I’m going into high school in August. At the end of the year, students from my class desperately wanted to go to high school. They wanted a change. Three years of middle school, here’s your consolation prize, kids: four years of high school. Happy, happy day. And it was. Because for once, I was running with the herd. I couldn’t wait to be a mature freshman. Now, i’m having nightmares about forgetting the Pythagorean theorem. Not cool. I’m afraid. Afraid that I’ll get lost, that I won’t keep up with my classes, that the teachers will hate me. I’m afraid.

I look back on my blog, which was started more than a year ago, and everything seems recent. I feel like my life is rushing by me, things are changing and I am never going to catch up. I will never be this young again. Soon, I’ll be getting a job, parading for colleges, and being an all “A” student just isn’t going to cut it. I’m going have to change for high school: change how I act, change how I spend my time, change my gym uniform. I never used to see the world this way, as a conundrum of what has changed and what was going to. I’ve never been so confused over how to proceed. I just relied on my parents to make sure I had everything I needed. But I’m turning fifteen in October and the time to be needy and childish is trickling to an end. It’s time for a change.

I used to be great friends with my sister. Now, we argue more often than have fun. I didn’t notice it happening. I didn’t notice things changing. And I know I sound like a girl who didn’t know her boyfriend would break up with her, but I never saw it coming, and now I don’t know how to fix it. I can’t go out and find a new sister after crying on my friends shoulders. I don’t always like change. I don’t always want it. Denise says: “If you don’t like how something is going in your life, change it.” When I asked: “What about the things you can’t change?” She told me: “Wait until you can”. I can change things between my sister and me, I know I can. But I was stupid. Because I never asked Denise: “What if I don’t know how?”

I have a cockatiel. A lovely pearl cockatiel with gray and white and yellow feathers. I am ashamed to say, I don’t spend a lot of time with him. I suck as a pet owner. Lyra is going to live for thirty years. I think it’s time that I change my ways.

I bet you all are wondering why I’m writing all this. My blog, for months now has been composed of Six Word Sundays, and when I was feeling really creative, a Six word Monday, or even *gasp* a Six word Sunday (Belated). Exciting. So, this is for all the empty words, empty weeks, empty posts. I don’t want to be a burnt out blogger and I’m not going to  let my laziness keep me from succeeding.

It’s time for a change.

A change that will work for me.

A change that will be un-debatably for the better.

My change is starting with this post.

This is my 645 word Wednesday.

Ms. M, my P.E. teacher says “Never say ‘can’t'”. I always reply: “Never say ‘never’”. Because there’s always something you can’t do. It’s only human. I’m fine with it. I prefer science. “Matter is never created nor destroyed”. Same for energy. Let me explain, because thus far, this doesn’t make sense, even to me.

I comfort eat. I eat because food is delicious. I eat because I’m angry or sad. I eat because I want to stop hearing the insults that are spewed at me like poisonous bile in the hallways. I eat because I don’t think I do well enough at anything. I eat. But Mr. M, my science teacher, has taught us about calories. He makes it sound harmless. “Calories are units of energy”. But they’re not just that.

My grandmother is Diabetic. She can’t even walk. She is so big that I have trouble folding her clothes. My mom told me once: “She can’t feel her legs, so sometimes she’ll nick them on something, and it will bleed a lot, and she won’t even notice.” So, one day, I’m eating Fritos, right out of the bag, and dwelling on being called an elephant. Denise walks in and sees me, knowing that I had eaten three donuts for breakfast, says “Do you want to end up like your grandmother?”

No.

And I’ve realized something. I don’t need to comfort eat. I’ve spent the week going through my drawers, folding the clothes neatly, separating the clothes I’ve outgrown from the ones I still wear. I’ve made my bed every day. I’ve organized my cluttered room. I’ve even cleaned out my disastrous closet. Energy is neither created nor destroyed, nor are my urges to do something to distract myself. There are some things that I can’t do, and will only leave me with a bitter taste in my mouth. What I can do is turn all that comfort food into something productive.

I don’t know if I’m losing weight. That’s not what this is about, but I would like to be healthy. This isn’t about being “pretty”, or thin. I don’t care what my peers think, most of them are idiots. (Sin of pride. It’s true.) But it is about realizing what I’m doing, and transforming that waste energy into alternate fuel. I’m stretching the analogy a bit far, but whatever.

I’ve learned a few things. People are cruel. Cleanliness is godliness. And science is more important than P.E.

Life isn’t about what you can’t do, but what you can. Take that, Ms. M!

So, what brought this on? I like to sit in my moms chair and read all the posts and tweets and things in her many tabs. I read this post by a woman named Tresha, I think it was. It was about editing your life, and how her parents were divorced, and she comfort ate, too, but she overcame it. It was similar to my story, kind of. I’m too young to want to go back and change things. But I want my life to be such that I never do. Small steps.

I’ll keep trying.

Dear Santa,

This year has been incredibly exciting. All this year I have been reminded of all the people around me who love me and all of the things that I am thankful for. Christmas brings all of those things together and wraps them in proverbial twinkling lights. This season is about giving, about sharing, about the love in all of our hearts. I can only be grateful for all of the things my life has given me: a loving family, close friends, adorable pets (like Miles and Lyra), and all of the wonders that I know are yet to come. What I really want, more than any of those charming, if meaningless, items on my list, is to make all of the people in my life as happy as they’ve made me. It will be difficult, but a lifetime of happiness is hard to repay. All that I know how to give is my love.

