To interpret, learn and think, the way they want us to so we could be “successful” later in life. Mind you, the only things it all really is doing is fueling self-doubt and mental burden.

Complicated curriculum like this, is the main cause of stress in pre-teens and teenagers; the complexity of the methods and the added workload, as well as the pressure of whether or not their understanding the forms of procedure can have extremely negative sides on a person’s internal and external health and can have approaching mental effects on the mind as well as the body.

Even if Common Core State Standards Education was extracted from some classrooms in a few states, that still won’t cause the change that students, parents, and teachers are seeking.

The reason I decided to put this into the blog was because this was my first “official” argumentation that applied to a real world topic, that I’ve actually succeeded in satisfying myself with. I initially didn’t even want to choose Common Core education as something to write about, but as I did more research; I just got more and more pissed off. There are so many kids out there who have to deal with this absolutely ridiculous adult logic that was “scientifically proven to improve student’s readiness for high school and further circumstances”

HA

YEAH RIGHT.

The only thing this has proven is the fact that the people at Common Core think we’re all just stupid.

Welp, thanks for listening to me rant about something that rarely even applied to most of you! I’m so sorry, I just needed somewhere to put this out so other people could read this and just think a little more about what students deal with everyday. From kindergarten to 12th grade.

Well, later peeps.

Personel Things

The Misadventures of the Hidden Tooth.

So, this took place a while ago; but my orthodontist said that I had a tooth that was all the way up into my gums so there was this incestuous gap towards the front of my mouth where a grown tooth was supposed to be. I already had braces on at the time so there was a short, stubby little wire that would stretch across that little gap. Of course, me being the ignorant person I am, just shrugged it of before I was told of the seriousness. So there we were, in about two or three months we caught a consulting appointment with a really sweet dental care dude and his crew who were also super chill.

Now, I’m sure there’s gotta be couple of you guys out there who have braces. And understand the struggles. You guys, you guys are my dudes? My people who understand the fact woeful fact that there are two sets of at least 11 or 12 metal brackets LITERALLY SUPER GLUED TO OUR TEETH. Do you understand the actual freaking context of that? It sounds like a torture device used in the medieval period! But, in retrospect, if you put the medieval torture bit aside; braces really aren’t that bad after a while. But I’m still just as eager to get them off.

So this little surgery would basically tear the gum that was covering that tooth so it could be exposed. And if this wasn’t done soon and properly, I would end up having dental problems when I’m older. Since said tooth was being a wuss and hiding away from the rest of it’s teeth buddies.

. . .

Hah, teeth buddies.

Anyway, a couple weeks later, my orthodontist would put a bracket over it.

There.

Done.

Easy peasy.

Simple Right?

HA.

Yeah right.

Every time someone tells this story to other people, he always says that it wasn’t a big deal, and that in other places it wouldn’t even be consider “surgery”. They could just take a sharp, dried, rice and cute your gums with that. And every time other people ask, he always tells them that it’s just a big deal over nothing.

But, anyone who thinks the same; well, just think for a moment. If it wasn’t a big deal would your orthodontist or dental surgeon tell you all the dangers of not having it done properly and at the right time? Would they just shrug it off and say that it isn’t a big deal? That’s part of their job okay? Telling people when something in their body is messed up is something they are required to do. They won’t just say, “Oh, it isn’t a big deal, just live with the pain when it comes later on! Whoop de doo.” or “Heh, anyone can do it, just ask one of your family members to just cut it for you! Without a medical license!”

*whoop de doo intensifies*

So, sorry to burst your bubble but I have a lot of respect for people in fields like doctoring, therapy, and dental care. Basically anything medicinal or physiological. And those of you out there who are studying or practicing this kinda stuff, well, kudos to you because you amazing people are the reason that the world is sometimes a better place to be in when we need it to be.

I mean, these people are the ones making sure you can be the best person you can be physically and mentally. Without them we wouldn’t have the decency to get ourselves checked when needed. We know what isn’t good to put into our bodies.  These people are basically putting together people who are literally internally broken. This can be analogy similar to taking apart a computer and putting it back together. But, let me tell, from my heart and soul, this is something that is absolutely superhuman. It takes so much willpower, intelligence, and just courage to do what these incredible people do, just so we could live our lives happily and with no mental or physical problem stopping us from doing so.

Bottom line is, I have a lot of respect for people in these areas. And I know for a fact that a lot of you do as well.

Anyway, the procedure didn’t sound as bad as I thought it would be. They said I would be given laughing gas so I wouldn’t feel the pain. Upon hearing that my mind kinda went on hyper drive; mainly because I haven’t(well, to the extent of my memory)been given any chemical compounds to ease pain in any specific procedure. So obviously this was uncharted territory for me in terms of medicinal purposes. And before this happened I had never been given Anastasia, laughing gas, or anything else like these.

W e l l .

That may or may not be a lie, seeing that I haven’t confirmed those exact details with my parents.

Eh.

Oh well.

Our appointment was at like 8:00 in the morning so I obviously wasn’t in the best of moods, I was groggy and I kept rubbing my eyes. I dressed hastily, in ratty jeans that bunched up at my ankles(since I’m as tall as a gremlin), and a grey sweatshirt that’s way to big for me, with my school’s sport’s team logo on it.

Usually, on a regular day when I have school or I’m going out somewhere, my clothing style could probably described as practical, casual, comfortable, and kinda elegant? Like dresses, cute sweaters, skirts, hair bows, lots and lots of rings. I usually wear soft pinks or white, or dark blue’s. Floral prints too.  I like wearing cat ears here and there for fun,  (even if my parents don’t commensurate with my interests in that area. Sorry mom and dad 🙂

But when I have to rush out to the library or I only have a precious spare ten minutes to get ready for school because I overslept(again)I wear the same jeans, shirt a/o jacket. And that lovely morning was no exception.

Note the sarcasm, because that morning wasn’t lovely at all.

We drove to the clinic and I was in a pretty dreadful mood, the sky imitated my clairvoyant debacle, a misanthropic grey, mind you. The sun was merely a figment of one’s imagination, nowhere to be seen that obscured morning. The buildings looked dreary and uninviting as we passed by in search of the room we were seeking. The pale, sickening, beige paint on the walls looked almost dead. The colour itself had no life even though it had no connection whatsoever to natural elements in itself.

My internal monologue was extremely pessimistic that day, which obviously would’ve given me a very thorough scolding from my parents if any of my statements were said aloud. Now I don’t mean cussing and such, (I’m not that kinda person, jeez). But more or less of what I would written if I was writing a fight scene or something related and the protagonist wasn’t exactly conquering the physical dispute. Or if I was sitting in history class and I had to copy down a particularly flamboyant snippet of history that was the exact opposite of sunshine and rainbows.

Now, don’t get the wrong idea from reading the last couple words because I most certainly am not afraid of surgical procedures or anything that relates to physical pain in that matter. For example, if I’m having my blood drawn, I just stare as crimson liquid is being extracted from my own veins and rushing through thin, clear tubes before pooling into vial after glass vial before being carried away for testing and examination. And I just ignore the pain, even when there’s a fairly long needle penetrating the skin between my forearm and humerus.

I have watched a variety of different surgical operations on YouTube in my spare time and didn’t bury my face in my arms and on my desk when we watched a video of a women going into labor in science class last year for our life science segment. I’ve dissected a frog, a chicken wing, and a squid under a teacher’s supervision and guidance. And watched the dissection of a cow’s eyeball at our field trip to the Exploratorium in San Fransisco this year. The idea of pain or blood in general just doesn’t scare me in the least. And more recently, I’ve handled real human hearts from donors who gave their organs to the studies of human internal organs.

Though it doesn’t mean I won’t complain when I’m having cramps, a headache, or when I’m sick. My parents can tell you ALL about how much of a big crybaby I am in those cases. But it most absolutely never scares.

And I’m not saying that being scared isn’t okay. In fact I encourage you to be scared in any situation that may deem a frightening vibe to you. It’ll give you a sense of what your mental strengths and weaknesses are. Fear is what leads to bravery and when you’re afraid or you just need a moment to yourself and let yourself go, that’s nothing to be ashamed of. Age doesn’t matter when it involves how you truly feel on the inside. Sometimes you just need to hideaway in the shower or lock yourself in your bedroom and have a good cry. Knowing and feeling all these emotions is okay, and fear is one I wish people would show more often. It’s an indication to ourselves that we aren’t invincible, we have our flaws, and we’re all human. We all have an Achilles heel that we just can’t ignore. And the fears we don’t learn to address only grow to become our limits.

For example, I am absolutely terrified of spiders and thunder. And to a lot of people, these two fears are just stupid compared to actual serious fears or phobias.  But in this rate of context, if you’re about to show me something along the horrid lines of thunder and or spiders,  well all you’re gonna get from me is a big, fat, NOPE.

NOPE NOPE NOPE NOPE NOPE NOPE NOPE NOPE NOPE.

NOPE.

HO-KAY WE GOT OFF TRACK AGAIN MOVING ON.

The cool surgeon dude settled me into those chair things that go up and down at specific angles. You know, the ones that have in like dental offices and stuff. He showed me a machine that had a mask attached to it, and he told me it was what held the laughing gas and the mask was for me to put on so I can intake it. But apparently my nose was too small so he had to switch out the regular one with an extra-small mask that would be going on and around my nose. I really like the man because he was constantly reassuring me that there was nothing to worry about and that I could just relax and let them do the work.

He also told me that he wasn’t giving too much of a laughing gas dosage and I would feel when it’s kicking in if my hand would start tingling or if I was starting to the get the feeling that I was floating. So naturally, if someone told me that I would get the sense that I was floating. Well, I think it’s safe to say that I got just a tad bit excited. Anyway, the doctor dude said that he had started up the laughing gas and was giving me a small dosage to start.

Obviously, I don’t remember exactly what happened, throughout the surgery since it was just me, with my mouth wide open, while there were needles and other sharp metal objects occupying the space of my mouth.  But, I could literally feel them scraping their scalpels against my tooth.And trust me, that is not a fun thing to think about, let alone experience. It was just plain uncomfortable and gave me the sense that my tooth was eroding before

By the end of the surgery my entire right cheek felt like it had swollen to the size of a mini basketball, it was numb and just moving my jaw was uncomfortable. My mouth was also sore from the injections to keep my mouth insensate, so I wouldn’t feel anything else while they were working.

Before my dad and I left, Mr. Doctor Dude gave me a talk on what I should do when I get home and what I should do about the pain, etcetera, etcetera. He gave me some little packages of gauze in case it started to bleed again. My dad kept making fun of me for complaining so much as we were driving home, but I wasn’t in the mood to start an argument right then and their and tried rolling with it.

When we got home, my mom obviously was empathetic and gave me the usual:

“Ohmypoorbabyyoumustfeelawfulherehavesomewaterareyoutiredodyouneedanythinghereliedownohwaitiforgotthatsidemusthurthereletmegetapillowohnodontpassoutjustyetineedawordforworddescriptiononwhathappenedandwhathtyetoldyouandwhatweneedtodoifsomethinggoeswrong.”

Honestly, it was too much for me to comprehend in a span of five minutes after I stepped through the door, and all I wanted to do was just curl up into a little ball and never appear on the face of the Earth again. All I really wanted to do was hide away in my bedroom and just tuck myself into the sheets and completely block off hearing anything from the rest of the house, by putting in my earbuds. That day, I just wasn’t really great at being a good person in society in general. I was tired, I was hungry, but if I moved my jaw it would just get more sore. I was super irritable, like, just a small nip at what little shred of human decency I had would just make me go ballistic. And it’s really hard to get me out of that state. It’s a serious problem.

Don’t you guys just have those days where you just lose all of your cool? Like every little thing just aggravates you, and you just lash out on the first person you see? It would be a massive lie if I said I don’t. Some mornings I just wake up with a furrow on my brow and I’m just a foreboding mess that doesn’t want to socialize with anyone. And we all have those days don’t we? I personally think that’s it’s just impossible to always have a good attitude, because frankly, it gets tiring. Now I’m not saying that you shouldn’t put yourself out there just because you don’t like being around people. In fact, I personally think that the phrase “I have an allergy to people” is just an amplification excuse to not be a decent human being everyday, and just be a wuss. There is clearly, a distinct difference between introvert, someone who’s just physically and or mentally drained, or a misanthrope. 

All three of which have no relation whatsoever and it’s just unkindly to assume that they are.

That day I was more on the introverted side rather than my usual “Put myself out there” attitude. And it wasn’t even the surgery itself! It was all the work put into numbing my mouth.
But, I obviously “recovered” and I realize now, that I was just a massive wimp. And as I told a couple of my friends this, one of them came to my house a couple weeks later with a bouquet of these gorgeous flowers for me. And this was also a friend who had to get her wisdom teeth removed. So really it should’ve been vice versa.

Well, that was just a short little anecdote for you all, since I haven’t posted anything in a while. There’s a lot of works currently in the making, AND I have a lot of ideas that are definitely going to surprise you! I hope you got somewhat of a good laugh out of this. But before I end this post, I want to give you a little quote that I came up with and I want to see if you guys can understand the context between that quote and my post.

