Category: Junior Literary

I’ve always been a very straightforward person and sure of my actions and thoughts. There have been only a few, extremely rare occasions, where I was not sure of myself. Since 8th grade I knew that I wanted to attend Mississippi School of the Arts, and I kept this mindset up until a few months before I had to turn in my application. I was so very unsure of myself, I had this feeling that I wouldn’t succeed or meet my full potential here. The stress was eating me up, all the while I was encouraging my friends Telvin and Camden to complete their own applications. Can you believe that? I could push others to do what I couldn’t fathom myself. I’d already completed all the segments of the application process I needed done, I just couldn’t submit my work. I aim to win/succeed and I don’t handle rejection with grace. It’s either passive aggression or a new level in just how nonchalant I can be. I truly feared not being accepted to the school I was once so sure that I’d be attending. I had talks with many of my friends and they told me to follow my heart and pray over it, to look for a sign. I thought about it for several days and even considered the cons over the pros in the situation. I knew I wouldn’t be living near my greatest three friends and my boy friend anymore, but they all encouraged me to do what I felt what was best and to be great in life. I wanted someone to tell me not to pursue my dreams, to stay where I was and not go off to a new environment and challenge myself. I needed one, just one sign, to discourage me. I wanted so badly to stay in my comfort zone and not leave behind all my favorite people. In the end, I stopped my procrastinating and put my worries away, and that is the story of how I ended up at MSA, a junior literary.

I held a peanut in my hand.  I cracked it in half.  The fibers in the shell split from the checkerboard pattern leaving frayed edges.  I slid one half into two halves once again and I felt something break between my finger and thumb.  I removed the no longer held together shell from the meat that was within.  As I did so, it became clear that I had crushed that half of the peanut.  I poured it from one half shell into the palm of my hand where it sat in a little pile like a pile of gravel.  I put it in my mouth, lightly chewed, and swallowed.  I then used both hands to pry open the other half of the shell.  When I did so, the nut within was not damaged at all.  I held the perfect nut between my finger and thumb.  Not even the two halves of itself were separated.  I put it in my mouth and made it more like the first.  It tasted the same.  It was still nutty and slightly oily.  It tasted just like you’d expect a peanut to taste like, but so had the damaged peanut.  Why then, would I bother attempting to preserve shape of all things?  What effect has that on the overall experience or at least on the part that one partakes in the experience for?  Why do I bother questioning peanuts?  What do I think I’ll find?  What am I looking for?  Is there something I’m missing?  Is there something that someone isn’t telling me?  Is there something that I just don’t understand, but nobody realizes because it’s just such an obvious thing that everyone assumes that everyone else already knows it?  Do they see me and know that I don’t know?  Do they laugh at me?  Should I care?  Why?  Why not?  Why am I asking a peanut?  This is absurd.  I’d laugh at myself if I wasn’t myself.  I know I would because then I’d know that at least that person has one more person laughing at them behind their back than I do.  I’d be just a little bit more removed from the critical, burning eye of others that I never see but can feel glaring down on me like a white, spotlight.  Do I only pretend to not care so that I won’t feel, or is it because I think they won’t judge me if they think I don’t care?  All I know is that it is not because I do not truly care because I know that I do.  I care so undeniably much regardless of what I tell myself.  I can hate myself for it, but that doesn’t change just how much I care about how others see me.  I take a breath.  I eat another peanut.  Am I just a peanut?  Is life me?  Did life uncaringly rip me from my shell and into the world turning me into a pile of peanut gravel?  Did life carefully remove my shell leaving me whole to enter the world?  Both wound up the same way at the end of the day.  Would he?  Was there any meaning in the peanut at all, or was I wasting my time looking?

Excuses are often paid where expectations are due, and we all know there are always expectations.  Not have I been in a situation where there were none from either myself of another being.  However, we all should also acknowledge that we don’t always measure up to those set expectations.  So, from time to time we make up excuses hoping some weight will be lifted off of our shoulders.  Not to say this doesn’t happen, but our excuses are not always accepted.

With my luck, excuses rarely work, even if they are true.  You didn’t know for sure if you were supposed to do that?  The teacher didn’t clarify?  You should’ve asked.  You have a mouth and a mind.  You could’ve asked.  And still, sometimes you have legitimate excuses.  They don’t work, but this is just how it is sometimes.  So, try as hard as you can as much as you can to reach the expectations you wish to meet.

