Senioritis

Anyone who has ever attended high school knows what "Senioritis" is. It's a strange affliction that overtakes high school seniors. Nice, quiet students become delinquents. Overachievers suddenly decide it's not worth the effort. Teachers go insane. In short, it's total chaos.

Being a graduating senior, I can attest to this phenomenon first-hand. You will notice that I can somehow find the time to blog but struggle to carve out fifteen minutes to write a paper. Why? I'm going to be out of school in a few short days; why waste my time sucking up to teachers? Granted, I still manage to stay out of trouble but what is the point of writing yet another paper when I could be doing some last-minute bonding with my friends? In short, I can't wait to be out of here. I love my friends and have wonderful teachers but I guess I'm kind of beyond the whole high school mindset.

I need something more than giving shallow answers to equally shallow questions. I'm sick of regurgitating meaningless facts and "memorizing" information to pass tests. I'm ready to think for myself and learn who I am and what I truly am capable of. That will never happen in my hometown.

Leave Me Alone!

Have you ever had "one of those days"? You know what I mean. It's not so much that everything is going wrong, as that nothing is going right. Well, that's kind of how my week has been. I'm tired and cranky and have a huge pile of schoolwork to do -- and no motivation to do it.

I can handle all of this; I'm a big girl, I'll live. What bothers me the most is how everyone seems to make it their personal duties to make me feel better. I don't want people's comfort; I want to be left alone! If I'm unusually quiet and withdrawn, that means I want some time to myself to figure out what I am thinking. The last thing I need is for some well-meaning person to come up and ask me what's wrong. Honestly, I'm fine. . . or at least I was, until everyone started giving me the third degree. If I have something to tell you, I'll let you know. Otherwise, assume that it's none of your business.

I appreciate everyone's concern; I really do. It's just unnecessary. Besides, it always seems to come at a time when I am finally reaching an important conclusion. Someone gives me a hug and it's all over; I'm back at square one. To be honest, the best thing anyone can do for me when I'm in this mode is this: keep a distance. If I want to talk with you, I'll seek you out. Yes, your support is important. But my own is even more so.

Who am I?

It just occurred to me that I have spent a lot of time and space venting about English class. Well, I'm about to do it again.

I am supposed to be writing a paper answering the question 'Who am I?'. Simple, right? Not really. What, exactly, defines who I am? My name? Family? Occupation? Personality? All of these things contribute to who I am, but they are only a small part of it. My name is my identity and besides, names change. My actual self doesn't. Family, too, evolves as one lives and occupations change constantly. Personality is a better description, but is still only the persona I present to the public; it's not who I really am. To be honest, I don't think many people know who they are.

It's easy to define oneself by name and job; it's much more difficult to figure out what kind of person one is. I, for one, am a mass of contradictions. When a friend is in trouble I listen sympathetically while I mentally wonder what he/she was thinking in the first place. I love little kids but don't want my own; I live on a ranch but hate animals. In short, I am a paradox. How can I write a paper on who I am when I am unsure of it, myself?

Maybe I'll see my English teacher at my ten-year class reunion and be able to walk up to her with a smile and cheerfully say, "Do you remember me? I know who I am now!" More realistically, I'd have to say, "Remember me? I'm the one who harassed you 24/7!" How could she forget?

Exhaustion

It's been quite awhile since I last wrote; sorry! All of my teachers decided to dump major end-of-the-year projects on us at the same time and I was gone all weekend. To make a long story short, life is crazy. I haven't gotten much sleep this weekend so if I don't make sense. . . just bear with me, okay?

You know how being tired just makes everything drag? I've hit some point beyond dragging; thinking hurts. It's okay though; I had a fabulous weekend. I drove for nine hours to attend my boyfriend's prom. I arrived just before school got out, so I met his friends and a couple of teachers. We went to "The Amityville Horror" -- good movie, by the way -- Friday night.

Saturday was Prom. When we got there, we realized that neither of us really wanted to be there. I didn't know anyone and was nervous about making a good impression; his friends kept making insinuations and he was annoyed. We danced a little, then left and went to a bonfire at his friend's house. That was awesome! Nothing is more fun than hanging out around a bonfire, joking around with everyone.

