college’s for creative writing

Okay, so I plan to major in creative writing. With that being said, this blog post will be most helpful to those who aspire to get degrees in that major. I’m going to put the prices, locations, etc. So if you are interested, keep reading.


The University of Iowa: Wow, a creative writer’s (me) dream. This University is home to the Writer’s Workshop. It is based in Iowa City, Iowa- it looks lovely. If you are a fan of snow, then i think you’ll love it in the winter time. Continuing, the University of Iowa has an (this is one degree) English and Creative Writing BA degree (woo!). Not to mention, it continues with a MFA if you wanted that. Those are two things that I want, so this is why it is at the first of my list. So let’s look at the numbers: It looks like the ACT scores are between 22-29. The average g.p.a is 3.76. You also need to have an Regent Admission Index score of 255 or higher (for out-of-state). By the way, their deadline is May 1st for the fall semester (just saying).  Here’s a link for costs:  https://www.admissions.uiowa.edu/finances/estimated-costs-attendance

New York University: If you’re into big cities, then I think you’ll like this University. The best news is: They have a creative writing program. But wait, there’s more! They also have a MFA in creative writing. The bad news is there is a low acceptance rate. You will most likely need at 3.7 gpa, and above a 29 act. So the stakes are high, and they are very selective. Don’t forget to take the writing section of the ACT/SAT (it’s apart of the admissions). Here’s the link for costs: https://www.nyu.edu/students/student-information-and-resources/bills-payments-and-refunds/tuition-and-fee-rates.html

Savannah College of Art and Design: Also known as SCAD, this college is based in Savannah, Georgia. It offers a B.F.A in Creative Writing (which is fantastic). Continuing, you can also get your M.F.A in writing there. It has an act score of 21-27, and the acceptance rate is about 72%. Here’s the costs: https://www.scad.edu/admission/tuition-and-fees

So here’s the thing, there are tons of college’s, but I think the most important thing you can do to filter out college’s is to visit them. You could even look on YouTube. It will give you insight on what college would be right for you. Also, consider the realistic scores that you will have before the admission deadlines. For example, if you have a 18 on the act, then it is quite unrealistic to think a college with high act standards (like a 30 plus) will accept you. That will help you apply to college’s that you actually have a shot at. So get out there, and do the work! Good luck to my aspiring creative writing major community 😉

 

 

mythology short story

The first short story I wrote here was based off of the mythical creature, the Chimera. If you don’t know anything about this creature, I would suggest that you look it up before reading my story so it makes more sense.

Just to give some background, the main character in my story represents this mythical creature through age and experience. He has multiple personality disorder and is locked up in an insane asylum due to it, and the fact that he has visions involving the future that no one believes. I hope you enjoy reading:)

“Kaimera Fatuus.” The guard sat down at the long metal table impatient. His short grey hair stiffly moved from breeze the cold room gave off. “Let me ask you again, Do you know why you’re here?” Kaimera stared at the bag of Doritos in front of him, reached for it, and then opened it. The guard hunched forward and scraped his chair across the floor closer to him. “I asked you a question. If you don’t answer me now, I’m going to have to tell the authorities again.” He folded his large arms and leaned back in his chair. 

 

“Wait!” Kaimera blurted out. He sat up straighter in his chair and shoved a handful of chips in his mouth obnoxiously. “Okay, okay, okay I’ll tell you.” He fixed his wide mouth to a smile, showing his perfect white teeth. “I’m here because everyone thinks I’m crazy and ignores me, and then they blame everything I warn them of on me. Personally, I don’t think it’s very fair.” He looked straight ahead with a sad face. Then looked up at the guard and began crying. “I’m completely innocent I tell you!” He pleaded across the table to the guard and then immediately stopped and laughed, lining his finger under his eyes and flicking away the fake tears. 

“I’m just messing with you.” His smile remained, “I mean- I am innocent, but who’s going to believe that?.. If only people listen to me. I’m just trying to help them… HA!” His eyes bounced around the room and then rested on the guard with amusement. “Have I ever told you how fantastic that uniform looks on you? I mean wow. Just wow! I bet you must-” The guard held up his hand annoyed.

“That’s enough.” He said bluntly as he stood up. “Come on. We’re going to therapy.” 

Kaimera stood up and clapped his hands, “ooooooo therapy. How fun? My favorite part of the day. Wait a minute. Where is therapy again? Do you have anymore food? I’m hungry. Why am I always so hungry?” He continued to ramble as he followed behind the guard, his slippers slightly squeaking as they dragged across the slippery floor. Once they reached the room, the guard turned around and stood by another.

