Saturday, December 31, 2011

Travel Journal- Last Friday

Yesterday was the last Friday of 2011...so why not spend it with ...I don't know...Angelica? It turns out we are both in Colombia and my aunt lives two minutes away from Angelica's sister. My parents drove me over to her house at about 3:00pm. (I'm really sorry if this story is boring..but considering how boring my vacations have been so far, this is extreme). We played who wants to be a millionaire and our dear friend Google helped us win. Except we messed up in the last question. - _ - 


Anyways, then we watched Extreme Cribs on MTV and it made us realize how we are extremely poor. Then, we watched the NBA game, Miami Heat vs. Minnesota Timberwolves and it made us realize how much we suck at basketballWe had various seizures, especially on the last four seconds. We yelled a lot when Miami Heat won. We drank Nevado de Chocolate from Juan Valdez and then I went home.

Sunday, December 25, 2011

Travel Journal- Christmas Time

After leaving camp, I came to Colombia (where all my family lives and where I was born). I was extremely excited because the last time I saw my family was one year ago and I was eager to see everyone! Yesterday, all my family went to my aunt's house and had an amazing time! Things are going great except I'm not used to the cold weather in Bogota. God, I can't even wash my hands without freezing....I also love coming here because it means I get to shop a lot. Like A LOT. Hope you all had an amazing Christmas! 
Love,
Nati
Me & my sister

Thursday, December 22, 2011

Travel Journal- Day 1

This week I went to a basketball camp called Hoops United USA. Some coaches from the US came to Panama and created this camp, so that teenagers could learn more skills and become better players. It was four days, from 9am to 5pm. We had stations, drills, 5 on 5, and other activities to help us become better basketball players. I went with Angelica and we met lots of people. 90% of the campers were boys...and some of them were very very very cute <3
I had lots lots lots of fun!!!!!

Thursday, December 15, 2011

Wordly Wise Wednesday: That Summer


I could start this story by telling you about who I am, what my name is and where I am from. But that would take too long, and I’m in no mood for any inkling. Especially not from someone I don’t know. You kids, read stories about audacious knights, about a prudent prince saving the beautiful princess that waits at the top of the tower. You kids, rebuke stories that do not include action, love and hate. Sorry if I’m coming on too strong but this is no serene story, this has no happy ending, no conscientious plot. Only chaos, sorrow and a not so happy ending.
This story starts with the hot summer air on her face, the sun, strong on her body, assuring an after-the-summer tan and blonde hair that would later make her green eyes stand out. She was only wearing her favorite Billabong bikini and had a smoothie on her hand. Depicting the scene would be impossible because everything around her looked so bright, sunny and right where it was supposed to be. Unlike what was coming next. Her tanned fingers reached for her white Blackberry, and realizing how late she was, she picked up her belongings and headed towards the deck.
She embarked the remaining boat and left the island, the only place where summer really felt like summer. As she approached her summer house, she saw there was no car in the driveway, no lights were on and her lackadaisical brother (he was a senior) was nowhere to be seen. They must be in the club, she thought.
 The guard that stood at the entrance of the club confiscated her smoothie, claiming that no drinks were allowed (unless you bought them inside the club). She rolled her eyes (something she did all the time) and strutted towards the tennis courts.
She knew everyone was watching her because she was only wearing a bikini and to be honest, she knew she was quite hot. From the distance, she could see her mother, her brother and something that was just lying on the ground. Now that she looks back, she realizes how stupid and careless she was. Not knowing what awaited at the end of what seemed like a fashion show, a thought that to this day, haunts her and rankles her. She kept strutting, making sure all eyes were on her, making sure every guy was staring at her. Until she saw her mother. Her dad. He was lying on the tennis court.
She never knew, how fast she could run. How worried she could be. How scared she could feel. Until then. Her dad had his eyes shut, his left hand touching his right shoulder. He was wearing a Nike shirt, but all she could see was him. Everything seemed so unreal, like if she was just dreaming, she was too stunned and surprised to even realize. It seemed like only minutes went by, and she was sitting on the hospital's chairs. The smell of alcohol and sickness stuck all over her favorite bikini.
This is where I come in. This is where you guys know who I am, what my name is, where I come from and all that. I am Tim, the person in charge of the most excruciating ceremony one might ever be in. I have to make sure nothing looks slovenly although to me, it makes no sense. I organize funerals. I get to see families struggle through the worst obstacle life can throw on your face. I see children cry, mothers cry, wives cry. I see everyone cry and I know everyone's story.  I know this story, and I wanted to share it with you.
This girl, her real name is Isabella. She was too worried about her looks and her summer to enjoy her father’s last days. He died of a heart attack, March 10th, 2010. He died at age of 41, leaving a family of three to mourn and remember what a great husband, father and friend he was.
Now all there is left is a bunch of family pictures, hidden somewhere in their basement, somewhere where the Cárdenas’ family won’t see it. Please don’t judge, please don’t fight or get annoyed over simple things. Life is way too short and my job only makes it more clear for me to see. Stop blaming society, stop wasting time thinking about who to love, when you have plenty of things to do in the meantime. Tell someone how much you love them, enjoy every second of your life. Because unlike bikinis, smoothies and looks, your family won’t be here forever.

