Category: Good Reads

(I’m going to give a warning for mentions of loss and death. You can continue now :3)

When I think of positivity, my mind goes to some sort of weird stigma around it. I think of some sort of bubbly, sunshine-radiating person with blond hair and blue eyes that always spews out inspirational quotes while giving a white-toothed smile. However, when I really think about it, that’s not the post of positivity. The point is to be able to look at life, people, and circumstances and find a way to look at them with a new lens. This new lens gives you an ability to look back and help you realize that it had a place in your life, no matter what it was. 

I’ve faced more than my share fair of challenges in life. My life, just like so many others, has been filled with pain, heartache, and suffering. However, now that I look back on these events, I can see now that they were preparing me for more than what I could see at the time. I’m not going to pretend like these events didn’t affect me; they certainly made their mark on me as a child, and to this day I sometimes can’t help but think about the trauma these events caused me. Now, though, I’m able to see that there was always some form of hope in front of me, no matter the circumstance at the time. 

Because I was adopted, much of my family is rather older than me. My parents are currently both well into their fifties, and all my cousins on my dad’s side are full adults with paying jobs. Because of this, my grandparents and other relatives were much older than what the usual standard is. As a child, I simply thought that it was normal to have grandparents be well into their seventies- I only found that to not be the case fairly recently, truth be told. By the time I was old enough to have the constant drive to play all the time, my grandparents were mostly in the stage of life where they couldn’t play with me as much as they would want. My grandfather on my dad’s side had heart conditions, and my grandparents on my mother’s side both had health issues (Paw, as we called him, had lung cancer, and Grandma had memroy issues). 

There was one person in my family I could always count on to play with me and go with my silly ideas: Uncle Richard. Uncle Richard wasn’t actually my uncle; he was good friends with my dad, and after they graduated college, he was always a nearby presence because of his “issues” with living alone. By issues, I mean that he just was the type that didn’t do well on their own. No doubt, he was brilliant: he owned tons of books, and for a time he taught college-level English. When he retired, he came to live with my parents in a trailer. I can always remember peering inside and seeing the small thing being filled wall-to-wall with books of all shapes and sizes. 

As a child, I would always do my best to pull him out of the trailer so he could play with me. Keep in mind, he was well into his sixites, and I was a four-year-old with an overactive imagination and no other people to play with. In my mind, he was the perfect person to play with me. I would often lead him on my fantastical adventures, whether it be inside conducting a tea party with my stuffed animals, or exploring imaginary fantasy lands outside. He never could say no to my exploits; he allowed me to lead him on all sorts of fantastical adventures, the only time he would object being if he was ill. 

As I grew older, my desire to play lessened, and my sister entered the picture. She never possessed as much imagination as I had, but she did want company when I was busy with homework, so she succeeded me in pulling Uncle Richard out of his camper to play. 

The year I turned eleven, he was admitted into a nursing home. I found out that he had a heart condition; he had a minor heart attack at the Jackson State Fair, so after that he agreed to be put in the nursing home. I would still visit him fairly often, though, and he still greeted me the same way he had when I had been knocking on his trailer door. He couldn’t be as active, but he still loved hearing me talk about all the new things that had happened since the last time I had seen him. I always looked forward to these visits, and I never thought about a future without him. 

The inevitable happened. He passed away the summer before I turned thirteen. I remember feeling absolute shock when I heard that he had passed away in the nursing home. I remember feeling numb as I cried against my dad’s shirt. I had dealt with personal loss before, but this just felt so much more different than that. My world as I had known it was forever shattered. I remember coming to the realization that he wouldn’t be around to see me grow up. I had taken on his passion of reading, and he always encouraged me to read more. He had been proud of my proficiency in the language arts, and he especially enjoyed helping me with my English homework. I realized I had not just lost a friend, but a mentor as well. 

I remember being silent at his funeral. I remember looking to the open coffin before turning my head away, unable to face my new reality. I remember crying at night, bleary-eyed as I looked up at the ceiling, asking why God had done this to me. I was distraught; I didn’t know how I was going to cope with this loss. 

However, now that I’ve grown, I’ve realized that Uncle Richard has made more of an effect than I had known at first. I realized that he influenced me to create, and gave me more energy to create more than before. He encouraged me to follow my ideas wherever they took me, and helped me to realize my creative potential. He gave me a passion for learning more about the world and educating myself about things around me. He gave me an incentive to learn about language arts and the literary world. Most importantly, he gave me someone to talk to, someone to confide in, someone to be with me when my life was rough. He was really more than a family friend. He truly was my family. 