Smiles can melt someone, heal someone, drive someone absolutely mad, in a number of ways. But the best feelings are when I smile to people I see everyday and care about, and the smile they give me in return just drips with this haze of happiness and content, and we learn to lure each other into our own mystical biospheres as we fall deeper into conversation. But our smiles never fade and our eyes never stop twinkling. It’s a feeling that even the most supreme being in the universe can’t take away. And it’s these kinds of interactions that let me have the best friendships with people. And not just with the one’s I’ve come to know all my life. No screen, no keyboard, no text bubbles. Just human to human. And the only tools are our voices and our smiles. 

Book and Movie Reviews, Book Reviews, Inspirational People, The Best, Writing

Cheers to the adamant women.

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 Becoming, by Michelle LaVaughn Robinson Obama

A lot of the time, I lay awake in the middle of the night thinking.

Overthinking really.

Everyone else in the house will be asleep, occupied with their own dreams. My own thoughts keeping me company. The light in the hallway would pool into the doorway of my bedroom, though it stayed languid. Eventually I would fall asleep but only for a couple hours until it’s early into the morning. I’d say around four, or even six am at the very least. I don’t exactly understand why my body does this, nor if my current age and sleeping times are the exact cause of this consuetude. I would usually go back to sleep and wake up much later into the day. Cause’ the odds of me waking up early is very low.

The gaps between me and sleep are usually filled with peculiar thoughts about the future, my art, or something completely out of the ordinary and just weird as heck. I mean, what do you except from a girl who is half asleep, completely alone, and thinks senselessly way too much. Let alone a girl who is me. Sure, I end up pondering a lot of things all at once. But one thought always stays in the back of my mind, surfacing at miscellaneous moments that usually lead to a longer endeavor of thought. And those thoughts circulate around each other like a swarm of mosquitoes or wasps. And that is;

One’s past life.

*dunH duNH DUNH

(O . o)

SO SPOOKY.

Reincarnation was a process I came to truly learn last year. After reading various books in which my history teacher supplied due to our lessons mostly rotating around the history and philosophy of Buddhism, at the time.

According to various texts, reincarnation or rebirth is the philosophy in which a living being, after death, takes on a new form, in a new life. Their physical body itself can take on the form of any living animate object. For example a human being, or a creature of the wild.

I feel that reincarnation has a direct connection to the doctrine of past lives; thought same may disagree that it’s an outlandish reverie based of off convictional metaphysics. Some may fancy the idea of having lived multiple lives under different personas in times before their current state.

Me, well. I guess I’m a little bit of both. I like hard-core facts, scientific reasoning, you know to make it all the more true. But I also relish some good mythology and allegorical stories. And what do you get when you put the two together?

YOU GET BAM.

A MESS.

YEAH.

The theory of past lives are sought out by many people seeking different explanations. But if you think about it, the philosophy behind rebirth takes a different turn on everyone. Depending on who you talk to, these can be based of religion, or just good ol’ belief.

For a while, ever since it had been released I’d been wanting to get the book Becoming, a memoir written by Michelle Obama and originally published in November. And while going through the book, I thought back to my night time pondering and the little past lives shebang. Reading about the life of Michelle Obama, it felt like she was living multiple different lives. But as the same person, though her soul was evolving just as her body. She was the same person going through completely different scenarios she never dreamed she would go through. A more mental form of bodily revival, rather than the said theory of reincarnation.

The main reason why I wanted this book was because she’s such an inspiration to all women out there. A fighter at heart with a burning fire and encouraging us females to never, ever, let ours die out. In my mind, she is one of the countless women who has revolutionized the way we see our own dreams and goals. I’ve read one or two of her husband’s books before, and plenty of books circulating around his eight years in office. As commander in chief, and so on. But it’s even better to read from the perspective of the person who is experiencing everything her husband does. But feeling emotions you won’t be able to read when they take the podium and give a speech, emotions you won’t be able to feel even when you’re watching them live. Just like millions of other people in the country.

Writing and books are probably the closest thing to magic we’ll ever have. Each one can hold and entire universe so unlike your own, and yet still be right at your fingertips. Books can give you an intimate tour of someone else’s life itself. So instead of standing up in front of a bunch of cameras and mikes, and a teleprompter in their face; people can just sit down at home and write their entire life story as a narrative for the world.

This era of women have broken down barriers that were held against them because of  gender, and or by race(s). And in my opinion, these are only a handful of thousands out there who did just that.

Michelle  O b a m a

Emma  W a t s o n

Amanda  L o v e l a c e

Maya  A n g e l o u

Ellen  D e G e n e r e s

Lupita  N y o n g ‘ o

Malala  Y o u s a f z a i

Oprah  W i n f r e y

J.K.  R o w l i n g

Alexandria  O c a s i o-C o r t e z

And can we just take a second to just appreciate the absolute brilliance of all of these women? And not only women; just human beings in general. I mean teachers, scientists, firefighters, policemen, men and women serving in the army. And just the people who have been so crucial in building the foundations of not only this nation, but all around the world.

Now here’s a little background on how I actually got my hands on a copy of Becoming. Or rather, how the book managed to find it’s way towards yours truly(aka ME).

My parents got me a copy for Christmas.

It was really simple, not a complicated affair of course. My parents have just accepted the fact that I would take a book over anything. Including food and basic hydration. Courtesy to the stack of books that always end up in my grasp at the dinner table. And then a thorough scolding afterwards. If you don’t believe me just picture me hiding out in my bedroom cuddling in a bundle on my couch near the window and reading with no other light except for a simple lamp to my right side. A steaming mug of tea and earbuds in my ears with music washing over me through my phone. Sketchbook always beside me in the constant scenario in which an idea will spark from my brain to my hands. Happens everyday and takes up the gap of time between almost every meal or homework session.

*Cue another meticulous scolding from my parents.

It’s quite hilarious after a while and even my parents get a good laugh out of it.

Anyway, Christmas morning, I woke up to the sounds of my little brother bounding from his bedroom to mine and whispering with a light in his eyes;

“Akka, iiiiiiiiiiiitssssssss Chrisssssssssssttttttmmaaaaas.”

I swear I would’ve been convinced my kid brother was a snake whisperer if I hadn’t fully opened my eyes and stumbled out of bed; just in time to see him leap military style into my parent’s room and proceed to clamber on top of them in his ecstatic state of happiness. Letting the same message he delivered vocally to me and then to my parents. Which led to a series of irritated groans and choking sounds from my dad. And a tired nod and smile from my mom.

The whole process to get my parents up and out of bed on Christmas morning is something that all of us kids dreaded. Nice to see gifts under a decked out tree with my name on them. Everyone’s happy and candy everywhere! Who wouldn’t be absolutely ecstatic to see that!?

Well my parents apparently!

(It took at least a half hour to get them up and out of bed, which is less than what it usually takes mind you.)

Anyway, I got various presents that I liked, but one of my favorites was definitely the brand new hardcover copy of Becoming. With a nice baby blue background and Michelle Obama beaming in the cover. As my siblings opened the rest of their presents, I started pouring of the pages of the book and refused to put the book down for a few days afterwards.

Michelle Obama didn’t want to just be the wife of a politician with a large title. Always smiling, living a life that gave her a direct title right above her head. No, she had plans of her own that she wanted to set forth. To get her own podium and stand on it. Say what’s on  her mind and let it set forth.

If the possibility of her husband becoming president was close of course. Michelle Obama revolutionized the persona of the FLOTUS(First Lady of the United States) role. She shattered the mold of a smiling, loyal spouse that only spoke when told to. She smiled when she wanted to, she spoke when she wanted to. She wasn’t just the First Lady; she was a respected women who had power and used it graciously. Using her voice with intense purpose that defied the behavioral aspects of past First Ladies.

And throughout the book she uses a style of writing that doesn’t sound regal or formal. She writes as if we’re talking over some lemonade in a nice little cafe or something. Like good friends just having a seat under the sun.

Being born and raised in the South Side of Chicago, a place in which one(at the time)would never expect a graduate of Princeton and Harvard to be brought up. Gender and race was a massive spectacle in her life. Especially since she was African American, and a women. She gives a firsthand look into her life as she grew up. Showing the ambitions and everyday occurrences of her life in a neighborhood populated mostly by African American citizens.

Her family lived in the second floor of a brick bungalow. The house itself being owned by her great-aunt and her husband. Her great aunt being a piano teacher; the constant plinks and plunks of the piano keys would be a musical constant in the afternoons. A normalcy in the life of young Michelle LaVaughn Robinson; dubbed “Mich” by her family. Her father worked for the city, working with boilers in a water filtration plant. Her mother stayed at home with Michelle, and Craig, her brother. Her father suffered from multiple sclerosis. A disease in which the immune system eats away at protective coverings on the nerves. Though, I don’t think suffered is the best way to put it.

Like most parents/guardians out there, Fraser and Marian Robinson both made sacrifices, pouring their whole being towards their children and making sure to raise them to be a set of decent human beings to inhabit the busy workplace of adult life. Michelle’s father rarely said anything. If he was feeling pain, he most certainly wouldn’t show it.

Michelle and Craig were both extremely close, growing up, they shared a bedroom, which was basically their living room but with a partition for privacy. Reading of this sibling relationship, it honestly reminded me of my own.

Of course my siblings and I have a more rigorous interrelation.

I’ve come to realize that no matter where you’re from, sibling relationships are all almost the same. Disagreements, backstabbery, getting questioning looks from parents, teaming up in certain moments against a duo of power(aka our parents)sticking up for each other etc. Just one glance and we suddenly have this homologous kinda thing going on in our minds. Thinking in a kind of silent understanding.

Now when my parents read this their gonna be like Ha, silent understanding my face. But seriously when my brother makes something and ends up showing me, or is geeking out over someone television show, he’ll obviously look to my opinion. And one of two things will happen;

“Oh my gosh that’s so(insert melodramatic adjective)!”

or

“Lol noob!”

Either way, both statements are the sibling equivalent of I love you; in any case really. It’s like the secret code of not losing our dignity. But hey all siblings out there are Birthright Besties y’all.

Michelle Robinson in front of her father’s Buick Electra

I would say that Michelle and Craig Robinson had a relationship similar to that. Just less. . .

Morbid.

Their parents trusting them to the point where there was no need to fight. But there would be occasional verbal brawls here and there. Especially at stages of distress. But Mrs. Obama made it clear that she had a childhood that was simple and golden, leading up to the happy memories that kept her going when she was down as she grew up.

In that portion, it kinda gave me a sense that she didn’t want her life to be singled out just because she was the First Lady. I knew there were going to be other signs similar to that one. Possibly for multiple reasons. And it can be interpreted differently. But I like the way she inadvertently emphasized the fact that her life wasn’t like the ones of the previous wives of the president. And not just because she was a African American women.

With leading figures, every movement, word spoken, any basic action; can be taken extremely seriously. With her writing style, she emphasized the fact that she was just as human as anyone else. That her and her husband’s lives shouldn’t be written with bold and italicized. That every simple obscenity shouldn’t be taken as a massive scandal sweeping the internet like an unruly riptide. Of course that seems almost impossible in the dawn of technological advancements and sensitive minds.

One thing I found a little interesting was, the fact that Michelle wanted absolutely nothing to do with the mess that was politics. But instead she would admire the men and women she would see walking the sidewalks in their blazers and suits, walking briskly and carrying themselves with purpose. And Michelle was ambiguous about this as well. To carry herself with the same look of purpose. But what I also learned was that she was a good student and always tried hard, but there would be moments where her grades could be slightly saddening. And I can agree wholeheartedly on that. And ironically, one of my favorite lines that she said(not in the book though, sorry). Is:

“If my future were determined just by my performance on a standardized test, I wouldn’t be here. I guarantee you that.”

And I can agree on that too. I mean look at Walt Disney, Steve Jobs, Gandhi, Lin-Manuel Miranda, Bill Gates. Some dropping out of school, some fighting to protect their country or their rights. Now look at what impact they’ve had on the world! Mickey Mouse now embodies the happiness of children and adults alike, look at any piece of tech in your house and look at the ground breaking changes between the twenty and twenty-first century. You a history nerd? Well the name Alexander Hamilton should be more familiar. Michelle Obama has gone through some hardships of her own, but that never stopped her from being ambitious and setting goals for herself to reach. Especially in school.

While her study in Harvard she was an associate attorney at Sidley & Austin in Chicago. And oh man, this love story I’m about to tell you is literally going to knock you off your feet.

She hated him.

Okay, maybe hate is a strong word.

I think a more suitable adjective would be unimpressed.

Michelle first met Barack Obama when he was taking a position over the summer in the law firm she worked at. And her first impression of the dude was a geek with a massive smile. And cute in a skeptical kinda way. I mean c’mon, a girl’s gotta have her standards. Michelle even attempted to get Barack together with some of her friends. But like most unlikely loves, romance just refused to leave Michelle Robinson without a fight.

