A few months ago, I got a new Blackberry phone. A white Blackberry Torch. A yesterday, I left it on the school bus. It was completely unintentional. I don't just have phones lying around that I feel like leaving places. I was really sad that it was gone, but it was gone. I would never see it again and my contacts and other important information would be gone forever. I was completely devastated.
We called the department of transportation for our county and they said they would ask my bus driver if she found anything. They said they found a white phone.
My phone! Only I would have this amazing luck and be so blessed to find it when someone else could have stolen it. She said I could pick it up when I ride the bus in the afternoons when school gets out.
So today I sauntered with joy to my bus and I asked my bus driver if she had found a white phone. And out popped my phone from a little cubby on the dashboard. She smiled and said "that's quite a nice phone." And it really is. I absolutely love my phone so much. And I feel so stupid for leaving it. After I thanked her profusely, she told me that the one to thank was a kid who sat diagonal from me on the bus. I estimated he was approximately sophomore age, and he was quiet - one of those iPod kids. But he never bothered anyone, unlike the juniors on the bus who think they are just the coolest kids on the block because they're not sophomores anymore, and today he saved part of my life. He was the one who found my phone and instead of stealing it and erasing the SIM card like the typical, stereotypical teen might do, he turned it into the bus driver and she saved it for me.
I don't know my bus driver by name, and I don't even know the kid who saved my phone, but if you are reading this, thank you so much. Thanks for doing something so kind for a stranger and not taking advantage of the situation. It's comforting to know that there are great people in this world.
31 August 2011
30 August 2011
off to bed
I hate when I start typing then look up 2 sentences later and realize it was all in caps lock. Then I have to delete it all.
But anyways, hustle and bustle are 2 conveniently rhyming words that mean the same thing and describe the lives of daily Americans.
But sometimes, it's nice to settle down into a warm bed and decompress as you drift in and out of consciousness. And finally fall into a relaxing sleep.
Sleep is a basic need. And a lot of times we want a lot more than just basic needs. But right now, sleep is something that sounds more than fabulous. And although I want to write more, I am simply too tired to think of a thing to write. So now I will retire to my soft and cozy bed and hopefully gain enough rest to come back to you tomorrow with something more riveting.
But anyways, hustle and bustle are 2 conveniently rhyming words that mean the same thing and describe the lives of daily Americans.
But sometimes, it's nice to settle down into a warm bed and decompress as you drift in and out of consciousness. And finally fall into a relaxing sleep.
Sleep is a basic need. And a lot of times we want a lot more than just basic needs. But right now, sleep is something that sounds more than fabulous. And although I want to write more, I am simply too tired to think of a thing to write. So now I will retire to my soft and cozy bed and hopefully gain enough rest to come back to you tomorrow with something more riveting.
29 August 2011
money buys some people happiness
Since we're seniors in high school, we need to start considering the future, says our guidance counseling office. So they called in a motivational speaker. I don't know what motivational speeches do to high schoolers who really just want to get their work done, but it's their call.
So this overly-peppy, ex-NFL player came in to talk to us about getting a job, making money, and for some reason, cyberbullying and stereotypes. It was like the how-to-do-everything-right-miscellaneous-speech. It was a tad bit unfocused and strange, but oh well.
We talked - well, he talked - about how getting your "dream job" will be great, but it should be one that makes you some good money. What's all this money talk about? It's almost like a high-paying job will guarantee happiness. And I guess that would be nice to have some extra cash. But it doesn't make you happier. You could be a billionaire suffering from depression, or you could have terrible misfortunes and live a miserable life - but still be rich and successful in your job. Or you could be an underpaid schoolteacher who loves going to work everyday. Which sounds better?
Not to say that money can't buy happiness, because evidently it can for some people. I just wish that people could see that. And he also said we should "prepare ourselves" for things like math, science, and information technology because "that's where the money is." No. The money is in the bank. And the money can be yours with hard work, desire, and of course, passion. I, for instance, cannot be an engineer. But I would be perfectly happy doing something like art, photography, design, or social sciences. And that might not be "where the money is", but it's where my heart is. And wherever my heart is, is happiness.
So this overly-peppy, ex-NFL player came in to talk to us about getting a job, making money, and for some reason, cyberbullying and stereotypes. It was like the how-to-do-everything-right-miscellaneous-speech. It was a tad bit unfocused and strange, but oh well.
