It’s Fine to Be an Outcast

The Following is a piece of struggle. First-hand, I have done this, I have seen this, and I have experienced this. Interesting, to say the least, to experience every angle of ones own work. But you'll see what I mean when you read it. It speaks for itself.

While I'm speaking from a teens perspective, it can easily be agreed that many adults fail to outgrow this segment of child-hood. The BIG vs. the small. The CONFIDENT vs the insecure. It's not that the small and insecure can't overcome social obstacles - not at all! We've all been there! But there comes a point when even adults need to step back and get their noses out of the air and just be a friend to someone who isn't very loveable. Obviously it doesn't speak to every single person in every situation, but in some strange way it applies. My point is not to point fingers and poor rain-clouds of guilt on hapless people. The purpose of this piece is as harmless as a cup of coffee. It is to wake people up to what very likely is going on around them.

Life has been very good to you,
Yes, you, who thinks life is so bad.
Sure, you’ve had your hard knocks,
But you’ve always had a friend,
And whether you like them or not,
You have family.
So how come,
You and your friends,
Crowd in your little circles,
And talk about how bad, your life is,
Or what secret shoes you will buy,
When there is one,
Who stands on the fringe,
In the corner,
Alone.
You’re always laughing.
And if it’s not laughter,
Then it’s dramatic flares of tears,
Over something you just don’t understand.
And still,
You exclude,
The one who’s tears are silent,
And the one who’s laughter is lent to sitcoms instead of people.
You complain that you’re so bored.
You stand with your friends,
That have made you so popular.
And talk about how you’ve done
Everything
In the world.
But you haven’t reached out to that one.
It pains you to talk to her.
You see her as something to make you feel guilty,
And you think that you are friend enough,
(a nice person)
To just say “hi” in the halls,
When you pass by her.
Here you are.
You’re growing up.
You’re pursuing your dreams,
Talking about college,
Imagining Mr. Right and how kind,
And good with kids he will be.
And yet, you are still a child,
And you are abandoning another child,
Who is no worse in God’s eyes than you,
So that she can grow up with fleeting hallway friends,
And hallway confidence,
And hallway dreams.
All of them fleeting.
You scream, “Give me some space!”
You and your friends all agree,
That parents, and the dumb strict teacher,
And the snotty Pastor’s daughter, and the expectations,
Weigh you down,
And don’t let you expand.
But, look. Right behind you.
There she stands in the corner.
Trapped.
Unsure of where to go,
Unsure of where to turn to.
And you think she should know better.
You think she should be
More socially normal,
Like you.
You think she should magically grow confidence over night,
And become tough,
And get used to being ignored.
You think she’s fine.
Let me ask you something.
Would you be?
Wait a while, and then,
Turn around one day,
When you are done laughing,
And talking about boys,
And all that is most important right now,
And you will not see her.
That guilty feeling you get around her,
Will no longer consume you,
And you can go on…
Live your life.
You can have that perfect life,
And someday watch your own children cry,
As they watch each Disney outcast,
Find their Prince Charming,
And watch your kids dream,
And start to grow.
But I want you to sit,
And discover that your own child,
has no friends.
That your own child is in a corner,
Somewhere,
With everyone laughing,
While he is all alone.
You want to scream that he’s normal?
That he’s fine?
Your own child will not believe you.
He thinks more of those kids,
At school,
Standing in a circle,
Who are cooler than him.
I want you to think back,
To that outcast,
That girl in the corner.
Who was always trying
To get out of everyone’s way.
And I want you to look me in the eyes,
And tell me,
That you’re fine,
Your children are fine,
Little Disney heroes are fine,
That girl you will never see again… Is fine.
Look me in the eyes.
Tell me it’s fine to be an outcast.

Anyways, a little dramatic, I admit. But it really does make me mad when I see people who make a point to snub unlovely, unattractive, unimpressive people just because they're not 'more socially normal'. They smile a smile that doesn't reach their eyes, and step around the obstacles. And, honestly, it makes me feel a little sick. So, really, this piece is not my work. It is merely a byproduct of social nausea.

What If The World Were Upside Down?

Where would one sit, if the sky were the ground, and the ground were the sky? How would buildings be rooted within a blue sky? Where would mothers walk their children, or how would kids run out to play? Surely, with all of our technology, we could not reach up and touch the ground to build from sidewalks of clouds. Would we survive, amidst the pumping of pollution into the sky where we walk - or would we be pumping our pollution into the face of the earth?

In an upside down world the frosty green grass would hang crisply down towards the sky. Snow flakes would drift up from nothingness. Party balloons would fly up into the ground. Little girls would climb up green-feathered trees and reach out, crowing, “Look, Mommy! I reached the root!” The old black-and-white movies would deliver a passionate kiss shared beneath a clear, blue-glass lake. Rainbows would reach out and touch us like fog, and the ground above us would seem dark. Unknown, even.

If we didn’t have intelligence to build a plane, and didn’t have a billion years to sprout wings, how would we fly or rest on the silver charted surface of our ozone layers? Would the birds become like worms, and the bugs worm into the sky? Would the street-lights rise and blaze at noon, and perhaps set dimly at night?