Michelle thought he had a peculiar name, he was laid back, maybe even too laid back if you will. He was late to his first interview, and his most casual outfit for an outing( see what I did there?)looked and I quote, “directly out of the closet of Miami Vice.” But as most romances go, they slowly grew closer and enjoyed the minor qualities each one had. But one of my favorite parts in this portion of the book was when Michelle was up late at night with a skeptical looking Barack.

He looked vaguely troubled, as if he were pondering something deeply personal. Was it our relationship? The loss of his father?

“Hey, what’re you thinking about over there?” I whispered.

He turned to look at me, his smile a little sheepish. “Oh,” he said. “I was just thinking about income inequality.”

Income inequality.

INCOME INEQUALITY.

I’ve said some pretty odd things when I’m sleep deprived, *cough*overseas travel*cough*. But it never went to the point where I was having a mental existential crisis.

But it also goes to show just how far their relationship went. I mean look at this adorable picture:

And you could tell just from the looks on their faces. Those are looks of sweet satisfaction from gaining someone in the world to balance you when you’re in a dark state of mind. For example, when Michelle was coping with the death of her father. Or when Barack needed someone to turn to when he was politically stressed out.

And do you know what else this metaphor reminds me of?

Weeble Wobbles.

I remember seeing television commercials of these things when I was a kid. They were these little egg thingies that could literally-NO MATTER HOW HARD YOU TRY-get knocked over. I used to play with them in my kindergarten classroom too. And while everyone else found it absolutely hilarious when they would just wobble around, I would be furiously trying to press them down hard enough so they wouldn’t just teeter back up again. Just thinking about the trauma of that gives me a migraine.

*shudder*

Anyway, the only reason they reminded me of Michelle and Barack is they didn’t always have a steady relationship, they could always depend on each other. Morale of the story is,

Find someone to be the weeble to your wobble.

That is the end of my TED Talk.

Here’s a short excerpt from Becoming, in which Michelle circulates in the early stages of her marriage with Barack.

“It sounds a little like a bad joke, doesn’t it? What happens when a solitude-loving individualist marries an outgoing family woman who does not love solitude one bit?

The answer, I’m guessing, is probably the best and most sustaining answer to nearly every question arising inside a marriage, no matter who you are or what the issue is: you find ways to adapt. If you’re in it for ever, there’s really no choice.

Which is to say that at the start of 1993, Barack flew to Bali and spent about five weeks living alone with his thoughts while working on a draft of his book Dreams from My Father, filling yellow legal pads with his fastidious handwriting, distilling his ideas during languid daily walks amid the coconut palms and lapping tide. I, meanwhile, stayed home on Euclid Avenue, living upstairs from my mother, Marian, as another leaden Chicago winter descended, shellacking the trees and sidewalks with ice. I kept myself busy, seeing friends and hitting workout classes in the evenings. In my regular interactions at work or around town, I’d find myself casually uttering this strange new term – “my husband”. My husband and I are hoping to buy a home. My husband is a writer finishing a book. It was foreign and delightful and conjured memories of a man who simply wasn’t there. I missed Barack terribly, but I rationalized our situation as I could, understanding that even if we were newlyweds, this interlude was probably for the best

He had taken the chaos of his unfinished book and shipped himself out to do battle with it. Possibly this was out of kindness to me, a bid to keep the chaos out of my view. I’d married an outside-the-box thinker, I had to remind myself. He was handling his business in what struck him as the most sensible and efficient manner, even if outwardly it appeared to be a beach vacation – a honeymoon with himself (I couldn’t help but think in my lonelier moments) to follow his honeymoon with me.

You and I, you and I, you and I. We were learning to adapt, to knit ourselves into a solid and for ever form of us. Even if we were the same two people we’d always been, the same couple we’d been for years, we now had new labels, a second set of identities to wrangle. He was my husband. I was his wife. We’d stood up at church and said it out loud, to each other and to the world. It did feel as if we owed each other new things.

 For many women, including myself, “wife” can feel like a loaded word. It carries a history. If you grew up in the 1960s and 1970s as I did, wives seemed to be a genus of white women who lived inside television sitcoms – cheery, coiffed, corseted. They stayed at home, fussed over the children, and had dinner ready on the stove. They sometimes got into the sherry or flirted with the vacuum-cleaner salesman, but the excitement seemed to end there.
Personally, as a kid, I preferred The Mary Tyler Moore Show, which I absorbed with fascination. Mary had a job, a snappy wardrobe, and really great hair. She was independent and funny, and unlike those of the other ladies on TV, her problems were interesting. She had conversations that weren’t about children or homemaking. She didn’t let Lou Grant boss her around, and she wasn’t fixated on finding a husband. She was youthful and at the same time grown-up. In the pre- pre- pre-internet landscape, when the world came packaged almost exclusively through three channels of network TV, this stuff mattered. If you were a girl with a brain and a dawning sense that you wanted to grow into something more than a wife,
And here I was now, 29 years old, sitting in the very same apartment where I’d watched all that TV and consumed all those meals dished up by the patient and selfless Marian Robinson. I had so much – an education, a healthy sense of self, a deep arsenal of ambition – and I was wise enough to credit my mother, in particular, with instilling it in me.

She’d taught me how to read before I started kindergarten, helping me sound out words as I sat curled like a kitten in her lap, studying a library copy of Dick and Jane. She’d cooked for us with care, putting broccoli and brussels sprouts on our plates and requiring that we eat them. She’d hand sewn my prom dress, for God’s sake. The point was, she’d given diligently and she’d given everything. She’d let our family define her. I was old enough now to realize that all the hours she gave to me and my brother, Craig, were hours she didn’t spend on herself.

My considerable blessings in life were now causing a kind of psychic whiplash. I’d been raised to be confident and see no limits, to believe I could go after and get absolutely anything I wanted. And I wanted everything. I wanted to live with the hat-tossing, independent-career-woman zest of Mary Tyler Moore, and at the same time I gravitated toward the stabilizing, self-sacrificing, seemingly bland normalcy of being a wife and mother. I wanted to have a work life and a home life, but with some promise that one would never fully squelch the other. I hoped to be exactly like my own mother and at the same time nothing like her at all. It was an odd and confounding thing to ponder. Could I have everything? Would I have everything? I had no idea.”

Reading her book, she also emphasized herself in a way that didn’t make you feel like she was on a whole different level on the social scale. She is just as human as anyone else. She accentuated that by giving us a detailed verbal tour of her everyday life when it came to balancing family and her career.

Her daughters, at the time of her husband’s campaigning; were both young and had needs only their mother could provide. And in the early stages of her husband’s campaign trail Mrs. Obama was advised by her husband’s team to spend time with Democrats in specific states. I believe her first mission was to go to every corner of Iowa, and win over leaders, address groups of citizens, etc. Basically having to fly to Iowa every week and talk to a bunch of strangers and kiss other people’s babies. On top of that, she had her own career as a the Vice President of Community and External Affairs for the University of Chicago Hospitals.

And aside from all of that, there was always one question running through her head;

“Am I good enough?”

This is a question a lot of other people my age ask too. Everyday when we pass a mirror, when someone gets a higher score on a test, when someone is more likeable at school. But also because of the way society depicts us. She would ask this question in her head when she was in different job positions, when she became First Lady of the United States.

I’m willing to talk to a lot of people and I find satisfaction in stating my opinion to everyone with a spunk and pride. But, I’m not the most social person either. And when reading this area of the book, I could relation on a personal level every time she questioned whether she was good enough for a high position in society.  But look at the pride in her face. That all of the questioning and struggling was worth it. The sigh of relief when you realize Hey people actually like us for who we are! and the look of And if they don’t? So what?

I’m going to stop right here and say that Michelle Obama has become and even more admirable person to me ever since I finished reading her book and I hope you can have the same experience by at least skimming a copy or a PDF of it. Glancing over the book jacket would suffice! Reason I’m stopping here is because the rest of the book gives insight on her life in the White House and things she had to live with and learn in her time as FLOTUS. And if I typed it out here, in the open for everyone to read. It was spoil the joy of reading it for yourself. So one last thing before I sign off.

You can be the king,

but watch the queen conquer.

– Anonymous

 

 

 

 

Personel Things

This is the prologue to a book of 365 pages.

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When I first started this blog, I took it as an opportunity to show that I was capable of more than just what the adults around me thought I was able. My own little archive to hold all my interests in the real world. Digitally enhancing my ability to connect with people in a whole new perspective. Even when thousands of miles apart. This blog was started when I was eleven; two years ago. That doesn’t sound like much when I put it out there, but to me, those two years were two different lifetimes. Each with their own ups and downs. I’ve improved a lot ever since then. In a lot of things, my drawing, music. But I still have a long way to go.

For a couple days, I’ve been skimming through my earliest posts. From the dawn of my blog. The first couple entries I did on here were consistent in posting sure, but the content itself as a whole I’m gonna be brutally honest and say;

I could’ve done so much better.

Realizing this, I also noticed that I’ve kind of drifted away from those types of posts. I realize I didn’t really show my own personality through my writing. Which basically crushed the entire point of my blog. 2018 was the year where I probably realized that. I’ve definitely tried putting in more heart in my posts and I can’t and won’t stop. But this year and the two years before have been hitting every nerve and heart string in more ways than I knew possible. I’ve realized it’s crucial to have the kind of author’s craft that

I criticize myself constantly each day when it comes to writing or drawing. Constructive criticism, a process that I’ve come to value more than ever in 2018. This year was incredible in terms of skimming through. Seeing my family again, learning and loving things I will cherish forever. Picking up new hobbies and interests. Opening my mind and letting new things enter and blossom.

This year I’ve met people that changed my perception for the better, making me grow into the person I want to be. Rather than the molds society shoves towards me. I’ve realized that not everything will go as planned. Things that have went wrong can’t always be fixed. But sometimes that okay. Even if it doesn’t feel like it at the time. I’ve learned that letting things go are the only way I will grow as a person in this vast universe. Even if it’s the most heartbreaking thing I’ll have to do, I know that I can, and I will, come back. Grown.

But the most important thing I’ve learned?

You can’t live the same way all the time.

Routine is great, especially in specific areas of achievement, like work or school. But not in life. Never in life. You can’t be doing the same things, being the same person every day and call it a life. Be spontaneous, vivacious. Splurge a little with your emotions. It’s okay to be angry sometimes, to want to tear down the whole world or cry until your voice is hoarse and your screaming your heart out. You can’t stay quiet forever. Let your voice be heard. Express your thoughts in every way possible, art, music, writing, dance, singing, sculpting, screaming. You can’t afford to live the same every. Single. Day. Let out the fiery part of you waiting to come out, show the world who you are on the inside. Make them never forget the impact you put on them. So many people have for me.

It’s about time I did too.

But something about 2018 has gotten me thinking about more than just my own personal realizations.

If you think about it, we’re all connected in a way that would seem almost impossible to a skepticist. You and I. Reader and Writer. My emotions will fluctuate through my writing, flowing like a course river, or a high tide. You will read, connect your own memories with mine. It’s the same with everything we do in life. I don’t really know how to put this but-okay, I got it.

We all breathe the same air, need the same things to survive. But most of all, we can understand emotion in such a way, that we can heal ourselves or others. Build relationships and cultivate them. Spread our loves and opinions like a wild fire. Until the entire world burns. Even strangers can understand, read your face. Even if it’s only for a mere few seconds. We can have instant understandings just based of body language and facial expression. Completely wordless. We share a silent, mutual understanding.

It’s incredible isn’t it?

You know another thing I learned?

I am probably the most inconsistent writer there is. I don’t even think I should even be in the category of “writer.” I mean, I write a heck of a lot of stuff for school, pages and pages of crosses and X’s, dashes and weird squiggly lines indicating changes that need to be made. Spending days, weeks on manuscripts, thesis’s, memoirs, crazy almost unreadable papers answering state test topics. I’ve probably written enough in the past couple months in school than I did in my free time. And no it’s not writers block.

I know I keep apologizing, long sentences of remorse and extenuation that is only half justifiable. I’m not gonna apologize anymore; I think you guys have had enough from me. No more excuses. So if I don’t post for a long period of time, you guys will know that I’m hunched over on my desk or by the computer. Papers askew and threatening to fall over and create a tsunami that I won’t have time to clean. I’ll also be doing lots and lots of multitasking so there’s that too. I’m most likely going to be cowering over the desktop and typing like a ballistic maniac. But I’m on my winter break write now so I’ll to post as much as I can in the days to come.

That basically sums up my first resolutions. To post more often.

Y A Y.

Another thing I actually learned was in India actually.

Man, I learned a lot of things this year.

I am fabulous.

Just kidding haha.

Anyway, when we were in India, I realized that all of my family members were immersed in their own beliefs what was most important to them. Like Babu Peryiappa(my uncle). He completely absorbs whats around him and baths himself in what he loves. What’s most important to him. He is happy in that way. Same with everyone else. To them, their everything was family. My mom, dad or one of my siblings would walk into a room and one pr both of my grandmother’s would instantly perk up. Their eyes glowing with love and so many other things I can’t describe.

