Wanderlust

When you are already having a particularly bad bout of wanderlust and an email with the subject line "A lakefront Mayan paradise overlooking misty volcanoes" containing such enticing images floats into your inbox, you begin to wonder just how much your part of the world would miss you if you took off to explore and never looked back. But then you remember that it would, in fact, miss you quite a bit between family and various responsibilities meant to secure your ability to fly away to the unknown at some point in your undefined future. And so, you are, understandably, both saddened and inspired.

My Path To International Relations

            I was sitting on a plane home from Minneapolis to DFW after spending a month in a place I’d never been, living with people I’d never met, studying a language I’d never heard before. How did I get here?

            Rewind a little less than 5 years ago. Thirteen-year-old me is standing on the steps of Texas’ capital, giving a speech on SB 27 to a crowd of 100 and not knowing that this was just the beginning. The Legislation Coordinator from Austin Families with Food Allergies was so impressed by my presentation, that she invited me to testify in front of the House and Senate Education Committees. Both testimonies went swimmingly, and I have reasons to cherish them both, but it is what happened after my testimony in the House that stands out: Representative Mark Strama came down from his stand and asked me a question, “Have you ever considered doing debate?”.  This question, this timing, had the ability to alter the course of my future.

            I took Rep. Strama’s advice and searched out a local debate team. By the fall, I was writing a case, finding a partner, and competing. Over the next four years, I competed in Team Policy and Parliamentary Debate, qualifying for Nationals four times and, my Sophomore year, finishing 30th in the nation.  I also began competing in a speech event called Extemporaneous. This event required me to read and learn about current affairs. In competition, I have 30 minutes to recall information I had researched and write a six-minute speech about a topic assigned to me.   I LOVED this event. My coach saw my adoration and, in my fourth competition year, made me Extemp coach. Up until then, I thought I was destined to become a lawyer, but Extemp helped me realize that career path was not the one I had a passion for.

            I thought long and hard about what exactly I wanted to do with my life, now that my top career option was now off the table. I Googled, read, and questioned to find something new that incorporated all the things I adored about Extemp: learning about and analyzing current events, trying to find solutions to global problems, being able to use the communication skills I had acquired, and ever changing circumstances. What I found was the nebulous field of International Relations.
 The more I researched, the more enamored I became with the idea that I could study topics I loved then go on to make a difference. International Affairs, Foreign Relations, or what ever title you assign to this expansive field of study, fulfilled all of my parameters. It focuses on using your knowledge about the world and how it turns to resolve conflict, all while having to take into account the vast variables that could help or hinder your cause. I have found my field and am determined to pursue my passion for it.

            So here I am. Sitting on an airplane. Thinking of how incredible it is that one speech at 13 could impact so much. There is no way that I would have pushed my parents to send me to the Russian language immersion camp I’m on my way home from. No way I would have discovered the beautifully intricate field of Foreign Affairs. My journey to here has been incredible, and I look forward to the ways these ripples will continue to influence my life through my future in Foreign Affairs.

Why #PrayForParis is Significant

I have so many words to say over this tragedy. I want to rant about why it happend. Speculate over what will happen next. Yell at someone who could have prevented it. But none of these words would help those suffering.

So, what I am going to discuss (today at least) is #PrayForParis. 

Immediately after the attack, the posts began. On Twitter  #PrayForParis began trending. Celebrities were tweeting it. News sources were and are tweeting it. Liberals and conservatives. It's a bit odd as to why. 

It isn't normal for everyone to call for prayers. It's actually abnormal. The question, then, is why. 

Could it be that when there is literally nothing we can do about a situation we instinctively find comfort in prayer? I believe that most individuals want to be able to 'get by' on their own. But when they can't, when a tragedy has occurred, individuals of all backgrounds turn instinctively to a higher power. 

 #PrayForParis is important for so many reasons. But its significance comes from the comfort we feel knowing that someone bigger is looking out for our world. That there is someone we can turn to when there is nothing else. 

Now that I have made my main point, I'd like to remind those who have tweeted  #PrayForParis to actually pray. The sentiment is a good one, but will do nothing unless we follow through on it. 

Melancholy

“Give sorrow words; the grief that does not speak knits up the o-er wrought heart and bids it break.”

― William Shakespeare, Macbeth

When I don't know something I research. I read articles and blogs. I search for quotes and sift through hundreds to find one or two that are perfectly describe the event I'm analyzing or the emotions I'm experiencing. 

