Category: Junior Literary

I can’t remember the last time I did something stupidly impulsive ( besides dying my hair 2 different colors at 3 in the morning on a Wednesday). Lately, it feels as if every word I say is carefully articulated and reiterated in my head multiple times before I actually speak. It feels like I’m not doing anything for myself. I don’t think I’m laughing for myself anymore? I don’t think that I’m breathing for myself anymore?

At this point, I’ve become what I think everyone else wants me to be.

I’ve never been like that in my life. And now, whoopty doo da, I’m a walking, talking mannequin. I’m clay in the midst of sculptors. But they aren’t molding me. I am. I’m stuck in a loop of positioning and repositioning and changing how I act and my body language and how I breathe. I’m stuck.

I’m Stuck.

Stuck in a whirlwind of teenagers, concrete, and anything/everything in between. They’re spinning, spinning, until they become dizzy. Then they wobble and topple over each, me in the middle of it all. And, as they lay on the floor, awaiting another round of Ring-Around-The-Rosie: High School Edition, they look almost miserable. They look like they actually miss the loop of haze mixed with weed smoke, lost eyesight, and late-night-depression drinking. They look as if they want to keep it going. Forever and ever. Never ending cycles of bs and hopelessness. And, like clockwork, they get back up and start it all again. And I watch as the weed turns to heroine and the 45 turns to Balkan. Now, they’re just a bumbling, babbling jumble of addicts. They fall and don’t get back up.

This place is a blur. A few days ago, I was me. I was who I wanted to be. Now, I’m a ghost of someone new. Someone not exactly here yet but you feel their presence. Someone not necessarily bad, but you have your suspicions. Someone you don’t know yet but you don’t want to change. That someone is not me. I want to be me. I want to be the me I’ve always been. The stupid, impulsive, curly haired me that I’ve, apparently, built my reputation around. I want to remain at my simplest form. But there’s nothing simple about growing up in Mississippi. There’s nothing simple about not wanting to be like them. There’s nothing simple about growing up and realizing that what’s in front of you is not something you want to be apart of.

But, when the haze is gone, and the whirling winds are asleep, and the last of us are quietly contemplating the silent release in the dead of night, only then am I to be who I truly was born to be. The jumbled mess of letters that seemingly make no sense.

Hi everyone! It’s my first post since being here at MSA. I thought it would be interesting to share my journey of writing. I would also love to hear about yours (if you consider yourself one).

First, I want to define what a writer is.

Writer: a person who has written a particular text; one who writes.

When you look at this literal form of the definition it seems like anyone could be a writer, which is true in a way. You could write an essay, a short story, anything really, and be considered a writer.

I have a different spin on this word though. Being a writer is a part of who I am. I love words, and I have a desire to form meaningful pieces with them. I want people to feel the emotions I am feeling while I write.

So I would say that the feeling and passion for writing really makes a difference between just writing whatever without any true meaning towards it.

Now, I would like to share my journey of becoming a writer with you guys. Maybe you can relate to this, or you may be curious about how one ‘becomes’ a writer.

When I was around seven I would always grab stacks of copy paper from my dad’s office. I would sneak back into my room and the process would begin. I would take the copy paper and make stick figures and give them dialogue. Typically, my stories were about stereotypical mean high school girls and crushes- I remember titling one “The Bachelor.”

Skip to me being ten at Justice (the store) picking up a pink, fuzzy diary and a fluffy pen. Now, that’s where my journaling and poetry began. Again, the writing (specifically my poetry) was stereotypical romance and conflicts.

Here’s one of my poems:

“My love is deeply cut into pieces, and scattered all around. I can’t say what I want to him or else it will all turn upside-down. Though my heart really wants to speak, my breath can’t make a sound.”

Okay, I know what you are thinking, “Well I guess she chose romance as the main thing she wrote, and still writes.” -And, boy oh boy, would you be wrong.

In middle school a lot happened in my life-big changes. So that not only had an effect on how I acted, but it also changed what genre I wrote. This was the time when I wrote almost everyday. This is the moment when writing became my crutch.

I stopped truly writing after that point in my life (about 8th grade). Frankly, I didn’t know who I was as a writer anymore.

I felt disabled.

I couldn’t pick up a pen and express my feelings on a page like I used to. My dreams of being an author were replaced by other things (makeup, Netflix, etc.)

So, I had to begin my journey back to writing. I wanted to get back that missing part of me. Even if it was hard.