I hope it will be enough.

May your Christmas be as joyful as mine already is. (Yes, I have been a VERY good girl this year!)

Love,

RJ

Our language arts teacher discussed our reactions with us for a while before throwing the real purpose of the exercise at us. She wrote on the board one question: “Should segregation be allowed in schools if it will help students achieve?” The answer was, naturally, a vehement “no”. We talked all that day about the issue, and all today as well, but I still can’t find an answer. I want my peers to succeed, but I don’t want to be separated from my friends. It’s a terrible, difficult question that doesn’t have a clear answer once you think about it. Anyway, enough with the moping, that wasn’t my goal for this post. I just wanted to share what I wrote about segregation:

The word segragation rings of one concept: fear. Segregation was established originally because those who created it were terrified of other races. They clung, with idiotic obstinacy, to the concept that “different” somehow equated to “bad” or “lesser”. Segregation is now illegal, a change for the better. However, students often self-segregate themselves, not by race or gender, but a new and elusive deciding factor: “coolness”. No one can say what the aforementioned coolness is, or who decides it, or what it takes to obtain it. It just is. Still, this new form of segregation is ultimately based on the same fear that drove segragation when it was based on race: the fear of new ideas, new people. Xenophobia.

This fear encompasses a deluge of human traits: hatred, arrogance, jealousy, cruelty. It is the monster that lurks, reclusive, in the forbidden shadows of the mind. The end of segregation symbolized the end of the monster’s reign of terror, a spreading of light to steal away the shadows. Fear is the drive of the monster, it’s sustenance. Take  away the fear, and in the golden sunlight, the monster shrivels.

Wow. Depressing, right? Well, naturally. Not exactly a fairy cakes and honey drops and butterflies topic. But it has an undercurrent of hope. Hope for change. Hope for the destruction of stereotypes. Hope that, one day, everyone will treat each other with equal respect, despite social standing, race or gender.

If nothing else, we always have hope.

Dear me,

Bonjour! If you don’t know what that means, your/my French has really gone downhill. Anyway, here are a couple of circumstances under which you might be reading this letter. One of which is that you have been struck with a devastating case of amnesia and have to be reminded of who you are, and the other is that you have successfully made it through the school year with little or no brain damage and are reading this in the comfort of your home. Let’s just hope for the latter. Considering your terrible memory and/or amnesia, you probably don’t remember where you were at the beginning of the year. If you do, humor me.

I await next year’s transition to the fabled high school with a bitter-sweet combination of equal parts excitement…and dread. I really wish I could fly off to Neverland and remain a child forever, cradled in the secure embrace of my family, but as vampirism doesn’t seem to be lurking on the horizon to make me forever young, I figure I’ll do what I always do: square my shoulders and try my best to get through this. It’s not failed me yet. Somehow, right now, high school seems a long way off, a dragon’s lair that doesn’t seem real until the dragon is hurling a torrent of flame at you. To anyone else, that analogy would inspire a lot of “Huh?” looks, but you understand. If not, than you’ve changed more than I would like. I’m not too afraid though, because I know that this year will prepare me for the next one, arming me with the tools I need to, if not slay the dragon, domesticate it. Maybe when I’m a sophomore I’ll put a collar on it and call it “Fluffy”.  Right now, though, I will settle for conquering a lesser demon: 8^th grade.

At the beginning of the year, we were told that we should all try to be leaders this year. I raised my hand and asked, “If we’re all leaders, who is going to follow?”. I received the answer that the leaders would follow other leaders, but I didn’t understand at the time. Now I do. After much thought, I realized that, despite all hopes, not everyone was going to be a leader, at least not in everything. Some people might lead their peers in the concept of responsibility: the clever math student who always has her work done excellently and on time, beaming at the teachers praise. Some might lead their peers in compassion: the polite student who always helps his struggling classmates to study for their history test, or stoops to help a stranger pick up her books, even if doing so might make him late for class. Some might lead others in the simple art of having fun, turning learning from a chore to a reward: the kid who initiates an impromptu dance party in music class or the teachers who makes up cute ways to remember formulas (like the reluctant Mr. Maniquis and his heart horizontally cut in half to look like a “m” over “v”. The formula for density, remember?). Some say that 8^th graders have to set an example for their younger counterparts, and, while true, it is often neglected to be mentioned that we can learn a lot from them, too. My sister, Lizzy, though new to middle school, has taken to it with ease, like (yes, I realize the use of one of the forbidden clichés) a fish to water. She makes friends and approaches each day with a stubborn determination that I can’t help but admire, despite how often that same stubbornness is turned against me. Being the oldest doesn’t mean that we are the wisest, or the best, or the only leaders in the school. It only means that we shall have to be more careful to NEVER disregard the opinion of someone younger just because they are younger. THAT would be an indication that we hadn’t learned as much as we were supposed to in our years of school. So, as far as leadership goes, I’ll do what I always do: square my shoulders and try to make it through.

People always ask, “What are you afraid of in 8^th grade?” to which I always cheerfully respond, “Nothing!” and the satiated person wanders off thinking what a brave and/or stupid girl I am. When I say “nothing”, I’m generally lying, like in this case. I am neither brave nor stupid, but I respond in this manner for three reasons. First, if the person is a classmate, they can use my fear against me in the form of gossip. