Over the past few days, I've realized a few things. These realizations have come to me as a result of religiously watching the DNC for two days straight. After watching both Michelle Obama and Hillary Clinton give their soon to be world-famous and moving speeches, I've realized.. I suck. Seriously. These two women stood up in front of hundreds of thousands of people (not to mention the millions--like me--watching at home) and passionately delivered speeches that would move anyone with a heartbeat. They talked about the struggles of their parents in order to make a better life for their children. Their own struggle to overcome even more obstacles for their children. And I thought to myself, "You know, Hawkins (because I always call myself 'Hawkins' in my head), they're right." These women are absolutely right.
My parents have worked so hard and will continue to work hard to send both of their children to college and see them graduate. Now that my older sister has achieved that goal for herself, the pressure's really on me now, I suppose. I used to think, "Okay, they want me to go to college to make something of myself. To get out of the house or pay rent to stay." But now I realize my parents just want me to succeed. A success, mind you, by my standards and my standards alone. To not only graduate, but be confident enough to push my book (which I really hope to complete something by graduation) on publishers or go on to grad school.
But I'm stuck. Stuck between the naive writer I am and the polished (published) author I need to become. Stuck between the dedicated artist I need to be and the lazy bitch I really am. Stuck between an idealist and a realist. Stuck between... SO MUCH, it seems. I don't know how I will make the jump I need to be successful. I don't have a plan or calendar or deadline or anything that would push me to do well. I just have... me. And the desire, the passion, the want to be an author. There is no plan B, though. No alternate career choice. "No doubling back," as Jason Mraz would say (though I don't think I'm using the term correctly now).
So, today, I'm making a promise. To myself. To you. To my parents. To Michelle Obama. To Hillary Clinton. To future generations. And I promise I will make you proud; I will not let your hard work go unnoticed; I will not let the American dream pass me by; I will give you something to read and enjoy. I will be an inspiration to someone, somewhere just as my idol, Anne Rice, has been to me. I will complete something. And it will be great.
If you've been keeping up with this blog, then prepare to see more shorts. More poems. More creative... pieces. And, hopefully, a lot of them will be completed. I want to do this. I have to do this. I will do this!
.:~o*'Kaylyn'*o~:.
19.8.08
Whew!
To avoid the inevitable onslaught of the same questions, I've decided to write this blog instead. Knowing that my memory sucks and not much of the experience would make it here, I decided to jot down notes as I went along. Some apprehensive, some as they were happening, and some reflective. So forgive the tense(s)of this blog. The actual transcript of this is scattered among two notebooks (as I wrote on what was readily available) and my mind. Enjoy!
______________
The first day of school. Yeah, I've been here before... Except this time it's me who set the alarm clock that I heard go off this morning and me who's responsible for making sure I'm up, dressed and ready on time. I'll pick out the clothes I wear not according to any dress code or guidelines. And there will definitely be no picture taken in the front driveway to send to my great aunt in Virginia.
Hot water is more of a luxury than a necessity this time. And instead of just one girl, I'm sharing the bathroom with three others. There's no one to ask where my socks are this time, no one to bring me, no one to by me donuts and milk. It's just me. On my own.
When I get there, I'll have to address my instructors by "Doctor" or "Professor." No Mr. or Mrs. here.
French was... quite interesting, to say the least. It was a small class, about 12 or 14 students total. The professor appeared in the doorway, a big smile on her face, and asked, "This is French, yes?" But she spoke quickly with a heavy accent. She mostly what I expected. A young, vibrant woman who seemed to love the language and love to teach it to students. Her name's Dr. Fatima Chajia-Fahd. And I must admit, when I first saw the name (Chajia) on my schedule, I thought she'd be an Indian. I don't know why because I don't think it is an Indian surname... But Dr. Chajia is from Morocco, North Africa. Which is cool because she said she was technically "from everywhere," so I'm guessing she either moved a lot or has mixed blood. She reminds me of my middle school teacher who sported a tattoo around her naval and smoked regularly. Very cool.