I am writing because I feel that it is all I can do. I am sad today. I'm not depressed, just sad. The closest, most descriptive word I can find to describe what I am feeling is melancholy. I can be wildly exuberant and colorful one moment, then the next the clouds have slid over the sun that is my colorful personality.

I'll put it in my own words:

I feel as though there is something missing from inside me. I'm not sure what. Sometimes it's there but at other times it simply disappears. I am still just as determined as I was before. I get things done. But I feel a little empty. You could do something wonderful for me, and it might make it better, but likely no matter how much I appreciate what you've done or how much I love the thing you said I don't want to smile. I probably will, I don't want to hurt you above all. But it feels like by smiling I am betraying some deep part of myself that, within this moment, needs to be sad. This feeling lingers. It comes and goes as it pleases. Sometimes I can pin down the event that invited it in, but often I cannot. So I greatly appreciate Sylvia Plath when she writes "I didn't know why I was going to cry, but I knew that if anybody spoke to me or looked at me too closely the tears would fly out of my eyes and the sobs would fly out of the throat and I'd cry for a week.” 

I think often about my own emotional state, but voicing the words can bring on torrents of tears. (I despise tears. I should probably work on that) The result is: I have a profound understanding of my own self, but few others do. My sadness is often mistaken for coldness, a forced smile for dislike. 

Friends, family, and strangers have often told me I need to 'open up' or to 'not push others away'. They are probably right in that the perception of my melancholy likely makes me seem aloof or uncaring. What they do not see is how very much I care. What they don't recognize are the times I've put on the 'happy mask' just for them, because though I accept the sadness I possess, they do not. I still haven't found a way to make myself 'more open' or 'more approachable' without feeling self-betrayal and, sometimes, an even deeper sadness due to the disloyalty to that moments nature. Because there truly is a beauty in my melancholy.

So I write. To explore my thoughts, to make an attempt to be open with this ever demanding world. 

Wilder Mind

Reminded how much I love Wilder Mind by Mumford & Sons:

"Loneliness and all
I was stuck to the spot without a friend
Alone again

And I hunger and I thirst
For some shiver
For some whispered words
And the promise to come

And you saw me low
Alone again
Didn't they say that only love will win in the end"

Goodbye London, Hello Nostalgia

Walking the streets of London as darkness descends almost lost isn't nearly as frustrating as one might think. When you've fallen in love with a city, wandering without finding your destination is not a burden.

I've been thinking about my 16th birthday present.  I received a trip to London then Paris. I entirely expected to prefer Paris to London, probably because of the constant romanticizing of the City of Lights, but I was surprised by myself. I started slowly, with an adoration of tea and scones and slowly evolved. I noticed the history intermingled with a modern city. I noticed the almost pristine roads. I developed an intense weakness for the Royal Guard and the Royal Gardens. But all good things come to an end. So we left for Paris and the nostalgia began. I won't lie: the rooftop view of Paris is one of the most beautiful sights I've ever laid eyes on, but it couldn't compare to the whole city of London. Perhaps if I return, I will realize I've created a place in my memories that never really existed, maybe next time I will explore Paris the way I wandered London and realize my love isn't just for London, but simply for the beautiful, richly historic cities of the world.

Midnight by Barcelona

I've been writing college essays and listening to music almost all day. The music part has been fun, but don't even get me started on how hard it is for a relatively closed off person to write an essay bragging about yourself.

Anyway, this song just came up on Spotify, and it reflected some of the things I've thinking about recently and some of the things I've been trying to communicate in my essay.


Hint: This song shows 100% what every deep-feeling introvert really wants in friends/significant other/family :)

Enjoy!

Hot Gates

I was just listening to Mumford & Sons new album Wilder Mind, and out of all the beautiful songs, this one really spoke to me:

Essay on Louisa May Alcott's 'Death of a Soldier' from Hospital Sketches

I am writing a lot to practice for the AP English test, and this is a response to one prompt. This isn't my usual writing style, so I would love your opinion on how it sounds and flows because in all honesty, it sounds horribly awkward to me, but that might just be because I'm not used to this style. Here is a link to the original story: http://grammar.about.com/od/classicessays/a/Death-Of-A-Soldier-By-Louisa-May-Alcott.htm 

There is something incredibly touching and sobering about a well-written account of a soldier who died fighting for what he believed in. Louisa May Alcott recorded her own soul wrenching encounter with beautiful metaphors and touching dialog in her non-fiction narrative Hospital Sketches.  Alcott seamlessly conveys the sympathy and care she felt for a dying Civil War soldier at the hospital where she was a nurse.