We talked - well, he talked - about how getting your "dream job" will be great, but it should be one that makes you some good money. What's all this money talk about? It's almost like a high-paying job will guarantee happiness. And I guess that would be nice to have some extra cash. But it doesn't make you happier. You could be a billionaire suffering from depression, or you could have terrible misfortunes and live a miserable life - but still be rich and successful in your job. Or you could be an underpaid schoolteacher who loves going to work everyday. Which sounds better?
Not to say that money can't buy happiness, because evidently it can for some people. I just wish that people could see that. And he also said we should "prepare ourselves" for things like math, science, and information technology because "that's where the money is." No. The money is in the bank. And the money can be yours with hard work, desire, and of course, passion. I, for instance, cannot be an engineer. But I would be perfectly happy doing something like art, photography, design, or social sciences. And that might not be "where the money is", but it's where my heart is. And wherever my heart is, is happiness.
28 August 2011
unabridged
I hate limits. Does anyone ever put a limit on your thoughts? How many words you can say? I didn't think so.
Which is why I was incredibly distraught, to say the least, when I found out that "250 word minimum" didn't come without "500 word maximum" for college application essays. After working for 2 hours to beef up my mediocre essay, I had to spend the next 5 hours - not an exaggeration - getting rid of 744 words. So here is the real essay, the real me, all 1244 words. Before the ugly revision.
The sound of stridulating crickets filled the humid, stagnant air. I reached down and swatted a bug from my leg, sticky and glossy from layers of insect repellent and sunscreen. I stepped down onto the path and watched as the powdery, pebbly dirt rose in small clusters and off into the grey of the sky.
Our group shuffled towards the school, a large sea-foam green building with a corrugated metal roof. For the most part it was open in layout; perhaps to alleviate weather-related damage. The building was only temporary, the government’s attempt to bandage a glaring problem. Their school was destroyed last year in a flood that left the school in ruins.
It took less than half of a second to comprehend the circumstances. This was not my school, with cloud-white columns lining the entrance like a great monument of ancient Greece.
A mother calling her children, a faint sound of laughter. Shoes shuffling in the dirt.
Against the wall and through the chain link fence we saw children – boys, girls, preschool-age, teenagers – and we walked nervously to the classroom. I couldn’t help but smile at their beautiful, youthful, olive-skinned faces and their dark, eager eyes. They smiled back and waved. Some mumbled to each other in Spanish, but I had not a clue what they were speaking about.
The headmaster showed us a classroom, and motioned for the children to come forward. I put the butcher paper I had carried on a small beaten-down desk and eyed the room. Concrete floors. Chain link fence walls. A faded black chalkboard with a thin film of chalky residue. A single teacher’s desk with nothing on it. No books, no pens, no paper.
We invited the children in and we began to introduce ourselves. I sat next to a small boy holding a red marker. The fine lines in the palms of his hands were coated with dirt, as were his small fingernails. His deep brown eyes caught mine and he smiled.
“Hello. I am Megan.”
He sat silently, smiling back at me with his glowing bronze skin, his deep brown marble-like eyes trying to make sense of someone who looked so different from himself.
I pointed to myself. “Megan.”
He tilted his head in confusion. I was speaking plain English, and I knew I spoke clearly enough. But it had never occurred to me that none of these children had ever left Playa Copal, or even La Cruz, in their entire lives.
I ransacked my brain for just an inkling of Spanish. “T—tu . . . nombre?” I managed to say, realizing afterwards that it rang like French in my ears.
Born and raised in America, I have grown up speaking English every day since I was a little over a year old. I think, write, dream, and talk in English. And here I was trying to do the same to someone who, like me, grew up speaking the same language for most of his life. Unlike me, that language was Spanish; a verbal code I had not yet deciphered.
“Megan,” I repeated, pointing to myself. “Megan.”
I gestured to him. “..Nombre?”
Nothing. I waited with bated breath for a response.
“Antonio.”
I pointed to him again. “Antonio?”
He nodded with satisfaction.
“Bonj—hola, Antonio!” I caught myself just before I had completely confused him with French.
I lifted my hand and picked off small pebbles that had stuck into them. I picked up a marker and started to draw a figure that I knew we would both recognize.
“Sun,” I declared. “Sun.”
“Sohn.”
“Si, si. Sun.”
He sat intently waiting for me to draw something new. I racked my brain and decided to stay simple.
“Dog,” I said clearly as I pointed to the drawing.
“..Dog?”
“Si.” But did he really understand what I drew?
“Umm, en español por favor?” I prayed that he understood.
A pause. “Perro.” One of the only Spanish words I recognized.
I sat there completely in awe. I drew a dog. He saw a perro. But we know them as the same.
“He got it!” I exclaimed to some of the other people in my group. “I can’t believe he got it!”