Then there was History. "Your experience here will be like no other," was one of the first things that was said to us once class began. Red flag! Last time I heard something like that, I was about to "embark on my American journey." A tall, balding, soft-spoken man who wore a suit and tie stood at the front of the classroom. Which I thought was strange, given that it was the first day of school. Perhaps he wanted to make a certain impression on us... That he was a learned man. Funny, a simple button-down and khakis would have sufficed. He spoke very slowly, as is choosing each word carefully to convey his message. In many ways, he reminded me of a minister or preacher. Every time someone reached in their purse or unzipped their backpack, though, he would get a little rattled. He'd pause, find his place in his speech again, and continue speaking. I wonder if he noticed me, watching him, studying him. He interested me greatly. People like him usually do. The quiet ones. His jokes weren't Apollo-grade, but they warranted a soft "heh heh" and stifled chuckles from the class.
My roommate, Adrianna, has this class too. But my French class ran late so today I was stuck sitting in the back while she's up front. I feel... odd in this class. The atmosphere is... off. Everyone seems nervous. I can't explain it. Maybe it's just first-day jitters. It's a big change from the 12-student French class to this 40 some odd auditorium style class. I'm sure I'll get used to it. I just figured it would be smaller, given the fact this is an Honors course. Oh well. As if sensing the atmosphere, he told us "not to come in so tense. I know y'all are coming in here wondering what the hell is going on..." That I found interesting. It loosed the mood some. If only a little.
Before we left, he read us all an email. It was entitled "The Funeral." It was weird, predictable and cliche. I didn't enjoy that as much. But I applaud his efforts to teach us something.
I had a minute to myself after those two classes. Actually, it was more of an hour-long gap between my classes. I decided to go to the library just to sit, read, write and reflect. The 4th floor's really the best for things like this. About 80% of the student body doesn't even know about a 4th floor in our library and the other 19% have no use for it, seeing as how it's nothing but reference books and old educations VHS collections up here. Which leaves the 1% of students (like me) who like this floor for it's solitude. It is so quiet up here. Like, immaculately quiet. The only downside I find is the feeling I get for disturbing this peace. Even as I write, I can hear my pen scratch over the paper and it's somehow magnified in this sound vacuum into a disturbance. I may as well be busting up concrete with a jack hammer. Then again, there's only two other students in here right now. And, as if following some unwritten code, we've all scattered ourselves to opposite corners of the room, the shelves dividing and concealing us into our own little sections. I suppose it's not completely silent up here. The longer i sit, the more sounds I become aware of. The hum of the lights above me... the cricks of the settling wooden bookshelves beside me... faint noises from people 4 floors down... -sigh- I wish I could stay up here longer.
My Speech class positively surprised me. While I expected the teacher to be an old, possibly fat man who wore glasses and carried an over-stuffed briefcase, what I got was a bottled-blond, middle-aged white woman who wore a string of pearls around her neck with matching white star earrings. I was really liking the class. Then... we moved. Buildings.
I hate this new classroom. The desks are smaller and less comfortable. I only have room enough for my notebook here. And it's muggy here. Not to mention this classroom's windows face the street. So all the pretentious jerks who speed down The Strip--as it's called here--with their music so loud it vibrates their very windows can be heard. Oh joy!
This teacher may be one of my favorite this semester. I've already decided. Simply because she asked the class one question: "How many of you identify yourselves as African-American?" Now, for an old white lady to ask such a question to a room full of Black college students with potentially short tempers and even shorter attention spans took BALLS. No one, of course (thank God), was offended. There were a few girls who proudly abstained from personally being identified as African-American, saying they were "just Black." But I think our professor was expecting this. Still, BALLS.
I was in familiar waters once the time came for biology. Same building and classroom as the summer. I wish the teacher was the same. She was awesome! But this'll do. I've gotten mixed reactions from people when I told them my teacher for this semester so I don't know what to make of that. It's like someone trashing a new movie despite the critical acclaim and your own eagerness to see it, only to realize this is the same person who would rather watch Step Up 2 over Smart People. Yeah... something like that.
This biology professor spoke very fast and paced about the front, waving his hands wildly. He's younger than a college biology professor I would expect to see. He reminds me a lot of a mixture between a cool older cousin and a lecherous car salesman. Something about his eyes... There's a comedian who he's a dead ringer for but the name won't come to me now. Dr. Cole, that's his name, Dr. Cole made me smile with his antics and impressions of what was going in out mind. Even as he whirled around the class is his eccentricity, I listened to everything he said. Now I don't know what the other students were complaining about.
I think if I had to describe Dr. Cole, I would say he has the sarcasm of Mr. Sickmann, the sexual interest of Mrs. Hamilton, and the humor of Richard Pryor or Chris Rock. He says things like "tig ol' bitties" and "jizz," then corrects himself with the scientific terms for us. I think I'll like this class. A lot. He says he's going to try to learn all 120 of our names by midterms. He'll definitely remember mine because I'll practically live in his office. Hey, biology is hard! (As I learned over the summer.)