(Based on a true story. Dedicated to my friend Santi and his family. Rest in peace Andrés Cárdenas)


Tuesday, December 13, 2011

Confession Tuesday: Please Sit Still

People always have their own confessions. Some of them confess who their true love is. Others rant about what they hate. Call it obsessive compulsive or hyperactive, but I always have to do something with my hands. Like I’m always moving them. It is one of the reasons why I type so fast in the computer, without even watching. It’s the reason why I play guitar. My father used to play guitar, using a pick, and so did my uncle. I can’t. I need to strum fast, flick my wrist and use my fingers all the time. Ever wonder why I use so many bracelets? Because during class, I need to be doing something, I can’t just sit down and pay attention.
This isn’t a recent problem. I’ve had it since I was about four or five. And if you are ever patient enough to see, you’ll notice how I always (and when I say always I mean ALWAYS) do something with my hands. My close friends always make fun of me because whenever I talk to them over facebook chat or something, instead of using exclamation marks, I say something like this: alfjowejfoiwoifhowjfojwofjwofj.
I realized this when I was about eight, because every time I stood still for too long, I would start to stress out. I would touch my hair; I would twist and turn my bracelets with my fingers. When I thought nothing would make it better, I started playing basketball. Sports made it easier for me to run, to move and to avoid the fact that I just couldn’t stay still for more than 10 minutes
My parents are both doctors and all they keep telling me is that nothing is wrong (deep inside however, they know it is stress or it simply corroborates the fact that I’m going crazy). Maybe it is a family thing. My sister, she is always touching her ears. My dad is always touching his glasses. My mom… (Oh no, never mind...She’s the only normal person in our family).  So long story short, I have a hyperactivity problem or something going on. Yeah, so that is my confession.

Monday, December 12, 2011

The Players Might Change but the Game Remains the Same

Reading Catcher in the Rye by J.D Salinger made me think about the time when it was published.  People back then were completely conservative and would be scared to find out their children were reading about Holden’s crazy and obscene adventures. We all know this topic has been discussed many times and we all know that this book may instill the wrong ideas into kids’ minds. Therefore, I was finally asked if this book was still relevant to our time and if it should be taught and read to young adults all over the world. My answer before and after reading this book has always been the same.
Whenever people say books are inappropriate, I get extremely angry. Before I read Catcher in the Rye, about three or four people told me I shouldn’t be reading that.  And I kind of understand what they’re trying to say. Holden is not the best protagonist or the best example that teenagers can learn from but one thing he does right, he’s realistic. For those of you that haven’t read this amazing coming of age novel, Holden is usually criticizing the outside world. The typical American family. Where kids go to prep school, grow up to be wealthy and have a perfect family where everyone seems to be happy. What most people don’t notice is that for decades, the world has showed its population what a family looks like. Either in movies, books, news, etc. Mom and dad living in a big blue house, next to a tall tree, where dad built a tree house for his children to play. Family coming home for the holidays, eating turkey in a big round table. That is what I grew up watching and learning from what a real family was. What Holden does, is only stating what no one has been brave enough to state. The life a so called happy family lives is not what it seems to be. It may be what 20% of America is, or what 40% of European families represent, but it is not what 80% of families look like. Not even half of what families out there have to go through in order to at least, have food, education and health.  Holden Caulfield gives teenagers and parents an insight of what the world really is. We live in a world where teenagers are criticized, where 1.3 billion people live on less than a dollar a day. Where two billion people have no sanitation or electricity and where 40 million girls and women are prostitutes. That is the real world. That is what Holden refers to throughout the book. Maybe not the soft, easy way most people would want a book to teach but in a way where the reader finally understands and realizes what is out there.
I remember when I read the part where Holden is hanging Sunny’s dress. Sunny is a prostitute and it made me so sad to read what Holden said. Not because it was obscene, or inappropriate, but because it was true (125).
“I was only too glad to get up and do something. I took her dress over to the closet and hung it up for her. It was funny. It made me feel sort of sad when I hung it up. I thought of her going in a store and buying it, and nobody in the store knowing she was a prostitute and all. The salesman probably just thought she was a regular girl when she bought it. It made me feel sad as hell-I don’t know why exactly”.

