Bump and Run

The Senior parking lot is hell. Absolutely crazy. Cars zipping all over the place, horns blaring, busses clogging the only exit, shouting, and ever second is a near miss… Blinkers don’t seem to exist there, and actually waiting until someone graciously lets you out unheard of. Cutting in front of patiently waiting cars is common- almost as common as playing chicken to see who gets the most sought after spot in line. The students wander all over the place, never once glancing behind them as they parade with their posse in the middle of the road, despite the aforementioned conditions. And what is this? Arrows are meant to tell you which direction to travel in? Nonsense, not in the high school senior lot! Everywhere is fair game- if it’s paved (and sometimes even if it’s not), you can drive anywhere on it you like. To some, it’s fun to see how close you can come to hitting the poor hall monitor sent out to direct traffic (badly, I might add).

Oh! I almost forgot! Sometimes, if you are a very nice person and work ever so hard at your studies, one of the steroid gobbling jocks might just slam his car door into the side of your vehicle, look you in he eyes, and then drive off without another moment’s hesitation. That’s right. Doesn’t that sound exciting and well worth all your effort to be courteous to other drivers in that hell hole?

Absolutely not, because that is exactly what happened to me this afternoon. My best friend was letting me out of my spot into the line of cars waiting to get out when three vulture cars (as I fondly call them) also pulled out to grab at the coveted spot. This was when the steroid gobbling jock jumped into the car to the right of me, wrenching his backseat passenger side door so hard that it slammed into my car’s side with a dead- sounding thunk. At first I thought ‘That sounded really loud…’ which soon turned in to ‘OHMIGOD THAT HIT MY CAR!’ The offender looked at me, closed his door, and pulled into the spot my friend had opened for me. I backed up into my spot- I had pulled out a foot before the vultures barred my way- and quickly memorized the license plate number. First I waved on my confused looking friends who hadn’t seen what history had just went down, wrote down the plate, and checked the damage. I spied two white scratch marks on the passenger side door handle and the door. With a bit of spit, most of it came off. But that’s not the point. WHO DOES THAT? Who just hits someone’s car and pulls away without a simple ‘oh, hey, did I just hit you? Any damage?’ Apparently people from the Senior parking lot, and I’s guess a ton of others.

 

I'm not angry, per say, just done with it all. And next time I’m calling the cops, no damage be damned.

Nerd, much?

So today I had my friend help me ask for extra work. Yes, you read that right. A senior in high school with thirteen days left of school total, who is getting more and more lazy about school rules and is very tempted to not do work (though I haven't mustered enough guts to do it... yet) just asked if she could please do another final project. A final project for an Advanced Placement class that she isn't even in. It's due June 6th, and I won't have as much time to complete the project as the kids in the class will.

Now, before you call the authorities on me, this is for AP English Composition. And the final project is to submit four original works to be assessed and graded. One of the works may be a revision of a previous piece, and three must be written from now until the due date. Sad thing is, I haven't got any brilliant essay to revise because my slacker English classes never assigned any in the first place, so all of my pieces will have to be new. Unless I take one of my WIPs, shorten it to five pages, and call it a short story. Hm. It'll be a challenge, that's for sure.

I don't remember if I've ever asked for extra work before. Let alone for a class I'm not even in. At least I know that that hasn't happened before. I've read stories about how these adorable Chinese children are so dedicated to their schooling and pleasing their families, that they constantly ask for more work so they can master the material. Like, the entire class would line up after school and ask Teacher one by one for more packets. And I am NOT saying that all Chinese children do this, that they're the only studious children in the world, or that it's a bad thing by any means (just to make that clear). But that's what I though as I met up with my friend early to ask her English teacher, because she's actually in the class. A studious little kid. Don't get me wrong- I get amazing grades- straight A's- but I rarely have to work hard at it. I pay attention in class, take my notes, do my homework (the night before it's due, usually, but I put effort into it). Study, though? Ask for more work to feel more accomplished? I might have, if I hadn't had the Mom I do. She's so easy going, wants me to take it easy and not burn out, giving me confidence that it won't make me any more 'stupid' if I don't cram my schedule with three APs and two UHS courses a year. So I'm pretty well balanced, in my opinion, with my mother to soften me.