I remember, in 7th grade, I had a rather grouchy English teacher. When I say grouchy, I mean grouchier than the Grouch off of Sesame Street. So one day, she had assigned homework, but by the time I got home, I had forgotten which pages she’d assigned. So, I did all of them. There were six pages to do if I wanted to ensure that I did not get a zero for my homework grade. Outside, I could hear joyous screams and continuous laughter radiating from my sisters, but I knew deep down that I cared more about that grade, and so did my mom.

I ended up completing all my homework by the time my sisters came in, which I thought was great timing considering how hard the work was. When I walked in class the next day, Mrs. Grouch asked for all six papers. My jaw went slack. I had done all of them just in case, and all of them were complete.  I was proud of myself.  I had finally got that much deserved 100.

This can come as a lesson to others. If your not sure, do everything you can think of to make sure. I know you may hear this all the time, but it’s better be safe than sorry. Do not make up excuses because they will not be valid even true–especially if you are reporting to someone like Mrs. Grouch or even your own self.

I wasn’t a very typical child I strove for abnormality, I wanted to stick out and be the outlier in almost everything I did.  But, it never turned out that way, due to my extremely shy personality I followed the crowd in tidal waves, not trusting my own thoughts to keep me afloat I used others as my life rafts for the majority of my time in middle school. The one thing that I had that was my own was books, it was sort of a guilty pleasure of sorts, even though I swore through my teeth that I hated the things. Even when I would get that little spark of happiness or that spine tingling feeling when I would pick up a new story and flip through the pages in less than a day. But, from fear of being called a nerd, or a geek or be out cast I pretended they were devil spawns like everyone else. That even included my parents, but of course, it was difficult to just not read, we had reading test and quizzes it was required of us to read, so I stuck to the one thing I knew that wouldn’t turn heads, books like Goosebumps and Magic Tree house was my saviors. They were small, containing two-hundred pages at best and popular among middle schoolers at that time.

Do to me playing the part for so long of a book avoider I became accustomed to those books and anything higher in lever began to scare me. Most of my classmates complained about how difficult the books were, filled with complicated words and page after page of complete boredom. So, I believed that for a long time, until the fateful day my friend gave me the novel Maximum ride and the angel experiment by James Patterson. I was weary at first refusing her offer and trying to give the novel back, it was a good three hundred pages more than my typical story and the cover didn’t look that interesting. She was persistent though standing her ground and insisted that I at least read the first page. So, I did not want to be rude, it was safe to say it was the right choice. The very first sentence caught my attention almost immediately and a sentence turned into the page which turned into a chapter and so on. It was amazing, fantastic, beyond great. The book contained so much action, plot and an actual story that I almost felt overwhelmed. The books detail was far better than half of the books I read before and I got the familiar spine tingling exhilarating feeling that I received from the others books I read. It also was the story that made me realize that fantasy stories were worth being a nerd for.

How far, as artists, are we allowed to take topics? This is a question I’m sure anyone with a history of writing has had to ask themselves. When is a good time to stop and let the imagination take hold instead of putting it into words? I, for one, think not having a leash when it comes to controversial topics is an okay idea. Sure, there are some people who would be able to handle the fact that people have different opinions of them and that people sometimes feel the need to write about something that’s bothering them, but there are also the people that would take these occurrences personally. The big question is: are we going to have the patience to handle the latter of the choices?

People usually respond to these hurdles by saying “Well, people shouldn’t be so sensitive.” Or ” Why don’t they just not read what they don’t like?” And these are great arguments. Why should one person keep their thoughts to themselves, thoughts that could possibly be poisoning their mind, just because someone is afraid to handle difficult topics? There is always the possibility of it being just as hard for the artist to discus the topic as it is for that certain someone to hear about it but that shouldn’t stop them. When someone has a question or an opinion, they should be able to discus and entertain ideas without persecution.

Then there is the other option of why can’t they read what they want to and stay away from what upsets them? It is no secret that people tend to enjoy getting into arguments- no matter what they’re about. So, when it comes to reading what they can’t handle it should be no one’s fault but their own if the choose to get upset or offended about that certain discussion.

There are some days when I want to write about everything wrong in the world but I keep from doing so because usually the things that I think are wrong, other people would disagree with. Things such as feminism and sexism usually end up starting an argument with my brother, sometimes even my mom. How am I supposed to write about my feelings and opinions when I’m the one being attacked? There’s a difference between attacking an idea and attacking a person but on most occasions people seem to get the two mixed up and I think that should be something we, as a people, should be able to discern.

What Is Love?

My phone’s sound is always on. Always set on the loudest setting. I want to make sure I don’t miss your call. I want to respond to your text fast enough that you don’t think I’m too busy for you. I am never too busy for you.