I am a very dedicated reader, and I’m really strict when I read a book. There are two things that I look for. Two things that make me want to read, enjoy, and recommend the book. One, it has to be realistic. Unless it’s Harry Potter, or something that I know is clearly impossible, I expect a book to be real. To have its “feet on the ground” and to stop creating a world where the girl meets the boy, where the family is happy, where the whole environment is cliché. The second thing I look for, and that is not always there, I really love it when you read a sentence, a chapter and all you can say is “I know how that feels” or “That always happens to me”. Connection. It helps the reader understand the characters; it helps the reader learn a lesson that could someday be necessary in their own lives. Something I can tell you as a fact: Thousands of teenagers go through what Holden went through, and I know that despite the inappropriate vocabulary, the obscene environment and the crazy thoughts that go through Holden’s mind, it may be the inspiration and the help one can need.  So why would you want to ban, hide, and prevent teenagers in help, to actually know what people out there go through? To actually open their eyes and see that life goes beyond eating turkey in a round table, playing outside the blue house and having a family where everyone seems to be happy?
In 1961, a teacher was fired because she assigned Catcher in the Rye to her students. Since the book was published it has been on the list of censored books, and has received critics such as being a “filthy book”, an “obscene book”, “inappropriate” and many others that to me seem irrelevant to what the real point of this book is. People that read and criticize this book might be too busy looking for its mistakes and obscenity scenes to actually realize that all Holden was trying to do was to eliminate and get rid of the mean people, the phony people, and the fake people in this world. He was a catcher in the rye. He wanted to catch the innocence, the kids, before they fell into what adulthood was all about (262). 
“I went down by a different staircase, and I saw another "Fuck you" on the wall. I tried to rub it off with my hand again, but this one was scratched on, with a knife or something. It wouldn't come off. It's hopeless, anyway. If you had a million years to do it in, you couldn't rub out even half the "Fuck you" signs in the world. It's impossible”.
When I read this part, I thought about what the “Fuck You” really meant. It means haters. It means imperfection; it means people that are just messed up. What he tries to tell the reader is that not even with the innocence and patience one could have, would they be able to erase all the Fuck You’s out there.
There is a journey when you read a book. There is a path were different feelings might be found, but at the end there is one question to answer. Did you like the book?  Every time we discussed a chapter or a part from Catcher in the Rye, half of us said “Well, it’s all because Holden’s crazy” or “Ah! He’s so bipolar!”  I’m not saying I take it back because Holden is kind of crazy. His decisions are sometimes strange and his sense of humor and criticism might show hate and rudeness instead and thinking about this amazing novel being banned seems completely ignorant and unfair. If you were looking for a yes or no answer, my answer is no. I don’t think they should ban this book. It is a great example of real life, coming of age issues such as drinking, smoking and sex. Do I think it should be taught nowadays? Yes, yes and yes. Teenagers don’t need anymore white lies, endless tirades, and cliché examples of what life is like. What we need is a real, honest, and clear as water example of what life is like. What we are going to have to deal with when we’re adults. What people are up to, what some teenagers are going through, what we can do to help and what we should see now, instead of 30 years later when it’ll be too late to change. That is what Catcher in the Rye is. Life in 1951 may have had different teenagers, with different backgrounds and different ideas of life. But time is no reason for someone to stop showing kids and teenagers what life is all about. Once, someone said: “The players might change but the game remains the same”. And to me, that is what this novel represents. No matter how much time goes by, we’ll find haters, we’ll find influences and wrong ideas in the wrong places. No matter how good it looks, and how right it seems, we need to know what our consequences will be. Hiding the truth from us, is not preparing us for what we will eventually have to see.
To ban a great literary work like this is to keep teenagers sheltered from the truth of the "real world."
-Kristina Jones (what she thinks about banning Catcher in the Rye)