“Every breath he draws is like a stab.”  One compelling way Alcott catches the sympathies of her reader is through descriptive similes like the one above and lyrical metaphors. When the author describes a wounded and dying soldier's, named John, pain as “like a stab” it gives us a reference point. We know what breathing is supposed to be like: constant, easy, and second nature. We also know, in some context, what “a stab” feels like. A stabbing sensation is associated with a quick, sharp pain that cannot go unnoticed. When “every breath… is like a stab” that gives the reader a very specific picture and sensation. Alcott once again uses simile saying, “gathering the bent head in my arms as freely as if he had been a little child”. This example conveys the picture of John being vulnerable as a young child would be. The author uses two touching metaphor. The first is used to describe John’s last breaths: “the heavy breaths still tore their way up… short they were but the waves of an ebbing tide that beat unfelt against the wreck.”           

Alcott recounts John’s words through dialog in order to show the reader what kind of character John had. Starting with the first lines of dialog, we learn that “there isn’t the slightest hope for him.” This line begins the reader’s sympathy for John. After Alcott says, “let me help you bear I, John” we get the first glimpse at John’s character. He whispers his response “thank you, m’am… I didn’t like to be trouble.” And we know. We know that John, even when he is on the brink of death, thinks of others first. We know that he is a kind person. And we know that we care about what will happen next. The Author describes John’s dialog as “so hopeful[ly] when there was no hope.” John not only is a kind, hopeful person, but he also is a courageous and honorable person. Talking about his wounds John says, “I'm a little sorry I wasn't wounded in the front; it looks like a cowardly to be hit in the back.” Despite the immense pain John must be experiencing because he “must lie on his wounded back or suffocate”, John does not regret the placement of his wound because of the pain. Instead he feels “a little sorry because a wound in the back “looks cowardly”. Alcott conveys her experience, but also conveys her emotions. While reading ‘The Death of a Soldier’, one feels what she felt and sees what she saw. The reader has no choice but to sympathize with and care for the man who with his dying breath said, “tell them I did my best.”

Many Forms

Death has many forms, the well known is death to the grave. When you kindly die of old age it is peaceful, but when the life is strangled from your body death is slow and painful. Yet a less known death is quite deceitful. One might appear alive, breathing, but the mind is empty and despite its beating the heart is shattered to a million shards.  

Be not forgetful

When the one who loved you loves you no more, you can never forget them, even if they forget you. 

When the one who hides in your dreams never even looks you in the eye, you can't help but fall for him anyway, even though you know they'll never love you back. 

But if the one who stopped loving loves again, and if the one who couldn't bring himself to look at you says he'll love you forever, be not quick to forget what they first thought, and always remember that 'forever' doesn't exist. 

I found an old notebook!!!

Recently, after going through some a storage bench, I found a notebook with some of my old poems and stories. Some of them are dated, so I'll post the dates if I have them. I'll begin tomorrow :) 

Mirrors

A little something I wrote years ago and found today while cleaning up my Dropbox:

Mirrors shattered, hearts broken

Scars left, smiles faked

Plastic people, fake friends

The ones you trust turn on you again

Leaving shattered mirrors and broken hearts

I hold my head up high,

Faking confidence

So you can’t see the tears I hide inside

Beautiful books

Beautiful books

Singing out their lovely words,

Quite like birds

My favorite character dies, so I hurl it against the wall, *bang*

It lies there on the floor, begging me to reclaim it's magical pages

Dear Hemingway once informed me that there is no better friend than a book

Shall I begin again?

Of course I will, if only for the sadness to end. But then also, will the joy. 

The Time Keeper's Daughter - Chapter 2

I barely stopped myself before plummeting to an early and unfortunate end. I began my ascent up to the clock’s face. I climbed up the staircase, marveling at its condition. Upon entering the tower I had half expected the stair to give way under me. But no. It was well preserved even though it looked centuries old. How is it possible? It looked as though someone had been maintaining the tower in spite of its near impossible entrance.

            I ascended the staircase, up and up. Upon reaching the top, I gazed at the scene before me, the jewel encrusted clock face staring back at me. I started when I realized how much time must’ve passed! The clock now read 7:42 and the sky was dark, I didn’t notice before, but the bells had stopped ringing and outsides no one was clamoring for escape.