So here are the top things I realized in 2018 are the things I can’t live without.

  • Family

  • Friends

  • Art

  • Music

  • Writing

  • Beliefs

I think you all have been reading long enough to know the first six. But the last one well…

That’s new.

I realized that having my own beliefs are probably what sustains my heart and soul itself. More than money and things. More than everything in this world that someone could possibly need or want besides family and friends. My drive, my need for purpose. To be different from the world. It’s what anchors me to real life. It’s what keeps me from completely disappearing into my own insane delusions.

I believe that anyone can do anything when they have the right people beside them the entire time.

I believe that surviving isn’t the same as living.

I believe that your differences are what make you beautiful.

I believe that without fear, there is no bravery.

I believe that at one point you should be strong enough to stand alone. But smart enough to know when you need help and then ask for it without fear.

I believe that greatness don’t come when you’re in you comfort zone.

I believe rules can be broken when you know they’re wrong.

Happy New Year everyone.

 

Travel

Diversity is the one thing we all have in common. – Unknown

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P a r t  9

By now, I was used to the Singapore atmosphere; the damp, warm air, the tembusu trees everywhere, the incredible dynamics of the architecture. I had already created a routine for myself in the mornings, which consisted of; waking up, groggy and irritated as per usual, walking over the the heap of suitcases to grab some fresh clothes, my toothbrush, and other toiletries. (technically speaking, doing that while trying to manage not to trip and fall and end up in an ambulance.) I shower and try my best not to end up trapped inside the glass shower that was dangerously close to oxidating terribly. But other than that irritating minority, I loved the compact apartment and what it gave.

I sluggishly got up from the bed, my bare feet brushing against the biting cold of the tile on the floor brushed my soles.

Anyway,  my dad and Jagan Mama probably would have already gone out to grab breakfast for us. Breakfast would usually consist of lots of delicious, steaming dosas(if you don’t know what dosa is, it’s like a savory crépe made of rice and lentils). They also most likely would’ve brought a surplus of chutneys and sambar; and me+chutney= me probably chugging two bottles of water the size of my sister and than ending up with the hiccups for ten minutes. And probably cramping up in the posh bathroom and regretting all my life choices.

My dad, Jagan Mama, and my brother came back around nine or ten with breakfast. I sat down on the cool tile near the bed and waited for my mom to lay out all the floor. I grabbed my little sister and tickled her sides. Her face broke out into a huge smile an laughed uncontrollably as she squirmed around in my lap. My dad scolded me but at that moment I didn’t care with the adorable little munchkin giggling in my lap. Her hair bounced about with each of her movements, the coils each perfectly encircling their predecessors. It reminded me about how all of it was going to be shaved of in a few weeks. I ran my left hand through her soft curls as I ate with my other, thinking over these mandatory cultural actions.

Anyway, that day we were heading back to Mustufa to pick up the watches my dad had set an order for the day before. A couple really nice Casio watches, and a golden Citizen watch for one of my uncles on my dad’s side. We walked down to the forever bustling streets of Singapore, when it had started to rain. Now, the weather seemed reasonable since we had landed in Singapore, calm, and kind of unnerving. Unpredictable in the terms where it didn’t feel like I was being roasted alive. Which was peculiar considering the fact that Singapore is almost directly on the equator. And big ol’ Mr. Sun just loves burning me to a crisp. Jagan Mama went into a nearby shop to purchase an umbrella or two before it started to pour. While we were outside, through my peripheral vision, I saw from the corner of my eye a large vending machine that glowed orange. I walked over, my eyes raking the various buttons and the contents behind the glass.

I expected to see the usual stereotypical selection of soft drinks or chilled bottled waters of different brands; but instead I found round, glistening, stemmed,

oranges.

 

Freakin’.

oRaNgEs.

I waved my family over as Jagan Mama payed for two umbrellas. I looked over the machine again and read the directions. All you had to do was push a button, and a claw would hand pick one or two oranges to make fresh squeezed oranges, right in the machine. I actually loved this idea so much. Not only is it easier, but its much better for the environment. I read the labeling and it even said the little packaging that holds the orange juice is biodegrade. I think this should be introduced all around the globe because it’s way better than having a bunch of soda cans and plastic bottles littering everywhere and everything.

Plus this is a waaaay better alternative to drinks that are high with sugars and other ingredients you probably don’t even know. Like sodium benzoate or calcium disodium EDTA. What the actual heck even are they!? And some of them just sound straight up terrifying; like Phosphoric Acid. With fresh, raw ingredients; you not only are healthier and cleaner on the inside, but you know what you’re consuming.

I babbled nonstop about my recently acquired knowledge from a vending machine as my poor mother just continued walking along with me. Jagan Mama had bought two umbrellas, one was small and compact enough to stow into a tote or a bag, the other one was Mary Poppins style. No it didn’t have a head of a bird at the end but I think you get the idea. With or without the umbrellas we got wet either way, but I personally enjoyed it.

Ever since I was little I have loved rain.

I hate how rain is always the epitome of sadness or despair in films. The protagonist just hitting an obstacle they think they can’t bare, or hit with news that shadow them in a lurid overcast. A rainy scene that captures gloom and keeps it as captive until the scene switches on.

To some other people I know, rain can be, a burden. A downpour getting into every crevice, dampening anything waiting below. Pooling into holes our dents. Nuisances in every day life. Keep in mind; I am open to all opinions, even if I’m a, as my parents would say, a hothead. But mind you everyone is entitled to their opinions. But rain is probably one of my favorite things in the entire world. To me it’s the waters above serenading everything awaiting below. The drum of the rain on the roof a melody to the rest of the world. Mingling with soils until dampening there rough surface. It is

By the time we had reached Mustufa, the shopping center was already a bit busy. Okay, “busy” is putting it out lightly.

Catastrophically multitudinal is probably the best way to put it. 

We managed to finish purchasing a few more things before we headed out again. We went back to the apartment to relax for a bit before heading out for lunch. My parents said that we were going to be meeting up with Rajendren thatha; one of my mom’s uncles who also lives in Singapore.

(Quick little memorandum, thatha means grandfather)

We walked to a nearby restaurant that served south Indian foods as we were supposed to meet Rajendren thatha there. As we were waiting, I- as I would in multiple situations in a place that I can deem foreign in it’s presence; it was safe to say that I was used to seeing the tropical environment. Including the Rain Trees and the gorgeous Sea Almond trees. Okay those are peculiar names to don on trees but it’s still fascinating.

I looked around and saw a diversity that was different from the aura at home in California. Different faces of different backgrounds, I saw more faces I probably would’ve seen in India, or other Asian countries. I know this sounds confusing, but I kind of have this thing in my mind. Ever since looking into the history of the human race anyway.

Curiouser and curiouser.

There are approximately 7.7 billion people on the planet; seven continents and 195 countries. In 1798 the Federalist Congress passed the Alien and Sedition act which deemed that “willfully utter, print, write, or publish any disloyal, profane, scurrilous, or abusive language about the form of the Government of the United States” or to “willfully urge, incite, or advocate any curtailment of the production” This law also made it harder for immigrants to vote; and gave new powers to deport foreigners.

But then, this law was abolished; the Republican Minority claiming that it violated the First Amendment. And may I remind you that the First Amendment includes the freedom of speech and the press. Sure, America and a number of other countries had their own struggles regarding freedoms; all because of religion, ethnicity, race, gender, civil status. But at the same time, if you think about it-all this is what also brings people together.

Our differences build friendships, relationships, brother and sisterhoods that last longer than life itself. Because of the diversity t of the various areas of the world.

Now, I’ve been doing a bit of digging in the library(when in doubt go to the library; quoting Hermione Granger here)A lot of browsing up and down the aisles; (and embarrassing myself by being unable to reach the books on the higher shelves.) Thus ending up with me sitting at a massive table with various stacks of books in risk of toppling over. And a couple curious looks from passerby or other teens my age or from my school. I’ve had the ability to go to the library more often now so I don’t mean it lightly when I saw I will I take advantage. Most of the time I stay in the the second floor of the library, sitting on two stacked cushions so I could reach the aged wooden table. My feet barely brushing the ground.

There’s a various amount of incredible books that circulate around the topic of the scientific analysis of diversity like

  • Diversity: The Invention of a Concept

  • The Diversity Delusion

  • The Diversity of a New Life: A Preface

From what I’ve read from a number of books and other reading interfaces online; there are three to four types of diversities. All or most applying to both human and animal.

  • S p e c i e s  Diversity

  • G e n e t i c  Diversity

  • E c o s y s t e m  Diversity

  • F u n c t i o n a l  Diversity

Species Diversity is basically an ecosystem with a number of different species that thrive together; including common interaction with each other. No species outnumbers the rest, just as no species is scarce. With this common balance this can help regain what was lost in the situation of an ecological threat.  Even is some species eventually cease to exist.

According to scienceing.com Genetic Diversity;

“describes how closely related the members of one species are in a given ecosystem. In simple terms, if all members have many similar genes, the species has low genetic diversity. Because of their small populations, endangered species may have low genetic diversity due to inbreeding.”

Ecosystem Diversity is the variety of different areas or regions. Such as desserts or rain forests in one ecosystem as a whole.  For example a mountain region with dry plains and heavily wooded areas. Thus helping multiple native species to survive at a day to day basis. Usually the case when one portion is threatened or already subdued with damage.

Functional Diversity is the way in which a living organism or species will behave or function, behavior wise. Functional diversity is also the processes or numerous ways in which-said species-will go through to obtain food, and use their own adaptive ways to use the resources provided in their ecosystem.

If you think about, all of this can apply to us in a number of ways.

For example, with Species Diversity it’s a mix of all different cultures, backgrounds, races, genders. Every difference in appearance and motherland. And yet we will still be able to find a way to adjust and adapt. Some better than most but either way, its a connection to one another. Like an invisible string. Thin and frail, and yet lasting longer than anyone thought it would be able.

Genetic Diversity can be correlated to how sometimes specific genders or races will stay together like their own pack like a group of wolves. Or children in a playground, the little girls staying in the shade tying the factitious masses of hair rooted onto the hairs of their dolls. The boys on the other side hollering like premature banshees; each depicting the noises of the various mechanized sounds an automobile would make with there palm sized metal cars.

Ecosystem diversity is kind of hard to describe, in the case of 21st century at least. But it can best be described as the different cultural styles of multiple countries. Take the column, it was originally created by a man in ancient Greece, believed to be Athenian. Now you see columns in banks and other grand buildings or structures that have more architectural intricacy. Like banks or museums. Even the White House, the US Capitol. Both famous buildings of utmost importance in America, donning the architectural brilliance of a man from ancient Greece. Though that isn’t really a way to compare Ecosystem Diversity with ourselves, it’s just a thought.

Finally, functional diversity. This can be a controversial topic depending on who you talk to.  A historian(or my history teacher)would say that this could be in relation to the discrimination of women, slaves, immigrants, etc. But humans have gone through evolution, revolution, and I feel, maybe, a kind of rebirth. In times of war, in the times of dynasties, everyone was at each other’s throats. Everyone was just scared. It was new, so many different faces, of different birthplaces, almost alien to the other. This was the time in our history where everyone felt the same. Scared, broken, confused, fighting for their lives in different ways. In wars, in birth, fighting, helping, healing; dying.

Looking at everything now, my group of friends; all different genders and ethnicity. I look at groups of firefighters and policemen, crowds of people taking up two pages of a magazine. Each a different color pallete, salt and pepper backgrounds shining through the smiles reaching their eyes. The human race has come a long way, in everything. I mean sure everything isn’t picture perfect. There are still conflicts and war. But we’ve come a long way since slavery and discrimination. And we still have a long way to go.

To finish off my pointless tyrannical rant, here’s a pie chart I found of the population percentages of the world. Cause’ if my info isn’t accurate, this chart might as well be.

We finally saw Rajendren Thatha brusquely striding towards us and waving. Embarrassingly enough, when we first encountered him and walked into the restaurant I smiled and greeted him just as he did with me and the rest of us. He had a corpulent mustache and bright eyes just like Bala Thatha. He had a rounded face that shined with each glance at us and immediately initiated conversation. I remember the last time we saw him he seemed more sonorous. But it seemed that he had lost a lot of the weight since that point in time. The conversation mostly hung between my parents and Jagan Mama as we ate. We all had some type of rice based food item like upma or pongal. Upma is basically like a really thick porridge like meal. Pongal is kinda similar except the rice is boiled with other ingredients. I had pongal, which was served in a large plate with some steaming sambar and coconut chutney. I

t was really good but my only problem was the portions they gave us were way to generous. As I continued spooning through my food, it was as if the thick porridge like meal would accumulate. By the time we were finished, I felt like my stomach would detonate and then rupture. At that point my stomach fluids felt almost nonexistent compared to the amount of food in my suffering stomach. We managed to make good time with Rajendren Thatha; I got to know him better and my memory of him from the last time we met him revealed itself with every second spent. We continued talking outside, just as a light sprinkles of rain would make its travel from the Cumulonimbus clouds above to make a drop hit onto our faces, hair, and clothing. We waved a goodbye to Rajendren Thatha as he clambered into his sleek black car, glistening with minuscule water droplets. We decided to make it back to our hotel and rest up for a bit, and walked quickly as not to get caught in the rain.  My little sister clung onto Jagan Mama, careful to wrinkle up his shirt properly. I looked around and smiled, keeping it to myself as I watched my sister giggle, my parents chat with Jagan Mama, and my little brother goofing off just as if would anywhere else in the world.

