Category: Junior Literary

 

    Sestina: Dark Skin Beauty

 

You may be blind by thy beauty

of the deep roots of your true melanin

It cross fades with the prophets

 true vision of unity.

Pay no thought of insecurity

of your ever-glowing dark skin.

 

Some may speak that the gift of thy pearl skin

which is rich in beauty,

should be the foundation of insecurity.

But I say your over joyous melanin

provides the nation with unity,

and plenty insights to the prophets.

 

They see plenty, the prophets.

They envision that thy skin

will be the formation of unity,

 and everyone shall see the beauty

Of thy perfect, rich melanin.

Then you shall learn, that this must not be the foundation of insecurity.

 

The darkness of your insecurity

will be what the prophets

cherished, so deep as the melanin

implemented in your skin.

 That glorifies your beauty

and shows thy ancestors unity.

 

Your ancestors found unity

to defeat the insecurity

of their captors. They knew of the beauty

that was spoken among the prophets.

Your ancestors embraced the skin

that was gifted to them along with luxurious melanin.

 

All do not possess the gift of majestic melanin

which has been the reason of disperse unity.

Hate has been decided by color of the skin

compelling many to believe darkness as an insecurity.

“Giving the man in power to feed and devour,” says the prophets,

“Thou will never know true equality until thou embrace the dark beauty.”

 

The beauty of your deep melanin

will awaken the world and provide unity

to all skin tones defeating, the battle of insecurity.

 

Recently in the introduction to poetry class, my classmates and I were taught the poem type, the sestina. According to the Oxford dictionary, a sestina is “a poem with six stanzas of six lines and a final triplet, all stanzas having the same six words at the line-ends in six different sequences that follow a fixed pattern, and with all six words appearing in the closing three-line envoi.” I honestly found that writing a sestina was extra and time-consuming. It made your mind think about possible ways that your chosen words could fit into the poem. That’s a reason why I enjoyed it as well, you got to make your own story where your chosen words lived. That was so exciting because one of my joys of writing is when you are writing either shorty story, poem, flash fiction, any fiction. And you realize that you are in control of the story and how it plans out, it is such a magical feeling.

This is just gonna be a collection of poems of mine that I really like!!

 

“Her Yellow Gloves”

Her Yellow Gloves

 

All over America women are washing dishes.

It’s scrubbing and rubbing; it’s Dawn soap

On subdued yellow gloves; it’s cracks in plates;

broken glass in the sink; it’s blood and bruises

and never knowing what’s to come.

All over America women are washing

dishes that they’re supposed to save for when

He wants people over.

Blues and purples splinter across her arm,

shaped by strong hands that once held her close,

hidden by the sleeves on her dress,

flared at the waist and the color of His eyes. 

It’s broken vases and bleeding noses.

It’s his knuckles, bloody and bruised 

and her eyes, black and busted. 

All over America, women are washing dishes,

their fingers pruning with the constant submersion

like a housewife under the pressure of perfectionism. 

If she wants to wash anything, it’s 

the feeling of her husband off her skin.

If she wants to dry anything, it’s

the tears on her cheek when he leaves again

for a hussy.

Her life is rung out and dried,

nothing but debris at the bottom of the overused sponge.

Look, she says, once I was fine porcelain

saved for special occasions and treasured beyond measure 

but now I am Tupperware.

I am overworked and underappreciated.

Washing is not a choice, but a necessity. 

“What Does She Look Like?”

She stares blankly at me as I assess her.

There is a white glow behind her. 

She resembles an angel. 

Parted down the middle, the shiny, black smudge atop her head

Glistens with the thoughts she hides behind her cold, 

 ash colored eyes.

 She resembles Hades.

Her eyelashes are short, visible, and powerful.

Without blinking, she bats away all competitors. 

She challenges me. 

She stares at me with clean contempt. 

Her eyebrows arch oddly, the proportions off

But still beautifully assymetrical.  Her nose runs down

 her face in a short, bulbous fashion.

She resembles her mother. 

Her high cheekbones, swaddled in skin of blacks, whites, and browns,

 fade away from her nostrils is a smooth

Almost flawless motion. 

Her lips are small, but not pursed. 

They are as blank as her stare.

She resembles her father. 

Her face goes downwards into a soft roll,

The sides gently curving into the formation of a chin.

Her hair reaches down her back, cascading in long spirals. 

Her neck is partially covered by her hair. 

The part that does show is smooth,

 Kinda like marble,

And it resembles the complexion of her people. 

The Collar.

It’s a folded collar, like the one I wore in

Elementary School. 

The shirt itself is a mirage of greys, each one slightly different. 

She stares blankly at me as I assess her. 

She is suspended in space,

Frozen in time, sentenced to never

Speak a word again. 

Yet, she seems to speak to me,

As clear as black and white.

“My Head”

1, 2.

Blink Blink.

I wake up and count my breaths.

1,2.

1,2.

Good.

Blink Blink.

Okay.

 

Get dressed.

Okay.

Shirt.

No no no.

Pants before shirt.

I start over.

Pants.

Shirt.

 

Good.

 

Vest.

Coat.

Pocketwatch?

I’ve got it.

I get my gloves.

1,2.

Perfect.

Okay.

 

Time to leave.

 

What time is it?

4:15

Oh my god.

I’m late. I’m late.

 

I run. Right then

Left. Right

Then left. 

 

The queen’s gonna

Have my head.

My head.

Have my head.

She’ll kill me.

Mary Ann.

Who will take

Care of Mary Ann?