My strength lies in a few things: English, baking (sort of), cooking (kind of). But my failures? Almost everything I’ve done has resulted in something negative, especially if it was my first time. For example, I went skating when I was younger. I had never touched a pair of roller skates in my life until I went to my cousin’s birthday party. I was somewhat excited, but also nervous because what child really wants to fall down? Well, my tough-love father decided that he would teach me how to skate. He helped me shuffle forward a few feet and then let go. I cruised on just fine for a minutes, but that soon changed. I went around the curve of the rink, and was on ground, screaming and crying within moments. Dad came over and picked me up like it was nothing, my mom was panicking like the world was ending around her, one of the workers at the rink was trying to save their tail to avoid some lawsuit or something. And me? Yep, still crying. I had to wait a full day before I was taken to a hospital because my parents didn’t think my ankle was broken, but we were all mistaken. I broke my tibia, which was all fine and dandy. I got out of P.E., kids signed my cast, it was cool. And guess what? I love skating now. At my old elementary school, they always took us skating (this was after I broke my ankle) on field trips. I didn’t want to be left out, so I went on the trips too. With the help of a teacher, whom I can’t remember right now, I learned how to skate, but I’m cautious about it. I guess what I got out of that whole situation was to keep trying, even if it might hurt a little. You’re going to fall down, you might break something, but you’re still going to get up because you can’t stay on the ground long. And trust me, I fall down a lot. I am a literal and metaphorical klutz, and that’s okay with me! But usually, it’s my first times that will knock me down. When I try something new (as most people), I tend to mess up a lot. If it’s some sort of physical thing, well…. I get hurt.

But there’s one thing that I’m decent at: writing. I guess I wouldn’t be on this blog, sitting in this chair inside this classroom if I wasn’t decent enough at it. But I’ve been writing since I was little, whether it was an essay or a story. I think my first “contest” was required by my teacher, and she wanted us to write an essay on what is our favorite thing about the Gulf Coast. The prize was our essay getting published in a magazine and two tickets to Gulf Islands Waterpark. For the essay, I wrote about how much I loved going to the buffets at casinos because I loved the crab there. I’m pretty sure that was the whole essay: just describing crab. But I was one of the kids picked, so my essay was published, I was given a copy of the magazine and the tickets. It was nice. I don’t have it anymore; I think it was lost or thrown away a long time ago. I didn’t realize the significance of it at the time, but now, I kind of see that essay contest as the seed that has created the writer in me. That’s my origin story of sorts: just a little girl with a love for crab at casino buffets. Humble beginnings, I guess. So writing in my success, and I want to make it better because I know it can be improved if I just work on it. My goal is to improve my writing, just as a pianist spends most of their practicing, or an artist tests new paint techniques, or a pastry chef creates the next best dessert to hit the culinary world. And who knows? Maybe I’ll go back to that beginning and I’ll create a story about a little girl who just loves crab.

Mrs. Sibley was giving us the welcome back spill today and she said something that really hit me in the heart. She was talking about writing something and in the midst of writing it you get a better idea and go to that instead. I do that all. the. time.

You can’t even imagine how many times I’ve tried to write a novel. When I first started writing them, I would write three chapters and stop because I actually had no plot planned out, just the beginning of the book. In my mind, the only things I had planned out was the beginning and the climax. That’s it.

As time went on, I realized that I had no idea what I was doing. That took like 8 book ideas and 70 chapters written and rewritten to no avail. I couldn’t stick to anything. I stopped writing.

A few months go by and my mom tells me I should try out for MSA. At first I was like “No way.” but then I decided to look at the criteria for the audition.

I almost didn’t try out because I would have to write a short story. I would have to COMPLETE a story. But I started working on it. I don’t really know if I worked so hard on it to prove something to myself or to get into the school.

When I finished it I was so proud of myself. I seriously thought it was the best story I would ever write, and looking back on it now I am so glad I was wrong. That story was actually pure garbage, but hey. It got me here. Plus, you’ve got to start somewhere I guess.

It took me nearly two months to write that short story. Now, I can write a short story within a few hours. I’m super happy about my growth and I’m so ready to grow even more. maybe one day I will finish that novel. I think wh

I have learned new ways to stick to an idea. the first thing is to write out the entire plot. All the major points, the how, the why, and make sure that within my writing I am working towards all my points. I planned out this entire book by the chapter a few months back, but I never even finished writing the complete first chapter. I kept changing it and redoing it because I thought it wasn’t good enough. I think that is my biggest problem when it comes to writing. I always think my ideas are typical and my writing is boring and the stories I’m writing could be better if I told the idea to another person and they wrote it. Maybe everyone feels like that about their art. Maybe I’m too hard on myself. Either way, I know I can’t give up. This is what I love to do.