That did not seriously begin until I thought about coming here (MSA). Yes, it took that long to come back to writing. That is because I had to do some forgiving towards others, and myself.

From that point on I used my bad experiences to show how I overcame them. I wanted to be able to speak to others like me. I wanted to encourage them.

And man did it feel so lovely to be reconnected to a piece of myself.

Overall, writing has been my friend, my supporter, my coping mechanism, and it has been my gateway to be able to come to MSA.

I have a lot of love towards writing. I have overcome obstacles with it. I have been empowered with it.

I want writer’s, just like myself, to be proud of how far writing has taken them. Most importantly,to keep on falling in love with writing, and continue working towards their dreams.

 

 

 

August 4th, 2003 was indeed a good day…one might even say, a magical day. Why? Because it’s my birthday!

Fast forward 15 years: July 27, 2019. This was the actual day I celebrated my 16th birthday because I would leave for school on my birthday weekend.
For my 16th, I decided to have a game and a movie night outside in my backyard. This idea originally sounded fun to me because I always wanted to go to a drive-in movie. What would be even better would be a drive-in movie and my friends all in my backyard.

So on the day of the event, I woke up early in the morning and went to get my nails done. My makeup appointment followed that. I went for a soft- glow-glam-look with gold glitter eyes. I proceeded to go home and get dressed in my birthday attire. For my outfit, I had a white crop blouse with ruffled ends and high waisted bell bottom jeans both from Forever 21. I paired it with a pair of leopard open toe heels. All I can say is…your girl was looking bomb!

Shortly some of my friends arrive and we went to take pictures at the Renaissance Mall.

Around 7 o’clock the party started so we made our way back to my house. As I opened the front door of my house to find rose gold and white decor including balloons in all quarters of the living room. A huge birthday banner across the dining room wall with a sweet table below it including chocolate covered Rice Krispies, Oreos, pretzels, and a light pinked flowered icing cake to top it all off.

The rest of the party soon arrived with great smiles we played games like Jenga, Bummer Ball, dice, etc. Later, we ate, danced to some bops, and shared some laughs while watching Scary Movie 2 on a projector outside.

Before I knew it, it was 11 o clock and it was time to say goodbye to my friends. Of course, this was emotional considering I it would be a while until I saw most of them. I tried to stay strong and hold back my tears, but I couldn’t. My tears weren’t all sad. It was a mixture between missing these dear people and being hopeful that I will see them again soon.

Nonetheless, the party was a success and had good energy throughout the whole event. I was happy that I got to enter my 16th year with the ones I love.

On August 6, we experimented with black out poetry. And as the school year launched on this day, I found my poem particularly ironic. I would rather submit an image, but I marked out a few letters by accident. So I hope a typed replacement will suffice.

---

This year

is

depicting

feeling

and

some creative role.

Existing 

is

now on display.

---

In many ways does this poem resonate with me. One presents itself clearly: the mention of creativity. This year, my junior year, I reside at Mississippi School of the Arts (MSA). Two others schools have aided me academically, but this upper high school stands as the first to provide artistic education, available to me and other talented individuals that survived admission. Not only does this environment tolerate creativity, it also encourages artistic growth and out-of-the-box thinking. So I would assume that a creative role is inevitable, and I am thrilled about developing my writing and progressing as an author.

Another word caught my attention: feeling. Although getting accepted into MSA requires artistic potential, I have always struggled with favoring the left side of my brain. I am aware that the theory of left-brain and right-brain thinking is not exactly science, but consider it from a metaphorical perspective. Even now I utilize this left side. I would rather branch out and express myself in vivid poetry, or I would rather experiment with quirky blog prompts. But I refrain because the logic says otherwise, arguing that the notion is simply too extravagant, too unnecessary, too “out-there”. The right side, mumbling something about emotional expression, fades from view, and I trust the left side even though I do not always want to. But here, immersed in this environment, logic does not feel so complacent, and I await change and the appearance of unhinged artistic expression. Granted, filters should always remain, but I would rather creativity not mumble.

To the other artists experiencing an infestation of logic: I encourage you to find a community or environment that inspires you, even if that means sitting by a window instead of something wild (like spontaneously moving to another country). Do not allow your artistic voice to wither.

Finally, to conclude my first blog edition, I want to address the ending of the poem: “Existing is now on display”. This resonates with me the most, as it partially defines the life of an artist. We almost exist on display, the products of our creativity self-reflective. Even if we aim to capture an idea or another person, a piece of us will always find its way in; it is inevitable. Writers especially leave a bit of themselves in every page, and I find that particularly beautiful.