Continue reading “a farewell to the best dog”

 

There’s a color in the 24-count box of Crayola crayons called “apricot”. However, when I was growing up, we called that “skin color”. It didn’t matter what your race was. That is what we all called it. Maybe it was because we didn’t know how to read yet and apricot wasn’t on the list of colors we had to learn, so we just associated it with the most common of flesh colors. We were blinded by our ignorant innocence. We saw no flaws in this, and while it may not seem like a big deal, looking back, it was. I mean, we called the color white, white, and brown was brown and black was black, but apricot was always “skin color”. I don’t know why I never stopped to question the fact that it didn’t look my skin color. Now, it is something that I think of often, but I bet none of my white peers even remember that.

What is white privilege?

The Washington Post did an article on this in 2016. They also created a video explaining in depth what it is. I strongly recommend reading the article, but also, watching the clip. It is very informative and really delves into the meaning of white privilege.

Having white privilege means that people who are Caucasian get advantages simply because they are the majority race, and most of the time, don’t even realize they have it, which is a big reason why people need to be educated about topics like this.

In 1989, professor, Peggy McIntosh wrote a piece called White Privilege: Unpacking the Invisible Knapsack.  In it, she describes examples of the daily effects of white privilege in her everyday life. Here are some of her examples:

• I can turn on the television or open to the front page of the paper and see people of my race widely represented.
• I can be sure that my children will be given curricular materials that testify to the existence of their race.
• I can swear, or dress in second-hand clothes, or not answer letters, without having people attribute these choices to the bad morals, the poverty, or the illiteracy of my race.
• I can easily buy posters, postcards, picture books, greeting cards, dolls, toys, and children’s magazines featuring people of my race.
• If my day, week, or year is going badly, I need not ask of each negative episode or situation whether it has racial overtones.
• I can choose blemish cover or bandages in “flesh” color and have them more than less match my skin.
• I can take a job with an affirmative action employer without having co-workers on the job suspect that I got it because of race.

Those are just a few of the 26 McIntosh listed. The fact that she could list 26 is astonishing to me. Since then, many people have spoken out about white privilege.

Rapper, Macklemore, released a song in 2016, titled “White Privilege ll”. You can find the song on any music media app or on YouTube. I recommend looking at the lyrics as you listen. The song explores themes of police brutality, white supremacy, and the social movement, Black Lives Matter. In the song, Macklemore struggles with his own white privilege and his in place in the BLM movement. The song switches between various artists, narrators, news reports, sirens, gunshots, and chants.

White supremacy isn’t just a white dude in Idaho
White supremacy protects the privilege I hold
White supremacy is the soil, the foundation, the cement and the flag that flies outside of my home
White supremacy is our country’s lineage, designed for us to be indifferent
My success is the product of the same system that let off Darren Wilson – guilty
We want to dress like, walk like, talk like, dance like, yet we just stand by
We take all we want from black culture, but will we show up for black lives?
We want to dress like, walk like, talk like, dance like, yet we just stand by
We take all we want from black culture, but will we show up for black lives?

In these lines, Macklemore addresses white supremacy, which is the belief that white people are the superior race. He says the system of his success is the same one that didn’t indict Darren Wilson for the shooting of Michael Brown Jr. in 2014. He then goes on to explain how this is cultural appropriation because many white people have gained from the culture of black people, but aren’t willing to support them in their times of need. He assesses this and then relates it to the famous Black Lives Matter movement when he says, “We take all we want from black culture, but will we show up for black lives?”.

In 2012, the Black Lives Matter hashtag began in response to the acquittal of George Zimmerman for the shooting of Trayvon Martin. The campaign is used in protests to speak out against police brutality, systematic racism, and racial inequality/discrimination. There is much controversy surrounding the campaign. However, the most common is the similar hashtag of “All Lives Matter”.

Cartoonist, Kris Straub, published a cartoon depicting an analogy to clear up the misconceptions many people had about the original movement causing them to want to create new one that promoted “true equality”.

Straub compares the movement to a burning house. If a house is on fire, you wouldn’t hose down every house but the one that’s on fire. He says this is the case with Black Lives Matter vs. All Lives Matter, not that any race is any more important than the other.

Colorism

Colorism is similar to white privilege, except it only affects people of color. It is a type of discrimination in which lighter skinned African-Americans or multiracial people are treated better or more favorably than African-Americans with darker skin.

When I was thirteen, my mother took me took me to an art gallery in New Orleans. There was a piece that stood out to me. I don’t remember the name of it, but it was just a brown paper bag sitting upright. There was shadowing and shading, but no context to the significance of this brown paper bag. Of course I was curious, so I asked my mom why there was a painting of this bag, and what was so good about it that it hung in this gallery. That’s when she told me the paper bag story.

Between 1900-1950, African-Americans would host parties and hang a brown paper bag on the door. If you were darker than the bag, you weren’t permitted entrance to that event. It was also this way for acceptance into any HBCU.¹ If you had a lighter skin tone, that was your ticket to the top schools, like Howard. Black people had created their own form of segregation. The closer your skin color was to that of white people, the more European you were said to have been which was understood as a higher social standing. The paper bag test may no longer exist, but its basic principles still linger in modern day as colorism.

After my mom told me the story, I immediately felt sick to my stomach. My mother is darker than me, and because I am mixed and have lighter skin, I would’ve gotten more rights than my own mother; things that she could not get based solely on the color of her skin and not the content of her character. It shook me to my core. While they say ignorance is bliss, sometimes it’s just not. I’m glad my mother told me about the paper bag test because it’s not something that’s taught in everyday history classes.

Now, I don’t take my advantages for granted. I can’t change them nor can I change society, but I am aware now. And I think that’s a big part of it— for people to just be aware of the privileges that they have for whatever reason that they have them.