Antonio looked back at me, waiting for more.
“I am happy,” I said as I smiled.
“Hahppy,” he smiled.
“Si! Happy.”
I asked him what that meant in Spanish. “Yo..yo soy contento.”
I am happy in French is Je suis contente. Contente, contento. I am happy. He understood more than just a picture on a dirty piece of butcher paper. He understood an emotion. We had established a connection. He understood me and I understood him. We had communicated.
I started beaming and I gave him a high-five, an American tradition that all of the students would keep with them even after we left. It was then that I knew he understood.
After this initial breakthrough, a lot of picture-drawing and acting out, I learned from Antonio the Spanish words for monkey, snake, cow, brother, and sister. I discovered that he was ten years old, just like my brother, and that he lived on a farm with cows, chickens, ducks, and dogs. He lived with his mother, father, and three brothers, both older and younger. He was surprised when I told him that I didn’t have cows at my house.
I left the school that day with dirt on my hands, sweat on my forehead and a new perspective in my mind. And in fact, I learned more from the students, especially Antonio, than I had taught to them. I learned that day that communication comes in many different forms; words are simply an easier mode of communication. I thought that the only way to communicate was to talk to people, and that while it was fun to play charades or Pictionary, gestures and pictures typically proved ineffective at communicating. But this day at the school, I was proven wrong.
Language used to be a barrier; something that prevented me from entering the lives of another culture. If I could not speak their language, I could not communicate with them. They would be speaking in a code that I could not crack. But now I have learned that communication manifests itself in different ways, through not only words but pictures, gestures, laughing, and smiling.
I had a breakthrough that day. And I know it has changed me because I can understand the way people communicate even better. We might not think we use anything but words when we communicate, but in America, we communicate in ways we didn’t think we could. The way we shift our weight to one foot can say more about our mood than simply saying what we feel. The way we can express words through motions and acting says as much as the words themselves. The way the skin by our eyes creases and folds when we smile can say everything about what we feel without uttering a word.
These simple nuances in human tendencies are etched into our minds like pictographs engraved into a cuneiform tablet. We all might carry different dictionaries in our minds, but we all have the capability to communicate without words. Words stitch cultures together, but nonverbal communication stitches humanity together.
We boarded the bus back to our house. All of the schoolchildren surrounded the bus, waving and smiling, waiting for us to come back next week. I couldn’t help but smile the whole way back.
Dear Spanish speakers, sorry for the lack of accents on a few words. They are added in the new version. And dear college admissions directors, please read this one instead.
Which is why I was incredibly distraught, to say the least, when I found out that "250 word minimum" didn't come without "500 word maximum" for college application essays. After working for 2 hours to beef up my mediocre essay, I had to spend the next 5 hours - not an exaggeration - getting rid of 744 words. So here is the real essay, the real me, all 1244 words. Before the ugly revision.
The sound of stridulating crickets filled the humid, stagnant air. I reached down and swatted a bug from my leg, sticky and glossy from layers of insect repellent and sunscreen. I stepped down onto the path and watched as the powdery, pebbly dirt rose in small clusters and off into the grey of the sky.
Our group shuffled towards the school, a large sea-foam green building with a corrugated metal roof. For the most part it was open in layout; perhaps to alleviate weather-related damage. The building was only temporary, the government’s attempt to bandage a glaring problem. Their school was destroyed last year in a flood that left the school in ruins.
It took less than half of a second to comprehend the circumstances. This was not my school, with cloud-white columns lining the entrance like a great monument of ancient Greece.
A mother calling her children, a faint sound of laughter. Shoes shuffling in the dirt.
Against the wall and through the chain link fence we saw children – boys, girls, preschool-age, teenagers – and we walked nervously to the classroom. I couldn’t help but smile at their beautiful, youthful, olive-skinned faces and their dark, eager eyes. They smiled back and waved. Some mumbled to each other in Spanish, but I had not a clue what they were speaking about.
The headmaster showed us a classroom, and motioned for the children to come forward. I put the butcher paper I had carried on a small beaten-down desk and eyed the room. Concrete floors. Chain link fence walls. A faded black chalkboard with a thin film of chalky residue. A single teacher’s desk with nothing on it. No books, no pens, no paper.
We invited the children in and we began to introduce ourselves. I sat next to a small boy holding a red marker. The fine lines in the palms of his hands were coated with dirt, as were his small fingernails. His deep brown eyes caught mine and he smiled.
“Hello. I am Megan.”
He sat silently, smiling back at me with his glowing bronze skin, his deep brown marble-like eyes trying to make sense of someone who looked so different from himself.