            The bells typically indicated an emergency. For example, invading armies or a large house fire that required all hands. After noticing this change of scene, I walked back down the spiraling stairs. I passed my entry, but the stairs continued downward. It was much easier to climb down, but the further down I went, the less sturdy and up kept the staircase became. This unnerved me greatly. At one point, my foot went entirely through a stair, the wood cracking and falling what seemed to me hundreds of feet. If I fell through, I would die. My heart sped and my head spun. “Hello Lily,” came out of the darkness and I considered falling purposely. “Hello?” came my meek reply.

“I’ve been expecting you.”

“Who are you? How are you even here? Did you come through the hole in the wall too?” said I.  “Oh lily, I have so much to tell you. I live here my dear. One day, you also will live here,” said the unfamiliar man, stepping out of the shadows. Now that I could see him, I trusted him. He had well groomed, albeit long, brown hair and a light dusting of a beard. His eyes though, sealed my trust. They were blue, like mine, with brown flecks that seemed to shine and sparkle in the light, almost like gold. I put aside any ideas of jumping to my death. “But how did you get in?” I asked more confidently. “I’ve always been ‘in’” was his reply, “I’ve only left this tower once, for you.” 

The Time Keeper's Daughter: Chapter 1

The city’s bells were clamoring all throughout the streets and alleys. People were everywhere. Hands, feet, arms, legs, and such were (if you were in the streets) all you could see. The people were frantic. The city bells signified a battle somewhere near. From where I was sitting I could glimpse the people, hear the bells, and sense the vibrations they were causing, and feel the cobblestones shiver as if they were catching cold.

            We were just sitting there, at home awaiting Marie and Papa’s arrival. I was perched on Marie’s bed. Marie had left to find Papa only fifteen minutes before, and I was becoming worried that they would never return for the minuets dragged by like hours. It was like waking from a slumber when I realized that if they never returned Lyra, Jacob and I would be orphaned. Lyra was only 18 months old and motherless as were Jake and I for or mother died in child birth with Lyra (Papa is still in a living coma from the abruptness of it). Jake was 7 and I was nearing 14, Marie was the eldest – she was 17 and not yet married because of her limp.

            There was a crash interrupting my worries, and in stumbled Papa through the doorway. No longer was there a door to muffle the ringing bells or to keep the frenzied people out. Then I truly noticed Papa, and he was drunk on fear. I was wrought with it. Lyra was crying, for what I did not know, but I assumed the noise from the bells and people were damaging her delicate ears. Jacob was trying so very hard to be brave. “Papa! Where is Marie? Papa! Papa!” I screamed above the noise. But my questions were useless, for Papa was just as hysterical as the people outside. As I gave up Jacob came and told me that he had seen Marie from the window. I asked for details, he replied saying that Marie was calling out for Papa and following him but looked as if she got lost in the merciless crowd. Upon hearing this I ran out of what was once our door.

            I could hear Jacob calling me “Lilly, Lilly don’t go!” but I paid no heed to his plea for me. Looking back I wish I had, but now is not the time for regrets. I was running as mindlessly as the people around me hoping I could find Marie.  

            As I ran I thought about my family. My Mama was a beautiful lady, with the most perfect Jet Black hair, with eyes the same color. Papa had Chestnut Brown hair, and Emerald Green eyes. Jacob looked more like Mama than the rest of us. Lyra had Mama’s hair, and Papa’s eyes. Marie looked like Papa all the way through. I was (and am) the misfit, with my Gold-Blond hair, Ice Blue eyes, and skin so pale it could hurt your eyes if you looked at it too long.

            As I staggered back to reality, I found myself standing under the Clock Tower. I had always felt drawn to the Tower, but since Mama died I hadn’t had time to visit the grand thing. The Tower had always seemed magical, with Gargoyles encircling the clocks face, and Jewels embedded in each number.

             I stood there remembering a time when I had tried to ask Papa about the Tower, and he (for the-first-time-but-not-last time in my life) faltered with his words. In the end what I got out of that particular encounter was that I was to never visit the Tower ever again (first he said that I was to never climb the tower, {I had never thought of climbing it till then} then he changed his request to never even visit the tower) (actually he said it was forbidden) (this commandment was broken nearly instantaneously), and that I was to NEVER mention the Tower to Mama. As I was struggling to understand him I detected many hint that led to  my conclusion that he was in a rage due to my simple question about who had built the Tower (for it was pure genius the way it had been built). Because of this rage, this frenzy, I had ran toward the Tower and in what seemed like seconds, I was standing below the Tower, just as I was when the memory came to mind. Climbing the Tower was not an option the day of the memory, people would have most definitely noticed me, but it was then with the bells ringing, for the people were mindless and would pay me no heed.