Yet I just had to ask for this. It's not work, this writing portfolio. It's feedback, and even more so because the grade won't affect me. If I work hard at producing four works up to my standards (hopefully beyond them) and get constructive criticism, I'll be really happy and better off because of it.

And yes, I am procrastinating doing the writing because I haven't exactly found my muse as of yet, and needed to write something to jump start me. Onward, overachiever me, onward!

"A good teacher is like a candle - it consumes itself to light the way for others."

This is a shout out to all the teachers that have helped me grow, inspired me to learn, think, and read. You hold a special place not only in my heart, but in my imaginative brain as well- because you helped to shape it. To all teachers who inspire and sacrifice for your students. I'm not ignorant enough to think that all students will be grateful, but there are a select few of us who recognize your worth. Thank you.

To my preschool teacher, who painted rocks and pine cones gold and hid your smile rather well when I exclaimed that you had no idea how much this gold stuff was worth and how could you just give this to me? For singing the Barney clean u song with us every afternoon, for sharing your basement with us every other day while my Dad got to run a few errands. I want you to know that I almost cried when I realized I wouldn't be going back to you when kindergarten came, that I still laugh at the paper photo albums and Thanksgiving "Recipe" book you gave us, and that I remember the parties, and when my neighbor's purple ball got stuck in the creek. Thanks. (P.S. I'm very happy that you're doing well after your bought with cancer, I wanted very much to visit).

To my fifth grade teacher, who gave out Jolly Ranchers and homework-free days whenever her sports teams won. For putting up with my climbing of the pine trees in the courtyard, and for seating me next to that strange boy who became my friend years later- I taught him how to make paper furniture. For all those DLR (Daily Language Review) worksheets every morning, because I learned how to string the sentences together to make a story. You might have started my love of writing.

To my middle school Spanish teacher with the curly crazy hair who had a fiesta every holiday. Thanks for taking us outside to play 'pato, pato, ganso' (duck, duck, goose) and for giving us that funny cardboard car and gave us direction in Spanish as we shuffled around the classroom trying to get to the post office (correro). I was actually interested in Spanish then, and I'm sorry to say I lost it in high school when the teachers got more distant and taught strictly from workbooks. I missed you these four years, and I hope that my affinity for the language hasn't been totally destroyed by them, because I'd still like to learn it. Gracias. Yo recordaré tú clase por siempre.

To my eighth grade English teacher, who hosted Vietnam Idol so we could perform poems, songs, and raps that we wrote about the war and the home front. You knew how to make things fun, and I especially remember how the principle came and told us to be quiet as we screamed "8B-5!!!!!!", our class division and number, at the competing class. For singing with the female teacher a rendition of Summer Nights from Grease, but with Vietnam lyrics. For giving my class cake twice- once to celebrate your wedding, and another time just because. I was quiet, but I want you to know I listened, and I loved it. I won't forget you, or the fact that 8B-5 totally won the rap- off.

To my tenth grade global history teacher, who always made me feel smart and complimented me one day in the computer lab, suggesting that I try for AP United States History class next year, because you thought I was more than ready. For letting the class divide into two and throw paper at each other from behind the desks to simulate the trenches of WWI. I also really enjoyed the French Revolution exercise- the one where we all got jobs such as serfs, Lords, King, Queen, and my role- the tax collector. I started to relate to my Dad when he spoke about history then, and I thank you for sparking that.

To my tenth grade math teacher, who tried to sing along to 50 Cent and talked to himself quite a lot. I forgive you for forgetting to put my name in the prize hat for half of the year. For helping me the next year as I struggled with a teacher that didn't agree with me and my grades suffered, even though you had to study ahead of your own class to teach me. I'm just sorry that I didn't enjoy math with the same intensity or calmness that you had. I admit it- I'm a math-a-phobe. But you tried very hard to break through, and I appreciate the effort where other had given up.