If the whole world was shaken like a salt and pepper shaker, what would make it land up-right? If we were all to evolve again - assuming we have slowly evolved to the intelligent beings we are today - what would keep our brains from replacing our feet, and our feet from taking the place of our brains?

I believe evolution itself cannot have taken place, and creation is the only logical reason for the way we are and for the direction our world faces. I only wonder, if we were to be created again, if our philosophy would land just as upside-down in our intelligent liberal world, and into our intricate, ignorant heads as it is now.

The Revered #18

Today I had a very important picture taken. See, we all reach that magical day we become 18 years old, and it happens only once, does it not? As today is that magical day I wasted no time scurrying down to the DMV to take my drivers Temps test as soon as possible. Anyways, you can guess the results. (How could it be otherwise?) I passed!! I then realized I was in the ‘big adult world’ because I had to wait in line before the whole process could be completed.

My Dad (who had driven me) (because I could not yet drive) sat across from me, sandwiched between a large Mexican woman who perpetually kept her back to him, and a black man who chewed his gum apathetically and stared off into the distance. My Dad sat there trying to make conversation with everybody (as my Dad is prone to do) and the man most vulnerable to my dad’s approaches had the face of a rock (well, a rock that chewed an endless piece of gum). I was seated in my own little set-apart-chair, and was thankful for a little ‘personal space’ (a necessity to all 18 year olds). Every body there wasn’t talking for any particular reason. They were just waiting… for something.

The guy that was in charge of calling out people’s names to get their pictures taken CLEARLY hadn’t been chosen with great care. He had a thick Libyan accent which tended to butcher every American name he was supposed to call. For instance, “Trisha” would have been shortened to “Eesha”. Another thing. He took the picture fine, but then when it came to my turn he took the picture, looked at it, and then just smirked. Later I got the ID and realized why. My whole face was like a shiny reflection! What a horrible camera! There might as well have been a piece of surrand-wrap stuck to my face when I smiled. In fact, why do people even bother to smile for those things? Smiling just gives the impression that one is satisfied with the horrible picture one is about to be handed. I think next time (which will hopefully be soon), I won’t smile. Next time I’ll ask if I can please turn to the side and just get a mug shot. That would be preferable to grinning like a dope and then having some Libyan guy smirk at my horrible face - not even knowing that today is the golden day every one is supposed to treat me very specially.

Anyways, my Dad wouldn’t let me drive me home. Twas probably wise because I do have the tendency to lurch now and then. Later, though, when I got to practice on residential streets, I was what my Dad deemed “quite good”. I’d better be, because I sat through three older siblings of driving lessons! So I don’t think I’ll be one of those learners who will share near-death-stories when I am older, more mature, and obviously wiser. La, that’s the great thing about age. One can earn credentials and display them along side a gray hair or two, and then proudly state ones ancient disposition. Why do old people shy away from saying their age? Why is everyone always wanting to be called young? I don't get it. Everyone is obsessed with it! Who wants to be stuck with the frowns people give the young, merely because they have not “been there” yet? (Wherever the desired “there” is).

So, I’m getting “there”. Soon. 18 is not so bad. At least now when salesmen in the mall stop me and try to engage me in conversation, their eyebrows will not sink in disappointment when they realize I am under-age. Now, they can look at me with some respect, because I am a valid, worthy customer.

Chalk it up to age, my friends.

"How to be a bad customer" for DUMMIES

I just ran across the greatest blog-article that I think you guys should read. It's purely satire, but it made me laugh. http://aplacecalledblog.blogspot.com/2007/07/you-should-be-more-enthusiastic-about.html

So, I decided to write a piece that deals with my end of things. While I myself have often been the customer who has been disgusted by the customer-service I recieved, I have also been on the other side of the counter. (In fact, I am 4 or 5 days out of the week). And there is nothing more tragic than being treated like dirt merely because every customer expects you to deliver bad service. There is the classic 'bad service' and the classic 'bad customer'. As you won't have to deal with being in the bad service end of things, I've decided to help you out. I'm going to turn all of you into worst possible bad customers! How fun is that?? ;)

In order to be a bad customer, you must realize that your place in this world is a very important one. Without you, phrases like "the customer is always right" and "get off the phone and order" would never have come about.

Your position in the fast-food industry is a serious one, because you are responsible for taking all of the problems you are having in your personal life out on the person(s) behind the counter. Remember, they are there to serve you, so have no qualms about being as unpleasant as possible.

Since you are obviously reading this because you want to learn how to be a bad customer, let's first run over a few rules. (These kinds of articles always require rules) I'll recount some personal experiences I've had with bad customers so you can know better how to be one.
We'll call you the 'bad customer' (BC) and me the 'bad service' (BS).

1) Keep your cell-phone glued to your ear at all times. When the BS asks you what you would like to order, talk animatedly into your cell and then mumble your order incoherently. Above all annoying things you could do, this annoys the BS the most. Good job!