Whew! That's it! My first day.
.:~o*'Kaylyn'*o~:.
______________
The first day of school. Yeah, I've been here before... Except this time it's me who set the alarm clock that I heard go off this morning and me who's responsible for making sure I'm up, dressed and ready on time. I'll pick out the clothes I wear not according to any dress code or guidelines. And there will definitely be no picture taken in the front driveway to send to my great aunt in Virginia.
Hot water is more of a luxury than a necessity this time. And instead of just one girl, I'm sharing the bathroom with three others. There's no one to ask where my socks are this time, no one to bring me, no one to by me donuts and milk. It's just me. On my own.
When I get there, I'll have to address my instructors by "Doctor" or "Professor." No Mr. or Mrs. here.
French was... quite interesting, to say the least. It was a small class, about 12 or 14 students total. The professor appeared in the doorway, a big smile on her face, and asked, "This is French, yes?" But she spoke quickly with a heavy accent. She mostly what I expected. A young, vibrant woman who seemed to love the language and love to teach it to students. Her name's Dr. Fatima Chajia-Fahd. And I must admit, when I first saw the name (Chajia) on my schedule, I thought she'd be an Indian. I don't know why because I don't think it is an Indian surname... But Dr. Chajia is from Morocco, North Africa. Which is cool because she said she was technically "from everywhere," so I'm guessing she either moved a lot or has mixed blood. She reminds me of my middle school teacher who sported a tattoo around her naval and smoked regularly. Very cool.
Then there was History. "Your experience here will be like no other," was one of the first things that was said to us once class began. Red flag! Last time I heard something like that, I was about to "embark on my American journey." A tall, balding, soft-spoken man who wore a suit and tie stood at the front of the classroom. Which I thought was strange, given that it was the first day of school. Perhaps he wanted to make a certain impression on us... That he was a learned man. Funny, a simple button-down and khakis would have sufficed. He spoke very slowly, as is choosing each word carefully to convey his message. In many ways, he reminded me of a minister or preacher. Every time someone reached in their purse or unzipped their backpack, though, he would get a little rattled. He'd pause, find his place in his speech again, and continue speaking. I wonder if he noticed me, watching him, studying him. He interested me greatly. People like him usually do. The quiet ones. His jokes weren't Apollo-grade, but they warranted a soft "heh heh" and stifled chuckles from the class.
My roommate, Adrianna, has this class too. But my French class ran late so today I was stuck sitting in the back while she's up front. I feel... odd in this class. The atmosphere is... off. Everyone seems nervous. I can't explain it. Maybe it's just first-day jitters. It's a big change from the 12-student French class to this 40 some odd auditorium style class. I'm sure I'll get used to it. I just figured it would be smaller, given the fact this is an Honors course. Oh well. As if sensing the atmosphere, he told us "not to come in so tense. I know y'all are coming in here wondering what the hell is going on..." That I found interesting. It loosed the mood some. If only a little.
Before we left, he read us all an email. It was entitled "The Funeral." It was weird, predictable and cliche. I didn't enjoy that as much. But I applaud his efforts to teach us something.
I had a minute to myself after those two classes. Actually, it was more of an hour-long gap between my classes. I decided to go to the library just to sit, read, write and reflect. The 4th floor's really the best for things like this. About 80% of the student body doesn't even know about a 4th floor in our library and the other 19% have no use for it, seeing as how it's nothing but reference books and old educations VHS collections up here. Which leaves the 1% of students (like me) who like this floor for it's solitude. It is so quiet up here. Like, immaculately quiet. The only downside I find is the feeling I get for disturbing this peace. Even as I write, I can hear my pen scratch over the paper and it's somehow magnified in this sound vacuum into a disturbance. I may as well be busting up concrete with a jack hammer. Then again, there's only two other students in here right now. And, as if following some unwritten code, we've all scattered ourselves to opposite corners of the room, the shelves dividing and concealing us into our own little sections. I suppose it's not completely silent up here. The longer i sit, the more sounds I become aware of. The hum of the lights above me... the cricks of the settling wooden bookshelves beside me... faint noises from people 4 floors down... -sigh- I wish I could stay up here longer.