Well, existing is now on display, I assume. So exist greatly and with purpose.

August 8th: Today is my sixth day being at MSA and all I can really say is—wow. This experience, though its only been six days, has been so new for me. I’ve never been in a situation where I’ve had to wake up earlier than I have to just to write my name on a paper and now that I have…it has got to be one of my least favorite things to do. Despite the agony of having to sign in everyday, that seems to be the only fault I’ve seen so far at MSA but with any school, there’s bound to be more than just that one. My sister actually went to MSA before me and she graduated in 2017 so from then my perception of MSA has definitely changed. I can’t say exactly if it’s what I thought it was going to be like because I haven’t been here long enough. However, lately I’ve taken to the motto “take it one day at a time,” mainly because I have such a tendency of planning ahead and expecting things to come when I haven’t taken the time to see what’s right in front of me. As the days go on and I meet my teachers and realize how different they are and how different they teach—it kind of scares me. Like with any new venture—I have my doubts. Will they be to hard for me to handle? Will I be stressed and unable to function properly? Will this class lower my GPA if I don’t do well? All these questions have been running through my mind constantly but I’ve been trying to assure myself that everything will be okay. I have to tell myself that school has never been an issue for me before. I’m smart, I have…okay time management skills, I haven’t gotten a C or below in my entire life and I’ll absolutely lose my mind if I get my first C while in the last two years of my secondary education SO I think I’ll be okay…stressed…but okay. I have to constantly remind myself that everybody moves at different paces and no matter how fast or slow I go in my classes, I’ll eventually catch up with everybody else. These self reminders push me through my day and help me stay grounded and humble in this new experience. I’ll end this by asking any seniors who read this, what ways did you manage your time for being social and doing school work? Did anything that typically works NOT work for you? Any tips/advice/pointers you can give on procrastination? Anything helps!

When I decided to make my first blog post about body shaming, I originally titled it “Fat Shaming & What It Means”. I took to news articles and did research about the heinous people who body shame. I watched a video of a woman who spent 30 minutes of her day recording herself tearing down the bodies that weren’t like her own. She then uploaded the video to YouTube and called it “comedy”. I, like most human beings, do not find her saying that fat people give off the aroma of sausages to be very funny. She then goes on to discredit the idea of fat-shaming, saying that it was made up by fat people to excuse their overeating.

I was furious by the hurtful and poorly factuated things that she was saying. So, initially, I was going to write a response to her video, but I decided against it. I figured that it would resonate with more people if it were something they could actually relate to. My good friend, Hannah, gave me the idea to interview people on their experiences with fat-shaming, so I  went to my peers, here at MSA, and asked for their truth. In doing this, I changed the title of my piece again. It is now titled “Body Shaming: Parts 1 & 2”. This because people are not only shamed for being fat but for being skinny, for being tall, for not being. Also, I needed to split it into two parts for the simple fact that the subject is so broad that I felt that it would not have fulfilled its purposes without a second installment. So, I hope that in reading this piece, you will know that you’re not alone and that your body is beautiful.

Body Shaming: Part 1

What Is Body Shaming?

The Oxford dictionary defines body shaming as “the action or practice of humiliating someone by making mocking or critical comments about their body shape or size.”

“Body shaming is when people say horrible things about someone’s body that they can’t necessarily control or don’t reflect them as a person,” says Kathryn Chapin, a visual arts student at MSA.

While these definitions of body shaming are true, I wanted to hear more in-depth opinions on the issue, so I asked another question: “Have you ever been body shamed? If so, how did it make you feel?”

I got responses like: “Ugly”, “Horrible”, and “Awful”.

Brianna Cox, a literary student at MSA, opened up about the first time she’d been shamed for her body— “I remember the first time I felt that I was fat. I was in the third grade and I wore the same outfit every single day: a khaki skirt and a white shirt with ruffles on the sleeves. And I remember a kid saying to me one day, ‘Brianna, you’re bigger than most people.’ And I was like, ‘I didn’t notice.’ But then, I started thinking about it until I just thought about it every day.”

Cox has carried this experience her whole life. One moment or incident is all it takes to change someone’s entire perception of themselves. 

Have you ever looked in the mirror and thought of yourself as too skinny or fat or ugly? If so, do you think that’s body shaming?

Chapin says, “Oh yeah, at least once a day, but I feel like it is a result of body shaming. But it isn’t body shaming itself because I wouldn’t think those things unless I hadn’t been told to think those things, so while it is body shaming, I don’t feel like it is the body shaming that is stereotypically thought of when we think of body shaming.”