Affirmative Action

According to Teen Vogue, “Affirmative action is a policy used in areas such as education, employment, and housing to improve the opportunities for minority groups (including minority races, genders, and sexual orientations) that are commonly and historically discriminated against.”

In my fifth grade English class, we were asked to debate if affirmative action was effective or not. At the time, I was dead-set against it. I thought that my skills and excellence should be my only ticket into any school or job I apply for, not my race. I was only 11 years old, but I was very solid on my stance.

One afternoon, I decided to ask my mom what she thought, and I just knew she’d agree with me on this one. When she didn’t, I was shocked. I couldn’t believe that my very own mother would agree with affirmative action because she always taught me to work and earn the things I want and to never accept free handouts. But she told me that some people need help getting their foot in the door and affirmative action was, sometimes, their only way. At the time, I had no idea what that meant.

Affirmative action is a hot button issue, especially right now. Many people believe that is needed for the sake of equality while others think it’s unfair and outdated.

Some say that it is unfair to the majority and causes reverse discrimination. Peter Cookson, senior researcher at the Learning Policy Institute, says this, “If there are two students with equal qualifications and one happens to be African American and one happens to be Caucasian, the African American will have an advantage over the Caucasian. There isn’t really much evidence of this, but that’s the argument that’s made.”

Adversaries believe that it’s not necessary anymore; that it once was needed, but now is not.

People like Grant Jefferson, a student at NYU, disagree, “I don’t think we’ve reached that point in our culture economically or socially where we can afford not to have affirmative action. I think a lot of people will miss out on a lot of really important jobs and educational opportunities.” Similarly, Ama Codjoe, who holds a bachelor’s degree from Brown University, says, “Stripping away affirmative action is violent. And it impacts people because they won’t even be able to get in the door. I know that I deserve to be where I am. I also know there needs to be a system in place to address systemic racism, a system to ensure that people who are smart, capable, and willing to work hard can have a place in higher education.”

While some believe that it gives minority students an unfair advantage and that schools don’t really care who is admitted as long as their diversity quota is met. Although there is no evidence to support this claim, many people swear by it.

Honestly, I still don’t know where I stand on this issue. I want to still be that 11-year-old girl who had this false sense of reality that racism was over and that white privilege didn’t exist, but it does. Therefore, I do have to consider that without affirmative action, because of my race, I could get passed over even with whatever qualifications I had. It’s really something that I really think we shouldn’t have to have, but do because of circumstances in our country right now.

No matter what you believe— white privilege, colorism, and affirmative action are 3 things that are very real, and I don’t see them going away anytime soon. So, talk about them, research, try to understand something that you may not have even known about before reading this blog post. Educate yourself, and take from it what you will.

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¹ Historically Black College or University

Hey guys, my mind is constantly running with ridiculous ideas, and this is how I have come up with these two scenarios. They are most definitely wild material, and are not meant to be taken seriously. So with that in mind, read on, and have fun! 

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A Toon Lagoon Toon

Ah, Toon Lagoon, the place where all toons reside. One toon in particular is Toony. Everyone knows Toony due to her moody mood, and that’s why they never pass by her pit of water.

“Wut’re ya doin in ma part of da lagoon?” Toony would question passerby’s angrily.

“We’re just parkees, we didn’t know this was your part of the lagoon. Sorry for the trouble.” the parkees would say.

“A parkee you say?! Get out! Before ye pour yer water on me.” Toony would yell in response.

You see, Toony would tolerate other toons, but could not stand parkees. Parkees were the visitors who would come through their lagoon, and Toony had some bad experiences with them. One day in particular Toony was wearing a striped shirt, khaki shorts, and a rope- belt to hold them up (Toony does not believe in shoes). Then a parkee came by and splashed Toony’s shirt.

The parkee immediately started apologizing, “Oh my, I am so sorry! I didn’t mean to splash water at you.”

Toony glared at the parkee, “Wut in squirrel migration?! You don wetted up me Guess shirt! Wut’re you gon do ta fix this?” 

“Uh, uh, I am so sorry. I could give you some money?” the parkee said.

Toony rolled her eyes, “Oh ya think this shirt you done wetted up cost as much as you got in ye wallet? Let me tell ya something parkee, this shirt here cost more than this whole lagoon.”

“Okay, I think you’re being a bit unreasonable now. It’s just a little water.” The parkee said irritated. 

Toony’s mouth sat as wide as a bear cave, “Water? Just water?! I’m shivering in me khakis! Your parkee water ain’t never gon get out me shirt. No, nevermind, you just go on bout your day. Go on I said!”

And so the parkee left in a hurry, and Toony sunk back into her pit of water.

“Raaaaaawr, them parkees done made me so angry. I’ll never tolerate them parkees again.” Toony vowed.

The moral of the story is, if you’re in Toon Lagoon at Universal Studios stay away from Toony’s side of the lagoon. The end.

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Polly Pocket Politician

Do you guys remember Polly Pocket? You know, the toy line with dolls and accessories? The main one being that blonde-headed girl? Well I had sets of Polly Pocket stuff from years back, and it got me thinking: Polly Pocket could of been more than just a fashion doll. So today, I would like to share my ideas for what Polly could of done with her name to help her succeed in real life (if she was real). Keep in mind that these are just my theories for what her life may of looked like.

Polly Pocket:

1. Polly Pocket Politician: Imagine, Polly Pocket running for President. Everyone is chanting: Polly Pocket Politician for 2020! If she got elected as President she could do Polly Pocket fashion line for politicians.
2. Polly Pocket Pastries: Okay, this is a perfect job for Polly. I can imagine her making colorful, delectable pastries.
3. Polly Pocket Performer: So Polly Pocket had these games online, and in the image above she would rock out after you dressed her- it’s perfect.