Memoir Monday- All that Christmas Stuff

               People always say, “Christmas is in the air.” Maybe it’s me or something, but the air is just like it always is. The air feels like it feels when it’s March, or September; or any day. Despite what I just said, I don’t feel like its Christmas time, the second Mrs. Meadows said memoir, I knew I was going to write about me being anti-Christmas. I know I always say this, and if you’ve read more than one of my memoirs, you’ll realize how I always say moving changed my life. It sounds cheesy, cliché, and all that, but I kind of feel it’s true.
                I remember how we used to spend Christmas when we lived in Colombia. We would go to my aunt’s house, sit around the Christmas tree and have dinner. If you were young, young as in six or seven-years-old, you’d get a bunch of presents. If you were old, old as in 12 or 13, you’d get one or two presents. Christmas for my friends is decorating the Christmas tree; it’s writing a letter to Santa Claus, it’s waiting to see what the stockings have on Christmas morning. They all ask for Ipads and computers while I just get gift cards from Zara and ajiaco.
                I also remember my Christmas spent in Costa Rica. We had just arrived and everything was still perfectly placed in boxes, stacked all over the living room. There was a Christmas tree system in San Jose; where you rented a real pine tree, used it, and then a big red truck would pick it up. We decorated the tree, and sat around it, opening only a couple of presents. Only four people to celebrate. No Caroling, no turkey and no egg nog, nothing festive.
                I’m only 14 years old, which means that I have spent more than half of my life in other countries that in my actual homeland. To me, Christmas is not an Ipad, or a pair of earrings. Christmas for me, is a single gift card, a plate with ajiaco, four people gathering around a rented pine tree.
                So long story short, when people say Christmas is in the air? I don’t feel it. When they ask me what I got for Christmas, my answer will probably be a gift card or soup. Even if Santa Claus is at every corner, even if every old guy is wearing the tackiest Christmas sweater I’ve ever seen, I don’t feel the, what do you call it? Christmas spirit? Yeah, I don’t feel the Christmas Spirit.

Saturday, December 10, 2011

Book Review: Learning to Swim

 
 
 
Learning to Swim By: Ann Turner
              I think that the real magic of memoir and what captivates the reader is the innocence and truth behind it. Memoir is like a diary where every feeling and emotion the author writes about immediately bonds you with him/her. Telling you about the story of Ann Turner will leave you speechless, sad and extremely thankful for what you have. I read this book like 5 times, because every time I read it I dug deeper into her life, I felt more and more connected to her and I could understand the real pain behind every word she wrote.
         This book starts out with Ann and her family going to the beach for the summer, packing everything up and finally getting to their summer house. All of Ann’s family is there; her parents, her brothers (Nick and Peter), and her grandparents. This story revolves around Dresser Pond and Ann’s eagerness to learn to swim. Ann is nothing but a little girl and to her having fun, running, and swimming is what summer is all about. However, when their neighbors Kevin, Lonny and Angie start playing with Annie, Nick and Peter, things start to go wrong. (23)
                 “…Kevin is running past, looking for me with hands that grab, and Lonny is looking, too, with his fat wavery lips like worms that want to squish on my cheeks, and they say it’s a game but I am shivery in the garage…”
            Things start with just a kiss here and a hand there but it gets worse when Kevin comes to Ann’s house. He tells everyone it’s just read aloud but to Ann it is clearly not. She hurts, she cries and despite all of her pain, she keeps quiet as the summer goes by; as her yellow room becomes her nightmare and as Kevin’s shadow seems to follow her everywhere she goes.
            Ann decides to break up her book of poems into different sections, depending on what her emotions are at the time. The first section is called listen and this is where she gives you and insight on what happened during the summer. The next section is called sinking and this is where Ann is just trying to survive the pain and the truth she must keep from everyone. She buries herself in lies and only waits for it all to end. She’s small, naïve and innocent and has no clue that telling is the answer. (37)
           “But my dolls know, Jenny, Amanda and Fuchsia. At night I tell them what you did and they are sad for me with their wide-open eyes and surprised mouths”
          Ann does everything she can think of to get rid of the thoughts that are haunting her in her daily life. She draws Kevin, with burning flames around him; she wishes she was the smoke his father inhaled, just so that someone would know. Someone would ask her about the things she had been keeping to herself all this time. One day, her mother asks her what book Kevin was reading to her in room and just like any kid; her reaction was the clear, white, and simple truth. (79)
          “My eyes blinked, my tongue stuck to the top of my mouth on the words I’d been waiting to say each one hurt like a splinter, yanked out and before I was done she grabbed me up and we cried and cried…”
          The last section in this book, titled Swimming is the resolution. Ann finally realizes that telling her mother was the right thing to do. Kevin never comes back and she learns to swim.  She slowly learns that after all her dark moments during the summer, she can smile, she can feel happy and she knows that Kevin can no longer hurt her. After the summer is over, Ann and her father go back to the summerhouse during winter, to make sure the pipes are clean and there are no damages. This is where Ann somehow finds closure and realizes that her yellow room is no longer her nightmare, and that the boy in shorts is no longer there.
          The tile of a book is supposed to sum up all of the content inside, and coming up with a title that sums up all of Ann’s tragedies must have been hard. When I finished reading this I understood the meaning and what Ann was trying to show us when she titled her memoir Learning To Swim. Like I said before, Ann links her summer to swimming and all that happens in between to sailing, sinking and finally, swimming. Learning to swim is what she does. Not only literally but mentally as well. She learns that telling is what matters and that sometimes, even in the darkest of moments, you might find light and you may find the answer. Grow above all your sorrow and mistakes and learn to swim. Keeping your head above the water.
          After reading this memoir I could see all that Ann went through and what she learned. Before I go into detail I would like to say what I thought of this book. It would sound selfish of me if I told you I knew what Ann went through. What she suffered and what happened to her, just like death and sickness is something only that person can experience. A pain only that person can feel. The depth and feeling Ann puts into this memoir made me cry more than once, made me admire her bravery and made me understand the power of words.
           First of all, the summer she writes about definitely changed her for many reasons. She was only a little girl when Kevin molested her and the things she saw and felt will forever remain in her mind. Not only was she physically abused but she was mentally changed. At the end of the book, there is a message (still in poet form) that somehow refers to all the ones that are going through the same things and small things Ann learned over the years.
          When someone dies, you analyze it right after it happens. When your parents get divorced, you learn from it as the days go by. But when something like what happened to Ann happens to you, you’re completely caught off guard and will struggle through doubts and feelings for a long time. Ann Turner learned that what’s important is to tell, silence is never enough and it will never make all the pain and sorrow go away. What seems wrong at the moment might be everything that you need in order to feel happy again. I could tell you everything Ann taught me but I would like to share with you my favorite part. This was written at the end of her book and it somehow sums up what she learned. I really enjoyed reading this because after all the tragic things she went through; it was nice to know that she had finally recovered from it. This excerpt comes from section Telling is What Matters. (111)
          “..but pulling the words up and out, spilling them across the floor, the table, dropping them into someone’s surprised face: that is what matters and after this time and the next, one day you will feel so light and airy your stomach will uncoil, your face, unclench and you will feel like yourself again”.   
          What I liked the most about this book is that it was written in poems. When you read poems, 20% percent is given to you by the author, and 80% is somewhere there for you to find. You must read between the lines, get yourself involved and try to understand and capture everything the author is telling you. Words in poems have 60% more power than all the commas, periods and paragraphs a normal book can have. In this case, Ann compared her summer to the act of learning how to swim, her feelings with Kevin to sinking and her recovery, to swimming, floating and learning to sail above all the drowned leaves.