“We’re going to be outside the whole time, so don’t try anything again.” He opened the door and guestured inside. Kaimera stared at the guards’ feet with a blank expression and then briefly smiled, meeting their eyes. 

“Oh, of course not.” He replied. As he walked by, he nodded slightly at the guards and slowly walked inside. He gently took a seat on the leather couch provided in the small, bland white room. As he waited for his therapist, he ran his hands through his golden shaggy hair and admired the way it shone in the sunlight beaming through the window.  Soon, his therapist walked in and rolled her chair in front of him.

“Hello Kia, how are we today?” she asked concerned. His softened eyes rested innocently on her face and a kind smile appeared. “I’m doing very well currently, thank you. How are you today, Margret?” He asked with genuine and concern the same way she did. She fixed her glasses and smiled down at her notebook and began to write. 

“I’m also doing very well. It’s a pleasure that I got you this way… I hope it doesn’t change again.” Margret gazed out the window, avoiding Kiamera’s response. He frowned slightly and stared out the window too. “Yes, many think this is my best self. I’m not sure it is, though.” His voice trailed off and got quieter as he spoke, leaving the room silent. She jerked her head towards him with a question on her face. 

“And why’s that?” Her words fell out of her mouth and crashed onto the floor. He glared at her. 

“Because I don’t think it is.” He snapped, slightly leaning closer. She widened her eyes and looked away. 

“Oh right, the short temper,” she suggested quietly. 

He glared at her and opened his mouth, but bit his lip and forced himself to calm down and maintain the softness in his eyes. “No, that’s not why. I just don’t think it is. I prefer my other self. I have flaws to this side.” He protested. She tilted her head in thought as she stared at his clean slippers. 

“You know, Kia, it’s perfectly fine to have flaws. Everyone has them.” She said as she looked up at him. His face was blank and slowly his kind expression faded and he grinned maniacally as he stared out the bright window. 

“No, Margret, It’s not “perfectly fine” to have flaws. It’s pathetic. But it’s a good thing I’m not everyone. Tell me, how does it feel to be utterly useless?” He narrowed his piercing eyes at her as his words slithered out of his mouth and coiled her throat. She swallowed and looked up to the ceiling, whispering to herself.

 “Behavior like that will do nothing but keep you here longer.” She forced her words through behind her clenched teeth and shot him a look of disgust. He welcomed her words with a smile and slightly laughed.

“I don’t care. I’m leaving soon anyway.” He whispered, looking out the window. She looked at him surprised and leaned her ear closer to him.

“What did you just say?” She paused waiting for an answer. 

“You heard me.” He said unequivocal. She stared at him in bewilderment and shook her head. 

“You are most certainly not.” She laughed,”and I’ll be damned if you- or anyone thinks otherwise!” He stood up and scowled her, tilting his chin to his chest, forming long shadows on his face and showing mostly see the whites of his eyes. He stepped closer and slammed his hands down oh her desk that was messy with papers and carefully grabbed a pen, making sure her eyes were on his and she was not paying attention to his hands. 

“You have some nerve to laugh at me after what happened last time.” He threatened. 

Her eyes widened as a flashback ran through them and she slowly rolled her chair away from him by pushing her feet against the floor. 

“Guards!” She yelled frightened. Once her eyes were on the door, he deceitfully lifted the pen and placed in his gown pocket and stood annoyed as he heard the guards yelling at him not to move.  

The guards burst through the door and grabbed each of his arms and tried to pull him back, but he did not budge. He yanked his arms out of their grasp, leaving them to fall to the floor. He held his fists firmly by his sides and the anger in his eyes intensified. 

“Don’t you see? You’re all inadequate in my pressenses. Worthless.” He hissed. As Margret stared at him with complete terror in his eyes, the guards hurried to pick themselves off the floor and tackle him. They dragged him out of the room, but his eyes did not leave Margret’s and soon the eye contact broke as she quickly turned away. 

Kaimera smiled maniacally the whole way back to his room. The guards tightly squeezed his arms as they pushed him forward to keep walking. They shoved his slender back into the room and slammed the steel door. “Don’t expect to leave your room anytime soon!” They yelled through the thick door. 

He stumbled and fell to the tile floor and heard the guards footprints diming. Making sure they were gone, he gathered himself off the floor and stepped towards his bed to lift up his mattress. His only set of clothes were neatly folded under his mattress and he quickly slipped them on under his hospital gown. He took off his slippers and laid them neatly beside his bed so he could be more stealthy. He sat on his bed, waiting for mostly everyone to leave as they do every night.