Overall, I believe Polly Pocket could of had a great life, and I could of been her marketing agent. 

 

 

Hey guys! I was planning on doing another short film review, but I came across this piece and remembered how much fun I had writing it. This was one of the first flash fictions I wrote since being at MSA, and it happens to be my favorite actually. Give it a read, leave some feedback, comment what you think! I’m pretty sure I’m going to revisit this and work on it for submissions, but for now enjoy!

Her last memory

The desolate building slowly started to cave in on me. Since the first day of my sentence, I’ve felt the room getting smaller and the walls getting closer. Today is day 129 or 139⸺I can’t really remember. I lost count around the 100th day when they took the chalk I was using away because I was “making a weapon.” Whatever day it is, I haven’t heard not one sound in the building today. Not the hard footsteps of the guards, not the loud guffaw of the vicious commoners coming to make their daily attacks on me, not even the birds, who chirp a song to me every morning. The place is void of anything living it seems. I know for a fact is isn’t Sunday, the smell of stale white bread and red wine hasn’t invaded my eager nostrils yet. No one is here. I guess I’ll try to make the most of the lack of people today. I haven’t had peace and quiet in a long time. A ghost of a smile appears on my face as I recall the last memory of me being alone. It was on the day I was taken. The flowers had just started to bloom. The roses emitted such a fragrance that with each breath I took, it was like breathing air for the first time. The grass shined brighter that day. Whether it was the dew or just the pure happiness I felt, I was at such peace. My ignorance was bliss. I had no idea what was in store for me that day but I always lived my days as if they were my last. I remember walking down to the river that day. The sheer white dress flowed around my body and danced with the blades of grass as I walked. The water was extra warm that day. It was a contrast to the slight breeze in the air. I walked knee deep in the water and just breathed. That moment was pure ecstasy but in a heartbeat⸺it was taken from me. The town went into an uproar over me being in the river. They said I was “tainting the water.” I should’ve known they were going to say something about me⸺they always do. I was the black sheep in the community. Unlike everybody else, I wasn’t native to the land. As a baby, I was left in the middle of the town to be taken care of by someone else. By law, any child under 16 must be in the care of an adult. No one wanted me so I had to be taken care of by the local animal shelter. These people were unkind to those who aren’t native. They claimed me as “impure” simply because I wasn’t one of them. I was always subject to be the blame for anything wrong here. The rain hasn’t come for days? I pleaded to the Gods to kill them by dehydration. Harvest was late? I poisoned the crops. The animals started being aggressive? I provoked them. Everything was my fault. It’s been like this for years, since I started to talk actually. I found myself slowly starting to believe their words but I always knew I was never the problem. Me being in the water set it off for them. The river was used for baptisms and I was drowning my sins in them by standing in it. They rinsed themselves in the water to purify it again while I was taken to the jail so they could control my behavior once and for all. Since that day, I haven’t seen the light of day. The people come to tell me of the misery I caused them. Some of them I’ve never talked to before, some I’ve known my whole life. Sitting here, in this cell, I recount all the times I’ve had the opportunity to leave. Why didn’t I leave? The walls are pushing against me now. I can’t take it anymore. The silence is killing me. I can’t breath. Why didn’t I leave? The river, the animals, the words, why didn’t I leave? Suddenly I feel it. The breath was being taken from me.The air around me was lighter. My life was slipping through my pores one by one. My last thought ran through my head as the lights were turned off. Why didn’t I just leave?

Obviously, I love words and consider myself somewhat acquainted with them. But the extent to which I love them may, in fact, surprise you. Although, yes, my relationship with words has proved tumultuous at times, I could never willingly give them up. Each of them has their own existence, their own unique story. And I find it so fascinating how we build stories with them, constructing entire worlds and characters out of other characters, ones that subsist in a linguistic world. Below, I will describe this more in depth to show exactly what I mean.

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A Few Words And Their Personalities 

(according to my brain)

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Punctual: is a grey suit with a blaring, purple tie. It spins in a black leather rolly chair, kicking at wooden floorboards with scuffed dress shoes. I imagine it spinning in circles with a serious expression holding its face captive, arms holding a stack of papers to its chest. Perhaps the papers contain scrawls in purple ink. Perhaps doodles decorate the empty spaces.

Frayed: is wrapped up in a threadbare blanket. It has wispy blond hair and an absent smile. It spends most of its time hiding away and staring at the ceiling of disheveled room, staring at dust the slatted light has captured. I think it has lost its hope in humanity, giving up although it lives in a yellow world. But the yellow has faded, bleached by the continuous rising of the blinding sun. It wants to be left alone to ponder its existence. I think it likes to eat vanilla pudding, though.

Saturated: is sitting in the rain, dark hair plastered to pale skin. Its hands grasp the sopping ruins of a paper, which I like to think contains a brief poem. The words have long since showered the pavement, however, draining from the paper and seeping into the concrete. But, anyway, I quite like this character. I like its soggy jacket and its squelching shoes. I like how it never waits for the rain to leave; it just sits there.

Extravagant: is all glitter and gold and generous excitement. It wears tassel earrings and flickers about, drawing attention while tasting decadent chocolate refreshments and sipping rich coffee. It lives in an age of jazz, in an age of lively ballrooms and staggering trumpet notes. And I like to think that a smile always accompanies its face. I like to think that it mentally coats everything in gold, even tattered shoes, and that it dances the dark clouds away.