To my APUSH teacher, who tried very hard to bring technology into the picture. It worked for me. I nailed the AP thanks to you, and your class gave me such a confidence boost that I could handle so much work. I think I'll be okay in college after that course. You're very in love with what you do, and I think that's great not only for you, but for your students, too. Also, I'm very sorry that you feel the need to shave your head because of your lack of hair. Thanks for the nerdy t-shirt that say APUSH and your Latin saying.

To my AP English Literature teacher, who read my essays aloud in class twice! You have no idea how proud it made me that you approved of them. That first grade on my Huck Finn essay nearly killed me- a failing 60% (!)- but I'm glad that I got it, because I learned from it. For letting the crazy drama club-football-energetic boy read aloud every class as Willy from Death of a Salesman. I know that you really liked him, no matter what you said. For teaching me that the craft of essay-writing wasn't so different from the fiction writing I loved- make it interesting, make it structured, and throw in some fancy words- and you'll be all set. But I still don't like Poe.

To my English teacher currently (12th grade), for asking why I hadn't taken AP English this year. For off handedly saying, in reply to me saying I was good at Biology and took my AP there instead, that "well, you're good at English, too." I want you to know that even though you're driving me crazy for not giving me a 100 on a project (beautiful, long projects that take me seven hours to do), and I don't always agree with the books you give us to read or how much free time we have- I'll remember that you think I'm good at English. And it means a lot to me. Thank you.

To my AP biology teacher this year, who expanded my horizons. I felt a strange pull to take your class- I didn't even really like bio, but I felt I had to take it. I actually considered becoming a doctor because of your class, though I don't think you know it. I might still, but the number of years it would take makes me sick. For letting us play that review pictionary game, because I got my team eight points in a row. For being interested in what you do, and for threatening the talkative-texting boy in a number of creative ways when he was being distracting. For thinking that things like blood, mutant kittens, the evolution of motherhood, psychological disorder documentaries, and the habits of frogs who birth their young through their backs are interesting things (so do I)!


That's it for now on you guys. You'll all probably never read this, never find out that I'm referring to you, but I know its here. You affected my life, and it doesn't matter if you forget about me or already have. I know you have a lot of lives to teach and shape in your own ways. Never underestimate the power of fun activities and a day off once in a while, because we appreciate a break, and I'm sure you deserve one, too. May your candle never burn out, because you'll be sorely missed.

Tamora Pierce

Tamora Pierce is pretty much at the top tier of authors that I admire. It's just in the way that she constructs her world, and keeps her different series in it. She must have spent a very long time creating the world, the cultures, the people, the land, maps... It makes perfect sense for her to write within that one place, making all the series companions. Even the characters interact from separate series once in a while- Alanna from the Song of the Lioness series and Kel from the Protector of the Small series know each other. And *spoiler alert* Alanna's daughter has her own two books- the Trickster's Choice and Trickster's Queen. I love it.

The way she writes is simple. Nothing fancy, no huge words, and easy going characters that practically everyone can relate to in one way or another. But with her stories (which are classic fantasy ones), no fancy writing is required. Tales of knights, kick-ass girl characters, meddling Gods and Goddesses, wars, spies, and fantastic creatures are more than enough to occupy the mind and creativity of a reader. Tamora Pierce also had a knack for writing down accents phonetically, something that I know from experience needs either a heck of a lot of work or a natural talent for it to work properly.

So props to you, Tamora Pierce- I am enjoying re-reading all your series and plan to do so many more times over the course of my life.

The List

Things I must do before I die:

1) Explore Venice alone. Visit the store from Summertime with Katharine Hepburn. Float along in a gondola, and ask the gondolier where the best food can be found. Eat said food. Buy a red dress and heels, proceed to act Italian, only betrayed by my obvious American accent. Admire the Italian men, try to find out if they really can make a girl feel like a woman.

2) Run through the Irish moors barefoot in the evening after it just finished raining. Trace patterns in the dew with my hands. Wait until the sun sets and dance around in the moonlight, unafraid, catching glimpses of fey and leprechauns in the wood. Grin and dance on, accept the lapse of reality.