However, Cox states, “I definitely have. Although encouraging yourself in a tough way can help you, especially if you’re not the size that you want to be, it is still body shaming when you call yourself fat.”

I pondered Cox’s statement. I thought to myself, I call myself fat too often, yes, but on the BMI scale, I am considered “obese”. I am not the weight that I am supposed to be based on my height, so, therefore,  I am fat. That is just the simple truth.

I wanted more thoughts on this, so I sat down with my friend, Hannah, and she said this, “A lot of people use fat in a negative way. And I feel like we need to get rid of that. I mean, we really do— that whole stigma. It is such a nasty word now, the way that we use it. Everybody uses the word “fat”, but now, people are using it as this ugly word to just describe anyone that they don’t like.”

I really understood what Hannah had to say about that. The word “fat” has such a negative connotation, but the definition of the word is “having a large amount of excess flesh”.  Society has turned this word into this awful thing when it really just means you got some extra skin. I mean, no one really enjoys being called fat, but it is nothing to be ashamed of. Your body is beautiful.

“You can be both [fat and beautiful]. Being fat does not define your worth.” -Hannah Hays, MSA literary.

 

[Part 2 coming soon]

 

 

As a new student at Mississippi School of The Arts, I can tell you, firsthand, what student life is like here. At first, it is very exciting, as all new things are. But as the days go on, a sense of loneliness sets in. You don’t know anyone here, and they don’t know you. It can be hard to make new friends when you haven’t had to say, “Hey, I’m Brianna. Do you want to be friends?” since Kindergarten.

Personally, I went to a very small school and everyone knew everyone. So for me, it is very hard to interact with people I’ve just met. I don’t know how much to tell them to keep them interested without over- sharing. I’m slowly learning to interact with people I don’t know. What do you say? What do you not say? How do you act? How do you not act?

Not only are the people new but so are your surroundings. It’s strange having to ask where the principle’s office is, or not knowing how to get to your local Walmart. But luckily for you, I made this guide about how to function  as a new student!

1. Don’t be afraid to ask where something is. Everyone else was new at one point too.
2. If you want something, ask for it (or work your butt off to get it. Whichever applies to you).
3. Introduce yourself to new people. Everyone could use a friend.
4. Don’t tell your whole life story within 5 minutes of meeting someone. If they want to know, most of the time they will ask. Too much information too fast will either make them uncomfortable or make them feel pressured into sharing something as well. All will come with time.
5. SMILE! Smiling and being polite will get your muuuuch further than a frown and rudeness ever will.
6. Don’t  let anyone walk all over you. You might be new but you’re a strong, independent man/ woman/ your preferred gender.
7. Remember that you got accepted here because you are an artist! You have an amazing skill. Be proud of yourself.
8. Have fun (but not too much fun. I wouldn’t want you getting arrested or something because a 16 year old blogger told you to go out and enjoy yourself).
9. Open yourself up to new people and opportunities. You never know the possibilities until you reach for them!
10. Remember that this is still high school. You don’t have to be an adult yet. Despite what all the old people say, you’re already in the real world. You’ve already experienced real world things. (Like, seriously Grandma, I haven’t been living in “lalaland” this whole time).
11. Stay true to yourself. You are the only you. Don’t change anything about yourself just because someone doesn’t like that part of you. It can be very tempting to want to change yourself to be like someone around you because they look “cool” or whatever. But the only thing you need to improve is your intelligence and compassion. Everyone should strive to be smarter and kinder.

These steps will be hard, no, make that impossible, these first few weeks. But stick to the process. I believe in you, your family believes in you, and most of all, you should believe in you.

Dear former victims of abuse,

You have been given a situation well beyond your years. You have been force-fed something hard to swallow. You have been blessed with the kiss of bruises and belt buckles for no apparent reason. You have tasted salty tears and busted lips, smelled the stench of alcohol and dread. And when the possibility of it ever ending left, you became desensitized to all of it. The pain hurt a little bit less, the tears flowed a little less willingly, and the hope you so desperately clung to became a lot harder to find. And you’re left alone with nothing but your anger: anger at God and anger at yourself. “Why can’t you just walk away?” “Why are you like this?” Why did you do this to yourself?” “Why aren’t you enough?” Why?” “Why?” “Why?”