And now that I’ve heard what I needed to hear, I think I will go back to it. My first short story wasn’t that great, so my first book probably won’t be either, but I’ve got to start somewhere. If I never finish writing one bad book, I’ll never write one good one

Most of us here at Mississippi School of the Arts have been asked one simple question: why?  Why are you pursuing art?  Why not do something that is safer, that can guarantee you money?

Art is important for a lot of reasons, and I know we’ve all heard the classic saying that art is what separates us from animals, but it delves deeper than that.  Art transcends us past a point of getting from Point A to Point B, elementary school to middle school to high school and so on, job to promotion, etc.

This is about more than a mundane existence; it’s about confronting fear, life, and reaching into a world that’s different than ours.  A world where, yes, there can be triangles floating behind someone’s head.  Screw it, the triangle can be that someone’s head, and we can make it purple if we want to.

There are plenty of studies out there that art can also physically help you.  It can make you happy, do better in other subjects, and even help your general health.  Even if we set that aside, art makes you connected with not only yourself, but other people.

I wrote a really personal poem when I was twelve years old.  It was pretty good for a twelve year old, if I may say so myself, and my dad was so proud of me.  He started showing it to all of his coworkers, even to our neighbor.  I was so scared because it revealed details about my life that no one knew.  He pointed out that people weren’t actually thinking about me and why I wrote it when they read it.  They are instead letting it reflect inside of them, thinking of their own experiences, and how they can relate to it.  It bonds us together in that way.

It changes your perspective on things.  It can help you back up and look at things on a bigger scale, or get closer and even see tiny little details that you never would have seen.  It can take you to lives that you’ll never have, parts of the world that you’ve never visited, and concepts you never would have thought of on your own.  It can make you feel connected to someone halfway across the world and help you understand their lives.  It makes you nicer, if you let it.

Bad art is important, too.  I might even argue that it’s more important than good art.  I didn’t pick up a pen and suddenly write a wonderful story one day.  I practiced for years, and out of the ten years I’ve been writing, I’d say that I’d cringe at eight and a half of them.

Even if you don’t hone your craft, it’s important to stay bad as well.  Art is about expression, not perfection.  I can’t even draw a straight line, but I’ve started an art journal.  You have to get out of your comfort zone and stop being afraid of feeling embarrassed or not being perfect at something your first time doing it.

You should do something that scares you today.  Try something new.

When I was in first grade, I decided that I wanted to be a cartoonist for a newspaper.  I honestly don’t remember why, but my mind was made up.  I hadn’t thought of any characters and had no story in mind; these were both bridges I’d cross when I got to them.  I hadn’t read any particular cartoon that made me want to be a cartoonist.  I hadn’t read a lot of cartoons period.  Still, I wanted to be a cartoonist.  I liked the idea of being one.  There was something appealing about the idea of being a cartoonist.

I later decided that I wanted to be a comedian.  I remember what it was that made me want to do this.  My dad showed me a comedian on television. I don’t remember what comedian it was or what their act was.  This was the first time that I understood what a comedian was, and the concept alone was enough to make me want to be one.

My dad didn’t like this idea and tried really hard to talk me out of it.  I’m not sure if he was successful; if I just lost interest; or if I was distracted by something else, but I ended up deciding that I wanted to become a writer.  When I was in second grade, I had a teacher who made me love reading more than anything else, and I decided that I loved reading so much that I wanted to create works that other people could read and enjoy.

I wanted to do this on and off for years until around middle school.  It was then that we had a career dress up day.  I remember specifically not being sure how to dress as an author.  I decided to borrow a set of scrubs and go as a surgeon instead.  My parents latched onto this idea, and I even convinced myself that I really did want to be a surgeon.  I decided that I would be a general surgeon; the stakes for brain surgery were too high.

It wasn’t until ninth grade that I changed my mind.  I wrote a story called “Greg.”  Looking back, it wasn’t a particularly interesting story, but it was my first story in years and the first one that I would consider reflective of my style as a writer.  Despite a lower quality compared to many works I’ve produced since, this story was very significant to my rediscovering my passion as a writer.  Since then, I’ve realized that I am drawn to storytelling.  This led me to the Mississippi School of the Arts where I am currently enrolled as a literary student.

