There was once a time in my not-so-recent educative career where I and my 11-year-old peers were forced against our will for fifty minutes a week to listen to the dangers of drugs, alcohol, and violence from a middle-aged cop with a spare tire and 3 o'clock shadow. For those of you who never experienced the awe and wonderment of the D.A.R.E. program in grade school: you didn't miss much. And to Sgt. Winters who was the officer in charge of us fifth-graders at our rowdiest time of the day: yes, we're alive, and yes, we're strong in our promise of actively breaking those rules in our college years.
We had the coloring sheets, "dangerous predator" films from the 70s, and group role-playing that really consisted of me discussing which classmate I'd arrange a playground marriage with next (this actually happened quite a lot, complete with paper veils and tiered sand cakes). I'm sure that none of my then-classmates remember much else about these weekly home and school association-sponsored visits, and truthfully neither do I. But I find that fate sometimes has a way of framing the small, significant moments in life with a mindless, meaningless fog so that we might look back nine years later and see it clearly in all its brilliance. It was during D.A.R.E. one day that the fog gave rise to, quite possibly, one of the only things I committed to memory from my fifth-grade year.
"We all like balloons, right? Balloons are better and bring more joy when they're all blown up. But when they don't have any air, they're just kind of sad and lonely-looking." Sgt. Winters was giving the self-esteem talk using a blue latex balloon. Had I been more fluent in sexual innuendo as an 11-year-old, I expect there would have been an abundance of inappropriateness from my end and certainly a few trips to The Office, but I digress...balloons. He went on to explain that every time someone told Susie that she had a nice smile, her self-esteem balloon was filled with a little air. When Johnny hit a home run and his teammates cheered him on as he ran across the bases, his filled even more. But when Julie told Mary she couldn't sit by her at lunch, Mary's balloon lost some air. And as is expected, when Billy got a D on his math quiz his balloon deflated too. These were concepts I could grasp at that age. Now, I'm not going to start talking about self-esteem, or all the problems puberty causes, or the jungle that would be high school...none of that. I've applied the simple Balloon to something a bit different, about the worth and happiness we strive to find in our own lives.
We spend our entire grade school education preparing ourselves to enter high school. We spend high school preparing twice as hard to get into college. We spend college working probably five times harder to achieve various things, whether it's an entrance to graduate school or a "real job". We are constantly following the path that is "the system". Without "the system", we don't get good jobs, we don't earn money, we aren't successful, no one likes us, our parents are ashamed of us, and we wind up miserable and unhappy...right? But what about the others that didn't follow the system? The hard-working man who began his job after high school to support his family? The artist who works in a cafe to support herself? Surely THESE people cannot be happy, because they don't have money! They were lazy and didn't follow the system! ...right?
Think about that balloon. Every time I sit by Silver Lake in my hometown and watch the geese, I feel my balloon fills a little bit. When I work a shift at the restaurant that is my second home with coworkers I could call family...yeah, my balloon fills a little then too. Getting a bunny as my own first pet in college. The cafe's daily soup today being my favorite (which is broccoli cheddar, by the way). Coming across your favorite movie on television (yeah, you own it and have seen it 47 times but it's so much better when it's on tv!). Going to a musical with your mom. These are all little things that, well yes, fill my balloon...make me happy. It's things like missing my brother's trombone solo because I'm three and a half hours away at school that let the air out. Receiving a disheartening 56% on an exam that I studied for, dammit! Not being able to say goodbye to a beloved childhood pet while away at college, contemplating why I'm even here in the first place. Not exactly the kind of things that can keep your balloon afloat, are they?
I'm not suggesting that we never make sacrifices to lead a truly happy life. No, I'm quite sure there is a time and place and necessity for sacrifice. What I am suggesting is that if we are going to make the sacrifices, they should be for the things that matter, the things that might later fill that darn balloon I keep talking about. I'm attending college because hey, "It's what you do if you want to be somebody in life!" and "You need to go to college, you can't just not go." It's the system. Everyone gets homesick once and a while...it's all a part of growing up...everyone goes through it...yeah, I've heard it all. And every single time I do, I become convinced that this nifty little system? Not for me. Not so much. The system herds people in the same direction, with the same goal. Clones of one another. And I have no desire to be someone else.