I am one of you. I have felt worthless, restless, and helpless. I have stood where you stood and I said what you said. And I know what it’s like. But this letter is addressed to FORMER victims. We made it out. We’re alive. We’re breathing the air we fought for for so many nights prior to us escaping. However, that kind of turmoil stays with you forever. That type of anguish is unrelenting, no matter where you may be.

 So, I want you to understand something. There is nothing in this world that could ever make you feel as terrible as you did in that predicament. Why? Because you have grown stronger since the day you fell in that rabbit hole. You have become keener, wiser, and you are now a better version of yourself that you never saw yourself being. And no matter how hard you fight the realization, that was not your fault. There’s a very common, very cliche quote that says,”Sometimes the prettiest flower has the sharpest thorns”. Normally it’s used in reference to girls that pretend to have bad mental issues to be “quirky” and “popular”. But now, I use this to tell you that sometimes the most caring, funny, perfect looking man or woman can be the worst to you. And you don’t deserve that. It may take you a while to figure that out (it took me almost 14 years), but one of these days you will look in the mirror and see the person you were made to be.

I also know that you want so badly to blame God for what happened. And in a sense, He is responsible. But not in the way you think. “But, Azya, how is He a good God if He allows stuff like that to happen?” Have you ever heard the term,” Things happen for a reason”? Without going through that experience, without being broken down to the point of bitter nothingness, you wouldn’t be flourishing. You wouldn’t have the experience to say that you lived through an experience that will haunt you, but will overpower you no more. We have been blessed with the ability to say that we are better than our circumstances. God has blessed us with the power to feel like we are ourselves again. That was all Him.

Now, I pray that you find a coping mechanism that helps you become better than your abuser was. I pray that you find the peace and serenity in your life that I know we all crave. And I hope, that one day, when you’re old and gray and the memories have blurred together like a smudged painting, you look back, and you thank yourself for forgiving that man or woman from all those years ago. 

Sincerely, 

A former victim of abuse

Although it’s weird to think of myself as a junior, it also feels natural, as I am the age of 17. My first week here at msa has been all the emotions, but especially joy and sadness. Last week I spent my day working outside to get a new phone (I dropped mine in a lake) and after, I spent it with my family. I was regretting my decision to leave them that night and lost sleep over the fact knowing I wouldn’t see them for another two weeks- that I wouldn’t be able to go home for another two weeks. That feels so far away now, like it was months ago.

This week has been so physically and mentally draining. I feel bad for leaving my friends and family behind, but I needed to do this and if they can’t support me, then they aren’t concerned for my best interests and if that’s the case, I shouldn’t be concerned of what they feel for me. I’ve learned that it’s okay to put yourself first, and you shouldn’t be miserable to save someone else from being miserable, because they will make new friends just like you will. But in all, this week has been a solid 7, or maybe 8.

The hardest part of being a student at msa and living on campus is what you leave behind at home. Your parents, family, friends, pets, other loved ones, and the memories you share with them.  Every year I’ve been in school, on my first day I would come home with a tired face and my mom would smile asking the typical question, “How was your first day at school?” And after I tell her about my long day, she would make me my favorite food while I watched TV. Of course, I knew I would no longer experience this tradition  before I came here, but it saddens me how quickly it is out of my life. That’s another hard part- the realization of independence and growing up. But that’s not a part of this school, it’s just a part of life this school pushed me to recognize.

If you were to ask me what my “happy place” is, It would have to be my grandma’s old house in Spanish Fork Utah. The graceful rolling hills and the rocky mountains with miscellaneous colors of green, all the colors blended together to create reassuring comfort. The sweet air was dry and cool and would effortlessly offer peace when a breeze ran through my long, shining hair. Not just the house itself, with walls of grey cobblestone and wooden planks, would give me a sense of happiness; but also the natural surroundings the house rested in.

The wooden steps from the 2nd floor descended outside where my cousins and I would sit and watch my grandmas dogs cheerfully playing in the soft grass. In the front yard, there were two great trees that stood beside each other with branches so wide and long, they piled on top of another. But once you pushed through the branches, there was a large opening  you could stand inside. I would spend passing hours inside those trees with my siblings and cousins having “meetings” about which games to play and who would be “it” first. And as I looked up the tall trees, a warm sunlight would shine through the dark leaves and rest on my face, brightening my blue eyes and the purest joy would fill my emotions.

I wish I could close my eyes and take myself to that place and time…

My happy place isn’t just a beautiful place, but a time where memories were made. Disappointingly enough, I feel that if I were to go back to my grandmas house that stood on a familiar mountain, I would not feel the joy I did all those years ago, and it would no longer be my happy place.