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I hope you somewhat enjoyed my characterization of these words and now have a better understanding of my writing, although I do not share any of my truly genuine pieces on here. Do you consider words to have personalities as well? Do you see them depicted with a correlating color, shape, size, etc.? Personally, I see every word as an individual. Anxiety is red and jagged. Yellow is shaped like a flower petal. Bird is round and blue. How do you see words?

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Wednesday’s Fun Fact:

Drinking hot tea can reduce one’s psychological dependency on coffee. I dedicate this fact to the people fighting caffeine cravings at eleven p.m. (:

Hiiiii okay so this is quite possibly the most I’ve enjoyed writing a blog because I got to spend an entire class period reading! I have put together a collection of my favorite book quotes. I honestly feel like the quotes a person likes will tell you about them. Some of these I like just because of the way they are written (the first one for example) but most of them are because of what they say or what I felt when I read them for the first time. I associate a lot of these with a bad time in my life and reading them now is a reminder of how much I’ve grown and improved mentally. Okay, I’m gonna stop rambling and let you read them.

“I liked hurting girls.
Mentally, not physically, I never hit a girl in my life. Well, once. But that was a mistake. I’ll tell you about it later. The thing is, I got off on it. I really enjoyed it.
It’s like when you hear serial killers say they feel no regret, no remorse for all the people they killed. I was like that. Loved it. I didn’t care how long it took either, because I was in no hurry. I’d wait until they were totally in love with me. Till the big saucer eyes were looking at me. I loved the shock on their faces. Then the glaze as they tried to hide how much I was hurting them. And it was legal. I think I killed a few of them. Their souls, I mean. It was their souls I was after.”
― Anonymous, Diary of an Oxygen Thief

I really love this quote because it is the opening paragraph to the book. Itimmediately caught my attention and I didn’t put the book down until I finished it. I really loved seeing the perspective of a man who hurts women just because he can.

“She is oxygen, carbon, hydrogen, nitrogen, calcium, and phosphorus. The same elements that are inside the rest of us, but I can’t help thinking she’s more than that and she’s got other elements going on that no one’s ever heard of, ones that make her stand apart from everybody else. I feel this brief panic as I think, What would happen if one of those elements malfunctioned or just stopped working altogether? I make myself push this aside and concentrate on the feel of her skin until I no longer see molecules but Violet.”― Jennifer Niven, All the Bright Places

Where do I even start? This book absolutely changed my life. This paragraph alone gave me butterflies. Imagine being described like that by the person you love. Goosebumps, am I right? 

“Meeting your soul mate is like walking into a house you’ve been in before – you will recognize the furniture, the pictures on the wall, the books on the shelves, the contents of drawers: You could find your way around in the dark if you had to.”
― Jandy Nelson, I’ll Give You the Sun

This book also changed my life. I have read it 5 times and I’ll probably read it again soon. This quote is just so calming to me. Because real love doesn’t hurt and it shouldn’t be hard. Yes, you’ll face hard times, but it will never be hard to love them.

“There’s a Japanese phrase that I like: koi no yokan. It doesn’t mean love at first sight. It’s closer to love at second sight. It’s the feeling when you meet someone that you’re going to fall in love with them. Maybe you don’t love them right away, but it’s inevitable that you will.”
— Nicola Yoon (The Sun Is Also a Star)

I also love this phrase because it gives me a sense of relief that I can’t really explain. I also love it because I don’t believe in love at first sight but I could definitely believe something like this. 

“I know these will all be stories some day, and our pictures will become old photographs. We all become somebody’s mom or dad. But right now, these moments are not stories. This is happening. I can see it. This one moment when you know you’re not a sad story. You are alive. And you stand up and see the lights on the buildings and everything that makes you wonder. And you’re listening to that song, and that drive with the people who you love most in this world. And in this moment, I swear, we are infinite.” and ” I don’t know if you’ve ever felt like that. That you wanted to sleep for a thousand years. Or just not exist.”
― Stephen Chbosky, The Perks Of Being A Wallflower

I don’t even need to explain why I like these because they’re just beautiful. I especially relate to the second one because I do want to sleep for a thousand years or not exist sometimes. I like knowing that I’m not the only one who feels like this. 

“Love extra, even if it means you hurt extra,too”
― Emery Lord, The Start of Me and You

I have always said that I’d rather hurt because I cared too deeply than hurt someone else because I didn’t care enough. This quote kind of explains the way my compassion and love works. 

“I like other people’s words. They fill me up.”
― Jasmine Warga, My Heart and Other Black Holes

I, too, like other people’s words. I could read and read and read forever and not get bored. I love absorbing other people’s literature. 

“The moment you fall in love feels like it has centuries behind it, generations – all of them rearranging themselves so this precise, remarkable intersection could happen. In your heart, in your bones, no matter how silly you know it is, you feel that everything has been leading to this, all the secret arrows were pointing here, the universe and time itself crafted this long ago, and you are just now realizing it, you are just now arriving at the place you were always meant to be.”
― David Levithan, Every Day

I just love reading about love. And writing about it. And feeling it. I’ve only ever felt romantic love once in my life and it didn’t work out. But the stuff I wrote about our love will always make me proud. 

“Even though you’re not my type, gender-wise, you’re my type, person-wise.”
― David Levithan, Another Day

I LOVE this quote. You’ll have to read the book to understand why the narrator is saying that but I just love how even though the person speaking isn’t usually into that gender, they still love them because of the person they are. And I think that’s the way everyone should be. There shouldn’t be gay, straight, bisexual, etc. I think you should just love who you love without having to put a label on yourself for what you find attractive. (Or what you don’t find attractive. Asexual people should just be called people, you know? Why label everyone for what floats their boat?)