My Speech class positively surprised me. While I expected the teacher to be an old, possibly fat man who wore glasses and carried an over-stuffed briefcase, what I got was a bottled-blond, middle-aged white woman who wore a string of pearls around her neck with matching white star earrings. I was really liking the class. Then... we moved. Buildings.
I hate this new classroom. The desks are smaller and less comfortable. I only have room enough for my notebook here. And it's muggy here. Not to mention this classroom's windows face the street. So all the pretentious jerks who speed down The Strip--as it's called here--with their music so loud it vibrates their very windows can be heard. Oh joy!
This teacher may be one of my favorite this semester. I've already decided. Simply because she asked the class one question: "How many of you identify yourselves as African-American?" Now, for an old white lady to ask such a question to a room full of Black college students with potentially short tempers and even shorter attention spans took BALLS. No one, of course (thank God), was offended. There were a few girls who proudly abstained from personally being identified as African-American, saying they were "just Black." But I think our professor was expecting this. Still, BALLS.
I was in familiar waters once the time came for biology. Same building and classroom as the summer. I wish the teacher was the same. She was awesome! But this'll do. I've gotten mixed reactions from people when I told them my teacher for this semester so I don't know what to make of that. It's like someone trashing a new movie despite the critical acclaim and your own eagerness to see it, only to realize this is the same person who would rather watch Step Up 2 over Smart People. Yeah... something like that.
This biology professor spoke very fast and paced about the front, waving his hands wildly. He's younger than a college biology professor I would expect to see. He reminds me a lot of a mixture between a cool older cousin and a lecherous car salesman. Something about his eyes... There's a comedian who he's a dead ringer for but the name won't come to me now. Dr. Cole, that's his name, Dr. Cole made me smile with his antics and impressions of what was going in out mind. Even as he whirled around the class is his eccentricity, I listened to everything he said. Now I don't know what the other students were complaining about.
I think if I had to describe Dr. Cole, I would say he has the sarcasm of Mr. Sickmann, the sexual interest of Mrs. Hamilton, and the humor of Richard Pryor or Chris Rock. He says things like "tig ol' bitties" and "jizz," then corrects himself with the scientific terms for us. I think I'll like this class. A lot. He says he's going to try to learn all 120 of our names by midterms. He'll definitely remember mine because I'll practically live in his office. Hey, biology is hard! (As I learned over the summer.)
Whew! That's it! My first day.
.:~o*'Kaylyn'*o~:.
15.8.08
[Continuing] Horror
I remember when Anna was younger. Maybe about four or five. And she tip-toed into my room in the middle of the night and she had managed to pull herself up into my bed. By the time I had rolled over and took notice of her, she was already fast asleep. Half of my being wanted to shake her, demand why she had done this, scold her for coming into my room without permission... Then I saw her face. Her small, doll-like face with streaked with tear trails. I sighed. She had had another nightmare. I was sure of it.
Anna claimed she could contact the spirit world. That supernatural creatures would speak to her. I entertained her for a few years but once I was older, I realized how ridiculous she was being. How naive. But there was one thing I couldn't explain: The nightmares. Anna had terrible, vivid nightmares that would wake everyone in the house with her screams. To hear her describe what she saw in her dreams would even send chills down my spine. There was no explanation for how well she could recall those horrifying images. Abuela said Anna had the "ojo tercer." The Third Eye.
"Anna," I said after a moment. "Do you remember the bedtime stories Poppa used to tell us to get us to go to bed when we were being too noisy?"
I heard her clothes shift in a nod.
"Do you remember how he told us we would be safer here than in England? How this was the land of our ancestors, even though we had never set foot on Spanish soil? How the blood, sweat and tears of early Spaniard explorers enriches this dirt? And, in every story, no native was killed in this forest?"
"I thought you didn't believe in those stories... You said I was--,"
"I know what I said, Anna. But now I'm saying that maybe you were right... Maybe there is more to this world than meets the eye. So how do we get out of here?"
I felt her throw her arms around me and squeeze me tightly. The sudden shock of feeling her body's weight against mine forced me to take a few steps back. I wrapped my arms around her and patted her on the back like Momma did. I couldn't believe it, but I was putting my trust in my younger sister. I, who should have protected her from any danger. I, who convinced her this was safe.
"First," she said with new-found excitement in her voice. "We need to contact the spirits of good. They'll know what to do."