2) Expect the worst from the BS. This gives you plenty of license to sneer superiorly at them if they have to ask for your order twice.

3) Try going into restaurants and confusing the BS as much as possible with your order. Tell them you would like mustard, and then when they put it on, order them to take it off. Guarantee they will either look annoyed or helpless, and then you can run home and write about the stupidities of the young in the food industry in your blog.

4) Make sure you let them know you're mad if they can't wipe all the mustard off fast enough.

5) If possible, bring along a purse or other voice-muffling paraphanalia and talk into it when ordering. Here it is also crucial that you get angry when they ask you to repeat their order.

6) Speak a different language.

7) Let the BS's know that if it weren't for the counter, you would be right up in their face.

8) Always demand. Never ask. Treat them as inhumanely as possible, because this is what they secretly expect.

9) Enter the establishment 2 minutes before closing time and sit down for a long luxurious meal.

10) Make small-talk as awkward as possible. This is a fun one. If someone actually makes the effort to talk and be friendly with you, stare at them until they feel so uncomfortable that they shutup.

11) Another option is to just laugh at them until they look insecure.

12) Oo- another good one is to give them clipped answers that keeps them going just enough that they eventually just drift off because the air is stiff with awkwardness and absolute lackage of things to say.

13) Better yet - ignore them. When they say "Hi, how are you?" just turn away.

14) Pretend to be deaf.

15) Be really friendly and laugh encouragingly at their jokes and then just before you leave give them the finger.

16) Insult them and then smile.

17) Take a friend along with you and discuss what you didn't like about the BS as you're leaving with your food.

18) Never look a BS in the eye when you're talking to them. It's best to look directly above their head at the menu when ordering.

19) Never, NEVER say thank you. Gratitude is the most shocking habit a BC could pick up on.

20) No matter what, never expect to find a friend when you're going into a food establishment. ALWAYS expect the BS to be a lousy teen who is working 3 jobs and has absolutely no self-esteem. Treat them with zero respect, because after all, you are the successful BC and they are only the next generation.

There. I think that's satisfactory.

Baby Ben Update!

I'm sure you all remember Baby Ben. In fact I'm very sure, because I've had several of you ask me to do a follow-up article on his progress. So here goes, but as all good bloggers will, I shall first refresh your memory.


Little Benjamin's original birthday was supposed to be March 21st, but he was born on January 6th about 12 weeks premature. At his birth, he weighed 15 oz. and was 11 inches long. His mother recalls, "When I first saw him at 2 hours old he looked tiny, pink and cute. He looked like a normal baby only in miniature."



The doctors' reaction to his birth was recounted by his mother. "They were surprised that he survived. Only ½ the babies his size do. He is the smallest baby at (the hospital) that they’ve had."



When I first wrote to you guys about little Ben, I reported that he had significantly gained weight, and weighed in at 1 lb 8 oz as of February 25th. His mother said of that, "Hopefully that number will grow every day."



It's a happy thing for me to be able to tell you that that number has grown every day. I have a couple pictures of him that were taken just yesterday in the hospital. If you can't notice, he has the most adorable little double chin and the parents recently announced that he has just reached 5 pounds!



Note: the difference - lol




While his progress has been quite good and his parents are very encouraged, the little guy is undergoing a serious surgery tomorrow. Apparently a lot of little procedures are going to take place, and then the doctor will ask the parents whether they are willing for Baby Ben to get a tube put in (trachea). The parents will have to decide on the spot of the moment. Obviously the parents and our church family are praying very hard that little Benjamin won’t need that Tracheotomy put in, because it could cause many other severe complications. So if any of you are praying people (or even if you’re not, for that matter), please pray for Ben tomorrow because this really is a very serious time in his young life.



Mom Quote: "Why do I think Benjamin is still alive? It’s very simple actually. Because God wants him to be and because God has a purpose for Bens life that only Ben can accomplish."

A Glance at Terri Schindler Schaivo

The death of Terri Schindler Schiavo is forever ear-marked in my memory as a time when I started listening to conservative talk radio. I was outraged that although Terri Schiavo was disabled she was FAR from being in a coma at the time of her dehydration/starvation/death. I studied the issue, and came up with the following paper and sent it to all of the talk show hosts I knew of. I was 14 years old. I realize that Terri was a financial burden in some ways, but when I read the book on her husbands involvement in her death, I was once again outraged that the family had specifically pleaded that THEY would cover all financial and physical burden. All the family asked was that Michael Schaivo divorce his wife and marry the woman who had become his fiance and given him two children after Terri's collapse. It is understandable that Michael did not want to divorce his wife because she had previously been awarded a large amount of money for her disablities that would become his at the time of her death.

Pulling the plug on a loved one is difficult - I am definitely not here to judge people who have been given no other option but to release a loved one from their suffering. But this case was desperately wrong, and I think even as a young girl, I realized this. Terri Schindler Schaivo was not just released from her life as she knew it here on earth. She was dehydrated and starved for 14 days to the point that her mouth was so dry and raw that she was denied even a drop of water to ease the pain. The following paper is not something I will not defend as perfect, but it still makes one think.