While there, I started writing a fantasy series with a wide scope.  As I wrote it, something felt wrong about it though.  I had imagined very vibrant imagery for the story that I didn’t want to waste page space in describing, but I also didn’t feel like this project was meant to be a screenplay like I had written a few of in the past.  Recently, I decided that the story would work best as a comic and have started working on it as such.

In a way, I’ve circled back to where I started in considering what I wanted to do with my life.  I’m not sure if that’s inspirational or just funny, but I have a lot of feelings about it that I’m not entirely sure that I understand.  I am at least sure that I am happy to be working on a project that I am passionate about.

The other day one of my friends and I were catching up and he referred to me as a Tumblr girl, and I understood exactly what he meant.  All my life I’ve been this image of balance and I’ve preached about loving and finding yourself, all while trying to find myself; trying to figure out self love. Some days, I absolutely love myself, the way I look, who I am as a person, what I stand for. I think i’m the greatest thing on two feet. Other days I look in the mirror or i’m sitting in my bed and i’m questioning why I was ever born. Why is it that i have to live this life, in this body, at this time. Self love is important, and I don’t lack it, but I do often forget to exercise it.

I realized that you have to practice what you preach, but I find it a lot easier to put my energy into others, to love and care for them, to guide them; even if I haven’t gotten it all figured out for myself.

But I know you can’t always put other people first, because you matter! 

I’ve often been in situations where I put myself on the back burner, given up on myself, my dreams, even my writing. But I’ve also always been there to pick my own head up, put the pen back on the paper, or at least have enough sense to look for encouragement. I have made it a point in my life to give myself breaks, regroup, and come back refreshed. As people, we tend to be hard on ourselves. Nitpicking at small things, being insecure, obsessing on materialistic matters that won’t matter after a while. You’ve got to remember that you are a living, breathing being. You have feelings. You’re emotional just like everyone else. It’s completely okay to cry.

There was a point in my life when I felt completely hopeless. I felt as if my worth wasn’t good enough, as if I was only spitting out art because I had to. I’d lost my passion, my drive, and I had no intention of reigniting that flame. I didn’t see a reason to, as in my mind, my life was already in shambles. How pitiful does that sound? For about three months it was like this. I’d go to class, sleep, and never leave my room. I was the party pooper of the year. After some self reflection and thought collection, I realized I didn’t like my own energy. It was as if I was making myself sick. And who wants to be sick?

As a self help and/or remedy to my problems, I went out and bought some new journals and pens. I wrote for hours, expressing on paper what’d been trapped in my mind. I expelled all the negative energy and used it to get my head in a good space.

I fell both out and back in love with myself and my writing in a matter of months. It just had to be done, because sometimes you have to look at an old thing with new eyes and readjust. It was a necessary evil of sorts. And I say all of this to say:

• practice what you peach
• learn to love yourself
• never give up
• give yourself a break
• you’re only human

I have a terrible habit of being terrible.

I feel like that was an attention grabbing sentence for a post that is supposed to inspire and drive people to do better things, or maybe I’m wrong and it was just awful- you see what I’m talking about? 

This last year, starting around this time, I decided to change how I was looking at things in my life. I had a tendency to look towards the worst-case scenario in anything I did, whether it be my writing or everyday tasks like going to Walmart. 

This sounds like the most cliché thing I have ever written, but I feel like maybe it’s supposed to be. Mrs. Sibley said that if we cringed when thinking about writing something inspirational then her lecture was needed. I won’t say I cringed, it was more of an internal moan that is still echoing around in my rib-cage. I try to do the best that I can in any given situation, but sometimes I get distracted by what hasn’t even happened yet, and will probably not happen anyways. 

I mentioned my trips to Walmart earlier, and I want to touch back on that subject. I can’t stand going to Walmart for the sole reason that there is a 95% chance that I will see someone I know there. My secret wish is that one day MSA will magically teleport to somewhere other than Brookhaven (which happens to be where I’m from), so I can just be surrounded by strangers. BUT, this goes along with my own personal journey of making my own life more enjoyable and easier to live. I’ve decided I can’t be scared anymore. I have to realize that things might not go my way, but that doesn’t mean that I can’t change them to. 

I took a trip over Christmas break to a place that I have horrible memories of. I have not been there since the terrible things happened, and I was terrified. By the time I got there I felt like I needed another shower and change of clothes because I had sweat so much (sorry for the TMI). As my mom and I were driving into the city, and I was so very close to crying, I made up my mind. I will not and refuse to be controlled by things that have hurt me in the past. I cannot think about them daily and have my dreams filled with what-ifs and if only I had. That’s no way to go about living- because it’s not really living at all. It’s being thrown around by  the outcomes of your past while ignoring the fact that you have control over your future. 