3) Visit the birthplace of religion- Jerusalem. Be a tourist at first, then relax into it, take one day at a time. Take a bus out to the desert with a backpack containing a canteen, crackers, sunscreen, canned goods, a sweatshirt, and a sleeping bag. Navigate through the empty, cleansing dunes with nothing to guide but the stars and a walking stick. Find God.

4) View Paris from the top of the Eiffel Tower at night and watch the city glitter. Visit a French cafe and order something sophisticated. Don't stay too long, beware of locals.

5) Fall madly in love. Either so quick I won't know what hit me, or slowly, so I can never discern where we stopped being friends and when I started loving him. Marriage, a white dress, a dance with Dad, and seeing no one else in the room but him. Work hard at it.

6) Have a baby, adopted or not. Revel in selecting a name, the perfect name. Love the little fingers gripping my own. Be proud and happy (and a little sad) that my baby will grow.

7) Walk the Great Wall of China, and admire a secluded Buddhist temple in China. Eat real Chinese food and compare it to take out. Have the best cup of tea I'll ever have the pleasure to sip. Inhale the damp smell of the tea leaves, empty the mind, and taste.

8) Help a stranger, a friend, change their life for the better. Always be pure, keep trust, and faith that things turn out alright in the end. Be true.

9) Read. Read until I have a library and enough dreams to last me a lifetime. Live not only though the books but in action and by learning from them. Finish writing a novel. Edit it, print it out. Either keep it for myself or poke around to see if I can be published. Cherish the raw manuscript no matter what I choose to do with it.

10) Do something fun and out of character (but secretly more in character than ever before- that's the trick!) once a week. Predictable yet unpredictable. Keep the spark alive.

*smile*

*Yawns*

And so I shake off the dust that has accumulated over the long period of my break from writing. A lot had happened since I last wrote (last year!!!) but I won't bog everything down with a huge summary. Instead, I'm going to record the story of my one of my greater puppy loves from days long gone, for no more reason than because I want to.