After all, it was Terri who once said the following statement. "Where there is life, there is hope."

I am only 14 years old, but “Injustice”, was one of the many words that came to my mind, as well as I’m sure to the minds of millions of other Americans, when I heard about the Terri Schiavo overruling. I say overruling, because everything good and right that should not have been forsaken was overruled, on her behalf.

“Someone ‘big’ MUST be stirred at this mess”, was my second thought as I humanly weighed the options for her life in my head. But, I had to conclude, that when I heard her flesh and blood were overruled…her governor was overruled…the president of her country was overruled…that someone twisted, and cold, and hurt was doing the overruling.

Who is this judge to take word over law? My third thought, was “What is this judges’ name, who is he a puppet of, and how can we get them out of our justice system?”.

Michael Schiavo is probably not the greatest of guys, and…sure…he’s made plenty of errors on his wife’s part. But, he’s not the real issue here! If it wasn’t him, it would have been someone else. Not everyone in our country is upset about the ruling. Our attention is being diverted with him, the governor…and anyone else bigger that people try to blame. But it’s not bigger that we need. It’s power. Our problem lies in the courts. People like Michael Schiavo are supposed to be stopped by our courts, because America is a land that upholds justice. Our country of Justice, and Wealth, and Freedom is turning into…a country that will soon be recognized as a country full of Injustice because of people lacking or wanting more Wealth and turning Freedom and rights into Pro- Choice not just for the babies…now we’re saying that mentally disabled people choose to die, elderly will choose to die…and basically the costly sick…soon they- like unborn babies- choose to die. Is it the babies, and the sick, and the mentally disabled that are choosing to die…or is it the murderer that chooses for them?

America has always prided itself on standing for what was right. We defend the Jews. We pray and ask God to bless our nation. We fight the terrorists. We’ve seen what is outwardly a pagan wrong, and often try to deal with it. President Bush is fighting a war. But it’s more than just with terrorists. It’s with his own people. It’s with the media who won’t support the right over wrong…the truth in EVERYTHING, over what they want people to hear. Adolf Hitler said, “If you tell a lie long enough and loud enough, and often enough, the people will believe it”. What is the voice of the people? Isn’t it the newspapers that people open every morning while they sip their coffee? How smart is it for terrorists to bomb a building and leave their tracks…or would it be far more intellectual a move to subtly take the people while the government is distracted by drugs, misdemeanors, sex charges, senseless murdering, and the injustice to a starving woman.

Which leads me to my fourth thought. “Isn’t this communist mentality the liberals are taking?”. I mean, if I were to get sick of taking care of my grandmother, could I kill her? The answer is yes…though not legally. I might cover it up…but eventually would be caught. If and when I were caught, I would be charged with murder and would have to serve the appropriate time in the slammer. Now, take these courts that are starving Terry Schiavo. How much are the liberal media’s being paid to help cover up this communist mentality? I mean- what if this senseless murdering of Terry is just a window to something a whole lot bigger? Didn’t David Rockefeller voice his praise of the controlled U.S. media for keeping their oath not to divulge the Globalist plans to the public? He said, “We are grateful to the Washington Post, the New York Times, Time Magazine, and other great publications whose directors have attended our meetings and respected their promises of discretion for almost forty years.” He went on to explain, “It would have been impossible for us to develop our plan for the world if we had been subjected to the lights of publicity during those years. But, the world is now more sophisticated and prepared to march towards a world government.” Accidentally found in the pocket of a spy that was shot in 1919, were the following Communist rules,

1) Corrupt the young, get them away from religion
2) Break down the old moral virtues
3) Encourage evil disorders…and a soft government attitude toward crime
4) Divide the people into hostile groups (race, religion, etc.)
5) Get the people’s minds off their government by focusing their attention on athletes, sex, etc.
Note: In 1896, there were 311 athletes participating in the Olympics. In 1996, there were 13,000.
6) Get control of the media
7) Destroy people’s faith in their religion
8) Cause the registration of all firearms…to eventually confiscate

Any of this sound familiar? Karl Marx, father of communism dedicated his book to Charles Darwin whom ‘he was a sincere admirer of’. Marx realized he could not justify the death of a human being, much less slavery of the black race during his time…unless the white man were to be taught that they were superior to other races. Thus, evolution was strongly advocated by Karl Marx who referred to evolution (creation without the supreme being, God) several times in his speeches. Stalin, too was a strong believer in evolution, after reading Charles Darwin’s book (using the original title) on ‘The Origin of Species by Means of Natural Selection, or the Preservation of Favored Races in the Struggle for Life.’ Charles Darwin was not only a racist, but he was a woman hater…yet his book is still today labeled one of the greatest scientific works in history. Evolution Science teaches we come from nothing. We became what we are now. Ever since the world came together, we’ve been getting bigger and better and stronger. Yet, several large skeletons have been hid by namely the evolution supporting ‘Smithsonian’, who discovered, and disposed of skeletons… 8, 9, 11 feet tall. I guess, they didn’t like the thought of everybody realizing, ‘hey were not becoming bigger and better. We’re getting smaller and dumber’. And dumber is right. Hitler, did not drag everyone’s granny’s and lame aunties, blind uncles, deaf cousins, and ‘unfavored races’ to the gas chambers all at once. He subtly introduced evolution to the children’s textbooks, teaching them that there WERE favored races. He is quoted, saying, “Let me control the textbooks, and I will control the state.”