Thanks for reading the stuff I like to read. 

Peace out Girl Scout 🙂

  “Yes,” I say attempting to hide the drowsiness in my voice.

“Time to get ready for school Selena,” says mother shaking the door trying to pry it open.

“Wait Sandra,” I utter emphasizing her name, Sandra, she hates when I do that yet still I do.I see the shadows of her footprints walk away from the door then a few seconds later booming beatings appears. I know it’s him, I sense his monstrous energy and his treacherous smell through the door.  

“Get ready for school,” exclaims Joe, Sandra’s boyfriend, he is even worse than the other three in the past month. He doesn’t hide his pedophilia looks and doesn’t conceal his out of pocket thoughts but how would he know not to? Sandra isn’t a protective mother, she doesn’t give him disapproving looks. So he wouldn’t know that his looks give me chills and i’m afraid to wake up out of my sleep because I know in the conscious world he’s there. Waiting to prey on me and violate me with his hands in places he shouldn’t because I didn’t consent. I hesitantly open the marble bathroom door, he pushes it open then slams the door shut.

“Hi sweetheart,” he whispers as he places his cold hands around my waist.

“Excuse you, I believe you have your hands in the wrong place,” I say while trying to remove his hands off me but he is stronger and I can’t break the grip no matter how hard I try. He pushes me up against the wall and I slam my head so hard it starts to ring. I feel his every touch and my body breaks as his hands move down to my shorts and tries to take them off. I don’t know where the strength transpires in me and I take my knee and jolt it in between his legs so hard he descends into the ground holding his crotch in his hands. 

Joe crying on the floor says “Lena, come here!” I step over his aching body and run towards the bathroom door,only to find it jam. As I hear Joe in the background regaining himself and I frantically beat on the door.

“Mom help me please it’s Joe,” I’m screeching at the top of my lungs. Does she even want to hear me?I’m yanked by my hair and pulled to the ground with Joe on top of me. He is pulling and ripping my clothes. I’m fighting but it doesn’t seem like enough, I keep resisting but have I resisted enough? Joe eyes pierced into my eyes with a look of superiority and licks his lips. The tears roll down my face uncontrollably and I prepare for the end.

Hey guys!

I know you were expecting a piece on white privilege this week, but sometimes, life happens! And I hate to let you guys down, but with weeks exams, I am just unfinished with my research and interviews. I still have to transcript the interviews, as well. Don’t worry, though. It will be up next week, I PROMISE. I try really hard to create interesting and evocative content fro you guys, so I am never going to post something that I am not proud of or that is unfinished or has not fulfilled a purpose. With that being said, here’s the story I wrote for my Literary 9 weeks exam:

*the asterisks mean that a word was censored in order to be uploaded to this platform.

Fat Girl

Shame is an ocean I swim across. -Lambert, The Art of Shame

Babies are born “chunky”. You adore them anyway; nibble on their innocent cheeks. Blow raspberries on their full, voluptuous bellies. Feed them when they cry because their deafening sobs can only be the voiced agony of hunger. You must satisfy their needs with Gerber and Similac. Pat their backs; wait for a burp; pray the undigested Similac doesn’t come back up on your blouse. The blouse that fits “just right”. The one that hugs every curve and swell of your disproportionate body in a way that it seems seamless. The one that hides your arms and extenuates your chest. The one that looks perfect with your gold-chained necklace your aunt got you for your birthday last year. The one that makes your imperfect body feel perfect.

But say, you don’t have a baby. Instead, you will feed yourself because you are hungry. You’ve always been hungry; filled with the insatiable desire to feast. You can’t just have one potato chip. Or one cookie. Or one M&M. Whose ever heard of eating a singular baby back rib? You’ll eat the whole slab. You’ll eat the slab and the fries. And the mashed potatoes, too. Consume every starch without considering the damage they’ll do to your body. Forget, for a second, that feeling of being rubbed raw; that awkward walk your inseparable thighs make you have; the disgusting way your stomach hangs over your blue jeans. It only takes a second. 

And you won’t have a diet Coke with that. You’ll have the red labeled 24 ounce bottle of Coca-Cola. Feel the phosphoric acid eating away at your enamel. Feel the carbonation sliding down your throat. Wallow in it. Let your tongue savor every drop. And when you are done, you’ll have another. You can’t just have one of those either. 

And you’ll lay on the couch, wasting the day away, watching TV and obsessing. Flipping between America’s Next Top Model and Keeping Up With the Kardashians. Watching the perfect people live their perfect lives; envy them for having the things you never could. Watching their bodies pose effortlessly. Watching them strut and glide. Watch them and see. See the woman you’ve always wanted to be. You’ll hang on to their words and every everyday thing they do. Mimic every mannerism they own. Claim them. Make them yours.  

And when you are done, feel crappy*. Feel fat. Feel ugly. Feel worthless. Feel like the woman you are and not the one you want to be. Feel like you will never amount to anything. Feel unattractive and undesirable. 

But never let them know that it bothers you. Put on a smile. Put on makeup. Put on layer after layer of clothing, so that they never truly see you. Add hair extensions and say it’s because they make you “feel good”. Never let them know that you are weak, that you are modeling clay. Say, it’s just “life,” and move on. Say you don’t care when you know you do. Say none of it matters when you know it does. Pretend. Pretend you have not tried to mold yourself to model those around you. Pretend the world has not claimed you as its own. Pretend that you are fine. 