After a couple hours, he reached inside his pocket and pulled out a pen he had stolen from his therapist and grinned. He disassembled the pen and  grasped the sparse metal stick that had come from it and made his way across his dim room to the door. He kneeled at the door knob and quickly, but carefully, forced the thin line of metal into the keyhole. Working promptly, he managed to pick the lock in less than a minute- a new record for him. He grinned, pleased with himself, and lifted up his gown to place the metal stick in his pants pocket.

 

He slowly cracked open the heavy door without saying a goodbye to his room and slipped through it. He stood barefoot in the tile hall, the floor brutally freezing beneath his feet. It was eminently dark with the exception of two or three lights shining pale light. He snuck along the wall to avoid the cameras by hiding in the shadows, running his hand against the rough cinder blocks behind him. The air smelled of aseptic carbolic acid and the hopeless smell of flowers. He heard footsteps clattering against the echoing floor, making their way closer and closer to him. He got up on his tiptoes to run quicker, clinging to the wall. 

 

He turned down a hall, paranoid of being caught and sprinted until he collided into a sudden wall. He had reached a dead end and there was nowhere to go. He bent over to catch his breath, but the thin air would not fill his lungs. He began to panic and he started to hyperventilate, gasping desperately for oxygen. Progressively losing the air in his body, he hit the hard floor and passed out. 

A vivid image of fire and death overtook his mind. Screaming and sorrow. Buildings collapsing as the earth beneath them crumbled like nothing more than a dessert. Enormous explosions and utter destruction of everything everyone knew. 

He thrusted forward as he jerked awake. His bulging eyes welled with tears as he choked on the thought. “I need to hurry.” He said aloud to himself. 

 

He forced himself off the floor and felt his head throbbing from where he ran into the wall and hit the floor. Despite his pounding headache, he began to run again. He ran the dark and long halls of the mental institution he had been kept for years. His eyes searched frantically for the directions to “therapy hall”, where he had been planning to escape for the past years. Running past every door, every room, and up every set of stairs, the halls became more familiar and he recognized where he was. He stopped running,  made a right turn, and smiled. There it was. “Margret Janice” was hanging on the door and a welcome matt waited for him in front of it. 

 

He pulled the metal stick out of his pants pocket and picked the lock with ease as he had done before. Once the door creaked open, he proceeded inside the room he had sat every Wednesday for years and took off his gown and placed it in his usual spot to leave a sign saying to Margret, “I did what you said I wouldn’t”. He wandered over to the window and peered outside. The same tall trees and rolling green hills he studied every session called to him.

He broke the lock on the large window and it screeched as he opened it, causing an abrupt alarm to go off. Red lights began to flash as the sirens blared in his ears and he swiftly threw his legs out the window and followed them. He crashed on the ground as he landed in the overgrown grass and immediately started running towards the open gate. An announcement boomed over his head as he ran, and then he started sprinting as fast as his legs could carry him. 

“ATTENTION! THERE HAS BEEN AN ESCAPE IN UNIT 5, WING 13! CLOSE THE GATE IMMEDIATELY!” The gate ahead began to squeak and it started closing faster and faster. 

“Stop it right there Kaimera! STOP!” Guards were yelling at him as they filed out of the great doors behind him. He turned around and could see all the other patients in their gowns gathered around the windows cheering for him. 

He ran through the trees turned black by the night and reached the closing gate. With no hesitation, he flew through the narrowing opening and collapsed when he heard it close all the way. He lifted his head and could no longer see the psychiatric hospital, but could only hear the distant curses of the frustrated guards. He laughed to himself relieved. 

 

He walked all through the night across the grassy hills. His feet were aching. The sky was pink and purple and the sun was a dark orange. It greeted him as its dull light kissed his face. He continued to walk through the tall grass that hit his kneecaps until he reached an empty road and the bottom of the last hill he climbed. He walked along it for hours barefoot until he came to a large city. “At last!” He yelled and ran to the first group of people he saw.

“You there! Prepare yourselves! Something is coming!” He yelled as he looked all of them in their eyes, panicked. They looked at him confused as he described the vision he had to them and they kept walking. 

“Ignore him. He’s just crazy, poor guy.” One of them explained. “Should I call the police or something?” Another asked.

Kaimera grabbed his long hair infuriated and shrieked. “No! No, No, No! Don’t you understand what I am trying to tell you?! Listen to me! Stop ignoring me!” They continued walking, glancing back at him as they shook their heads in repulsiveness. 

Distressed and frenetic, he confronted everyone he saw about his vital news. They sneered and scoffed at him and pretended not to hear him. “Kaimera! Don’t move!” He looked over his shoulder and saw guards pushing through crowds of people and making their way towards him. He stood there helpless trying to devise a plan, but everywhere he looked, there were guards coming at him. 