What Is Love?

My hand never seems to be still. Always shaking. Always trying to become comfortable in my lap or on my desk. Clasped with your hand, fingers interlaced.  I have never been more comfortable.

What Is Love?

I used to stutter. Words clogged my mouth like a child’s toy in the toilet. Words never belonged to me. But never did I stutter when I said those words. They didn’t belong to me either. They belonged to you.

What Is Love?

My mind is cradled in a manger. It floats high above the clouds. Often, I am told being so far from reality- from the truth of the world- will get me killed. I now know what they meant.

What Is Love?

You were never one for flying. You loved the ground too much- loved reality too much. But you loved the way I flew. Loved the way I refused to stay grounded for long. We thought we could make it. Me, the idealist, and You, the realist.

We Were Wrong.

i don’t believe in astrology. i don’t think that planetary alignments and and constellation patterns can coincide with birthdays and completely determine who someone is. i don’t think we can read daily horoscopes that predict certain outcomes in our lives. and don’t get me started on all of that sun, moon, rising, retrograde mess; understanding that is beyond my comprehension and i willingly admit that. that’s a no from me, kids.

but i still love reading “the signs as…” posts. i still love zodiac moodboards and analyses and saying “AQUARIUS AF” when i read a description that i think is pretty accurate to my personality. even though these specific descriptions of astrological signs are general traits that nearly everyone exhibits at one point or another and recognize that, i still find myself becoming invested in “what backpack are you based on your sign.”

i don’t know what it is about astrology posts that fascinates me. maybe it’s the psychoanalytical part. maybe it’s finding validation in the way i perceive myself. maybe it’s solidifying the knowledge i’ve gathered about my friends with completely unfounded evidence to prove my assumptions.

everyone loves being right, and no one likes to believe that they are wrong. so when we read this astrology posts that peg what type of person we are while falling in love or our best traits, we want them to align with our own ideas on who we are. and when these posts fit our ideals, we rally in this reassurance that we know ourselves and have a sense of self. we find pride in being agreed with about ourselves.

but when these posts don’t fit with our assumptions about ourselves, how do we react? some of us may scoff it off, say “pssh, that’s not right” and defer the responsibility of being wrong from ourselves. we can’t be wrong because we know ourselves best, right?

then there are those of us who see these mismatched assumptions and begin to question everything they’ve ever thought about themselves. are they really as introverted as they think they are, even when this post says they’re a more extroverted sign?

as superficial and meaningless as we may tell ourselves these posts are, they can still manage to leave us questioning everything we thought we knew about ourselves. astrology is a very efficient way to shatter your sense of self, especially if it wasn’t as unwavering as you thought it was.

so let me say this: the stars do not determine your fate. mercury in retrograde means nothing, air signs mean nothing. the only thing that matters is you, which means you don’t need to be worrying about what kind of partner you are based on your sign. nothing else can determine who you are except for you alone. no suns or moons or stars can tell you what your life is, only you.

Dear you,

I feel like trash.  And it’s partially thanks to you.  I thought that if you cared for someone, you stuck around and waited for – helped – them to get better.  I thought that if you were wanting to be a friend, you chose what was best for them – not what was most convenient for you.  But apparently, I was wrong.  Unfortunately, caring for someone means that you “put up” with how negatively they talk and think of themselves until you just give up.  According to you, a friend isn’t someone who tells you when they feel bad.  According to you, a friend is not, nor will it ever be, someone who’s honest when you ask how they’re doing because it would hurt your feelings too much.  According to you, I will never be anyone’s friend in this lifetime because I can never live down to those standards.  You hurt me, and I am utterly enraged at your for it.  Because all I ever tried to do was be honest with you.  You say that I sound as though I am constantly asking for pity – although it is never an intention – but I never deliberately put my feelings and what is easiest for me over those of the people I care about – actually care about – or what is best for them.

Besides, your whole supposed “reason” for just up and leaving like you did was because you “hated seeing” the way you say I talk about myself.  But if that were true, would you have even said all that you did say to me?  Would you really have just walked out the door because it got “too hard” for you?  Is that really how you treat the people you say you care about?  If so, then I thank you.  I thank you for getting me out of there.  You twisted my words and said that I told you things I have not thought in years, and I’m beginning to think that all you wanted was an excuse to get rid of me.  You said I was not “bothering” you, yet you were constantly saying saying that you were going to stop talking to me – just out of nowhere.  No warnings, no reasons, just “I won’t talk to you anymore.”  I said to you multiple times how I word things horribly when it comes to personal matters.  And you held it against me.  You said I never listened to things you said, but it was always you that asked about me, and I never wanted to talk about anything personal.  You say you don’t care about my problems, but before we stopped talking, you were constantly asking about them – even after I had clearly stated that I did not want to talk about it.  When we first met, you pushed me for a good five to ten minutes to talk about what was bothering me, and I said – over and over again – that I did not want to bother a stranger with my personal problems.  And you still pushed.  So I caved.  And you let me, gave me a bit of advice, even.  If you did not care about my issues and all, why did you ask me about them, repeatedly?