I do not give up. Don't assume those people that didn't go to college just gave up. It's not about the system. It's about finding what truly makes you happy in life, and doing it. I know it sounds like one of those inspirational posters...and yes the queasiness accompanying that thought may be the signal that it's time for this post to end. But I'd rather spend the rest of my life in my hometown, working as a waitress, surrounded by friendship and love, with a bunny for a pet...than beat myself up over graduating with a piece of paper that means I'm supposedly better than someone else when I didn't even have any desire or confidence in choosing that path in the first place.
I'd rather live in love and the present...simply making paper veils and sand cakes, surrounded by floating balloons.
Friday, May 11, 2012
Wednesday, April 25, 2012
.The Pickles.
I've mentioned that I spend many hours under the spell of the talent of the Not-Me's, bewitched by stories and epic tales from the magical Unknowns residing on the internet. My internal thoughts (remember, I still picture them as annoying, mewing felines) have finally persuaded me that I, too, can be clever! I, too, can post my thinkings to the vast internet community, spanning all 87 billion corners of cyberspace and beyond! The world can now access, appreciate, and become addicted to my ramblings about how I see the world, clinging to my words and repeating them once or even twice before bedtime! ...Or, at the very least, if I write these things down I may clear up some space on the hard drive that is my brain and be able to store useful collegiate information, and with it the hope of avoiding another failed physiology exam (one can only hope). With this in mind, I'd like to take the opportunity to share with you (you, the figments of my imagination that pose as the audience in raptures over my very words!) this, a piece over a real subject, a piece that expresses all the love, hope, dreams, and passion from the very depths of my soul: I'd like to talk to you all about pickles.
Pickles. Tragically misunderstood vegetables, lonely and depressed leftover condiments (or at least, the pungent green phallic objects with wart-like bumps possessing the potential to haunt the nightmares of little children). I cannot remember the first pickle I ever ate, nor the hour I professed my undying love for them, nor the day I sold my soul to the Gherkins Gods. Me and pickles, Pickles and I...it just happened. And it's a special thing. To this day I've never had a significant other, but I have lived the majority of my life in one all-consuming, intensely passionate, physical-mental-emotional relationship...with pickles.
When I was a wee thing, I remember ever so vaguely a trip to the ER described to me by my parents. Surprisingly, this was not a story about any of the 7 or 8 trips about having been rushed there myself to get stitches. No, this magical journey to emergency land was made by a completely different character: my older brother. There are some things you should know about Ethan: two years my senior, Ethan is a truly gifted student, intellectual and personable, professional and passionate about whatever he does. To this day I cannot for the life of me figure out how we came from the same gene pool (although if I asked, this biology/philosophy double-majoring brother of mine would be more than happy to inform me of the genetic process). Anyway, when this golden boy was around 3 or 4, he was rushed to the ER to remove a certain food object that had become lodged and stuck in his nostril. Ladies and gentlemen, Ethan had joyfully shoved a pickle in his nose.
Now, I'm not suggesting any disgusting psychological connection between this story and my becoming a pickle fanatic. I am 100% sure that I would have loved the brine-soaked little devils anyway. However, there is something about picturing my dear brother -- the future doctor, who I respect immensely and love with all my heart -- with an unassuming little cucumber sticking out of his nose that gives me more joy than most anything.
Fine, I'll admit it: during my grade school days and through high school, I attempted to hide and/or disguise my delight for pickles. Let's face it, they are kind of offensive little brutes: they smell funky, they've been stripped of most of their nutritional content, and they're aren't exactly the prettiest things to look at, either. Not to mention they can be detected from three cafeteria tables down, though safely stowed inside your Power Rangers lunchbox. Eating a single pickle at lunch could earn you a 6 foot bubble of isolation for a good 3 hours. Nevertheless, the love affair between pickles and I continued, even if it meant disguising them in my Braunschweiger sandwich (another misunderstood food item that I'm sure will resurface in stories to come). So what exactly is it about pickles that has me so absolutely enraptured?
I only have one cheesy theory.
Like coffee and beer, pickles are kind of an acquired taste. When I grew up, most kids my age didn't care for them (many still don't in my college years). In the cafeteria they were often met with a chorus of "Ewwww!" and "Gross!". Truly, many of the sneers and insults came from those who had never even tried one. Pickles, it saddens me to say, were the unaccepted, awkward kids standing alone on the elementary playground or high school parking lot. At some point in life, we've all had moments where we felt like Pickles, myself included. But there is a ray of hope to this story.