             


      
       





Thursday, October 27, 2011

The Legend of Sleepy Hollow: Katrina Vantassel

The story I’m about to share with you, tells the story of a man that unfortunately, passed away after being followed by the headless horseman. Before I go into any details of who this man was, let me tell you about the headless horseman.
            Even though I was the daughter of Baltus Vantassel, the owner of many farms in Tarry Town, I grew up with this tale, told by all my friends. To be honest with you, my father never really cared about what I did, unless it had to do with an accomplishment due to my so called profound knowledge. However, according to all my firends, the headless horseman was a Hessian soldier that lost his head thanks to an American cannonball.  He was buried in a churchyard near our town so he rides his horse every night, haunting the church, searching for his head.
            This dreadful story started when Ichabod Crane came to town. Ichabod Crane was a school teacher that came to our town so that kids could get a chance to learn. Not only was he tall, but extremely thin, even though he ate all he could whenever he got the opportunity. Something I found very irascible about a man his age was his superstition. He believed in every tale, every myth and every scary story people would tell him about.
            My wealthy father was the first one to hire him as my singing teacher and even though I knew what a great singer he was, he scared me. However, as our classes went by, I started to like him. Flirting with him and being part of Ichabod’s life felt right and somehow made him like me back. Time went by and every time I was near Ichabod, I realized how amiss people in town where. Brom Bones would always tell me how he abhorred that professor, his explanation and arguments usually becoming an interminable tirade. To me, Ichabod was an affable man, unlike what everyone else thought of him.
            Even though people in town, especially men see me as a prize, as something precious no one can have, I don’t feel that way. My father is one of the wealthiest men in Tarry Town, and my attributes as well as my wealth interest men like Ichabod and Abraham. Abraham, also known as Brom Bones because of his strength, was the young man I just talked to you about. His broad shoulders and brusque figure look amazing with his short, curly black hair and he is definitely a person I like to be around. After I met Ichabod, I couldn’t make my mind as to which man I should love, and that autumn night didn’t help.
            After I desperately entreated night after night, my parents agreed to be the hosts of the festival. Everyone in town was invited, including Ichabod and Brom Bones. I remember the night before, when everyone asked about the festival I said I couldn’t wait. Ichabod and Abraham in the same place. What was I thinking?
            My tremulous hands were now sweaty but as the party started, everyone minded their own business and apparently, where having fun. After everyone was gone, and the only thing left were empty cups and crumpled napkins, Ichabod Crane waited for me. When we where by ourselves, only the moon and the starts watching, he asked me if I wanted to marry him. I couldn’t believe him! He was my teacher! Yes, I liked him, but not enough to marry him. When I said no, his despondent attitude made me feel guilty and he left. As I saw him leave on his horse, my first thought was Brom Bones. What would he say when he found out?
            This is the last thing I can say about that dreadful night because what follows is just a group of stories I heard from people around town. Ichabod Crane left my house, and was followed by the headless horseman. He was not the best rider and all he wanted to do was go past the bridge were people said the headless horseman would stop following you. I can see him, tremulous hands, clasping the horse’s mane, trying to look calm while his fear pervaded his soul. The next day, after I found out about this, I ran to the bridge, and all I saw was a pumpkin, smashed on the floor.
            It’s been two months since I saw that, and my first thought is still Brom Bones. Maybe I wasn’t madly in love with Ichabod, but one thing I know for sure. Abraham is no one to be joking around with. He is determined, and even though he is now my husband, I still wonder what he was up to, on that dreadful autumn night.