Who is controlling our textbooks? Who is teaching America, that ‘scientifically’, we came from nothing, in stead of, ‘truthfully, we came from dust and the power of God’s imagination’. Who is telling our girl’s, that abortion is our babies’ choice, and that finances, careers, lifelong happiness, as pregnant young mother’s are told they won’t have with a baby, are worth more than a precious life. Hitler taught German’s that killing Jewish, noisy, expensive babies was like squashing a pesky bug, or drowning a barn cat. To him, he lived a life were there WERE favored races, and he intended to teach that the lesser races were nothing but dumb animals. Why else weren’t the enslaved blacks aloud to read? And HOW COME Charles Darwin’s book on evolution wasn’t questioned, contradicted or destroyed before this age and time? People, chose to believe a lie. A big one. And their still swallowing it today. Evolution, ties in with Communism…and someone subtle and more powerful than the president of our country, is within our courts, taking word over law. Someone is taking the power to save and preserve a human being’s life, and wrongly creating a terrible lie that the media is swallowing…that woman’s life is not useless. Are we going to get up off our knees when Terry Schiavo dies? Or are we going to root out the injustice that is filtrating into America’s just system. Someone is tampering with my country. I know I’m only 14 years old, but I realize that there’s something deeper here. We are scientifically labeling our unborn babies as lifeless blobs, and a tissue that doesn’t think or function. We are calling evolution a scientific fact, and it is being taught in our textbooks…in our schools. These are lies…that people want to, and choose to teach and believe.
Our generation is growing up humanist, racist, and if they get violent, communistically minded.

America, will not always be America if we keep getting looser and less conservative… and bending to the controlled media’s idea of ‘moderate’. Tell me. Who are these ‘communists’ in my country…who’s on their side or undecided on this issue… and how can I prevent my country from losing it’s God fearing, God loved, and God blessed sweetness and freedom that once had the world admiring America?

Sincerely,

Andi

Red is Your Color

He slices the dust with his cleft toes,
And you spit on the ground.
The bull looks at you,
His Bambi eyes defying their own lashes,
And his nostrils flare,
Daring you to cross the hoof-grooved line.
Between your heavy breathing,
And the deep, ready rasping of his flared nostrils,
There is no time other than right now.
Right here, you stand.
Your costume, the baited breaths of family,
The tilt of your hat, your well-bred hands,
Do not matter now.
All that matters is the red, blazing cloth,
Between you and the silent master of it.
Feel the sweat course down your body,
But do not worry.
The camera's will not catch it.
They will only catch that flag,
As it falls from one of your bodies.

Cavia Porcellus - Live Pundit Square

When I was younger, I got extremely bored with my life, and decided to create a small company. With the natural limitations my young age presented me with, I decided I would study one kind of animal extensively, and raise and sell the offspring of that species. Naturally, I narrowed my vast options down to rodents.

Anyways, being me, I chose guineapigs. You would not believe how dedicated I was to those pigs. I had a weekly newsletter in which I updated their progress and posted pictures of the new births. I kept detailed records on each pig, which I sent with the pigs for their new owners. I was obsessive with their water - I wanted to make sure that any chemicals were out of the tap water before I gave them their morning bottles. (Because heaven knows what the chemicals might do to them) (Goodness - I didn't even take those precautions for myself!) I had to have Timothy hay - never Alfalfa hay - because Alfalfa might make them sick. I was told very severely by other guinea pig breeders that you have to use a certain kind of expensive bedding - never cedar chips. I believe I created this 'ether-world' of mine, because I was so dissatisfied with my own world that I wanted to create something that could give me a purpose. I was so lonely for some one to look after, that I poured all of my affection for about two years on these little creatures.

All in all I raised about 40 little guinea pigs. All of those came from 3 females, and my one Alpha-male. ;)

Then, one day I was proudly telling somebody about how dedicated I was to bringing those little pigs into the world and giving them a little love and then spreading that love to the pet shops of this world. They got very shocked and asked me what I was thinking! Goodness, it sounded good and all, but did I know where those baby guinea pigs would end up? Did I really know they would end up in a good home? It seems so laughable to me now! But back then it broke my heart, and I stopped raising them because I didn't want to send them out into a world that wouldn't love them. I should've bucked up and told them to get lost. But then again, that's just the insensitive creature I've turned into talking. It's probably best that I outgrew the whole guinea pig breeding thing, because while it (believe it or not) taught me responsibility and hard work, I gradually grew less interested in it all. I think we all grow less interested in things when we realize they can't last forever. It's like - why bother, eh?