One week after I had made it to college, I trudged on over to the dining hall to procure sustenance. As I approached the condiment bar, I scanned my immediate surroundings before picking up a small paper cup to fill with dill pickle slices to munch before class (as if I hadn't already established myself as a weirdo in college, let's just add PICKLES). At first I thought I had overlooked them, but then I saw it: a large, empty container whose confines had formerly been occupied by the crunchy, briny objects of my affection. As I let my shoulders slump in overwhelming sadness, one of the dining hall workers came to check the condiment status. Just before she bustled out of earshot, I heard her say "Pickles gone already...that's the third time today!" If I were a puppy, my ears would have perked and my tail would be knocking over the mustard. There were people, real people, here at college, that appreciated pickles! Like me!
We're a rare breed, us Pickles. Scorned by many, we quietly but proudly persist until we are picked up and loved by those with courage and defiance for conformity, those that can appreciate our quirks and turn to us for gratification or happiness or support no matter what. Perhaps someday the joy we provide can touch the hearts and taste buds of all the world...
...but for now, we're just a comfort for one to relish.
Pickles. Tragically misunderstood vegetables, lonely and depressed leftover condiments (or at least, the pungent green phallic objects with wart-like bumps possessing the potential to haunt the nightmares of little children). I cannot remember the first pickle I ever ate, nor the hour I professed my undying love for them, nor the day I sold my soul to the Gherkins Gods. Me and pickles, Pickles and I...it just happened. And it's a special thing. To this day I've never had a significant other, but I have lived the majority of my life in one all-consuming, intensely passionate, physical-mental-emotional relationship...with pickles.
When I was a wee thing, I remember ever so vaguely a trip to the ER described to me by my parents. Surprisingly, this was not a story about any of the 7 or 8 trips about having been rushed there myself to get stitches. No, this magical journey to emergency land was made by a completely different character: my older brother. There are some things you should know about Ethan: two years my senior, Ethan is a truly gifted student, intellectual and personable, professional and passionate about whatever he does. To this day I cannot for the life of me figure out how we came from the same gene pool (although if I asked, this biology/philosophy double-majoring brother of mine would be more than happy to inform me of the genetic process). Anyway, when this golden boy was around 3 or 4, he was rushed to the ER to remove a certain food object that had become lodged and stuck in his nostril. Ladies and gentlemen, Ethan had joyfully shoved a pickle in his nose.
Now, I'm not suggesting any disgusting psychological connection between this story and my becoming a pickle fanatic. I am 100% sure that I would have loved the brine-soaked little devils anyway. However, there is something about picturing my dear brother -- the future doctor, who I respect immensely and love with all my heart -- with an unassuming little cucumber sticking out of his nose that gives me more joy than most anything.
Fine, I'll admit it: during my grade school days and through high school, I attempted to hide and/or disguise my delight for pickles. Let's face it, they are kind of offensive little brutes: they smell funky, they've been stripped of most of their nutritional content, and they're aren't exactly the prettiest things to look at, either. Not to mention they can be detected from three cafeteria tables down, though safely stowed inside your Power Rangers lunchbox. Eating a single pickle at lunch could earn you a 6 foot bubble of isolation for a good 3 hours. Nevertheless, the love affair between pickles and I continued, even if it meant disguising them in my Braunschweiger sandwich (another misunderstood food item that I'm sure will resurface in stories to come). So what exactly is it about pickles that has me so absolutely enraptured?
I only have one cheesy theory.
Like coffee and beer, pickles are kind of an acquired taste. When I grew up, most kids my age didn't care for them (many still don't in my college years). In the cafeteria they were often met with a chorus of "Ewwww!" and "Gross!". Truly, many of the sneers and insults came from those who had never even tried one. Pickles, it saddens me to say, were the unaccepted, awkward kids standing alone on the elementary playground or high school parking lot. At some point in life, we've all had moments where we felt like Pickles, myself included. But there is a ray of hope to this story.
One week after I had made it to college, I trudged on over to the dining hall to procure sustenance. As I approached the condiment bar, I scanned my immediate surroundings before picking up a small paper cup to fill with dill pickle slices to munch before class (as if I hadn't already established myself as a weirdo in college, let's just add PICKLES). At first I thought I had overlooked them, but then I saw it: a large, empty container whose confines had formerly been occupied by the crunchy, briny objects of my affection. As I let my shoulders slump in overwhelming sadness, one of the dining hall workers came to check the condiment status. Just before she bustled out of earshot, I heard her say "Pickles gone already...that's the third time today!" If I were a puppy, my ears would have perked and my tail would be knocking over the mustard. There were people, real people, here at college, that appreciated pickles! Like me!