           
           

Thursday, October 13, 2011

The Truth About Forever

Book Reflection
The Truth About Forever
By: Sarah Dessen

            The minute I found out Sarah Dessen had written more than one book, I wanted to read them all. So many people suggested The Truth About Forever and now, I will suggest it to many other girls.
            This book, like all of the books Sarah Dessen writes is about love. About girls that confront personal issues and along the way, find true love. Not the perfect guy, not the jock, not the rock star but the guy that completes you. The guy that makes you smile. Your true love.
            The protagonists that Sarah Dessen writes about are extremely similar. Remy, (This Lullaby) and Macy (The Truth About Forever) have tons of things in common. Attitudes that along the way make them sisters. Girls that share so many issues and so many responsibilities, so many choices to make.
            Macy is a teenage girl that has already delt with so many obstacles, obstacles like her father’s death. She has a sister, Caroline the “rebel”. Caroline is the girl that sneaks out, the million boyfriend-girl, the lets-talk-now kind of girl. Yet she has grown up to be a successful business woman, with a house, and a husband of her own. A life. When Macy’s father died, all Macy wanted to do was cry her eyes out like Caroline. She wanted to bury her head in her mother’s arms and cry. But all she got was silence. Grief that was bottle up by her mom. No crying. No remembering.
            Without Caroline’s craziness around, Macy is left with her mother. a woman that stopped laughing out loud when her husband’s heart stopped beating. She hides her very emotion and now depends on her job. She uses all the work to cover up the deep wounds that get worse every time she stays quiet. Macy’s life is surrounded by flawless people. Her so-called boyfriend Jason is equivalent to = total perfection. Perfection that Macy strives to have. Perfection that she has to live without when Wish Catering comes in the way.
            When Macy’s relationship goes from “restricted” to “on-hold” she feels devastated. The pieces on her perfect life are falling, and when there seems to be no more hope, Wish Catering falls from the sky. This catering service that her mom hires turns out to be the right place for Macy. And for some strange reason, Macy starts working with them.
            She meets the wish crew, people that unlike her, love the messy, spontaneous side of life. They all think outside the box. But most importantly, she meets Wes.
            Even though Macy keeps pushing the risks and the “dangerous changes” away, she learns that sometimes, working around the wrong, messy and risky things is better. Her life has been surrounded by neat –freaks, perfect people (mom and Jason). So now that she meets the crazy improvising-lovers side of life, she starts to change.
            Wes, unlike Jason IS the perfect guy. He lets Macy be who she wants to be, he takes every step without thinking about what-ifs. He doesn’t care if Macy is not perfect, he likes her for what she says, what she loves, who she is. And there’s something about him that makes Macy’s world spin every time she sees him. She completely opens up and tells Wes things and feelings she’s been avoiding for years.
            However, I think Delia really taught Macy the meaning of life. Not only is she the head of Wish Catering but she teaches Macy many life lessons. She explains how a boring-perfect and smooth life is nice, but can later become too normal, boring. There has to be holes, obstacles and to make it fun, we walk around them. Macy and her mom try to fill the “gaps” with school, work and perfection. Macy runs away from the hole her father left and seems to trip over it too often.
            Macy slowly realizes how “perfect” and risk-free she used to be. She realizes how sometimes, it’s better to be sorry than safe and not the other way around. Forever was never tomorrow, it was now. It was a joke, a smile, a moment, a kiss (370).
“Okay” he [Wes] said.
He took a breath.
“What would you do if you could do anything?”
 I took a step toward him, closing the space between us.
“This” I said.
 And then,
I kissed him”.
            This was not only my favorite part but the turning point. The point where Macy starts to see all of her mistakes and what she could do to solve them.
            I learned so many life lessons after reading this book. Forever is not yesterday, its not tomorrow. It’s any moment actually. A moment that I wish could go on and on. A hug maybe. Or even a smile. But a moment that you never let go, a person you never forget. Or a book you will always remember.