I’m nothing to you now, aren’t I? You just wanted to play games with someone’s feelings – someone you already knew was vulnerable before you had even sunk your claws into them.  Didn’t you?  Someone who, when you met them, you were completely aware of their situation, so you knew you would get what you wanted out of them.  Are you proud of yourself?  Did you accomplish what you had been reaching for?  I sure hope not because you do not deserve the satisfaction.

Goodbye,

the “narcissist.”

Over the years, out of all the people in my life, my grandmother has been one of the most influential . She has been here since I was born, taking care of my brother and me when no one else was there. She’s one of the strongest people I’ve ever met- she’s not afraid to tell you when she thinks your’re wrong or when you are about to do something stupid.

One of my fondest memories with her was when we decided to go out to eat one afternoon. She couldn’t decide on where to eat so I chose for her, taking her to Cracker Barrel. We arrived and sat down just like any set of normal people- placing our orders and all that good stuff. We chatted and laughed at the antiques hanging all over the walls, her remembering when most of them were invented! About halfway through our meal she nudged me under the table and flicked her head to the table to my right. Sitting there was a young man and what looked to be his grandfather. The younger one looked about my age and was moderately attractive, the older one was handsome for his age and had his eyes directly placed on my grandmother. The young man swatted at his grandfather when he caught us both glancing back at the two. Throughout the rest of the meal there was plenty of ‘accidental’ eye contact between my grandmother and the older gentleman, not to mention myself and the young man. We stayed there much longer than we actually needed to, taking our time to get the last drop out of our glasses, only standing to leave when I told Maw that I had homework to do.  As we went to leave, Maw heading to the counter to pay and myself browsing through the store, our new friends also started to get up. The older gentleman walked straight up to my grandmother and started to try and pay for our meals but her being the stubborn woman she is, declined his advances. The boy who seemed about my age wasn’t as forward- he browsed near me but didn’t make a move until I was moving to follow Maw out of the restaurant. And that’s the story about how my grandmother and I both walked out of Cracker Barrel with with the numbers of our new friends.

Moral of my post is that I think having a day just for our grandparents is the least we can do for them. They do so much for us and give without restraint. And although I couldn’t see her on Grandparents’ Day because of school, I wanted to tell one of the many stories I have with her and about how much I appreciate her and everything she does for me.

The things I’ve noticed in my life. sometimes when I breathe while sleeping my noes whistles, and wakes me up at night.  When I zone out I’m not really daydreaming rather listening to the air conditioning unit, I do this often. When I get dressed in the morning I don’t process anything that I do into I actually leave the room. I forget thing faster than I probably remember them. My head twitches to the side when I feel proud of myself. I pop my neck in every one of my classes. The floorboard of the literary room has a lot of scuffs marks on the floor. The ceiling is also floorboard but just painted white. I really like it at this school despite the fact that I thought I would be miserable. I stutter whenever Sam walks toward me. My stuttering problem, in general, is getting worse but also at the same time more maintainable.The Ceiling lights of JI look like UFO’s or upside down pyramids with circle bases. I like my friends here much more than I like the ones back home. I haven’t had a brain freeze in like a year. writing has become a natural coping mechanism for me. The floor of my Spanish classroom is a giant square with black tiles outlining outer cashmere tiles that remind me of sand against volcanic dust. My computer keyboard has ants living in them and when I type they crawl out. Everyone has someone, even if they themselves believe they are alone there will always be another human being that has their back whether they know it or not. I like the steady strum of typing that always fills the literary room when we blog. I have begun to bite my nails less. When it’s time for me to go home a feeling of dread sets over my body which is quickly replaced by comfort when I’m actually at my house. The world is starting to become a more accepting place. My poetry is starting to get better in my eyes. I’m getting used to speaking in front of others despite my outer fear. I cant control my facial expression. I’m allergic to citrus. Every single person has morals but its just a matter of applying them thatch the real problem. When I ramble and just type out random things a story usually comes after. I never know how to end a story or a blog.