Sunday was church, then we baby-sat his cousin. She is the cutest little thing! I was so excited to see her. I even let her dress me up in a huge, hot pink sombrero and paint my fingernails hot pink! She cried when I left to go to church again. We got back and I packed my bags and read for a while (everyone else was watching "Collateral" but I missed the beginning, so I was confused) until my boyfriend came down to say good-night.

Waking up yesterday morning was torture; I didn't want to leave. He went to school and I left for home. I got lost a couple of times but survived and only had to pull over to sleep once. When I finally got home, all I wanted to do was take a long, hot bath and go to sleep. Today, I would be content just to sleep. I can't wait until school is out. . . Anyone have some No-Doz?

Same Ol', Same Ol'. . .

One of my friends and I registered to vote yesterday. Scary thought, huh? Anyway, it was way easier than we had expected it to be. As we were leaving the building, I looked at her.

"So, I wonder how many Independents there are in our area?" I wondered aloud.

She smiled, "One."

I replied with a laugh, "Make that two." We dissolved into hilarity.

It's funny how people often keep their feelings to themselves for fear of being labeled. For example, this particular friend and I had a conversation a few weeks ago about paranormal beliefs -- auras and the like. She mentioned that her little cousin has some characteristics of an "Indigo Child" (someone who can read auras). As the characteristics were listed I found myself identifying with many of them but afraid of playing the "bigger and better" game, so I said nothing. I did some research and discovered that, indeed, I fit the description. When I told my friend she was not surprised at all. In fact, she revealed that she had brought up the entire conversation because she thought I may be one but was afraid of being considered 'crazy' if she just told me. We were thinking the same thing at the same time, yet afraid to express it -- even to each other!

Sometimes I wonder how many great ideas never came to fruition simply because the originator was afraid of what others' would think. Then I wonder if other people wonder about this type of thing. No wonder I have a headache!

Sanity

Have you ever seen a picture that gives you goosebumps? The kind of picture that catches your eye and keeps it until you can't bear to look anymore -- but you still can't help it?

I'm sure most of you have, at one point or another, seen a picture of Edvard Munch's "The Scream". You know, the painting done in ghastly grays and greens, depicting a man with his hands on his face, screaming? If you have never seen this picture, I suggest going to http://home.earthlink.net/~bfire3/ and checking it out before continuing. It will explain a lot.

I clearly recall the first time I saw "The Scream"; I was working on a research paper my freshman year, attempting to prove Adolf Hitler was insane. One of the psychology books I had included a section on mental illness and Munch's painting was used as an example of the effects of insanity on creativity. I was riveted. I wanted to close the book and never open it again, yet at the same time I felt drawn to the picture. What is he screaming about? Is something after him? Or is he just fed up with life?

I had not given it much thought until yesterday when I met my aunt for lunch. We were discussing the fact that there is no set definition of "normal" and reality is probably a little different for each person. The subject of depressed and/or insane people with a creative flair came up. I mentioned Sylvia Plath and Virginia Woolf, two of my personal heroes. My aunt added Edgar Allen Poe and Edvard Munch. It took me a minute to place Munch but when I did we were off again.

"That painting is so creepy," I told her. "The scariest part, for me, is that I feel somehow. . . connected to it."

"I know what you mean," she replied.

I wonder, why did Munch paint "The Scream"? He was schizophrenic, yes, but that cannot have been the only factor in its creation. I prefer to believe that Munch was as sane as anyone can be but was just never given a change to prove his sanity. "The Scream" was his way of expressing everything locked up inside of him. Of course, I could be simply defending a man who was "crazy" (whatever that means) and painted what he saw. But if he truly saw this. . . isn't that real, too, to him at least? Who are we to dictate reality? I think we are all crazy, in our own way.

President Mush

No, the title is not a misspelling. I have a theory that our esteemed president lacks a brain due to his excessive partying during his college years. What is left of his brain is, you guessed it, mush. President Mush's heart is (arguably) in the right place; it's his brain that gets confused.