“The world is ending!” He yelled and everyone stared at him. “Prepare yourself for your last days! Volcanoes will erupt spewing their lava and explosions will-” one of the guards grabbed him and started shaking him. 

“That’s enough! We’ve already been through this haven’t we? You always tell people these types of things and all it does is frighten them.” The guard looked at him worried and waited for a response. 

“It always comes true though, doesn’t it?” As Kaimera questioned him, the guard grew angry and threw him to the others. 

“Throw him in the car. We’re going back now. Sorry about that folks! You all just carry on now!” He smiled and turned to Kaimera who had tears streaming down his face. 

“Please just listen to me! I know that what I’m saying is true!” He cried. The guard laughed nervously as everyone observed the situation concerned. 

“Kaimera.” He said gently, “you’re in an insane asylum for a reason.” Kaimera slightly nodded his head defeated and looked around with pleading eyes. Everyone turned away and continued with their day as the guard instructed. 

 

The only sound on the car ride back was the car’s wheels running on the road. “I don’t know what you think you were accomplishing by doing all that, but you’re not going to be able to do it again.” one of the guards spat at him as they stopped at the familiar destination. He stared out the window and did not speak another word.  

 

A couple days later, Kaimera was peacefully sitting in his room as the sound of terrified screams filled the world outside. The horror spilled inside the hospital after it caught on fire from an explosion in the 4th wing. Half of the asylum was obliterated to ashes and outside his widow were the tall trees and rolling hills burning with fire. He folded his hands in his lap and shook his head, looking away from the window. “I tried to warn them.”

Routine And Forgetting What Matters

A pandemic has long since plagued humanity, festering within the chest and the mind of the individual, scooping out practically everything with merit. Contagious, it consumes massive communities, capturing its members all at once with only a few escaping captivity. Worse yet, its victims remain unaware, some even possessing fond feelings for this invisible force of disintegration. And it never stops. The ravaging never stops. The process subsists in hordes of population, devouring the individual. It never stops.

You may ask of the nature of this disease that has swept the world. Is it a virus? How many have succumbed to it? How do you know if you have it? Well, I have news that might surprise you. The pandemic, although a virus of sorts, feeds only on concepts of intangibility. Yes, it may also have an effect on one’s physicality, but it primarily affects the mind and the heart in a metaphorical way. This disease is, in fact, forgetting what matters, and something known as routine shakes it into action.


What do you think about? When do you think? Why do you think?

Do you become most philosophical when brushing your teeth?

How do you think? What frequently crosses your mind?

When did you last take a few minutes to do absolutely nothing? When did you last appreciate something? When did you last feel thankful for what you have?

When did you last remember what matters?


A large portion of life is fighting to see the beauty that surrounds us. Although we somewhat have control over our lives, society has constructed a mold that each of us must squeeze through. While fitting through this impossible shape, we find ourselves absolutely swamped with pressures and demands and deadlines, and there comes a point that nothing matters except the swirling numbers, the screaming steps we must fulfill.

We sink into a routine. We attempt to find sleep after spending hours typing on a computer. We heat up processed food and pop open canned vegetables. We sit around the television because we feel too tired to do anything. We work, and then we crash on the couch. We fuss at our family members and let irritation consume us. We allow our minds to dance with thoughts reeking of negativity. We do not care. We do not want to care. We work and then lounge around and then sleep, repeating the cycle again and again until a vacation sparks a little emotion. Otherwise, we feel apathetic.

This happens to nearly everyone. In fact, some fail to ever recover, allowing routine to tear apart their humanity. Humans are more than merely machines. We have this earth and what lies beyond it. Beauty exists all around us even though we either shove it aside or butcher it. We are forgetting what truly matters, what it means to be human. Although existing can prove to be painful and messy, existence itself is art. Everything exists on a grand scale, so we must take everything into consideration while still including the most miniscule fragments of life.


What do you think it means to be human?

How do you view existence?

What do you consider beautiful, and where do you think beauty can be observed?

What matters to you?


Wednesday’s Fun Fact:

One theory of intelligence is that multiple forms exist instead of one general form (please look up Gardner).

Imagine education that considers each of these. Wow.

I wonder if that would be possible.

The Dreaded Sestina

 

    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.

My Mental Adventures

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?

What White Privilege Means to Me

 

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.


¹ Historically Black College or University

my cursed material

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! 


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.


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. 

 

Her last memory

 

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?

Words Have Personality

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.


A Few Words And Their Personalities 

(according to my brain)


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.


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?


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. (: