Live From the Trunk

I've always wondered what would be a good gimmick for my writing, what would make people look at this blog or my poetry and think, "Wow. This hasn't been done by every other teenage who has ever had access to a stick and some mud."

My age does not constitute as anything special. I attend a journalism class every other day with people who are, in my opinion, some of the best minds of our generation. I read their articles and blogs, and act generally creepy, and am consistently amazed by the quality of their work. While many may assume, "Ah, but she's a sweet young lass of 14, and she's using words with a bunch of them syllable-things,", the fact that I am a teenager does not make my writing any better than if these same words were currently being written by a 42-year old man. (Besides, of course, the sweet young lass comment - there would be more than a few continuity issues.)

Just because many of my peers RiTe lIeK dIs n CaNT cAptLze PUncTuATE oR sPeLl CoRreCTlY (no, I will never do that again) and like to use words that have only a few of those things that make up a word, what are they called? Let me get my word book. Oh, syllables. Just because many of my peers do not edit their work at a semi-professional level and prefer to use shorter, more general words does not make me anything special.

My subject matter is far from unique - Poems, Poems! Angst, Angst! Ramble, Ramble, General Opinion, Attempt at Comedy! Why you are still reading at this point confounds me to no end. I am 14 years old - what could I possibly have to say?

Dear blog,

Today my Chemistry Honors teacher yelled at us. It was scary. Then we had to play pickleball in PE, and our team was, like, sooooo beast! It was pretty pro. Then I got to go to the Drama Club meeting, and Oh. Em. Gee. They ate, like, all my food in like, ten seconds! It was insane! 'Twas like a swarm of locusts descending upon a field of crops, pillaging it and leaving only death and destruction in their wake.

So, yeah. That was pretty nuts. And then we had journalism, and oh my gosh, I got to set up interviews! Like, Oh My Bieber! BloggyMcBlogger808 out, yo!

(I apologize for any brain cells lost in the process of reading the above.)

I'm at the age where I have too little experience to pass judgements on life, but enough to know that I shouldn't be attempting to pass judgements on life because of lack of said experience. Did that make sense? (It's 12:35 in the morning. Be glad I possess any coherenednksljnfskljnfssjjjjjjjjfa;mv)

And then, tonight, on the way to the Green Day concert with my family, it hit me - my gimmick didn't have to be based on talent, or personality - I could have a witty title and interesting location!

Spouts, Spiels, and Assorted Miscellanea - Live From the Trunk!

Without poking my head out from the trunk, I asked, "Mom, can I use your iPhone?"

From the backseat came a brief, "No."

And so I tried again. "Please?"

"No."

I bided my time. I waited. I fogged up the back windshield with my breath and wrote messages to other drivers.

"Please?"

"No!"

And so died my gimmick.

So... I'm 14 years old and I can use multi-syllabic words, punctuate and capitalize my sentences correctly, use grammar correctly, and spell! Read my blog.

Rest in Peace

Three days into sophomore year, Social Life, the beloved son of Friends and Fun, died during a home invasion in his High School, California home. Born in Middle School, California, Social Life was naturally happy and carefree. In his youth, he could always be found at the local park or at Starbucks, drinking a vanilla frappachino. As he grew older, Social Life moved to High School, where he met his future fiance, Key Club. Although the two were not close at first, after a few months they found common ground in a love of people and community service, and were wed on a beautiful sunny day in March.

After a long, relaxing vacation in Summer, USA, Social Life returned to High School. However, in the late afternoon of August 23, his house was attacked by his old archrival Grades, as well as his new enemies, Chemistry Honors and Working Out. Knowing that he could not hold out much longer, he heroically gave his life to protect his wife and children.

Social Life is survived by his wife and two children, Journalism and Gay-Straight Alliance. He will be sorely missed.

Death of a Summer

'Tis the eve of sophomore year, and yet my mind remains stoutly in the chilled out mindset that is summer. It never really felt like summer to begin with, I guess, because no matter where I was, I always seemed to be looking a few days ahead, until today, when it finally dawned on me that it was over.

It wasn't a complete dud, though. I went intertubing and rock climbing; I did the Leap of Faith and did an improv session. I tie-dyed shirts and made lanyards and friendship bracelets. I dressed up in silly outfits and I biked to Jamba Juice. I watched Shutter Island in a dark tent in the early hours of the morning. I spent a week running after hyped-up preschoolers, and I spent a week scribbling furious notes while surrounded by a bunch of other journalism geeks. I checked out guys and rode roller coasters, and I learned to juggle.

There is no apprehension, no nerves, no mental-breakdown-utter-denial "I still have all the time in the world!" So bring it on, sophomore year. School starts tomorrow, and I'm unafraid. Hell, I'm more than unafraid - I'm pumped.