I pointed to myself. “Megan.”
He tilted his head in confusion. I was speaking plain English, and I knew I spoke clearly enough. But it had never occurred to me that none of these children had ever left Playa Copal, or even La Cruz, in their entire lives.
I ransacked my brain for just an inkling of Spanish. “T—tu . . . nombre?” I managed to say, realizing afterwards that it rang like French in my ears.
Born and raised in America, I have grown up speaking English every day since I was a little over a year old. I think, write, dream, and talk in English. And here I was trying to do the same to someone who, like me, grew up speaking the same language for most of his life. Unlike me, that language was Spanish; a verbal code I had not yet deciphered.
“Megan,” I repeated, pointing to myself. “Megan.”
I gestured to him. “..Nombre?”
Nothing. I waited with bated breath for a response.
“Antonio.”
I pointed to him again. “Antonio?”
He nodded with satisfaction.
“Bonj—hola, Antonio!” I caught myself just before I had completely confused him with French.
I lifted my hand and picked off small pebbles that had stuck into them. I picked up a marker and started to draw a figure that I knew we would both recognize.
“Sun,” I declared. “Sun.”
“Sohn.”
“Si, si. Sun.”
He sat intently waiting for me to draw something new. I racked my brain and decided to stay simple.
“Dog,” I said clearly as I pointed to the drawing.
“..Dog?”
“Si.” But did he really understand what I drew?
“Umm, en español por favor?” I prayed that he understood.
A pause. “Perro.” One of the only Spanish words I recognized.
I sat there completely in awe. I drew a dog. He saw a perro. But we know them as the same.
“He got it!” I exclaimed to some of the other people in my group. “I can’t believe he got it!”
Antonio looked back at me, waiting for more.
“I am happy,” I said as I smiled.
“Hahppy,” he smiled.
“Si! Happy.”
I asked him what that meant in Spanish. “Yo..yo soy contento.”
I am happy in French is Je suis contente. Contente, contento. I am happy. He understood more than just a picture on a dirty piece of butcher paper. He understood an emotion. We had established a connection. He understood me and I understood him. We had communicated.
I started beaming and I gave him a high-five, an American tradition that all of the students would keep with them even after we left. It was then that I knew he understood.
After this initial breakthrough, a lot of picture-drawing and acting out, I learned from Antonio the Spanish words for monkey, snake, cow, brother, and sister. I discovered that he was ten years old, just like my brother, and that he lived on a farm with cows, chickens, ducks, and dogs. He lived with his mother, father, and three brothers, both older and younger. He was surprised when I told him that I didn’t have cows at my house.
I left the school that day with dirt on my hands, sweat on my forehead and a new perspective in my mind. And in fact, I learned more from the students, especially Antonio, than I had taught to them. I learned that day that communication comes in many different forms; words are simply an easier mode of communication. I thought that the only way to communicate was to talk to people, and that while it was fun to play charades or Pictionary, gestures and pictures typically proved ineffective at communicating. But this day at the school, I was proven wrong.
Language used to be a barrier; something that prevented me from entering the lives of another culture. If I could not speak their language, I could not communicate with them. They would be speaking in a code that I could not crack. But now I have learned that communication manifests itself in different ways, through not only words but pictures, gestures, laughing, and smiling.
I had a breakthrough that day. And I know it has changed me because I can understand the way people communicate even better. We might not think we use anything but words when we communicate, but in America, we communicate in ways we didn’t think we could. The way we shift our weight to one foot can say more about our mood than simply saying what we feel. The way we can express words through motions and acting says as much as the words themselves. The way the skin by our eyes creases and folds when we smile can say everything about what we feel without uttering a word.
These simple nuances in human tendencies are etched into our minds like pictographs engraved into a cuneiform tablet. We all might carry different dictionaries in our minds, but we all have the capability to communicate without words. Words stitch cultures together, but nonverbal communication stitches humanity together.
We boarded the bus back to our house. All of the schoolchildren surrounded the bus, waving and smiling, waiting for us to come back next week. I couldn’t help but smile the whole way back.
Dear Spanish speakers, sorry for the lack of accents on a few words. They are added in the new version. And dear college admissions directors, please read this one instead.
27 August 2011
the good earth
One night in Costa Rica, it was 9 something at night, and it was already dark (sunset at 6 of course), and everyone was in their rooms or wandering around the treehouse. But I went outside and looked over the pool and the beach. And then I looked up and I saw more stars than I even knew existed. You couldn't see anything else except for the stars.