For example, everyone has heard of his "culture of life". Great theory, right? Everyone lives peaceful, painless lives and we can all live forever. . . or not. Funny, I had no idea that a culture of life included taking the lives of innocent soldiers and civilians -- both our own and others -- in Iraq. And for someone who opposed abortion, he is quite willing to kill people through capital punishment. As a matter of fact, President Mush killed more people in his stint as governor of Texas than any other governor in the history of our nation! Obviously, life means a lot to him. This is certainly evidenced by his stand on the aforementioned issues.

Now, President Mush not only values the quantity of life but prizes quality, as well. He wants all conservative white Christian males to have the rights he is denying other people, such as homosexuals and other minorities. President Mush is dead-set on forcing people to worship his god (which, by the way, I believe in) and governs according to his personal morals instead of enforcing the Constitution. Thus, abortion is illegal but killing a grown adult is perfectly acceptable. Criminals are not productive members of society and therefore should be legally murdered.

On a slightly smaller scale, homosexuals are obviously corrupting our youth. I mean, what kind of culture of life embraces diversity? Insidiously teaching children to accept people with different lifestyles will certainly cause these same children to grow into "freaks", themselves. They have no choice in the matter. Right? I know I am only a student and certainly no expert on our government, but the last time I checked our Declaration of Independence -- one of the documents our nation was founded on -- guaranteed all citizens the rights of "life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness". Telling a person he or she cannot marry the person of his or her choosing, regardless of sex, is certainly violating that individual's right to the "pursuit of happiness".

Does President Mush care? No; he's too busy preaching about the evils of terrorism overseas. You see, there are all of these evil dictators in other countries who insist on everyone sharing the same beliefs. We are so fortunate here in America because we don't have to worry about this. We have the freedom to believe whatever we want. . . so long as President Mush approves.

Little Things

I'm sitting in the Library, talking with one of my closest guy friends. We have the type of friendship that blossomed from driving each other crazy. Freshman year, we hated each other. Sophomore year we began to get along. Junior year we became better friends. Now, we're pretty close.

We were just having a discussion about how the little decisions in life can change a lot. For example, had we hooked up a few years ago (before we were both involved with other people), both our respective relationships and our friendship would be totally different now. For one, who knows if we would even be involved in our current relationships. Even if we were, that would mean things hadn't worked out for the two of us. Therefore we probably wouldn't be sharing life secrets.

It's weird to realize that something like that can change. . . everything. I mean, if I hadn't met my boyfriend when I did my life would be so different. Obviously, I would be in a different (or no) relationship now. But other things would change, too. I would have had to find a prom date, instead of having an automatic one. I would have never met his family -- or their little princess, who I am going to someday steal (if her mom will let me. . .). I probably wouldn't have even considered the college I plan to attend, figuring it was too close to home. In other words, everything would be different.

The hardest part of all of this thinking (aside from the headache) is all of the "what-ifs" that I encounter. What if I chose a different college, or a different major? What if I had tried harder in my "easy" classes? What if I had put the time required into attempting to be popular? What if I stopped wondering about the past and tried to make choices today that I'll like tomorrow? Or better yet, what if I took a nice, long, nap and woke up with an empty mind? Great plan!

The Kids Aren't Alright

As many of you know, I teach SonDay School. For those of you who are not from around here, 'SonDay' is not a misspelling. None of the churches in my town have enough young families to hold their own Sunday Schools, so this is a community effort that takes place Wednesdays after school. I was conned into teaching the K-2nd grade class.

Now, teaching SonDay School is much easier said than done. When approached, my response was instantaneous: "Sure! Sounds like fun!" I quickly discovered that teaching is, in fact, work. I had this image of my friend and I surrounded by little angels reciting platitudes of faith and love for us. I do get the love, but my children are far from angelic. What 5-year-old is?

I never imagined that I would be in a situation where "No sitting under the table" would be an essential rule. I discovered that it is possible to fit 5 children on my lap -- and I'm not all that big! My students have fun vying for the position of taller than the teacher. This doesn't take much. I have cleaned up juice spills, seperated wrestling matches, participated in wrestling matches, and held crying kids -- all before class started!