Tuesday, October 4, 2011

One of a Kind

July 18th, 1946. Thomas. I can see his smile, every teeth in its place, everything were it should be. Until he got sick. But what I really want to talk about is his baseball mitt. A normal player would have had a normal, worn out, simple mitt. Oh! But not Tommy. He just loved his mitt. It was like his life.
Before I get really off topic, Tommy is my brother. Or was. Unlike most brothers, he was amazing. Not only was he smart, nice, and funny, but he was also patient. He never got mad at anyone, despite his fiery red hair. All the teachers kept telling my parents what a great kid he was. Oh! And he loved baseball. He was only a little kid when his friend took him to a baseball fair. The baseball fair had all kinds of activities, including a huge raffle at the end. With all sorts of “extremely special and unique” prizes. In order to win, you had to choose a number from 1 to 800. Tommy chose number 7. It was not the winning number but some of the other tickets won small prizes. Tommy won a baseball glove. While we drove home, I kept thinking it was the most ordinary, normal looking mitt I’d ever seen but he loved it and according to him, it was special. I remember how excited he was, how he yelled across the living room, how he bragged about his baseball mitt when he got the chance.
But unlike anything else, his mitt requires a deep, thorough description. First of all, Tommy was a lefty. So the glove had its own, unique quality that most of the other guys in his team didn’t have. Every day, before practice, he would look for his glove. It would be safe and sound, hidden somewhere in his perfectly organized room. Probably next to his other perfect stuff. When he found it, he would carry it with such care! Even though it was all tattered on the sides, some parts around the fingers and pockets completely worn out and the perfect dark brown color it used to have was all faded away, Tommy took care of it as if it were the newest mitt. When he got home from practice, he would again put it in his perfect room, next to his perfect things, somewhere in his neatly organized room.
As time went by, I started to see some words in the mitt. I know. That’s the kind of brother he was. Tommy would come up with the most strange, yet original ideas I’ve ever heard of. So it turns out that Tommy wrote poems. He copied all kinds of poems and wrote them all over his mitt. With green ink. I know. But I respected him. He was so unique. He was different from the rest of kids his age. And he was crazy about his mitt full of poems. I was so curious, and when I finally asked him why he wrote poems in his mitt, he told me it kept him busy in the field when no one was up at bat. At that time, I really thought he was crazy, but now that I think about it, it is pretty interesting.
Unfortunately, he was only 11 years old when he got leukemia. It was pretty bad, and that July 18th, is a day I still recall. I felt so sad, and confused and furious; I punched all the windows in the garage. I really don’t know why I did it, let alone knew how I felt. But that July 18th was the day when Tommy left me. All his pureness and innocence left me behind. Left me without his laugh, without his fiery red head. Only a collection of memories to never forget. Only a beaten up baseball mitt with poems written in green ink. But if you really think about it, both Tommy and his baseball mitt, were and will always be one of a kind.