Anna claimed she could contact the spirit world. That supernatural creatures would speak to her. I entertained her for a few years but once I was older, I realized how ridiculous she was being. How naive. But there was one thing I couldn't explain: The nightmares. Anna had terrible, vivid nightmares that would wake everyone in the house with her screams. To hear her describe what she saw in her dreams would even send chills down my spine. There was no explanation for how well she could recall those horrifying images. Abuela said Anna had the "ojo tercer." The Third Eye.
"Anna," I said after a moment. "Do you remember the bedtime stories Poppa used to tell us to get us to go to bed when we were being too noisy?"
I heard her clothes shift in a nod.
"Do you remember how he told us we would be safer here than in England? How this was the land of our ancestors, even though we had never set foot on Spanish soil? How the blood, sweat and tears of early Spaniard explorers enriches this dirt? And, in every story, no native was killed in this forest?"
"I thought you didn't believe in those stories... You said I was--,"
"I know what I said, Anna. But now I'm saying that maybe you were right... Maybe there is more to this world than meets the eye. So how do we get out of here?"
I felt her throw her arms around me and squeeze me tightly. The sudden shock of feeling her body's weight against mine forced me to take a few steps back. I wrapped my arms around her and patted her on the back like Momma did. I couldn't believe it, but I was putting my trust in my younger sister. I, who should have protected her from any danger. I, who convinced her this was safe.
"First," she said with new-found excitement in her voice. "We need to contact the spirits of good. They'll know what to do."
13.8.08
So how do you like Southern?
In a few words, I don't. Not yet, at least.
I feel a little guilty for not posting in nearly two weeks. It's not like I haven't had anything to talk about. So much has been happening! Here's the shortcut version: My sister had graduated from college while I have just entered. I moved into a dorm room and spent hours with my roommate cleaning, disinfecting, and making it more "homey." (pictured should be on Facebook soon, I hope). There was... the block party. Oh gawd! The block party...
But, yeah, I have been... swamped. But everything's moving forward and I don't like it. At all. I feel like I'm being pulled away from my old life and thrust into a new one. But I liked the way things were! I really did. All of us together... not a care in the world. Now there's registrations, apartment shopping, dorm room troubles, scholarships, classes... it's all so different.
-sigh-
I need to write again. I could use the escape.
I feel a little guilty for not posting in nearly two weeks. It's not like I haven't had anything to talk about. So much has been happening! Here's the shortcut version: My sister had graduated from college while I have just entered. I moved into a dorm room and spent hours with my roommate cleaning, disinfecting, and making it more "homey." (pictured should be on Facebook soon, I hope). There was... the block party. Oh gawd! The block party...
But, yeah, I have been... swamped. But everything's moving forward and I don't like it. At all. I feel like I'm being pulled away from my old life and thrust into a new one. But I liked the way things were! I really did. All of us together... not a care in the world. Now there's registrations, apartment shopping, dorm room troubles, scholarships, classes... it's all so different.
-sigh-
I need to write again. I could use the escape.
1.8.08
Searching for Inspiration
As I sit down to continue some old work or post a new one, I find myself... inspirationally-challenged. There are so many ideas in my head. It's nearly impossible to calm the storm of ideas long enough to see through the fog and write something coherent. But I know I must write. Writing is the very blood that courses through my veins. It is my strength. And my weakness. It's actually pretty funny; I can't imagine myself doing anything but writing. I'm not good at anything else. I have no marketable skills. I lack the patience to try to learn something else. It's just.. my passion. Writing.
I like to think of what first attracted me to writing. Why I love it so much. I think if I can figure out what first sparked my interests, I can be the lean mean writing machine I was in high school. And, I've found the first thing that attracted me to writing was not writing at all, strangely enough. It was reading. Reading what others had already written. How their worlds opened trails into these unseen worlds parallel to my own. And sometimes within our own worlds. And, then, I remember thinking to myself, Hey, I really enjoy this reading thing... And I was consumed. I was read anything I could get my hands on. Book stores became my favorite place to go and I began to examine the writing process in-depth to find out how these authors had done what they done. How a completely average mind could give life to not so average thoughts and ideas. What I discovered is that I, too, had one of those over-active, imaginative minds and I, too, could create. And I did.
Somewhere between the end of junior year and now, I've realized I've lost that initial drive. My chutzpah, if you will. There's always that voice inside me saying, "This isn't good enough." And I wish to silence it. But I can't. I have become what all writers fear: an editor.
.:~o*'Kaylyn'*o~:.
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