It happened in middle school, in the year of T-shirts, blue jeans, and self consciousness. I met a boy in the way that most schoolgirls do- in a class I had. He sat in front of me, and I'm sorry to say that I ended up oblivious to my friend for most of the year, distracted by his jokes and teasing. This boy was a nice one, but I was stuck quite firmly in between a hardy friendship and a flickering crush. The end of the year came swiftly, and the yearbooks were handed out to everyone. I was shocked when he splayed his out on my desk one day and thrust me a pen, asking quietly if I would please give me my phone number in case he wanted to call. It was hot out, and the middle school had no air conditioner. That's the thing about living in the Northeast- you get all the seasons at full force. Teachers turned on the fans they lugged in from home, closed blinds to block out the sun, and fashioned paper fans out of scarce scrap paper, but we all knew they had no effect. It was one of those days that I took the pen from him and scribbled out a note, signed my name, and tacked on my number to the end of a corner in the back. I fished out my book and he signed. Class went on, we joked, talked about summer, and poked fun at the elderly teacher Mrs. Cam.
I didn't have to wait long before he called. We talked for at least an hour every time, if not two. My parents took to answering the phone before me, holding it out, and calling out "Honey, your boy is calling again!" Especially my dad. Well, I'd throw them a look with a roll of my eyes and snatch at the phone for another long conversation about nothing: the weather, pool parties, boredom, friends, vacations and summer reading assignments. I thought that I'd found the friend I'd always read about in books- the one that you can tell anything to, talk for hours on end, confide in and be together 'till the end. But I also can't deny that I also had a crush on him, the dear boy. One day I called and left a message for him: would he like to come mini-golfing with me and my brother and cousin? He didn't get the message in time, and so we went without. The next week he called me and told me he had to go mini-golfing with his grandparents and didn't want to go alone with them. I checked with my parents and said sure I'd go! Ha!
Turned out his grandparents weren't really going golfing with us at all- they dropped us off and left. I was confused beyond my mind, but I went with the flow, not wanting to sound as if I didn't want to hang out with him. I just wished he'd asked that outright, because the answer would've been yes. Then the hints started coming. He insisted that he buy the game for us both, and I waved my own ten dollar bill in front of him, explaining that my mom wanted me to help with the cost. He refused and I put the money away, not liking where this was going. We played a game just fine. All talking and teasing again, and I relaxed. We turned in our clubs and neon golf balls and wandered inside where snacks, ice cream, and fried foods were sold. A couple pinball machines hid inside the "party room" reserved for birthday parties. Again the hints happened. We both wanted popcorn chicken and french fries, and I had to argue to pay for my own. And you know what? I don't even remember if he let me pay this time for my own or not. We brought the food outside and sat on the wooden steps on the porch. Then we took a walk around the building, and here's where I started to wonder when his grandparents were going to pick us up. I shook myself off and went along, ignoring the signs, not wanting to ruin our friendship with silly suspicions.
"If you could have one wish right now, what would it be?" he asked suddenly, slowing down our pace. I countered with the same question, but he pointed out that he had asked first. In the background a romantic song played, "A Moment Like This", and I recognized it from a cruise commercial I had seen on the TV, full of couples laughing and racing on the beach together. I shrugged and smiled slightly. 'I wish he'd kiss me.' The thought startled me and I wondered if it really had come from my own mind. But I had thought it. I shrugged and shook my head. "I don't know. Nothing, I guess." I copped out. I didn't really want a boyfriend, it was only the small crush talking to me. Everything clicked together then. He would have wanted me to say that, because that was the relationship he wanted- the paying for my game, his family dropped us off alone- it was planned. I started to panic like some cornered thing. I kept walking and sat down on the other side of the porch. He sat down a stair below me and the conversation veered back to normal. I still fingered my cell phone, wondering if I should lie and tell him I had to go home soon.
He mumbled something, and I couldn't understand what he had said. It sounded like an invitation to his family's camp later that summer, we were just talking about it the second before, but I couldn't be sure. "What?" I asked. The poor boy hunched his shoulders and glanced down at his hands, "Don't make me say it again." he pleaded. The alarm bells should have gone off at that, but I asked again, explaining that I really hadn't heard it. Another second of silence, and he fidgeted. "Would you go out with me?". I clammed up at that. He was asking me out as plain as day, asking that I be his girlfriend. I still to this day wish that I had done something different after that, but I can't change the past. I pretended that I hadn't heard him again. "What? I'm sorry, I didn't catch it again. Oh well, I should be getting home soon, my parents gave me a curfew this afternoon, you know." I blabbered on, and then it got really quiet. I think he knew I'd heard him, he'd been very clear about it the second time around. He phoned his family and they picked us up. The ride back to my house was a silent one. I scrambled out of the truck and didn't look back. The calls were either so scarce after that that I don't remember them or he just didn't call after that. I was disappointed that I lost the great friend I had thought he was. I really hadn't tried to lead him on, I swear it, but it all went wrong.
By the time school came that September, the boy was always waiting at my locker in the morning. Apparently he was determined to win me over, despite that summer. I avoided my locker and told no one about him, not my friends or my mother. I thought it was all my fault, and I didn't know how to handle him at all. Worst thing was, I did still have the smallest crush on him, but I was turning out to be flighty when it came down to the punch. He got me one morning, and handed me a giant white gift bag with a stingy bow attached, gauzy gift paper spilling out of it. He explained that he bought me it in Maine on a family vacation, then just smiled and left, that was it. I opened it- a pink rhinestone heart on a silver necklace chain. It didn't look expensive, almost like something you'd get out of a little dollar vending machine in the mall, but I couldn't be sure of it. I still avoided my locker, and I feel terrible about doing that. I called him one night before dinner and explained that I was going to give him the necklace back so he could give it to another girl who'd appreciate it more that I would. I was only a friend, and wasn't ready for anything else. I hung up, and that was that.
But it was his turn to avoid me, and I couldn't find him to give the gift back. I gave up trying and kept it in a drawer in the bathroom. A month later I threw it out. If he wouldn't take it back, I certainly wasn't going to keep it. I feel bad about that too.
The puppy love ended.