            Imagine me there, coming out of this realization, standing below the very tower I needed to climb, and for a moment it was a normal day. No one was franticly running, Marie was safe at home with Papa, Jacob, and Lyra, and the bells were not ringing. In that moment of calm, peace, and clarity, I saw what I needed to do.

What I had to do.

What I wanted to do.

              I meandered around the tower looking for a way up, dodging people, and forgetting about Marie. There was no way up that I could find. There was ivy encasing the tower up until about the halfway point. I knew I could climb the ivy but that the ivy wouldn’t get me all the way to the top of the Tower.

I decided that the only thing I could do was climb up using the ivy like a ladder. I grabbed on to the first vine and it gave way in my hand. This was going to be more difficult than I anticipated… I felt around for a thicker strand of ivy and upon finding it began my climb. Placing one hand, one foot above the first I climbed up. I finally reached the top of the ivy. Unfortunately, I still saw no way into the tower. As I climbed down, suddenly I slipped, lost my grip or the vine snapping. I fell, I screamed, and once again time slowed. As I fell, I spotted a less dense portion of the ivy. In this timeless time I snatched at portions of the ivy until a strand bailed to break away. Grasping this life-ivy tightly, I regained my bearings and time returned to its normal, quick pace.

            I made my way to the less-dense portion of ivy that I had spotted while I fell. As I prodded at this abnormality, my hand passes through the wall! I climbed lower so I could place my head through the opening. I peered in and saw the winding staircase that can be found in any clock tower. I lurched forward, tumbling into the tower’s interior.

Nigeria today

Today's news coverage is absolutely atrocious. Turn on the news and most of the coverage is about politics,  like ObamaCare or the 2016 elections. If you have tuned in to the news today, you probably don't know what is going on in, say, Ukraine. Or Nigeria. This morning in Nigeria almost 60 boarding school students were murdered in their sleep by Islamic terrorist group Boko Haram ("Western education is sinful" in the northern Hausa language), but I bet you haven't heard about it on the news today. The students were either shot or burned to death and the entire school is now in ashes. This terrorist group has killed 300 people this MONTH, mostly civilians. That is 3x more than everyone who died in the Ukrainian protests. Since 2001, they have left anywhere from 1,000 - 12,000 people dead depending on what news source you use (there are many attacks that have left 100+ dead that are still unconfirmed. Some sources take this into account). They target Christian villages and schools. In comparison, Al Qaeda is estimated to have carried out 31 attacks from 1992 to 2008  with a death toll of an estimated 4,500 lives (according to the economist). Just let that sink in. And then realize that the majority doesn't care. At the least they are simply ignorant. Why doesn't the news give these kind of tragedies coverage? Because they don't think it will get them the numbers, the viewership. I've been watching or listening to the news all day, and only BBC even mentioned this mass murder. The real question though, do you care?

My thoughts on friendship: the layers

When I call someone my 'friend' what do I mean? I call people I see once a week and my little sister who is always around, my 'friends'. However, this doesn't mean both groups are on the same level. for me, there are several different types of friendship.

• Acquaintances
• These are people whose names I know and I see once every few months. I don't really know anything personal about them, nor they me.
• Many people can be in this layer.

• Friend
• The generic 'friend' is someone I see at least once a week, but only at events organized by others. For me, this is debate and other school classes. I see these individuals at least once a week, but we don't meet or talk outside of those events.
• Many people can be in this layer.

• Confidante ie. best friend
• The person not in your family to whom I tell EVERYTHING. I see this person multiple times a week outside of events or classes and talk to them at daily. (This is my definition. I know adult 'best friend' relationships work differently but I am, as Mark Twain suggested, writing what I know.)
• Position available *not everyone has a confidante, (I don't) and that's OK.
• People who don't have confidantes and don't have super super close relationships with their family often end up feeling lonely. The reason for this is although I adore my parents and siblings, I can't and don't expect my little brother or my sister who is 6yrs younger than I am to understand what I am feeling or thinking. This leads to next subpoint:
• When someone says "I don't have any friends" yet they obviously have people who they interact frequently with, this layer is what they are missing. You can see someone every day through school, but they still might not be your confidante.
• Typically only one or two people are in this layer at a time.
• Family
• For some this layer is even closer than a confidante, for others, not so much.
• ME
• I know absolutely everything about myself (in addition to being the only one who knows what I am thinking at all times ;) and therefore AM at the very center of this circle. Don't let it go to your head :)