Saturday, September 17, 2011

Back in Time

Jamestown
September 10th, 1607

Dear Abigail,
            I miss you. I miss your smile. I miss the way you gingerly kissed our daughters good night. I miss everyone. I know this trip is for our own good and I know I said I wanted to come, but why do I catch myself grimacing every night?  Why do I see Jamestown as a despicable place now? I have to make this work. Whenever I remember your spontaneous laugh, your resilient attitude and your avidness to make me feel better, I remember. This is the right choice.
            How are you doing? Is Elizabeth ok? How about Emily? Please tell my father how much I think about him, how bad I feel about what happened to my mother. Tell him.
            Everything is perfect here. Well, was perfect. An explorer is causing problems. His name is John Smith. He feels like the proprietor of the Virginia Colony. I surmise he is a captain of some sort because he feels he has the power over people like me. Men who come from the most important families in England. His imperative comments and ideas modified many of the rules we had already established here. His newest idea is “He who does not work, does not eat”. And of course it affects me.
            Previously, I was careless with not a worry nor duty. Now, I must work in order to feed myself! Like servants! John Smith’s so called “fair” disposition is making my days in Jamestown miserable. Although it has helped our colony and we are no longer starving or suffering from the prevalent diseases, my friends and I dislike the idea.
            Remember Alexander? Well he, like many others, is a cheater. They extricate themselves from this duty. The men’s guile towards our colony is unacceptable. This new idea, this new colony, this new start is for our good. And guess what they do. They pay people to do the work for them. While I work, they eat.
            Despite all my complaining I must say John Smith is clever, original and I know he will be of great help for our colony. And I just hope the House of Burgesses and all the other establishments in Jamestown foreshadow a series of success and events that hopefully will make my days here better.
            Now that the story of my life is over and I was selfish enough to only tell you about life here, I think about you. Always. And I want you to know that no matter how long it takes for me to finally see you again; I love you as much as I do now.
Yours truly,
Benjamin

Monday, September 5, 2011

Missing Puzzle Piece



                9:00pm. The abrasions on my legs where killing me. The doctor had said something about age but I never listened to him. Not anymore. It seemed that lately, everything was about my age. The dehydration at night, the pain on my legs, my dead and useless eye.
                For some reason that same night, I inventoried my belongings. Stuff I cherished, things full of memories I would never forget. And one by one, I placed them in a box. And on my agenda, I wrote everything I could think of about my treasures, and all the memories behind them.
                I felt different, distant. I heard a buzzing sound, deep in my head, deep in my heart. The way I felt when my own, blue and bright eye succumbed. The way I felt when my wife passed away. Such a strange feeling I could not decipher.
                As I gingerly applied soothing lotion on my legs, I thought. As I grimaced every time my cold, bony fingers touched the abrasions, I thought. I decided to sleep on it, to let the knots in my heart untangle by themselves. And clad in my blanket, I quietly drifted off to sleep.
                I blinked. Not once, but many times, so quickly I couldn’t really see anything. It was dark. Very dark. It was all so blurry, and something felt wrong. Like if someone was watching me. Nonsense, I thought. It’s probably the wind or something. And even thought I knew it was not the wind, I tried to put my fears away, to get the rest I needed. Just as I closed my eyes, a minuscule object hit the ground, creating a boisterous sound in the pitch black and silent room. I surmised once again it was nothing but a mouse crossing the floor, maybe a cricket that had made a single chirp. Until I saw a set of eyes.
                I rubbed my face in a cursory manner again and again. I was electrified. Not in my darkest, most sinister thoughts did I imagine that young lad could have such evil eyes. The same man that had shared this house with me for the past 20 years. The same man that had helped me so many times, that had cheered me up so many nights.
                Oh yes. He was a little odd. He was a bit unhinged. But why was his gruesome face expression so unfamiliar? So out of place?
                Even though I simulated a deep, profound sleep, I shifted every minute. Knowing that all he wanted to see was my eye. That would sure set him off wouldn’t it? I knew the minute I opened my eye, yes, my long ago dead eye, he would endeavor to kill it. So that he would no longer feel uneasy around me.
                I observed him. I saw how he looked at the eye. I felt how his eagerness and happiness ceased when he saw the eye. I knew how anxious and despicable he would become when he saw the eye. So as I laid on my bed, I derived the answer to all my dilemmas.
The buzzing in my heart became louder, yet the knots in my heart slowly untangled. Like unraveling thread, my worries, the sadness hidden inside me, disappeared. And as I pondered about my decision, I smiled. I knew nothing would corroborate it was the lad. No one will suspect anything; no one would see the evil eyes that where now waiting for me. The evil eyes that in my dreams, hidden in some secret place, where waiting for me. For me to approve. So when the smile reached my heart, I opened the eye.
                I felt the abrupt movements, I heard his chuckles, I sensed my end. The end I had been waiting for. And right before the weight of my own bed fell on my weak chest, I caught a glimpse of his smile. And right before I closed my eyes for the last time, I smiled back. For it was the first time since I had my eye, since the love of my life was next to me that, I felt happy.  I felt thankful. And as the bed swallowed my life, my fears and my despair, I finally felt in peace.

Wednesday, August 10, 2011

Day 1

Today was like any other Wednesday.
I really wanted to go to music but 8th graders had P.E. So, after what seemed like years, school was finally over. I'm really tired and after a gazillion attempts to create a name for my blog, I can finally start working on my other homework - _ -