Nevertheless, you can't know me without knowing this secret chunk of my life, right? So for your viewing pleasure, (in other words for those of you who have no idea what a guinea pig is) I've uploaded a few admittedly cute pictures of two Cavia Porcelli and a few of their offspring.

Female : Missy (Regular American) Male : PJ (Agouti American)

(Dominant) Agouti = X

(Recessive) American = Y

Missy = XY

PJ = XY

-------------PJ

--------------X - Y

---Missy X--- XX - XX

----------Y--- XY - YY

Dominant Gene, Agouti Fur
Complements of the late TLC Guinea Pigs Company

Jane Doe Writes

NOTE: I AM NOT IN THE ABOVE PICTURE

Writers can be frustrating. They all get together at little conferences, and frustrate other writers with their extensive book ideas, and frustrate themselves because they never can quite figure out which character does what, and just how many of them will die by the end.

Most amateur writers always have to have someone die, have you ever noticed that? I’m an amateur writer at seventeen, so you can imagine my first book at age twelve. Every body died. Another thing we all do, is put a fantasized likeness of ourselves into our books. I met one (putting it gently) extremely large girl at a writers’ conference, who’s fantasy character happened to be 300+ lb.

It’s funny how many of us want to be something other than ourselves - even if for just a minute. And you know what’s awesome? We all get to do that through every frustrating character in our soon-to-be-novellas. And then we can step back and discover that we are happy with ourselves - regular old Jane Doe’s after all.

I wonder sometimes if every writer has been like me at one point. When I first started out, my sole supporters were my family. But by my 12th poem in church, my kind of impressed brother told me to get lost, and my Dad told me to read more Bible and take less “notes”. I thought my work WAS Bible. I was certain no one else had ever written like I did, and I would have set off to publicize my work immediately, if I had not feared the ever-present-evil that someone might steal my work.

But then, I upgraded to “free verse poetry”… mad slashes of unrhymed and unashamedly un-metered lines. It was great. I loved it. Before I knew it, I was writing descriptions of my poor family members and my unaware seatmates on air planes. I kept a journal, where I wrote good things about my brothers and sisters, just in case they found it and read it. In fact, I penned in large letters within those precious pages, “I love my brother and sisters SO much, I would never read their journals behind their backs”, so they would feel guilty while they read. It sounds like I didn’t want people to read what I wrote. Right? Wrong. I was constantly shoving my work in people’s faces, but I only wanted their praise, not their opinion. So I remained unpublished and very unsure of what people in general wanted me to write.

Writing does a lot to the writer. It grips them with a powerful hold to entice them towards great lengths of drama just to produce emotion…reaction…anything in the reader. So, while I’m off killing the last grandma in my book, I am thinking, “Cry! I DARE you to cry!”
I think sometimes, as writers, we tend to over-dramatize, over-think, and over-produce a work because we want it to be that hit, amazing piece that will make the world take notice and fall deeply in love with us.

It’s easy to forget that the real literature comes truly from what we believe, what we’ve experienced, and ends however happily our characters - fantasized likenesses of ourselves - deserve to end.

Writing a work should be a resolve to teach a point and encourage a real life experience. If my motive is merely to sell a piece, it is quite possible I am trying too hard to write what I THINK people want to hear, instead of writing THE TRUTH. My story… your story… from the pure gut-wrenched heart is real and different from every other average piece people write just for money.

If it’s your story, you can’t possibly be told that it has been heard before. No one else can shuck out that genius piece logged deep inside of you like only you can. So get up off your writer’s block butt and find the niche of your pencil, where the eraser is half chewed. Tell all like you would give it all to pour your soul on the audience that is captive to hear YOUR story.

Oh. One warning. Be prepared for a reaction.

On the Brink of a Minnesota Bridge

Crack!
The support cables weaken.
The bridge groans wearily.
Snap!
Cars beep their horns, demanding to get onto that bridge.
A roaring sound.
The cement gives without warning.
60 feet down, cars tumble,
Into the muddy Mississippi river.
Where once was the sound of,
Cell phones ringing,
Traffics’ steady breeze,
Radios beating their way out of windows,
Now sounds crushing cement,
A deadly smack on the water,
A wall of water licking up cars,
Children screaming in a school bus.
And then…
Dust.
Silence.
As the cars and people sink helplessly
To the muddy river’s floor,
The reality sinks in,
For all of Minneapolis, Minnesota,
That those lives are changed forever.
And as sirens,
And children,
And pregnant women,
And parents,
And all that will be affected,
Scream,
You cannot help but think,
That as cars were slowly,
Inching onto the bridge,
And other cars were slowly,
Inching off of that bridge,
Had it cracked 5 minutes later,
Or 5 minutes earlier,
A whole different set of lives,
Would have changed.
Forever.

There is Beauty in the Individual

This is not about me, I reminded myself, and went to greet the two young girls whose eyes clearly registered insecurity at being in a strange place. They clung to their Bibles and walked not far behind their large mother.

It was as though they were ashamed of something.

I wasn’t much in a talking mood and merely pointed them in the right direction.
“Teens go over there,” I offered, pointing to the corner, and then hurried on my way.