Hey guys! It’s, it’s been a while hasn’t it? Well sorry this post was, peculiar. Sure I did talk about what we did that day but the whole diversity thing. I feel like it’s an important topic to discuss, specifically because of how fascinating it is to learn about human evolution.

Personel Things

Drink in your surroundings and let them swallow you whole.

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It’s November, everyone’s Instagram or social media archives are everything fall related. Pumpkin spice lattes, random pictures of leathers boots that you probably can’t even afford. Most likely edited with an overused filter. Well I don’t really have a say because I don’t have any social media, but I’m just stating the norm here people. The glorious season of fall washing away the summer tides. Bringing in the bitter cold, and yet sweeping in new, warm memories to make our chills scurry away. I honestly love fall. The gorgeous leaves, bundling up in scarves and hats. Staying close with my friends for at least a little warmth. Course some of you live in more, tropical, areas of the world. So image this;

A long trail in a wooded forest; or a simple walk along the trails of the nearby school grounds. The heavily wooded path may be concrete, but the leaves crunching underneath your feet make up for it. The cold bites at any exposed skin and leaves a million kisses on your face. The wind is consistent, vigorous, silent. You’re bundled in thick jackets, fleece, scarfs, a hat, boots. Even then, a little chilling wind cuts through. The trees around you don thousands of crisp leaves, different hues of red and orange. The sky a blue that could have swallowed you whole. You carry on, knowing full well that these aren’t the only aspects of autumn.

Ha! Now, how was that!?

Anyway, I know I may be wrong, some of you living in other countries may experience this weather. But it’s still fun to describe the simple beauty of it all. I mean, fall is also a bit of a rainy season. Well at least here in California it is. Its the type of weather that makes me have a little beast yearning inside of me. Sniffing the air for a little gust of wind, the crunch of autumn leaves grinding against the soles of my shoes. The part of the year where there’s this slight, I don’t know, this haziness. And all I want to do is find a little secluded corner, a stack or two of books, my sketchbook. My headphones on and my eyes trained on the window. Either pouring with sunlight, clouds hiding the brilliant blue of the sky, or rain. Wonderful, sweet rain falling and falling. Until it has tired.

November, in my opinion, is probably one of the most underrated months. I mean holiday wise. It’s the month in between October and December. In October the hype is pumpkins and costumes, scaring your friends, trick-or-treating. December is Christmas movies, hot chocolate, mistletoe, red and green stockings, trees and ornaments. And November is just

there.

Like the third wheel between a pair of two best friends or something. But you know what it does have!?

Black Friday?

NO. Okay well yes but your missing the point.

Cyber Monday?

No. You’re even farther than when you started.

THANKSGIVING YOU DUM DUMS

It’s the season of being thankful for what you have and maybe even showing it. It isn’t just about stuffing yourself until you feel like you’re going to spontaneously combust. And in the past what, two years? I have so much that I need to say that I can’t possibly just end with one day of it. But I might as well.

Obviously, I’m thankful for my family. I mean without them, I probably wouldn’t even be writing this, let alone under this roof. And not just the ones who I live with.

Let’s start with my parents

My mom with her simple wisdom, and her infinite amount of mental stamina. The person who’s always there when I feel like the entire world is crumbling anf crashing down on me. When I’m sick of trying and end up crying.  The one to fuss over the smallest cuts anf bruises. The one to beam when I receive a compliment. To smother me with hugs when she’s proud. She has loved me for who I am. Even if the person I am can, be(and is)reckless and hostile. My own human interactions awkward and apprehensive. She’s a role model, and definitely a favorite among my own friends. She is my biggest female critic, and yet, the strongest supporter. Without her, half the decisions I make on my own would probably end up catastrophically and leaving my life a mess.

But she isn’t the only person who raised me.

My dad. We have it going rough sometimes, I mean, I swear we can’t go a day without having a fight over something stupid and pointless. But I feel like we have more things in common than not, the root of these little brawls really. Our similarities the core of why we fight so much. Like a taste of your own medicine. But it being my father and I, it’s like blood against blood. Now let me point out that most of these petty little fights mostly end up being me who is the cause of it. So don’t go around saying my dad was being the stupid arrogant one. But the contrary really.

I know my father isn’t the most, cozy person in the world. But he does have meaning with his words and actions. He has done so much good in this world and I can’t express in words how much he has done for other people besides himself. Which is more frequent than not. He goes out of his way to do something for someone else. Even if its a burden on himself. Even if it’s just the simple things. I make it a point to specifically pay attention. I can only strive to be like him and my mom. Without him I wouldn’t even have the confidence to show other people what I love doing. What I yearn to do with myself. His own model is what I can only wish to become.

But listen to this first:

If you were to watch an small interaction us; we would both use similar retorts, mock fighting stances, tease each other. We nitpick each other. Both of us born with raised voices and open opinions. Either of those a bad thing or good thing? I’m not sure. But those similarities, our ambitions, our good and bad qualities. It makes me feel closer to him in a strange way. But a good strange you know? And I’m thankful for that.

I don’t even know if my dad would be cool with me writing this stuff about us and I’m probably gonna get scolded later on but ya know it’s cool.

So uhh, hey dad. 

Hehe.

Sorry.

But I can’t stop there because, there are so many others too.

The family and friends we have in India, in Singapore, the ones in different corners of the world that I wish at least my fingertips could reach. They support me, nurture me, even from thousands of miles away. They give me praise I think I don’t even deserve. My uncles, my aunts I wish I could say more but I just can’t with words.

Well, I- uh-technically speaking I can because  I am perfectly capable of using that ability. That ability being able to read and write and speak the English language and well. But I choose to stay hidden with that capability because it is quite hard to describe something you don’t even understand yourself.

Well sorry for that little splurge there guys.

I’m so grateful for all my amazing friends. There so diverse and I don’t think I can go a school day without them. A group of so many diverse people in so many aspects  of themselves. I mean they, like my own family, bring out the best in me. Infusing me with a constant bit of adrenaline that I can only hope never dies down.True friends are the ones that can hear you when you’re quiet. It’s a phrase I have come to be familiar with over the years. A silent understanding between us. A group of so many miscellaneous people. The one’s I’ve been friends with since kindergarten, since sixth or seventh grade which isn’t to long ago. Or even a recent friendship that has blossomed.

I wouldn’t know what to do without them.

But most of all.

I’m loved.

Enough said.

I hope you all have a wonderful day; or night, no judgement.

And just take a couple moments to just think about what in you life that you’re thankful for. Please. It can do so much good and it’ll help you realize just how much good and love is around us.

Stories, Travel

See that little speck in the corner of the universe? Yeah, thats you.

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(the image of gallium in this post does not belong to me. All rights go to the rightful owner and/or designated photographers or designers.)

Part 8

Do you ever get that small, growing irritation from everything and everyone in your surroundings? Or how about when someone is running there hands along a chalkboard like surface? Or the mild tapping of someone abusing their desk while scrawling obnoxiously on a piece of paper in class? Your teacher droning on and on after someone has made a stupid mistake, so they decide to lecture the entire class instead? All of this closing in on you and you feel like you want to rip someone’s hair from the roots, or punch the wall in any direction beside you . Heck, tear someone apart, limb by limb.

Okay that was too far, sorry.

That was the irritation I was feeling when we were still going through various silks and fabrics. Just looking at another piece of cloth would’ve made me want to punch someone.

very aggressively.

Too far, again, sorry.

I mean it really isn’t that hard to just pick out a fabric that someone’ll like. I mean you don’t have to color coordinate everything. But I did love seeing all the fervent colors. Especially the various green hues. Because, if you haven’t figured out already, my favorite color is green. I wandered away from my mom and sister and roamed on my own. My fingers grazed each roll, each one begging to be touched. Shelf over shelf housing coils of fabric. Some rough, some smooth, some so thin they could be the wearable descendants of paper. Some so thick they could be mistaken for smooth tree bark. I ogled mainly over the teals and burgeons, the mesmerizing motion of the silks as they danced with each sudden movement nearby. My mom occasionally asked my opinion with which colors were best and which one would match another.

My little sister was getting fussy in her stroller and a person a mile away could tell this child did not like being restrained. I thought my lips were going to go dry from my multiple attempts of trying to hush the poor baby when, magically, Jagan mama just popped up and scooped up Thulasi as if nothing happened. Thulasi was so used to Jagan Mama’s presence that she just waved me off as if I wasn’t there for a solid five minutes trying to calm her down and fruitlessly. preventing a brawl right there in the store.

I guess Jagan Mama has that affect, I even remember Ganesan Mama explaining this to us a couple months back on the train towards the end of our trip(more details on that in future posts). Ganesan Mama described him as being able to kind of just mold in with other people. When he said that my mind instantly wandered to one of my favorite elements on the Periodic Table of Elements-

gallium.

On the Periodic Table, Gallium is placed near the group of non-metals due to it being a poor conductor when in a solid state. It also holds unusual properties and according to chemicool.com(this post isn’t sponsored by the way)it “expands when freezes” But gallium still holds similar properties to metals such as thallium, indium, aluminum, and so on and so forth. But what I find so fascinating about this element is that it can be frozen into any shape or form when in its liquid state. Here is an image below of what it looks like.

 

(okay it doesn’t actually just float like that but I though the image was cool, okay, don’t judge me)

Jagan Mama and Bala thatha both tried finding the time to be with us as much as possible. And Jagan Mama, well, if he came to the United States, give him about forty-eight hours and he will probably know every single one of my friends by name, acknowledge all seven of my teachers, and probably be running around doing errands for things around the house. He is someone you know you can rely on. Whether it being a a task at hand that needs four hands to be completed, or just some encouragement when you need it.

A couple months ago, I didn’t realize how slippery the ground was on the back of my Aachi’s house and I skidded across the course stone. My bottom hit the ground and my legs were practically stuck up in the air; in a weird angle. I felt my face grow hot and my cheeks burned from embarrassment as I got up. I skinned my palms a little, luckily no one  could see. Jagan Mama was already there holding my little sister before I even walked out there, he followed suit but I am never going to forget that look of fear stricken across his face for a split second, before returning to his normal, casual self; on the contrary, constantly asking if I was okay.

Realizing the commotion, my mom rushed over and scolded me for being so clumsy, there were wet scuff marks all over my dress in which my mom and fussed and tugged me towards the main bedroom in my grandma’s house, I chuckled towards her because obviously this is normal for me, I mean I come home from school with at least one or two scratches and cuts and scraped solely because of how clumsy I am. but before I entered the room, I shot Jagan Mama a glance of thanks, because just that look of pure concern and relief already made me feel as if those gashes and cuts were nonexistent.

So lesson for this portion of the post is basically that Jagan Mama is always there for you even in the most tough situations.

Need the wifi password?

He’ll be there.

Need  someone to run and get food or your going to literally pass out from food and/or water deprivation?

He’s your guy.

I think I have proved my point.

My dad and Madhavan went somewhere else in the center leaving just us- my mom, Thulasi, Jagan Mama, and me. Don’t get me wrong- I was willing to help my mom find the perfect sari’s for everyone. I mean all I want is for everyone to be happy

But in any other way possible that won’t lower my self-esteem.

And the last few shreds of my dignity.

I mean, I’m not the best person you could go to for fashion advice you know? 

Need to know what are the right types of colored pencils you should use for the undercoat of your final sketch?

I’m your girl.

Need to know what major scale you should play to warm up with based on the time signature of the song your playing?

I gotcha covered.

Want someone to briefly look over a/o edit any piece of written work you need to submit?

I think you already know my answer;

but yeah. I have your back.

You need urgent advice on a specific line of fashion or anything related to the arts of well- style?

Uh, your talking to the girl who basically lives in jeans, and sweatshirts that are five times larger than my actual size so;

n o.

But that day I actually did try. Some of my suggestions to my mom even made her it-list so I think it was okay. Another upside to it all was I found this thick roll of fabric that donned a pattern that looked vaguely like of the Singapore girls outfits.

I instantly fell in love with it because Singapore Airlines is the only airlines we have always flown with and in my lifetime I always remember the most distinct members of the gorgeous and kind faces, those of the flight attendants donned with the name the Singapore Girls. The outfits they wear are long skirts and blouses that hugged each of their curves and I assume are fitted so they look that way. The design itself is called Sarong kebaya and was contrived by a french designer. The contuorer was said to be inspired by the styles of evening clothing women wore in Malaysia. I love the diversity of it and how it represents multiplicity of the other countries as well as how a woman could be perfect just by showing her kindness and an automatic humbleness through her actions. As well as the interactions they make with other people.