One day, a little blonde girl who talks incessantly crawled into my lap and burrowed her head in my chest. "Can I tell you a secret?" she whispered. I assured her she could tell me anything, never dreaming of her next sentence. "Can I call you Mommy?"

I didn't know what to do. I mean, I'm obviously not her mom but her mom is never around. The poor girl lives with her grandmother and rarely sees her parents, who are not together (her mother has a new boyfriend every week). I just held her. Later she informed me that if she lived in my family, she would be an angel. All I could think of was, "you already are".

Moments like this make me sentimental, but I cannot forget the less tearjerking times, like when I told the class how much Jesus loves them. Their response was to grab my arms, legs, and neck, kiss me, and babble something like this: "I love you almost as much as Jesus does because nobody can love you as much as Jesus does but if I could I would love you as much as Jesus does. . ." all punctuated with kisses on the arms, Gomez Addams-style. Creepy, huh? One little boy asked if I would marry him. I tried not to laugh as I broke his poor little heart.

There is never a boring day in SonDay School; as a matter of fact, my only regret is that there is not enough Diet Coke in the world to give me the caffeine I need to survive. My kids already attacked me in the hall, psyched about going to SonDay School this afternoon. I can't wait to see what they will come up with today.

All Men and Women are Actors

I was talking with a friend of mine a few weeks ago and the conversation shifted from the normal gossipy high-school chatter to our personal lives. Soon we were discussing things we didn't normally share with other people. After a while, she asked me how many people know other people as well as they think they do. When I walk into class it is incredibly simple to place everyone into stereotypical boxes: jock, brownnoser, skank, alcoholic, slacker, clown, overachiever. . . the list goes on. Most people can do this. Life is much simpler when people are quickly sized up and put in their correct category.

The problem occurs when a person finds that no one truly fits any one category. Most people are a unique combination of some -- or all -- of these characteristics. No one is really who they seem. The tall guy who walks in with a huge smile on his face and makes everyone laugh all day? His dad died when he was little. The polite, cheerful girl in the back of the class? She spends weekends with her mom but lives with her dad during the week. As for myself, I have had my own struggles with depression and perfectionism, although the people who know this tell me they never suspected at the time. In short, no one can put anyone else into a category until they truly know what that person's life is like. And by then, they have become such close friends that the thought of categorizing each other is ridiculous. I think that what my entire school -- the whole world -- needs to realize is that we are all human. We all do what we need to do to get by. Shakespeare was right: the world is a stage. And everyday life is the best acting experience anyone can get.

Frustration

Okay, I should really be working on an English paper right now, but I am too frustrated to even think about it. I was sitting in class, pretending to pay attention, when the teacher announced our assignment: write an autobiography. Fine. I can do that. She went on to say it would be 20 pages, minimum. That didn't sound fun but I could live with it. Today we were to write about our families. There's nothing really wrong with that, either. Then she dropped a bomb. Our assignment was to be handwritten.

Now, I know this may not seem to be a big deal to most people. What's so wrong with writing a paper out on paper? To be honest, it's not that huge of a thing. As a matter of fact, I have only one problem with the assignment: I cannot write anything a) on cue or b) by hand. The sight of blank notebook paper scares me like nothing else (and trust me, I'm scared of a lot of things). Typing allows me to write pages and pages, decide I hate what I wrote, and delete it or save it for another story. Writing a story by hand means there's more thought put into it before I put it down, completely destroying the creative process. I know I can write; my Mom calls it my "first love". I know the fundamentals of grammar and sentence construction; why should I be subjected to copying down words from a notebook to computer? Will I learn from it? No. Will it help my writing? No. Will this assignment accomplish anything? No. So why do it?

When I (as nicely as possible) pointed out to the teacher that I cannot write in a notebook, she yelled at me as if I had just informed her that I was, in fact, planning on revealing her deepest, darkest, secrets to our superintendent. The rest of the class thought this was great, as I "never get yelled at". I beg to differ. I am not generally on my best behavior in that class; I guess you could say I am a bit of a ringleader. If I have a problem, I am not afraid to voice it. I have been much more argumentative in the past; today I was making a conscious effort to reign my frustration in. It took all of my self control to just glare at her rather than lash out. I even got yelled at for not completing the assignment we had not started yet! In case you can't tell, I am slightly annoyed.