Later I sat in on the teen class, and prayer requests were asked for. The two girls hadn’t said much and sat close together in the corner. They gave their names when asked, but otherwise didn’t talk. I looked closely at the one that was clearly older. She was thin and pale and even though she was in a dress it hung off of her rather shabbily. She walked in a very subdued way, as though, whatever lot her life had given her, she had accepted it. She was not very attractive but something about her seemed prim… as though her pale blue eyes were struggling to appear very proper and normal. Christian, even.

Still, it was as though she were ashamed of something.

The younger sister had secrets, though. I could see them in her eyes. She was the pretty one with freckles across her stubborn cheeks and dark blue eyes that were one instant stormy, one instant sweet. She stared at the table, however when I asked her if she wanted coffee, she lifted her head almost shyly and tried not to look eager as she said yes. She, too, was dressed a little shabbily, but she carried herself in a way that stubornly denied to accept the lot she had in life. She was one who would not be subdued. She would carry her mysteries with her, while her older sister would hold her sadness plainly on her face. The young girl hung back from laughter and hid behind her coffee cup.

It was as though she were hiding something she was ashamed of.

Prayer requests were asked for again, and after a few had spoken up about this great-aunt that was sick, and that cousins friend who was going to have a baby, the older sister raised her thin hand.

“Yes, Lisa?”

She looked down and said in a quiet, proper voice, “Could you pray for my daddy because he drinks a lot and he gets really mad when he drinks. He’s not saved and he needs Jesus.”

She just came out and said it. I looked at those two girls again, and their faces bothered me even more later when I was alone. They were so young, and yet they carried that father of theirs every where they went. There was that older sister trying to be strong, even if she had to square her plain face and ask prayer from strangers. And then there was the younger sister who was slumped in her chair, her eyes intent on something else, her mind in a different place, her problems shoved into a dark closet that needn’t be opened.

What can a stranger do, I thought, but pray? Perhaps if I saw them more, a stranger could become a friend… but even then I believe I would be haunted.
They need those ridiculous burdens to be lifted from young, bright eyes.
They need their circumstances to change.
They need to have confidence in who they are, and not define themselves by who they came from.
They need to grow stronger and find the answers they are looking for.

A wise person once said, “You can’t change your circumstances, but you can change the way you react to them.”

They need to know… and how do I tell them… that they don’t need to be ashamed anymore.

There is beauty in the individual.

"You may limit where my feet can walk,
But I will soar beyond where you set me.
I will dream of a greater place.
I will fly,
Far, far away from home.
And I will achieve.
Not because it is easy.
But because I cannot be tied to this earth.
You may limit me.
But I will fight to be free.
And along the way,
I will love the small, inconspicuous things,
Love the God whom people fear to acknowledge and instead limit,
And not limit my own love to the
Big mountains everybody else loves.
Limited, yes.
But while I may walk in this path,
Between these two rust-golded fences,
My heart within will find no bounds,
My eyes will look above
From this valley,
And I will set my eyes
On all the mountains I can climb."

So in a way, it is about me. It affects me. It haunts me. It has become a part of me.

The Burial

In the early afternoon hours of my Thursday, I desperately needed a refreshing, revitalizing nature walk, and my mind immediately went to the cemetery two blocks from us. So I asked my brother to drop me off there, and from there I snuck under the employees-only fence. As my feet crunch-crunched on the rainy pebbled road, I was consistently afraid I’d be told to leave because I didn’t really have someone to mourn for there. But another part of me was defiant. How dare anyone tell me I can’t mourn a stranger! Better yet, I’m sure there are people who buy cemetery plots for themselves and then go visit them and reflect on how strange it will be when the marble plaques have dates on them. That’s certainly a thing to mourn.

So I set out reflecting on Hillary’s up-coming fate. It is obvious that the Clinton-Euphoria is meeting up with a rainy day this week. The media is eager to predict that Clinton will withdraw her campaign for presidency by the end of this week. The democrats are eager to bury her… and her first man… and her dark past, in order sentence poor Hillary to a life seeped deep in mere citizenship. All so that they may make way for the light of their eyes… the proverbial empty coffin; Barack Obama. The question is, will she continue digging her claws into Obama in order to fight towards an impossible resurrection?

As I walked, I found myself drawn to the freshly dug graves. I am normally fascinated by old graves, but this Thursday, I walked from fresh plot to fresh plot, marveling at how only a year ago some of those people could have been standing there beside me looking down at that plot. One fresh rectangle of dirt made me stand still and come closer, because it was so fresh that it didn’t have a tombstone yet. I felt like almost crying when I saw the loose bouqet of rain-battered flowers laid with care, and little rocks lined up to form a crooked heart on the dirt. I could not think then of the person beneath the ground, but the person who obviously regretted being left above it.

