Words of A Minor

December 27, 2009

Have you ever read something so utterly amazing that it leaves you with a sense of inadequacy? I feel as though I do, more than I should, especially since I should be writing amazing essays; I should be coming up with these grand questions concerning human life and express them so eloquently and so magically that whomever were to read them would end up in a drawl of the mouth and in a speechless breath.

I read something today that made me feel unworthy of this blank page, at which I dabble my fingers furiously against the keyboard in order to make any sense out of the once infinite emptiness susceptible to infinite possibilities. After reading a young lady’s words and thoughts, as they were filled with fervent passion and intense intimate concerns, I was inspired to do just the same. I thought to myself, How can I call myself a writer, when her words, as seven years my minor, exist?

These moments of doubt spear my heart, spear my hopes and dreams—all dramatics aside—and I feel as though I have been challenged, not by her writer but by my writer. I have been challenged to think thoughts that I have never thought possible; I have been challenged to displace any notion from the immensities of my brain onto the availability of a page—yet, to do so would require me to reconsider my notions.

I have said that I have so many things to say, and that all a writer could ever ask for is for someone to read them, and to care about them, and to ponder over them as they have been placed out into the world. Yes, I have said that. But what happens when I read the works of another? I should feel inspired. I should be saying to myself, Jeez, look at that; Now that is true artistry of words. I want to share in that ease of language. However, as I sit here in my chair, I am bombarded with negative instances and find myself doubting my abilities, How can I ever write? How can I face this page knowing that there is better art to be made than my own?

I have always been self-conscious. I have never truly had a good sense of self-esteem, let alone a high self-esteem. I was an obese child, and adolescence never was kind to fatties. I remember in sixth grade that I had the biggest crush on this once cute boy—although now he is an insignificant fish-faced man (haha!)—and on this very hot summer day, I was so inclined as to place my long hair into a ponytail, and as I did, he passed by me and gave me the dirtiest look, laughed at me, and said matter-of-factly that I looked so ugly. Now, I know I am not “ugly” as I do take care of myself, but at the age of eleven, words like that can dismantle any young girls’ ambitions, and for the rest of that summer, I always had my hair down, trying to cover my ugliness.

Sometimes, my eleven-year-old self comes back to life and finds a home in my aging soul. Sometimes, I feel “fat”—in the sense where I am useless, worthless; that nothing I am, nothing I say, nothing I do, can ever contribute to this beautiful universe. But that is only Sometimes. One day, however, I know that with my own children, I never want them to undergo any hints of inadequacy. I want them to strive forward, to embellish their dreams and aspirations, to climb up and over any obstacle they are presented with, and to know that they are never alone—for the love of God, parents, and family, is always helping them along the way.

I want them to find the power of their words; to know that what they have to say is most definitely worth saying. I want them to crave an empty page, or an empty science project board, or an empty diorama box, because in that emptiness the echoes of their thoughts can be heard and the manifestation of true art—as it applies to individual sense of worth—can come alive. I want them to realize what has taken me years of struggling and hurt and pain: you are great just the way you are

As I sit here, letting these notions slip from my mind through my fingertips, making a harsh tapping sound with every press against the keyboard, I realize that my harsh tapping sounds are my melody of thoughts. My words may be choppy, my words may flow like beautiful streams, my words may light up a thousand smiles, my words may furrow ten thousand brows. I write furiously, I write with passion. I write quickly and without ease and without stop until the very end of my last period on the page. And that is okay. I may have questions that will never be answered and I may have answers that may never want to be heard. I am doing this for me, I am striving to forget who I was, and to find who it is that I am and who I want to be. I can face this now full page, and call myself a writer.

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Friend to My "Self"

December 7, 2009


Another week has ensued, but it just so happens to be my final week of “real” rigorous work in my first semester at my first year of college at New York University. I can say that it has been difficult at times, but I think I have become acclimated and I am content with where I currently stand, grades and all. I haven’t made the best of friends, but I have met some pretty interesting people, who happen to be very nice and not at all what I perceived them to be. There is this French girl who is a Buddhist and has sex constantly with her boyfriend, and at times I am envious in their open relationship but I have my constant reminder of waiting until marriage and so all is well. There is my mentor, who is a fellow Christian although not a strong one, and she is well on her way in life, and has had a boyfriend for ten years straight, without ever breaking up (which I find to be amazing and so beautiful) and you can be sure that they will marry very soon, although I can only hope to be invited to what will surely be a beautiful wedding. Then, there is my friend from high school, someone who I believed would not be the great friend she has become, only because of her demanding nature, yet we have never found our relationship at a cross-roads that we could not come to figure out together, something I believe any good, true relationship should embody; communication is key and compromise is second to that. Plus, it helps that we both enjoy psychology and are both easy to talk to and easy to get good advice from; Jessenia is one-of-a-kind, and although she is not my best friend, she is the best one out of my friends, and she is someone I cherish whole-heartedly.

Friendship is something that takes time; that you can read about in books, that you can witness portrayed in movies, and that you can see mimicked and mocked in pre-adolescence, yet it is all a matter of time. I used to have those “best friends” and we used to think that we were the best there could possibly ever be, that every guy wanted to be with us and that every girl wanted to be a part of our “crew,” however, as an old soul trapped in a young body, I soon realized the error of my ways, ofcourse through painful humiliation and exhile (which no teen should ever have to undergo, especially, if brought about by the stupidity and ignorance of stupid and ignorant teens). I realized that the fame and glory that I attained from being with them was transcending, was but a moment in time, and that it was not original, it was not “me”. I quickly became ensnared in the ideals of teenagehood, for “adolescence” doesn’t quite capture what I mean; I mean that the immaturity represented within certain teenage souls is one that can shatter any other soul that is not innately strong in nature. I lost what I thought were good friends. I lost many tears and many hours without sleep. I lost my sense of self as I was caught up in the “other” of those early moments of high school life. Yet, with time, I realized that in losing these things, I ended up finding the most important things of all: I found good friends, ones that wanted me and accepted me for who I was and still am. I found many smiles and joys that came with natural laughter, nothing ever had to be forced or mocked. I found my “self” and I am never letting myself get lost again.

Today, I was speaking on the phone with Jessenia, sharing in the trials and tribulations of life, college, relationships, and it dawned on me that she is really going to be a psychologist one day. She is so good at what she does, recommends the best “cures,” and helps you really analyze yourself so that you can find out what it is that is bothering you. While we held our conversation, I got hungry and decided to make myself a bowl of cereal, Captain Crunch and Skim Milk (yes, I am trying to semi-watch my weight), and yet as I opened the cereal box for the first time, the immediate reaction from the box was “Sorry, You are not a Winner. Please try again.” I pondered if this could ever have affected anyone negatively in their lives, for what is the place of good old Captain Crunch to tell me whether I am or I am not “a winner”? As Jessenia told me today while we were speaking on the phone, “You can’t expect to always get the prize in the box,” and by that I am sure she meant that the box cannot tell you your limitations; Nothing can, only you, the interpreter of the box.

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