We're a rare breed, us Pickles. Scorned by many, we quietly but proudly persist until we are picked up and loved by those with courage and defiance for conformity, those that can appreciate our quirks and turn to us for gratification or happiness or support no matter what. Perhaps someday the joy we provide can touch the hearts and taste buds of all the world...
...but for now, we're just a comfort for one to relish.
.The Initial Distraction. (aka The Pilot)
I am not a writer. Nor am I a blogger. I find myself challenged in every way possible, literally. By literally challenged, I mean that I struggle with the precise and imaginative art that is literature. Sure, I've written my fair share of college papers fueled by Diet Coke and impending doom. There was even a point in time where I could crank out a 30-something line poem full of cleverness and wit, featuring absolutely alluring alliterations, obscure references to the college culture, and a strategically placed mention of a penis or two. The spoken rhythm of my words was even so perfectly crafted that it could be sung to the tune of the Beverly Hillbillies theme song. Yes, it was that good, but no, I am no writer.
There are days where I do nothing but sit on my Mac, scanning Facebook and Tumblr for the taste of the talent and internet-induced life that I do not possess. "If only I were that clever!" says my brain. "If only I had a love story like yours!" says my heart. "If only the Twins could get to the World Series!" says no part of me whatsoever, for in addition to my literal impairment, I have no knowledge, talent, awareness, or interest in this strange universe they call "athletics". Still, I sit and thrive off the inspirations and imaginations of countless cyber personalities, rewarding their work with the validating Like or Reblog. Until recently my own not-so creative thoughts have sat quietly and obediently by my side, like a cat waiting for the opening of a tuna can. Patient and unwavering they have waited, these fictitious felines generated by my overactive imagination...as if I were holding the Can Opener of Abstract Thought. I finally decided that it was time to voice myself, right meow, in hot pink ink, written in my neat I-think-I'm-pretty-sexy cursive. There, with my self-alluring handwriting and a notebook from 2007, is where I set out recreate the world of my mind on paper (now online, where I knew my words would undoubtedly end up); to fill this very page with cautionary tales about instant wax, jokes that are only kind of safe to tell in front of your relatives, relate-able college anecdotes, and attempts at covering up the fact that you may need some serious help if you visualize your thoughts as hungry, tuna-craving cats.
Perhaps I may be struck by the glowing rays of inspiration, or perhaps I cannot sleep, but my guess is that perhaps, PERHAPS, my roommate is on the phone with her boyfriend and there is something about the mixture of her complaining and sickeningly-cute banter that tells me: "Distract yourself now, or vomit later." I don't need telling twice; I'd major in Distraction if it weren't so competitive already.
There are days where I do nothing but sit on my Mac, scanning Facebook and Tumblr for the taste of the talent and internet-induced life that I do not possess. "If only I were that clever!" says my brain. "If only I had a love story like yours!" says my heart. "If only the Twins could get to the World Series!" says no part of me whatsoever, for in addition to my literal impairment, I have no knowledge, talent, awareness, or interest in this strange universe they call "athletics". Still, I sit and thrive off the inspirations and imaginations of countless cyber personalities, rewarding their work with the validating Like or Reblog. Until recently my own not-so creative thoughts have sat quietly and obediently by my side, like a cat waiting for the opening of a tuna can. Patient and unwavering they have waited, these fictitious felines generated by my overactive imagination...as if I were holding the Can Opener of Abstract Thought. I finally decided that it was time to voice myself, right meow, in hot pink ink, written in my neat I-think-I'm-pretty-sexy cursive. There, with my self-alluring handwriting and a notebook from 2007, is where I set out recreate the world of my mind on paper (now online, where I knew my words would undoubtedly end up); to fill this very page with cautionary tales about instant wax, jokes that are only kind of safe to tell in front of your relatives, relate-able college anecdotes, and attempts at covering up the fact that you may need some serious help if you visualize your thoughts as hungry, tuna-craving cats.
Perhaps I may be struck by the glowing rays of inspiration, or perhaps I cannot sleep, but my guess is that perhaps, PERHAPS, my roommate is on the phone with her boyfriend and there is something about the mixture of her complaining and sickeningly-cute banter that tells me: "Distract yourself now, or vomit later." I don't need telling twice; I'd major in Distraction if it weren't so competitive already.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)