Go to work. Hide in your cubicle. Type aimlessly on your computer. Keep yourself busy. Pretend you aren’t wondering what you’ll have for lunch. Tell yourself you won’t go out. You’re done with carbs and you’ve ended your tumultuous relationship with sugar.  Eat a salad, coat it with a vinaigrette that will never taste as good as Hidden Valley ranch. Eat a sandwich— wheat bread, no mayonnaise or cheese. Eat tuna from a pouch. Watch your portions. Only have one pouch. Or don’t: go to the nearest vending machine that you don’t have to walk too far to get to, put in 4 colorless quarters. Choose B6: Lay’s Classic potato chips. Your mouth waters, and your eyes grow wide in anticipation, as you watch the spirals twirling their release on the object of your desire. Suddenly, they stop, and your potato chips teeter on the edge; the corner of their yellow bag gripped ever so slightly by the spiraling rings. 

You’ll sigh in exasperation. Tell yourself it’s a sign: you didn’t need them anyway. Think about their salty goodness on your tongue. Think of the pouch of tuna in your fridge. Shake the machine with maximum strength. Think of the golden crisps held captive by those evil black coils. Think about putting in 4 more colorless quarters. Because you know that the machine will inherently drop one bag and then another: one for a friend, you’ll say. Anything to convince yourself to give in and indulge. You’ve had a hard week. You’re a wreck, and that bag of Lay’s Classic potato chips is going to solve it all, you think to yourself as you insert the last 2 quarters. The spirals twirl once more, and down falls two bright, yellow packages with your name on them. Suddenly, that friend you thought about giving them to doesn’t exist anymore. You take the chips back to your desk. Eat one bag. Put the other in your purse, save them for when you are stuck in rush hour traffic. Self control, you say. That is, until you see the black and white lines of the nutrition facts etched on the back of the bag. One hundred ninety milligrams of sodium. One hundred fifty calories. Your head spins and you try to take comfort in the three hundred sixty milligrams of potassium— maybe you won’t have high blood pressure. Toss the half eaten bag of chips you worked so hard for in the trash can. Grab the cerulean blue pouch from your fridge, tear along the dotted line, analyze the packaging. Wonder who decided to make a blue tuna fish with a red beret their mascot: Was it supposed to make this garbage seem more appealing? Sorry, Charlie. Eat it anyway. It’s good for you. Take two bites, and realize that your lunch break ended twenty minutes ago. This your life: calorie counting and body contorting. Because a single bag of chips will go straight to your ass. A burger to your stomach. Add fries, and you’ll be saying farewell to your waistline. And those baby back ribs will take the fastest route to your meaty thighs. 

When you come home, proud of yourself for not devouring the chips hidden in your purse, while you were stuck in rush hour traffic. Draw yourself a bath. Take off all of your clothes, wipe away your makeup, take out your earrings; remove all of the things used to distract from your inordinance. Look at your reflection in the mirror; feel disgusted. Turn the knob until the water stops flowing. Stick one foot in, and then the other. Slowly settle in, let your body get used to the warmth. Drop in a cherry blossom bath bomb. Pour in Epsom salt. Feel the breeze on the tops of your thighs, the parts the water doesn’t cover. Pull them close to you. Sit there, arms wrapped around, head resting on your knees. Think about what you’ll have for dinner, the calories in red wine, and the dress you’ll wear on Friday. You want chicken cacciatore, 12 glasses of Cabernet, and that dress that makes your boobs look good. 

Look at the dove etched into your ivory soap. Feel the soft fibers of your washcloth against your skin, as the soap and water create a soft lather. Begin to scrub your skin like it is the icky, brown gunk at the bottom of the lake you visited as a child. Scrub as if you are peeling back the layers of your body and you start to shrink smaller and smaller. Scour away your stretch marks and your “extra”. The extra that does not fit in the bathtub when all you want to be is submerged; when your lunch breaks consist of arguing with a vending machine; when the baby you do not have spits up on the blouse that fits you just right; when your thighs are made up of cellulite and excess skin, when you are a fat girl living in a Barbie world.

And when your bath bomb has fizzled away and your skin has begun to prune, watch the water drain beneath you. Feel the cold air against your soggy, wet skin. Grab a towel and wrap yourself in it. It will not cover all of your parts, but nothing ever does. Dry yourself off, feel the moisture escaping your body. Put on your silky nightgown and fuzzy socks that are meant for Christmastime, but you wear them anyway because they are cozy and warm. 

The chicken cacciatore still floats around in your mind, but consider postmating Sonic and how good an Oreo blast would be. Google the calories in an Oreo blast. Google the calories in chicken cacciatore; rethink your whole night. Maybe you’ll have kale or more pouched tuna; inherently gag at the thought. Consider not eating. Consider going out with friends. Consider calling it a night at only 7 p.m. 

Consider what life would be like if you were thin, the freedom you’d have, to be able to eat whatever you wanted: a four pack of Cinnabon delights, sweet tea with no Splenda, unlimited breadsticks from Olive Garden. There’d be no more sugar free Jello cups or fudge pops. You could drink a Coke and feel no shame. 

To be thin, is to be shameless. To wear a bikini and not feel the stares and glares of society sitting in beach chairs. To go on a date with a hot guy and not be asked if he’s your brother. To go to the movies, order popcorn, and want extra butter without being asked, “Are you sure you want extra butter?” To have jeans that fit. To order any and everything on the menu. To actually eat “all you can eat” at an all-you-can-eat buffet. To not have a constant calorie calculator in your head. To be thin is to be beautiful.

When you are fat, you are not beautiful. You do not have such luxuries. You have oatmeal-colored Spanx and cottage cheese thighs. You have weight loss ads and metabolism pills. You have entire stores that do not carry clothing to fit your ugly. You have doctor’s visits that never fail to diagnose you as fat. You have severed belt loops and hip dips. You have a whole genre of jokes tailored to your excess. 