Comeuppance

If there is any such thing as comeuppance
One day I'll get my I-told-you-so
You'll have ignored me time and time again
And it will finally catch up to you
They'll have left you
He'll have left you
(Whoever "he" is)
I'll still be right here
Doing what I always do
Taking out the trash
Sweeping up the debris
And cleaning up the devastation in your wake
And I'll stand there
Amongst the burnt out cigarette butts and broken dreams
And I'll let it rip
What's been due to me all these years
I'll say it across the empty junkyard
(Your rats of friends will have long since disappeared.)
And you'll look up at me with tears in your eyes
"Do you need me?"
And you'll come running
And I'll still be right there
And I'll whisper it to myself at night
Rolling it around on my tongue
Letting it ghost past my lips
"I told you so."

The H8 Has Ended

Well, it's finally happened: Prop 8 has been overturned. I found out during my break today. I was sitting in the tunnel on the playground with my fellow Leader-in-Training when she went, "Oh my gosh!"

"What?" I asked.

"Prop 8 has been overturned!"

At which point I let out a hearty "Fuck yeah!" and smacked my head on the top of the tunnel.

I'm not going to go through all the reasons that this was the right decision, because odds are, if you aren't pro-love I would have turned you off long ago. However, I am elated that all of my friends, regardless of sexuality, will be able to marry whomever they choose. Prop 8 was ridiculous to begin with, and it was even more absurd that it passed. This gives me hope for the sanity of America, and for a more tolerant future.

History

There's something undeniably ominous and foreboding about seeing your mother's maiden name on a headstone. Unfeeling, grey slabs crisscross the green field, and American flags punctuate the smooth, engraved headstones. The dreary gray Pennsylvania sky makes the whole scene feel washed out, surreal. Fresh flowers are planted in front of the graves of my great-grandparents, and I wonder who is brave enough to traverse the empty graveyard and tend to them. Is it my grandfather, who sits in the driver's seat and talks about his parents, whose graves are but five feet from our front tires? "He came over here and fought in World War I when he was 18. She was born here. Her two older sisters were born in Italy, but she was born here."

We drive on. We pass the empty lot where his childhood home used to be, and my great-grandmother's old house, now inhabited by others. He talks about working in the coal mines as the lush green forest speeds by, disappearing behind us as we follow the gently winding road. We see where my mother went to high school, and he talks about how she and my aunt would walk through the woods on their way to school.

I dazedly realize that the past and the future were beginning to form an invisible seam, linking and looping two generations as time continues to pass. I am not the uniformed Catholic school girl gossipping contentedly on her way to school, but an average teenager who rides the public bus every morning. And yet, we intertwine: the same dark, heavy hair, the same brownish eyes, and the same silent, trembling, hysterical laughter, faces a deep red and eyes flush with joyous tears.

And here I was thinking history was boring.

Boys vs. Girls

Although I am blessed to live in a country where sexism is no longer rampant, I am still disappointed in the lingering stereotypes and expectations for the two genders. Many are caused by ignorance, but others are caused by beliefs that have been stressed since childhood.

Females are still viewed by many as the weaker sex, as only being good for bearing children, and most disgustingly, as objects. Girls are expected from birth to wear pink clothes and frills, and as they grow older, heels and makeup. This is one stereotype that has declined over the years, but it can still be witnessed frequently. Girls are supposed to play with Barbies and gossip, and are generally discouraged from being noisy or rowdy. I recall goofing around with some of my male friends in the eighth grade, playing tag and shoving each other, when an older female teacher called me over. She did not reprimand me for any particular reason, but rather instructed me not to roughhouse with the boys because it was not ladylike. I often find myself the only girl in a group of boys, generally because I am one of the few females who actually cares to learn how to juggle, or play soccer, or do improv. It makes me feel isolated, but I do so anyway because it seems as if it is the more fun option, despite the lack of participation from other girls.

However, every coin has its flip-side. I cannot speak from experience, but I have borne witness to plenty of stereotypes against the male sex. Males are expected to be tough, and are called "pussies" and "girls" if they cry (yet another insult to females). Boys are supposed to be crude, loud, and insensitive, and are discouraged from showing emotion. The phrase "boys will be boys" dismisses these actions, because being boys, of course they are naturally all of these. Professions in the various fields of art are viewed as off-limits to boys because they are too "girly". Many refuse to believe that males can be victims of domestic abuse. A male friend of mine was surprised to hear about a male rape victim, and many cases of male rape and abuse go unreported because the victim is often derided for being too "weak" to stop it. 

Like all stereotypes, it is our job to disprove them. We have all succumbed to these stereotypes at one time or another, and we will continue to fall victim to them unless we make a conscious effort not to do so. There's nothing wrong with a girl playing football or a boy wearing a pink shirt- and it's high time everyone realized it.