I couldn’t help but wonder then if Obama even has a game plan of what to do if he gets into office. Will he launch out with powerful steps backed up by his baby-steps of experience? Will he rashly continue to talk big and take big confident strides towards whatever liberal agenda he has, and take no thought for the even bigger consequences? See, with Clinton canned, Obama can walk like Hillary never will be able to. Where he walks, we must follow (to a certain extent). Question is, where will he take us? Does he even know? Or will he lean heavily on advisers and let them carry him. Will he gain the right to walk this country towards peace and instead have it carried to destruction? I mean, seriously, how much do we know about him? Not that much. And what we DO know has been suspicious at best. I heard someone say that with Obama’s highly questionable connections, he would not be allowed to join the F.B.I. Speculation? Truth?

On one of the older tomb stones, I read ‘Just 14,351 days old’. It’s intriguing to think of ones’ life as made up of just days instead of years. How would someone break it down if they wanted to say ‘just ### moments old’? If moments were the times that a person truly wanted to live, how many moments would one be made of? Even now I can still feel the electricity of the sun-streaked, rain-dried air. When one really pays attention to ones surroundings, one will see a lot more than ones own problems or conflicts. Try it. You will see the paint chipping on the green gate…duck under it and hear the rustle of a squirrel scurrying higher into the maple tree above you…marvel that this is the time of year that birds of like color chase each other…hear the water draining down the street into the brown sewer grate…almost feel the dull drone of the little air-plane in the sky…smell the splash of lazy flowers and muggy air… The magic is endless. I just had to write about it. Contrasts inspire me. From the angry gray of the sky this morning, to the brilliant, white sunshine of this afternoon… I can’t help but feel more dynamically these changes.

So, Change. Looks like we’re headed straight for it. Will it be subtle? How can it be, when the people demand more? We really are a very demanding country, you know. I was talking to one of my coworkers today, and he said, “Oh, yeah. I’m definitely for Hillary. Nobody likes her because she’s a woman and she’s un-popular. I like her because she’s for gays rights, and she doesn’t say empty things like Obama.”

I found this interesting because I certainly don’t dislike Hillary because she’s a woman and I don’t know anybody who would admit to that. The guy went on to say, “Yeah, I’m really not proud to be an American.”

I must have seemed shocked as I said, “Well, I’m very proud to be an American,” because he stumbled to clarify, “Well, I’m proud to be in this country, it’s just…our government is retarded. I wish we had any other government than our own.”

I eyed him and teased, “Even socialistic communism?”

I was trying to pull out the worst thing I could think of, and was astonished to see him nod and say, “Well, I’m sure that has it’s good points. I think no government at all would be better.”

I raised my eyebrows again, “You would prefer anarchy?”

He shrugged and said, “I don’t know, yeah, I guess. It would be better.”

I wasn’t in the mood for a big debate, so I got my two-bits in by using someone else‘s name. “I think it was John Adams who said ‘If men were angels, no government would be necessary.’ It stands to reason that a government created by men is imperfect because it is governed by men.” I wish I had said all I was thinking.

I wanted to continue, “That’s why we have the justice system, to allow men innocence until they are proven guilty. We have a legislative system to interpret the Constitution and make sure that men are treated equally and fairly. We have an executive system to carry out the laws in order to promote order that keeps law-abiding citizens safe. And if there is a discrepancy in our government, well that’s where the people get to employ their free speech. That’s where we the people call our representatives and demand justice.”

I WANTED to say all that, but it wouldn’t come out because I didn’t want to make an enemy out of the person I would have to make sandwiches all day with. I just don’t understand it! How can people not be proud to be Americans? I am SO proud to be an American. Not because (as my coworker put it), ‘we Americans feel like we have to be better than everyone else and therefore the rest of the world hates us’. I’m proud of America because it has provided me every opportunity to enjoy life. It has given me freedom of religion, safety for my parents and my home, order in my neighborhood, freedom of speech, and freedom to enjoy its beauty and history. I don't envy other people of their countries, because I'm happy where I am. I only want everybody else to be as happy as I am. I am an American. How can I NOT be proud of what I am?

I think back to those tombstones that read ‘World War1’. Those tombstones were on either side of the un-named grave that had the pebbles of a heart. Right at the head of that grave were three flags. In fact, flags were all over the cemetery, but I noticed them especially on that silent grave. The symbol of those flags above the crooked heart of rocks did not mean someone was proud to be a domineering American bigot. It symbolized that that person was proud to be what they were. They were proud to make the most of where they were. They were proud enough of where their family came from that they could be buried side-by-side of veterans who had fought for what made them proud. “Pride” is such an abused word. Pride in America doesn’t mean people are stuck up about their invincible land. It means people are not ashamed of their home. They are not ashamed of the land they dug into and made fertile. They are not ashamed of their ancestors’ spilled blood.

So Obama… are you proud? Who will make us proud? Or have we lost the right to have pride in something? Must we be ashamed of our government, our God, our free voice, our charities in foreign lands, as well as our wars on terrorist grounds?

I hope someday someone can look down on my freshly dug grave and they can marvel at how only a year ago I might have stood beside them and looked down on my plot with them. And they could watch the red-white-and-blue whip in the wind above my grave and know that I was proud of my country both in life and death. I did not rest until I spoke my piece and rested then in peace.