Well at least thats what I see.

My dad asked if I wanted to cut a length of it an buy it. I agreed, so my dad told to me call over an elderly man nearby who seemed to be put with the job of any fabrics put on display. I pointed to my selection and he cut at least a two feet or so, his scissors shone in the lights above, the metal gliding through the fabric like the brush of Van Gogh. The blades working together in unison through the fibers of the fabric, leaving little to no hemming behind. As he finished, he took a a small white tag and wrote a number on it, and then he took a contraption-that looked vaguely like a pair of pliers-and clipped the tag onto the freshly rolled fabric. He handed it to me as my dad payed for it at the counter, we both made eye contact and I smiled, he obliged and smiled back, wrinkled forming in the corners of his eyes.

Right then I realized just how small I am in the world.

I mean, we are literally only a fragment of the world population- which itself is 7.6 billion people.

7.6 billion.

Coming to Singapore made me realize that the world isn’t as small as it seems, though others may beg to differ. I see a new face everyday, crossing the street, driving along the road, running on the track. Each touch with another human being sending electricity through each pinpoint in your body. Eyes, hair, skin, height, gender. All these things, so many similarity, so much diversity. We underestimate just how much power we have when we band together. There is so much out there and it isn’t enough to stay home and watch the world pass by through our peripheral vision.

I live in the third most populous country in the world; my parents and the majority of my family born in the second most- India. I didn’t realize just how small I am to the rest of the rest until now. No, that moment when I was with the man in the fabrics department, when I received rice from that mother and daughter in the temple, when I shook hands with Bala Thatha after three years of separation. When I watched my mother and Jagan Mama hug each other so tight when we arrived; as if never to let go. Each with tears running down their cheeks and I trying vivaciously to blink my own away and calm my quivering lip until it was I who was trapped in his embrace. Maybe it’s because I’m a bit older, maybe it’s because I have bypassed a phase of my life, or maybe it’s because there are;

360,000 births per day

15,000 births each hour

250 births each minute

Four births each second of every day.

More or less, a year ago, one of those babies was my sister.

About seven years ago, one of those babies was my brother.

About thirteen years ago,

that was me.

It’s crazy how small we are.

Once we were done in that portion of the ridiculously massive store, it was off to the chocolates. I was kind of curious to see the types of chocolate and candy and stuff they sold because Singapore is wacky and amazing in its own way. But since it was another floor up we had to take the escalator.

And let me tell you something; I think I lost a few pounds because I went on like five or six different escalators about thirty two times each. My mom and I still joke about it even now.

If we talk about Singapore, “Hey remember those escalators?” If we see a picture of a mall “HeY rEmEmBeR tHoSe EsCaLaToRs?!” If we go to some place with escalators, “HEY YA REMEMBER THOSE ESCALATORS AND I ALMOST TRIPPED AND FELL ON MY FACE BUT MY STUPID REFLEXES WERE TO LAZY AND I ALMOST GOT MY FACE FREE PLASTIC SURGERY THAT’LL MAKE ME LOOK LIKE A HUMAN XYLOPHONE YEAH I DEFINITELY HAVE A GREAT RELATIONSHIP WITH MOVING STAIRS OF DESTRUCTION.

And it’s safe to say that I have now developed a unhealthy fear of escalators.

(Actually creating my worst nightmare would technically be more like letting spiders have the ability to fly. But we aren’t doing that and even if someone does they will be skinned alive and fed to Cerberus.)

But no pressure.

When we arrived at the sweets section I literally recognized nothing from back in the United States. I mean over here, candies and sweets are basically a staple. I’ve grown up loving Nerds candies and chocolates(I still don’t understand why there aren’t green Nerds candies but okay)But if you told me to get at least five to ten different sweets and chocolates in that portion of Mustufa; I would’ve given you the most stupidest poker face ever and than run away screaming like a maniac. I was so lost and confused, and it didn’t help that the aisles were so thin and there were so many shelves. There were a lot of brands I wasn’t familiar of, and plus there were a lot of quite peculiar types of candy, like chocolate covered potato chips or Singaporean flag gummy snacks. Some others I didn’t want to associate with like meal worm lollipops. Uh, just the thought gives me this weird feeling in my stomach.

bleh.

My parents were trying to find some gluten-free chocolate bars, and chewy fruit candies to bring to people in India who requested it. We split up so we could cover more ground, but I honestly felt like a toddler going grocery shopping for the first time. I wandered about with my mom, spying some variations of candy and chocolate that I recognized from America. Like white chocolate Reese’s, or hard candies shaped as landmarks around Singapore, like the Merlion. My eyes scanned the shelves for anything similar to what we needed to find, but it was kind of hard to focus on that when there was so much color and new things at every turn.

I found humongous tubs of these hard candies that were fruit flavored and in various colors. I remember always eating them when I came to Singapore when I was younger. I picked up the tub and showed it to my mom with a grin, her own smile reaching her own eyes. I could tell she wasn’t just smiling about the nostalgic candy I had found my little sister grabbing random things her little hands could reach. I looked down and I saw my little sister already carrying a pack of chocolate wafers in packaging the two times bigger than anything she should’ve been carrying.

Here, is a super accurate, exponentially realistic depiction of what she looked like at the moment:

( • – •)
/ ⊃  🍫

 

Okay this isn’t the best portraiture of my sister but I don’t currently have the equipment to put a drawing directly on the textbox from my drawing app, and you have no idea how much I wish I could just transfer actually paper sketches onto this but I can’t really do that unless I was a student at Hogwarts or something. Or with a scanner, but you all know I’ll most likely be to lazy to us a scanner. OKAY WE’RE GETTING OFF TRACK SO MOVING ON.

We finally made some edible purchases on that floor so we decided to go to the souvenir portion of the gargantuan shopping center. I was glad to be in this particular area, mainly because I wanted to get souvenirs for my friends from my trip. Oh but the only way we could get there was- you guessed it- A FLIPPING ESCALATOR. All that was going through my head was you’ve got to be kidding me. Luckily I didn’t have a close encounter with fatal injury that time so it was all good.

When we arrived it was pretty obvious that it was the souvenir shop due to a ton of memorabilia basically screaming SINGAPORE at your face. I immediately noticed the Singapore Girl style dresses and even shoes and purses. The aisles seemed to go on and on, some glittered, some looked too fragile to even gaze upon. I traverse alongside shelves and bins with different little trinkets. Charm bracelets, pens, earrings, key chains, hats, t-shirts. Plates that shone under the lights, painted to decorated to depict different scenery. There were small statues of the trademark Merlion. I saw a wall that was just cluttered with a ton of magnets that literally screeched I ❤︎ SG to whoever decided to make the decision of looking at your refrigerator.

BUT I WAS ON A MISSION.

I Kanmani Harivenkatesh, was going to find the most memorable, elegant refinery of souvenirs that are also very endearing and a representation of the beautiful life of Singapore which as well reflected how much I cared for my dear and darling frien- ooh look keychains!

I had instantly spotted hooks displaying sets of copper, gold, and silver keychains of the merlion along with the well-known ferris wheel- aka, the Singapore Flyer. I thought these were perfect, especially since they came in little packets  as well. I put them in the basket we got when we entered, and started to just roam the aisles. My dad said I could pick out something for myself so I flitted about the shelves, occasionally picking up something that caught my eyes, only to put it back. I kept a hold specifically on these simple gold and silver bookmarks that had different landscaped in Singapore entrenched into the metal. On the backside they had a even written why Singapore was the name given to the island. I decided to purchase these and put them in the basket.

I decided to follow my mother to another section where they sold statues and other adornments and accessories to put around your house. I even found a mini botanical garden made of stone and painted, what I really liked about it though, was that it had water running from little platforms to look like an actual waterfall. When I turned it on it was only a slight trickle, but then it turned into a soft pour. The sound itself would’ve been calming if the little contraption next to me wasn’t singing the most annoying, automated version of Row Row Row Your Boat.

Well, I feel bad for whoever was row row rowing that boat.

My mom ogled just as my I did, pointing out little statues of elephants. My mom and I will fall head over heels for anything related to elephants. Just like me on my own fangirling over anything relating to my own fandoms. I saw that my mom had found reasonably sized statuettes of a flamingo and a peacock, both bedazzled with stones matching their rightful colors. They were both absolutely gorgeous and my face was basically like this; ( ✧ ᗜ ✧ )

but, human.

So we made a ton of purchases there and we were carrying an array of small shopping bags with our purchases bopping around inside. We were ready to go and grab something to eat on the way. I was already tired and it was probably like two or three in the afternoon. It honestly felt like gravity was increasing on me because not only was I tired, but I get pretty aggravated when we go shopping. No matter where we’re shopping I will always just be screaming internally with a fake smile. Not only that, but that day it was kinda hot so my pores were completely disproportionate. So we were just walkin along, while I was there trying not to pass out while aggressively sweating.

When we got back to the hotel room, my parents sprawled onto the white of the covers, going through everything we bought. I counted out how many keychains there were, my dad claimed one of the bookmarks, and my mom was contemplating how she would pack the two figurines she bought, due to them being so fragile. Other than that, I was beyond just tired and extremely hungry. But it was a good day, and I got to see so many new things in a country I’m not entirely familiar with. I mean go, beg to differ. But I don’t come to Singapore often. I always vow to spend my time well and just breathe in all the little things. Find the differences of the urban cities the architectural discrepancies. I saw everything with eyes as raw as a child in infancy. Trying to see everything for the first time. Because quite frankly, I did.

Bytes, Favorites, Inspirational People, The Best

“.”Hamilton an American Musical

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(All lyrics typed into this post belong to Lin Manuel Miranda and Mr. Miranda only. I can only aspire to have the incredible talent he has in lyricism. That being said, the musical Hamilton shall be mentioned in this post but does not belong to me. All rights go to Lin Manuel Miranda.)

You have no idea.

My friends always tease me every time a writing or drawing opportunity is brought up in any class. If I am lucky both combined. Sure I pay attention in class, heck my eyes never leave the teacher’s unless an instruction was said to do an activity that consisted the opposite. But every time we have an opportunity for free writing and/or drawing, no boundaries, no direction. I will instantly perk up. To my embarrassment my friends know me too well to understand that this will happen anytime, anywhere.

I’m teased by my friends in an affectionate way, obviously, due to this one little perk. I mean my friends are such amazing individuals that each have earned my respect and we would do anything for each other. We are all diverse and I love that. They make everyday incredible and leave me smiling every time. But I can never deny that we tease each other. We’ve all got our inside jokes, definitely.  I mean playfully tantalizing is basically our groups version of acknowledging the other in a humorous version of our own basically.

Okay story time;

So early last year my friends and I were discussing ideas for an essay we had to write and I was basically writing furiously on a piece of paper and sketching ideas for the additional part of the project. My friends and I all shared one laptop outside to play music and do bits of research for our projects. We obviously decided to play Hamilton. But unexpectedly this line came along one of the songs featured:

“How do you write like tomorrow won’t arrive? How do you write like you’re running out of time? How do your write like you need it to survive? How do you write every second you’re alive, every second you’re alive, every second you’re alive?”

Both my friends gave each other knowing looks, both smirking at me while I just gave them a look between confusion and wonder. This was around the time when I was just discovering the musical itself so I had only listened to a couple songs. The line was so intriguing and I saw why they pinpointed the lyric. This one lyric always keeps me going when I have given up. Because it makes me start thinking why I’ve started in the first place. And for some reason, after hearing that lyric, I felt like I could do my essay ten times better. Make it a worthwhile piece to read.

I have done posts where I fan girled about the musical Hamilton multiple times. But I never explained to you where it came from. Well the scene I wrote for you on the previous paragraph told just that. It took me at least a week to figure out that it was a line from a musical. It took me another week to listen to all forty-six songs. Listening intently to all 20,520 words non-stop.

Needless to say, It has earned the title of the best musical theater performance I have ever listened to in my life.

I have never, in my entire life, ever heard such a brilliant composition of song, of rap, of a historical and nonetheless undermined story. Each line a work of art itself. I mean it took Lin Manuel Miranda six years to write the entire thing. I don’t blame him though. I remember in one post, I added a URL to one of the songs, that song being Non-Stop, that song contained the lyric that my friends mentioned as well. So I hope some of you took the time to listen to it, but if you didn’t that’s okay, I’ll just go to that corner over there and cry now.

*sniff*

I’m just kidding.

Maybe.

You have no idea how much I just want to transport every song into every one of your brains and let you all listen for the next four and a half hours, but since that is physically impossible for me to do I might as well just describe the musical to you all.