Our class recieves points for showing the teacher our rough drafts (handwritten). When our last assignment was announced, I had writers' block and ended up not having any progress to show at the end of the hour. Accordingly, I received a zero for that day's work. To be fair, I was not overly upset about this. A zero out of ten didn't destroy my grade. Last time I checked, I still had a 99%. Obviously I can afford to lose a couple of points -- not that I would try to! Basically, there is no point in my forcing myself to write a paper that will completely change when I type, just to get a few points that won't really affect my grade.

What it all comes down to, is that there is no point to what I am currently doing in English class. I don't understand what the point is -- why are we writing the same paper twice? The teacher claims we can revise better if we handwrite our paper first; I, for one, revise as I type. This makes my rough draft much closer to my final copy, meaning I can edit more deeply and turn in better-written papers in less time that it would take to write a paper, type it, turn it in, revise it, and turn it in again. If the point of school is to waste time or make all students think the same, my school is certainly doing its job.

Stream of Consciousness

Stream-of-consciousness. For those who haven't heard this term before, it means basically recording things as they come to a person. Many songs are written in this way; many rough drafts of stories begin in this manner, as well. But for now I am approaching stream-of-consciousness not as a method of writing or even thinking, but of living.

Those who know me understand that I tend to be rather impulsive. I do and say things without really thinking them through. How many fun things would I have missed out on, had I really thought everything through? I live as I think: randomly. When something fun occurs to me, I do it. If I think of something interesting, I say it. Granted, sometimes it is better to wait and think through decisions, but most choices people make in an average day are better if they are made spur-of-the-moment.

You'll notice I said an "average" day. I mean this in the loosest sense; "average" is different for every person. However, there is one catch. If you are, say, President of the United States. . . maybe you should think before declaring war. . . or giving a speech. . . or a press conference. . . or any of the other "hazards of the job". Otherwise you will look like a complete idiot. Not that that makes any difference to the general public.

To Thine Own Self Be True

So I'm sitting in English class today, minding my own business, when I hear the question. "Hey, you comin' to Senior Party?"

To be honest, I hadn't really given an overabundance of thought to the issue. "I don't know; I'll have to check with my parents and the in-laws [a.k.a. my boyfriend's parents]," I replied.

This answer resulted in a flurry of arguments: my parents are overly protective; my boyfriend is controlling; my boyfriend's parents are controlling. I reminded everyone that my parents hadn't forbidden me and neither had my boyfriend or his parents. Then the whining began. Apparently everyone goes to their own Senior Party and everyone gets drunk and has a fabulous time. Funny, I can think of a lot of things that are more fun than watching a whole bunch of people I don't really like in the first place get drunk, have sex, and puke all over each other. I know, I know. I must be crazy.

The last question, however, was the best: "If you do go, will you drink?" Okay, what is the point of Senior Party? To get drunk, right? But for the sake of discussion, I answered in the negative. Suddenly, the room erupted. Not drink?! Did I know how hard that would be, how much pressure would be on me? Everybody else would be drinking; wouldn't I feel left out? I turned to face the rest of the class.

"How often do I listen to you guys, anyway? Do I ever? Why would I want my last memories of you to be of you all puking in a corner?" I have enough bad memories as it is, I added mentally. This elicited agreement from a girl in front of me. At least one person finally understood my viewpoint.

Sometimes I wonder if my classmates didn't get one too many self-esteem reinforcements as children. The thought of somebody not wanting to obey their every whim seems foreign to them. I guess I was sent to burst their collective bubble. Besides, I plan to have much better things to discuss at my ten-year reunion than who got drunk and messed around with whom at Senior Party. I just hope the rest of my class has passed beyond high school by then.