When you are a woman and you are fat, you’re hilarious. The chubby comical relief. When you are a woman and you are fat, you’re a world renowned vocalist. The belly of the ball. And it’s not over ‘til the fat lady sings, y’know. Except, you are the fat lady, and you have yet to sing. It’s not over. It’s never over when your body is the punchline of every joke; when being fat has become the only thing you are known for, when being fat means the only talents that you can possibly possess are the abilities to crack a joke or hum a note. When you are a woman and you are fat, you’re a preconceived idea that the world has claimed as truth. Nothing more than a body that takes up too much space. When you are a woman and you are fat, you are matter that does not actually matter. 

And when the self-loathing is over, you’ll make the decision to do something about it. Realize the absurdity of complaining about your reality when you’ve done nothing to change it. Go to the gym. Convince yourself that you want this. Get on the treadmill. Increase the incline. Increase the speed. Don’t make things easy on yourself. Turn your music up to the loudest setting. Never mind the warning notification that tells you that listening at high volumes can damage your ears. Look down at the buttons on the machine. Look at your feet. Look at your phone. Don’t look up. Don’t look in the mirror. You’ll only get discouraged. 

In that same moment, you only glance to your right, and see the two little boys snickering and pointing at you in the corner. Their mother is running next to you with her earbuds in. You try to let it go. They’re just kids, you say. Maybe they aren’t laughing at you. Maybe they’re laughing at her. She looks like she’s no stranger to the gym. The type to run marathons every weekend. You envy her, admire her. If she can raise two children, and be a regular at the gym, why can’t you? You are your only priority. She has two and probably a husband waiting at home. Maybe he takes the kids when she is running her marathons. Maybe they wait for her and cheer her on at the finish line. Maybe they do not teach their children respect. Maybe they think they are too young to understand. Maybe they don’t care. Maybe they don’t teach them at all. Maybe boys will be boys will be boys. The same ones that tormented you in high school and bully you at work. It is a never ending cycle of abuse. One you don’t even bother reporting because all you will receive in return is a voucher for a free Jenny Craig membership. Feel your stomach churning. Stop the machine, and head for the door. 

Go sit in your car. Sit and feel embarrassed. Feel ashamed. Feel like a failure. Wonder how those boys will grow up. Feel crazy for letting their ignorant teasing bother you so much. Vow that your children will never behave like them. Remind yourself that it takes “two to tango”. And who would ever want to tango with someone of your stature? Who could love someone so massive? Who could love all of you? Who would want to? They say, “Big girls need love too.” As if being fat means you shouldn’t be loved already. The only love you have are your love handles. You are a monstrosity among men. No one could possibly love a fat girl*.

Have a sudden change of heart. Drive to the nearest Taco Bell. Order 4 supreme soft tacos. Order a large Baja blast and the four pack of Cinnabon delights that you always force yourself not to get. Tell yourself you’ve earned it. Tell yourself no one is going to love you anyway. What’s a few moments of happiness in your insignificant life?

And when you’re done, take the final sips of your drink, hate yourself. Feel disgusting. Feel like the fat girl* everyone says you are. Feel your the contents of your stomach doing backflips. Roll down the window, and throw up every single bite you have just consumed. Feel the acid in your throat. Chase it down with water. Roll up the window as tears stream down your face. You’re pathetic. 

Go home. Put on your silk gown and fuzzy socks. Don’t bother taking off your makeup, your tears have washed away most of it anyway. Get in bed. Put on sad songs, only to add salt to the wound. And as you drift away to the soft melodic sounds and slip into a stream of subconsciousness, and you begin to dream. Dreaming about the life you wish you had. Dreaming about walking down a runway in Milan with your size 2 body and designer clothes. Your hair curled to perfection and eyes wide. No cellulite or gapless thighs in sight. Confidence exudes your pores. 

Your body does not exude confidence. It radiates repulsion and isolation. You are the one no one sits with at lunch, the supporting role in all the best movies. You are second best, the one no one ever remembers. And you are never the lead role unless it is a movie about the risks of obesity. You are never the “hot girl”. You are the funny one. You will always be the funny one. 

And when you awake from your dismal dreams, decide to call in sick. Tell Becky that you just aren’t feeling well. When really, you just need a day for yourself. You need 2 more hours of sleep. A day to recuperate and rejuvenate; a little rest never killed nobody. 

So you’ll spend the rest of your day in your pjs. Watch the new episode of Law and Order. Water your plants. Do the laundry. Eat brunch: a tomato and avocado sandwich on wheat with exactly 4 potato chips. Check your mail. Pay the bills. Wonder what your life would be like if you had someone to share it with. Someone to make you breakfast in bed on days like this. Someone to hold your hand and make you feel safe. Someone to love you for all that you are. Someone who fancies your fat without fetishizing it. Someone who does not only see you as a conglomeration of body and flesh, but as beautiful. And not as beautiful as the thin ones, but beautiful gargantuan and wide; beautiful as you. 

But maybe you are better alone. Maybe your life is not meant to be shared. Maybe it’s simple: no one is capable of loving you, and not because you are fat, but because you are you. This world is not tailored to fit you. There’s not enough bolts of fabric to fit your surplus of a body. And yet, the notion that you are just simply unlovable has yet to cross your mind. Because the only reason a man can’t love you is because you are fat. 

Dear fat girl, do not let your circumstances be because you are not small. Do not let it hinder your happiness. You are better than that. You a capable of so much more than they’ll ever give you credit for, so you eat whatever the heck* you want. Devour it. Lick the plate clean. And when they ask you why, tell them because you want to.