*Major Spoilers Ahead*

(well technically these aren’t spoilers, I’m basically explaining history to you guys. So this isn’t spoiling. This is a history lesson. A slightly edited history. With legit rap lyrics . Anyway don’t blame me if you end up crying halfway through this post.) (0 – 0)

Alexander Hamilton was known historically to be an American Founding Father, a supporter of the American Constitution making him a Federalist. He founded nation’s financial systems, the coast guard, the New York Post newspaper, and the Federalist Party itself. But not many people seem to know his true life story. His tragedies, his loves, friendships, allies.

No one knew how much the eyes of history wanted him.

At the early age of ten, Alexander’s father fled and left him and his mother to stand for themselves. Ten years later, Alex and his mother became sick with the Yellow Fever. Alexander survived of course, but his mother. She easily found her deathbed and went.

She was buried in Christiansted, Saint Croix, U.S. Virgin Islands.

This left a damaging impact on Alexander, seeing his mother die right in front of his eyes in a stage of such adolescence. But he kept moving onward. Alexander found a temporary home with his cousin, but his cousin committed suicide. I’m sorry, I just hate saying that phrase but I had to do so for this case. I’m sorry for those who detest the phrase just as I do. Anyway, this led to Alexander realizing that he had no choice but to fend for himself. Alexander did nothing but read. He read everything and anything he could find. He worked for his mother’s previous landlord. Trading goods that he himself could never afford alone for himself. He would desperately find any book to bore into his mind, finally deciding to board a ship heading to a new land. New York.

Thus represented in the first song in the entire musical by this line:

“There would have been nothin’ left to do for someone less astute. He would’ve been dead or destitute without a cent of restitution. Started workin’, clerkin’ for his late mother’s landlord, tradin’ sugarcane and rum and all the things he can’t afford. Scammin’ for every book he can get his hands on, plannin’ for the future. See him now as he stands on the bow of a ship headed for a new land. In New York you can be a new man.”

Sidenote; Something else that happened before he departed his birthplace, an awful hurricane had hit and yet he still survived. But there is this line in the musical that is sung multiple times, a prevailing lyric at that.

“I imagine death so much it feels like a memory.”

This was such a brilliant line that I spent days poring over it. I mean, here is Alexander, multiple times in his life has overcome becoming a victim  in the unrelenting jaws of death. And this line was always sung in a song where he was on the brink of death. But when I think about it, without that hurricane, Alexander Hamilton would never have immigrated to America. Never would’ve been such a huge part of our history. We never would be in the place we are in today in modern day America.

Just imagine that.

Alexander Hamilton, only nineteen but he already had his entire life goals splayed out in front of him like a map with too many pinpoints to count. And boy calling him smart was an understatement. I mean if you made him take a modern day test on any subject besides U.S. History(because he didn’t witness some history for himself that happened ahead of his time)I bet you he would have beat almost every Stanford or Harvard student or any university in general. Plus get like 700% out of like a 100% test. Okay I may be stretching the exaggeration too much but I’m just tryin’ to state my claims here.

A line establishing this in the third song being:

“I’m only nineteen but my mind is older.”

Alexander docked in New York and couldn’t help noticing that a certain prodigy of Princeton College was crossing paths with him. A mister Aaron Burr. And what better way to introduce yourself by bantering them about how to be successful in life?

Keeping up?

No?

Me neither.

There conversation went a little something along the lines of Alexander basically being a little over excited, therefore ending up with a very traumatized Aaron Burr. But Burr seems to find this, fire in Hamilton that could be cultivated. Even giving the advice of;

“Talk less, smile more.”

“Don’t let them know what you’re against or what you’re for.”

This line is exceptionally inspirational for me because I don’t think before I speak and if you let me I can ramble and lecture for as long as I could. Hours upon hours on one topic until everyone else in the room is waiting for me to stop. And I have this habit of being so focused on doing whatever I’m working on that I just have this serious look on my face and everyone thinks I look mad. No, that’s not the case so it’s nothing personal. I’m just not aware of whether or not I’m glaring or smiling or doing a poker face for that matter. My facial muscles don’t send signals to my brain saying that I’m practically staring down my paper or screen while I’m giving whoever is in my company break into a cold sweat.

From that moment onward, Alexander’s life was a vivacious whirl of battle, intense wars including the American Revolutionary War. He was then well known as General George Washington’s aide- de- camp. Eventually receiving the ranking of leutenent colonel.

But throughout the various songs, each one introduces a new character body who was extremely important in American history.

First, off, the trio themselves; John Laurens, Marie-Joseph Paul Yves Roch Gilbert du Motier, Marquis de Lafayette (aka just Marquis de) Lafayette), and Hercules Mulligan. Laurens, Lafayette, and Mulligan are in awe of Alexander’s quick wit and buoyancy, as well as the undying ambition that was constantly pumping in his veins. So There they were, Alexander Hamilton, fast friends with John Laurens(his best friend)Lafayette, and Mulligan. The Fall Out Boys of the 1780s and 1800s. An incredible quote Alex sand was;

I’m just like my country—I’m young, scrappy, and hungry, and I am not throwing away my shot.

Describing his hunger to fight for America and build success for himself. Along with this line that I fell in love with:

The plan is to fan this spark into a flame.

I just want to add a side note that I was left speechless. Absolutely speechless at the brilliance of Lin Manuel Miranda. I know of no one who could cultivate words in the ways he does, manipulating them to create a bewitching new story that makes you feel so many emotions almost all at once. I strive to be just as talented as him in my writing and music. Just reading one of his speeches, songs, raps, anything, makes me swell with this passion and a fire burn in my eyes. The influence he has put upon me is indescribable and yet I have a thousand words.

John Laurens was completely against slavery and fought immensely to abolish it. Lafayette was extremely helpful in Revolution and was the key reason as to why France and America became allies against Britain. Mulligan was a tailor’s apprentice and was a spy in the Revolutionary War, as well as a member of the Sons of Liberty. These three men are historical figures that I have come to admire and become immensely inspired by since I first learned about them through the musical, and then once again in history class this year.

Now the Schuyler sisters. Descended from General Schuyler these three were born into a wealthy family and was well known in New York. Women envied them, men wanted to charm their way to earn their hearts. These three incredible woman who each in miscellaneous ways contributed to the war and the men more than most I had read about. The eldest, Angelica Schuyler, was spunky and quick minded, very beautiful and emanated a confidence that stole all attention just from the action of walking into a room. Elizabeth Schuyler, the middle sister had inherited her eldest sister’s way to bite back at any comment, a bookish woman at heart who cared deeper than both her sister’s combined in the acts of the war. Margarita Schuyler( known as Peggy to her family members and close friends, as well as the name portrayed in the musical itself)was underestimated due to living in the shadows of her two older sisters but proved herself just as vigorous and abundant as her two sisters.

Even in the song title The Schuyler Sisters in the musical is proof of this if you will read vivaciously Angelica sang:

“You want a revolution? I want a revelation. So listen to my declaration: “We hold these truths to be self-evident that all men are created equal.” And when I meet Thomas Jefferson, I’m ‘a compel him to include women in the sequel!”

Elizabeth adding on with:

“Look around, look around at how lucky we are to be alive right now!”

Even when women were often underestimated, these three sisters back lashed and it clearly showed that those stereotypes had backfired beautifully.

Oh but my my, it seems that Caroline Schuyler,their mother, decided to throw a ball to finally find suitors for her dashing daughters. And it just so happens that Hamilton, Burr, and the rest of Alex’s friends went. And it seems that a romance was blossoming between Elizabeth Schuyler and Alexander Hamilton. Like a deep wound that could never be mended, Alexander’s love for Eliza grew with each beat of his heart and the throb of his temples. Though it took a while to cultivate that love with Eliza’s end of this wheel of affection.

Alexander Hamilton, the man who bowed to no one, gave his heart and soul onto a silver platter and placed it in front of Eliza to intertwine into one beautiful thing. Alexander’s love for his dear Eliza grew until he practically went mad with the mere thought of seeing his Betsey with someone else.

But wait

tHeRe’S mOrE.

Angelica Schuyler seems to have developed a yearning as well.

And that little voice in her head has developed a love  for Mr. Sassy McSmarty Pants himself; Alexander Hamilton.

The tables have turned!!

*gasp*

The songs Helpless and Satisfied were both back to back in the audio and musical and both are incredible songs that portray the emotions either sister felt. Helpless is sung by Eliza and shows a sequence of events, from Angelica introducing her to little Hammy Ham, Hamilton addressing Philip Schuyler for Eliza’s hand in marriage and so on and so forth. The song ending with Eliza and Alex being bonded together for life through the act of marriage.

But then Angelica is singing Satisfied, and I don’t even think I can explain this properly so I’ll just put the link to the audio below (ALL RIGHTS GO TO LIN MANUEL MIRANDA THEREFORE I DO NOT OWN THIS SONG OR THE MUSICAL FOR THAT MATTER WE HAVE BEEN OVER THIS PEOPLE)

Now  T H A T  was a lot to process now wasn’t it? Her sister is already married to the one man she will truly love and she had to live with that. Can you put yourself in that situation for a second? I mean the one thing you can never let go, you can’t live or breath without, is taken away unintentionally by a person you equally care about. And you live the rest of your life pretending you never wanted it in the first place.

Will the tables turn once again?

Probably.

Will our blood pertinaciously flee south from the intensity?

Can’t confirm that but its a possibility?

Will we all pass out from the almost ridiculous amount of suspense and drama in this one love triangle that only goes multiple directions let us prevail and cause further conflict that will lead to our own hearts breaking and wish people could just love the people they love and don’t fight over and live happily ever after like in children’s books instead of mentally grabbing each other’s throats without even realizing that they are thinking just so and you regret it instantly afterward but feel even worse realizing that it was your instincts to read this post in the first place and now your probably blame me for this sudden jerk of emotions plaguing your senses further worsening your mental conditions? 

 

 

 

. . . . . . .

 

 

 

Maybe.

Well okay then.

Now all we need is a super dramatic cut scene that includes a fight between the protagonist and an unexpected villain that throws of the entire plot line. And some weird lookin’ part of their body that is the equivalent to a deformed taco. But that didn’t happen in American history(I wouldn’t be surprised if it did but anyway)that didn’t happen soooo;

we’re movin’ on people keep up with the program!

Okay so, wait hold on, where was I again? Hold on let me just scroll up a little bi- ah! Angelica is talking about how she loves Alex but he already married Eliza and she just wants her sister to be happy and blah blah sadness blah depression blah blooh blah blah.

Jeez, I really doubt the fact that I don’t have ADD or ADHD. I have the precision and memory of a goldfish mongoose hybrid, if that exists. Which it probably doesn’t, but-

Okay moving on sorry,(not sorry).

But one thing I wanna point out is a line that Alexander says directly to Angelica upon there first meaning that basically defines my life to me:

“There’s a million things I haven’t done. Just you wait, just you wait.”

This line is so simple, but so straight forward. And I have never heard anything like this. Gods I, I can never be able to explain the emotions and the raw, animalistic passion that I felt listening to the line. His passionate voice truly replicating what he wanted to do in the world. As Alexander Hamilton in his role. But Lin Manuel Miranda also described his own lust.

I have never connected more with any lyric like that before.

And I don’t think, I ever will again.

There is so much I want to do, so many dreams. And there’s always this sense of urgency, this growling need for something I just can’t describe myself. I have so much of it that pumps constantly from when I wake to when I fall into the trance of sleep. I want to show people that I’m not just a girl who just writes and draws and plays some instrument. I don’t want to just be that girl you’ll see in the hallways at school. The girl you only see in person every few years since we’re so far apart across the globe. Not just the girl that has so many plans but can’t carry them out. I don’t want to just be

that girl.

A minority in the universe that hasn’t made an impact and never will.

I’m sick of being underestimated for what I can and can’t do.

But this lyric makes me feel like I have a chance, a chance to contribute in something huge. Something that will affect everyone. Let that fire consume everyone. This gives me a hope that I can. So

there’s a million things I haven’t done. But just you wait.

just you wait.

Now there seems to be a minor hurricane stirring in side Aaron Burr here. In the song after The Story of Tonight Reprise, the song Wait for It, focuses on Burr’s irritation toward every succession attacking Hamilton. But Hamilton and Burr are polar opposites if I haven’t cleared that already. Hamilton takes his chances and is outgoing, whilst Burr is willing to use is own philosophy and well, wait for what is to come that is in storage for him. The song included this spectacular lines as well;

I am the one thing in life I can control. I am inimitable, I am an original.

Burr lost everyone he had ever loved, his mother, father, grandparents. Therefore he claims that Hamilton has something to prove, and that he has nothing to lose. As said in this line:

Hamilton faces an endless uphill climb. He’s got something to prove, he’s got nothing to lose.

So, well there really isn’t much you can say about this portion of the musical until you actually heard the song so. Yeah, listen to the musical. You’ll understand way more.

Once again Laurens, Lafayette,  Burr, and Hamilton go  marching off being the brave soldiers they are,

to there death.