Spring Fever

It seems so unfair. It is something like 75 degrees outside with a nice breeze -- perfect weather -- and I'm stuck inside, doing nothing. To be fair, I am in school and should be practicing for Theatre or rehearsing my speech for Debate. But honestly, how can anyone expect a bunch of teenagers to sit in class and focus when it's gorgeous outside? Teachers keep saying there are only a few weeks of school left. Basically, there's no real purpose to being in school now. Nobody is paying any attention to what the teacher has to say; all we want to do is hang out with our friends. Instead we are cooped up in a tiny classroom, gossiping and pretending we care about History.

To be fair, quitting school now to avoid the next few ridiculously boring weeks would be stupid (we'd just end up wasting the weeks before we let out, anyway. And there is a point to going to school; I of all people should know that. It just seems cruel to force us to stay inside and study when there is so much going on outside. Spring fever is contagious and I definately have a fatal case of it. Add to that a diagnosis of senioritis and you've got a recipe for disaster. I think I'm going to go crazy!

On the bright side, after this year I can leave high school and never come back. That thought actually gives me a bit of ambition. . . enough to remind me that passing Chemistry might be useful so I can go to college this fall. Maybe I should crack a book. . .

Drip, Drip, Drip. . .

Has anyone else ever noticed that it's only the little things that get on their nerves? I was sitting in English class today when one of my classmates began rhythmically bouncing a ball on his desk. I tried and tried to ignore it and finally caved in and began flashing him dirty looks. The problem was taken care of by one of my friends, who threw a pencil at him, forcing him to stop.

Now, had the offending student spent the entire hour singing "Yankee Doodle", I would have found it amusing. Humming would even be permissible. But bouncing a ball? Annoying as hell. Why? I have no clue. It's funny, though, how those little things can get to you. I am fairly easily annoyed by things like tapping of pens or people who snap their gum. However, if I am doing these things they are perfectly fine. Why would I be doing something that annoyed myself?!

But such is the world, filled with people who inadvertently drive me insane. Apparently I am doomed to a life of solitude. . . maybe I should become a Tibetian monk -- I just hope the roof of my hut isn't leaky!

Tired. . .

So I'm sitting in class, trying not to fall asleep, when it hits me: why am I even here? I don't mean existentially; the purpose of life is one of those questions I usually ponder when I have lots of time to focus. But what is the point of spending 2/3 of my day in class, listening to a teacher lecture me on a) something I already know or b) something of no use to me once I've passed the test. There's got to be a better way to do this! For example, I already know I want to be an English professor. So what's the point of taking Chemistry or Art? None; I'm never going to need them. Instead of being able to learn something useful, I was forced to spend an entire semester in an art class, attempting to draw and sculpt. Why? Because it's required to graduate. Tell me this: how is my ability (or, realistically, inability) to draw my own shoe in any way related to my ability to write a paper? I rest my case.

High School and Government

Well, here it is. My own personal corner of cyberspace, where I can express myself.

I know there are a lot of political blogs out there, but all I can concentrate on at the moment is the ineptness of the Bush administration. I mean, honestly. I am a high school senior and even I could handle things better than Dubya has. The way I see it, Bush was planning to go to war in Iraq since before he "won" his first term. The 9/11 attacks presented the perfect opportunity to do it: all Bush had to do, was find some way to tie Hussein into the whole thing. America was totally vulnerable at that time; anything Bush said was taken as God's own truth. If he said Hussein was behind it all, America (the majority, at least) believed him. Bush has put himself in such a position that anyone who disagrees with him appears to be a godless heathen vegetarian who opposes the death penalty and supports abortion and animal rights.

Yes, that is certainly a realistic description of the 49% of our population who voted against Bush -- if you are smoking something! I, for one, am an 18-year-old white female who believes in God and the power of a good steak; thinks the death penalty is a necessary evil; doesn't support abortion but will not take away someone else's choice; and thinks tree-huggers need a new hobby. Basically, I try to keep my politics moderate in an extremely conservative state. To err on either side of the fence is equally bad. Does nobody realize this but me?!

Unfortunately, my opinion won't really change anything. . . Sometimes I think our government is simply an extension of high school. I don't know about anyone else but in my school, a few people seem to control everything. If you are on their side, great! If not. . . you had better get used to it.