I will not say that I am perfect. I have days that I struggle to do simple and ordinary things without having some sort of negative thought or action towards the task. I’m working on how people see me (although if we’re honest, I don’t care how people see me). I want to be known for my kindness and understanding. This is something I have the most work to do on, because I was raised a certain way, and it is proving difficult to change that part of myself. But the most important thing is that I am working on it, and I’m trying to better myself for the good of me and the people around me. 

Mama Odelle’s house smelled of roasted turkey, cranberry sauce, cigarettes, and sweat. The fat under her arm was swiftly moving every time she stirred the contents in her favorite mixing bowl.

“You have to stir it in one direction the entire time. That’s what get it all right, “she’d say every year.

We were all huddled in the living room watching the Hallmark channel. Mama O’s tv was small and so was her living room, but we all made it work. It reminded me of the nights when all the cousins slept over. We’d make pallets and sleep head to feet, feet to head. Jr. would always complain about my feet being all in his face.

“Man, I swear to God if your stinky feet touch me, I’m going to fight you,” he’d say with a playful undertone.

This year, almost everyone in the family came, just enough to fit at the table. Well, except for Aunt Sheryl’s husband Jake. The family eyed him each step he took. They’d only been married for a couple of months, and none of us were invited to the wedding. Aunt Sheryl said it all happened last minute, but her Facebook says differently. She and Jake were smiling big alongside his family at their ceremony. I didn’t say anything about it though.

Finally, the food was done and Mama Odelle shooed us all into the dining room. Everyone sat, and Auntie Jean led grace. The whole time she was being shady saying, and God please bless our unexpected guest, Mama O took over from there. Uncle Dennis was laughing silently the entire time.

We began to eat and eat. Mouths were full of dressing, ham, turkey, pecan and sweet potato pie. Everyone grabbed a slice of pecan pie except Jake.

“Why you ain’t eating none of that pecan?” Auntie Jean asked.

“Oh, I’m—”

“He’s allergic to pecans,” Aunt Sheryl cut him off.

Auntie Jean sucked her teeth.

“Mmm. Well, if you brought ‘em around more often, we’d know that.”

Uncle Dennis quickly grabbed his drink and swallowed hard, peeking from the rim of the glass.

“Well, if you stop running the streets all night, maybe you’d get to see him.”

Mama Odelle slammed her hand on the table.

“Look, we’re not doing this year. I’ve slaved over that kitchen stove to make this meal for y’all ungrateful devils and all you want to do is fight,” she said as she continued to eat her roll.

“Tell your daughter to grow up then Mama.” Aunt Sheryl said.

“You’re the one who needs to grow up. Didn’t invite your own family to your wedding. What? You’re ashamed of us or something. Got you a good job and a maybe decent man and you think you all that now huh?’

“Like, I said. The wedding was last minute. There were barely and guests.”

Auntie Jean shifted in her chair and laughed.

“Girl, stop that lying. You’re lying for no reason. I saw your Facebook. Mmhmm. Maybe you should make your page private,” auntie jean said.

I thought I was the only one who saw all the pictures. I guess I wasn’t the only one snooping around. Auntie Jean an Sheryl kept arguing back and forth like they were teenagers. The rest of us continued to eat like nothing was happening. Maybe Mama O decided they’d get tired eventually and shut up. Jake kept tugging at Aunt Sheryl’s arm, trying to get her to calm down.

It wasn’t until the food was thrown across the table that everyone tuned back in.

“Now, that was a perfectly good piece of pie, and you just wasted it,” uncle Dennis said playfully.

He was enjoying the drama, probably was even hoping he’d get to see a fist fight that day, but he didn’t. After there was no more to food to chunk, they screamed I hate you at each other and stormed out. Neither one of them told Mama O thank you or the food was good. Uncle Dennis joked for the next ten minutes until they became lame. He eventually left. The house was quiet again except the rattling of dishes. I was drying the plates for Mama Odelle. She looked sad but not sad enough to ask are you okay. I imagined she was thinking to herself. Asking how did her kids become so angry at the world and each other. But she found solace in the fact I’d always be there for her. To clean her carpet, fix her air conditioner, or whatever else she needed.

That was the last Thanksgiving we all had together. Aunt Sheryl and her husband moved away and never looked back. Auntie Jean was a little of everywhere, and Uncle Dennis was ‘rebooting’ his rap career up in Chicago. He’d save up to get a train ticket. I was the only one who came back every Thanksgiving until Mama Odelle passed away.