No surprise, Hamilton leaves an anxious Eliza to fight for his country. The soldiers are struggling immensely, no food or water, forced to eat their own horses. Merchant’s denying them equipment. If I am correct, Hercules Mulligan eventually leaves to continue his apprenticeship, leaving Lafayette, Laurens, and Hamilton in the war. Laurens and Hamilton write essays and letters to fight against slavery, whilst Lafayette sends for French aids to send a ship or two to assist the American troops.

Hamilton is reluctant to be chosen to command, but each time he is denied his constant requests. Instead assigning a Mister Charles Whee- I mean Lee, Charles Lee for the job. This pisses of Hamilton pretty bad. Especially since during every single battle leading on with Charles Lee in command, goes awry because Mr. Lee is basically having a mental heart attack of fear. Finally, the Battle of Monmouth takes place and George Washington has had enough, so instead of having Hamilton lead and command, Lafayette is assigned to take the lead.

Hundreds of thousand soldiers died from fighting in hundreds of  degree’s of heat. But the battle was won nonetheless in my knowledge of chronological events. Charles Lee was left behind by the troops, but that didn’t stop him from saying some pretty nasty stuff behind General Washington’s back. This snaps Hamilton’s last vein and therefore tells Washington his concerns. Washington waves him off and tells him to focus on the war and move along. Laurens however convinces himself and Hamilton that Charles Lee needs to be put in his place. And what better way to do that than invite someone to a duel to the death?

*jazz hands*

How a duel works, is to solve a conflict. the two opponents must meet at the spot chosen, go 20 paces(or in the musical 10 paces)backwards and face your opponent. Your pistols are loaded and its inevitable that someone could get killed or severely hurt. I mean, it’s a bullet what do you expect? I’m pretty sure no one duels anywhere, anymore. I mean this is basically murder so technically it’s illegal right? Well anyway this is the 1700 and 1800s get over it.

Charles Lee and Laurens are the opponents, whilst, Aaron Burr and Hamilton are the seconds. Hamilton is obviously on Lauren’s side on the situation, while Aaron Burr tries to patch up the conflict by talking some sense into Hamilton.

That obviously didn’t work.

So I conclude this portion with this line that Hamilton sings towards Laurens as he steady’s his position:

“Look ‘em in the eye, aim no higher. Summon all the courage you require
Then count., One two three four Five six seven eight nine Number Ten paces Fire”

 

Laurens shoots Lee on his side and Burr is vigilant to quickly get him to the medic. While Laurens and Hamilton bask in the satisfaction of leading the last straw and plucking it, Washington storms into the situation and boy is he furious. He ends up sending Hamilton home temporarily and Alexander thinks it because the general is mad. But no, there’s a reason behind it.

ELIZABETH SCHUYLER HAMILTON IS PREGNANT YO

Hamilton is ecstatic for the arrival of his first born but fears he won’t be able to provide for an unborn child and his wife. Him being a poor man who came from no family and had no income. He worries himself scarce and rethinks every accomplishment that he had placed behind him on an unstable shelf of self doubt. But Eliza a being the incredible woman sings this instead:

“Look at where you are. Look at where you started. The fact that you’re alive is a miracle. Just stay alive, that would be enough. And if this child. Shares a fraction of your smile. Or a fragment of your mind, look out world. That would be enough. I don’t pretend to know. The challenges you’re facing. The worlds you keep erasing and creating in your mind.”

But then, time passes and George Washington needs Alexander, his right hand man, back on the battle field. Eliza knows in her heart that Alexander is needed but still seemed hesitant. Alexander is with the same but before he can think to much, he finally comes back to George Washington and meets with him once again. But he wasn’t scolded, he wasn’t pleaded with, he wasn’t being given orders. Washington merely had valuable advice to give to the frivolity of the soldier before  continuing on with a life of his own to cultivate and nourish:

“I was younger than you are now
When I was given my first command
I led my men into a massacre
Witnessed their deaths firsthand
Oh, I made every mistake
I felt the shame rise in me
And even now I lie awake
Knowing history,

has its eyes on me.

Let me tell you what I wish I’d known
When I was young and dreamed of glory
You have no control
Who lives, who dies, who tells your story
I know that we can win
I know that greatness lies in you
But remember from here on in
That history, has its eyes, on you.”

 

This is one of the most powerful lines I have ever heard.

This is so true and absolutely brilliant if you think about long enough. And trust me, I have. This is the kind of lyric that keep’s me awake at night, the score running in my head as the song repeats in my head. This sums up perfectly just how much Alexander Hamilton was valued in Washington’s mind, and the heads of everyone else who valued him.

Its the Battle of Yorktown guys! The adrenaline is driving inside everyone with Hamilton back. Laurens is in South Carolina fighting against slavery. Lafayette is waiting at Chesapeake Bay when the British scurry away from the battlefield holding a white flag. Hercules Mulligan is spying on the British for inside info regarding the British Government so the plan was absolutely perfect. Alex is completely okay with sacrificing himself for the birth of a new nation, but then he drives of the fact of coming home to Eliza, better yet to his son. Represented with this line;

“I imagine death so much it feels more like a memory
This is where it gets me: on my feet
The enemy ahead of me
If this is the end of me, at least I have a friend with me
Weapon in my hand, a command, and my men with me
Then I remember my Eliza’s expecting me…
Not only that, my Eliza’s expecting
We gotta go, gotta get the job done
Gotta start a new nation, gotta meet my son!”

What better way to motivate yourself in a hostile situation than think of the people who love you and you love just as much.

This was, no doubt the most important battle in the Revolution War of the United States. George Washington leading 17,000 French ally troops along with the American Colonists battling in troops against the 9,000 troops lead by General Charles Cornwallis. A week of fighting passed before a man in a redcoat stood frantically waving a white handkerchief. The joy is contagious as the soldiers are hollering in their victory, Alexander joyous to bring a new nation along with his son. Lafayette finally bringing freedom to America and France. Laurens questioning what this means for slaves and citizens alike.

Oh my god,

I

have

made

a most

terrible

mistake.

i forgot to mention king george the third guys.

Okay long story short, King George the Third was the dude who decided that he could do whatever the heck he wanted and be a tyrant and control the American colonies like a toddler playing with a spindle toy with a string. He is adamant and refuses to accept the fact that America doesn’t need him or want him. My history teacher even described the Declaration of Independence to be like a “breakup letter” from America to King George. Remember that rap song I even put on my last post towards the end? My assignment was based of an argument between someone who supported King George and a person fighting against him.

So basically what I’m tryin’ to say is King George basically went insane when America declared itself a new nation of independence.

Okay moving along

Aaron Burr serenades us with a song, accompanied by Alex, about his daughter and his son. Both singing of just how much they cared for these lights in there lives. Theodosia Burr was Aaron Burr’s daughter, and Philip Hamilton was Hamilton’s son. Hamilton’s son is a very important character towards the end so stay tuned. Er, I mean keep reading, I mean this isn’t a podcast or anything. It would be cool if it was though!

Hamilton sets of to study and practice law with Burr doing the similar. And Hamilton, coming to no surprise, quickly rises to the top. Now this is the song that truly shows that Hamilton is an exuberant little cinnamon roll of death you should never ever mess with. I mean god this guy went from a living war machine to a living war machine with an ink bottle a quill, and a lifetime supply of paper. I mean this guy is super human when it comes to brains and diligence. Step aside Einstein cause Hamilton’s in the house.

But Hamilton’s- uhh- excitement, seems to be a tad bit too exuberant for the mellow lawyers and other people who must associate with him almost everyday. an example of these frequent outburst of ideas and excitement regarding his contributions for the country are above what anyone thinks a normal human being could do. Aaron Burr tries to help his friend out and calm him down to make the man a little less rash, a fruitless attempt.

Alexander tries to recruit Burr to clean up the government by writing a series of anonymous essays and articles. But Burr refuses with every attempt Hamilton places in front of him. So Hamilton takes in James Madison and John Jay. The three men working endlessly to write only 25.

They ended up with 85 essays in six months.

John Jay wrote five before becoming quite ill.

James Madison wrote twenty-nine.

Hamilton wrote,

the other fifty-one.

Fifty-one essays, in six months. I honestly didn’t now how to react when this information bled through my earbuds and into my ears. I mean this dude, was underestimated almost all his life and then did this. I don’t think he wrote this just for it’s exact purpose.

He wrote fifty-one because he wanted to prove himself even more,

He wrote fifty-one essays because he wanted to prove that he was more than enough for people to be convinced that he was capable.

He wrote fifty-one because history had its eyes directed on him like a spotlight that will never fade away.

Nothing, I swear, nothing, will convince me that Alexander Hamilton is anything but a brilliant man who had an ambition. His worst fear was being forgotten, for not leaving something on this Earth that will stand forever and onward. A fire was burning in every vein and artery. Flowing like ambrosia from his heart and searing anything it touches like the river Plegethon.

Someone else wouldn’t agree.

Thomas Jefferson was in France for, a while.

If you call 1,825 days a short while.

Yeah I counted.

He was in the midst of the rise of American politics. Shining opportunity for anyone(well except women, and slaves, and you know what I think you get the point)Him and mister James Madison were already heading for New York for George Washington called for them. And you bet little Hammy Ham is gonna be there. And the instant they did it was as if tiny battalions were going off in both there brains.

of hatred.

Its a whirl of different perspectives. Eliza is anxious for her dear husband to just spend some more time with her and there family, Aaron Burr wants more opportunity, and Washington, well, he has to make sure Jefferson and Hamilton don’t slit each others throats with butter knives and various other cutlery. As all of this unfolds and Hamilton basically roasts Jefferson on a daily basis, Angelica and Eliza try convincing him to take a break, get away from the work and spend time with the children and them. Hamilton declines innocently obviously.

That’s probably the worst decision he could ever have made.

Maria Reynolds, wife of James Reynolds, comes sauntering in and basically attempts to bewitch Hamilton to do something he’ll regret later. Course that worked out pretty well for her but not for him. This ended up with Madison, Jefferson, and Burr finding out through James Reynold’s bank account somehow. Hamilton ends up thinking with a brilliant idea. So instead of having others release info he didn’t want out in the world, he decided to just do it himself. Thus ending up with him releasing, The Reynolds Pamphlet. Need I say more?

Eliza is absolutely heartbroken and extremely mad, leaving Angelica absolutely furious. Philip is appalled by this information and struck heavily. Philip is about 19 by the way and he is just as smart as his father, leaving every professor and teacher with nothing to teach him because if you have the blood of Alexander Hamilton, circulating in your body I think you’ll be fine on your own. George Eacker seemed to have been saying some bad stuff about Philip’s father. This basically led to Philip getting really mad and than challenging Eacker to a duel. Philip goes to his father for advice about his duel and though he isn’t confident, he takes pride in his father’s words to him and is content. But then, George Eacker only had counted to seven, before shooting Philip.

He died in the arms of his mother and father.

I sobbed in this portion of the musical because it showed so much emotion, even if it only was an audio through my ears.

I sobbed for Philip because he was only nineteen but he already lost his life,

I sobbed for Eliza because she lost her own flesh and blood.

I sobbed for Alexander because he lost a fraction of his heart.

I just I know how they must’ve felt. It’s absolutely heartbreaking.

That is all I can muster myself to type on this topic.

Alexander tries to get Eliza to speak to him once again. She had gone through so much, losing her son and having her own husband in an affair. I can’t imagine what she was going through. I personally think she had the right to want to stay silent, I mean after all that? Deftly! Finally Eliza breaks, she and Alex mend their love, because a love like that can never be fractured forever.

Meanwhile Jefferson and Aaron Burr are butting heads in the Election of 1800 both desperate for the presidency. But it’s up to Alex to finalize who wins because its a tie. He was starting to think that Aaron Burr had now beliefs, merely because he never chose a side to stand. Alex even said to him face to face

“If you stand for nothing Burr what will you fall for?”

in the third song of Act 1 of the musical. Hamilton votes for Jefferson, which infuriates Burr.

Burr wanted to be where everyone else worked and strove for a large cause. An infant nation. He wanted to lead. With each opportunity that sported just that, Hamilton took it away. This anger bubbling inside him to no end, until he had enough. He invites Hamilton to duel.

Hamilton points his pistol upward expecting Burr to cease fire. Burr shoots forward expecting Hamilton to have the buoyancy to shoot. They were both wrong. Hamilton was wounded and there was no going back. He died on July 12th, 1804. The age of 47 or 49. He passed with Eliza and Angelica beside him.

Lin Manuel Miranda is one of my idols and I look up to him so much. He is someone I wish I could meet someday, converse with him. I want to peer through that brilliant mind of his. How did he come up with such brilliance? We all have the same amount of hours in each day, the same amount of day in a week, the same number of weeks in a month, the same chronological order in a year. How does one do such things like this? He is a person that truly inspires me and I will never stop admiring every step of success he takes. He spreads love and beauty with each step and I can only strive to be in that place.

So in the brilliant words of his emanated through John Laurens;

Rise up
When you’re living on your knees, you rise up
Tell your brother that he’s gotta rise up
Tell your sister that she’s gotta rise up

We will all rise up everyone. But than again,

I’m afraid we already have.