And then I came back here, and the stars were invisible in a sky clouded with lights and such. But tonight, on this perfect clear night, I saw the stars and I stared until my neck hurt.
Unfortunately half of the east coast is being flooded and wrecked by the hurricane, but somehow we are not even affected. I could still be in Massachusetts, waiting for the wrath of the ocean to come flooding into my house. But somehow I'm here. And it makes me wonder, what if all of this wasn't here tomorrow? What if a storm took it all away? We don't usually appreciate things that we see everyday, but what if we didn't see them everyday? What if we didn't have beautiful trees or flowers to look at? Or animals and people? We could face a lot worse than what we have - and we can't always be sure that it will be here forever. Nothing is ever certain, so enjoy it while yo have it. Life's short, so cherish every time you swim in the ocean, lie beneath the warm rays of the sun, catch fireflies, or gaze at a sky full of stars.
And then I came back here, and the stars were invisible in a sky clouded with lights and such. But tonight, on this perfect clear night, I saw the stars and I stared until my neck hurt.
Unfortunately half of the east coast is being flooded and wrecked by the hurricane, but somehow we are not even affected. I could still be in Massachusetts, waiting for the wrath of the ocean to come flooding into my house. But somehow I'm here. And it makes me wonder, what if all of this wasn't here tomorrow? What if a storm took it all away? We don't usually appreciate things that we see everyday, but what if we didn't see them everyday? What if we didn't have beautiful trees or flowers to look at? Or animals and people? We could face a lot worse than what we have - and we can't always be sure that it will be here forever. Nothing is ever certain, so enjoy it while yo have it. Life's short, so cherish every time you swim in the ocean, lie beneath the warm rays of the sun, catch fireflies, or gaze at a sky full of stars.
26 August 2011
the economics of life, part 2
Do you ever write something from end to beginning? Well that's what I did right now.
And first, I want to pray for the East Coast (not us, because we are too far inland) and that all of my family members will be safe when old Irene comes to unleash her wrath.
So today was the day when we had final critiques for our summer assignments in art. And in fact, I was the only one who had finished everything.
Except for a few minor problems, I was complete. And for the first time, I wasn't rushing to finish a worksheet or a packet in the bathroom or scribbling lines in a book to finish annotations before the bell rang. Today I was as productive as an economy outside the Production Possibilities Curve.
And while sometimes it's a little annoying, irritating, and sometimes just really not fun to do things we have to do, it makes you feel great when it actually gets all done and stuff. What if you didn't have to do anything - no obligations, no requirements, no job, nothing to live for. You'd have no reason to live if you had nothing to do. Which is why it makes people feel good when they get stuff done; happiness is having a purpose.
And first, I want to pray for the East Coast (not us, because we are too far inland) and that all of my family members will be safe when old Irene comes to unleash her wrath.
So today was the day when we had final critiques for our summer assignments in art. And in fact, I was the only one who had finished everything.
Except for a few minor problems, I was complete. And for the first time, I wasn't rushing to finish a worksheet or a packet in the bathroom or scribbling lines in a book to finish annotations before the bell rang. Today I was as productive as an economy outside the Production Possibilities Curve.
And while sometimes it's a little annoying, irritating, and sometimes just really not fun to do things we have to do, it makes you feel great when it actually gets all done and stuff. What if you didn't have to do anything - no obligations, no requirements, no job, nothing to live for. You'd have no reason to live if you had nothing to do. Which is why it makes people feel good when they get stuff done; happiness is having a purpose.
25 August 2011
musically inclined
240! Can you believe I have only 125 more posts left? By the way, that was done on a calculator. I didn't just crunch those numbers in my little head.
The further you go in life, the harder it gets, and unfortunately the more work things are. It becomes harder to relax and have down time and to just be who you are.
So today I pulled out the old ukulele and strummed a few songs. A few chords. And I just listened to the sweet sound of the taut black strings. And for a while nothing really existed. It was just my mahogany instrument and myself all alone.
The low tenor sound filling my ears left me feeling refreshed and happy. I wonder how people started to make instruments way back when. And with happy thoughts in my head, I lay me down to sleep.
The further you go in life, the harder it gets, and unfortunately the more work things are. It becomes harder to relax and have down time and to just be who you are.
So today I pulled out the old ukulele and strummed a few songs. A few chords. And I just listened to the sweet sound of the taut black strings. And for a while nothing really existed. It was just my mahogany instrument and myself all alone.
The low tenor sound filling my ears left me feeling refreshed and happy. I wonder how people started to make instruments way back when. And with happy thoughts in my head, I lay me down to sleep.
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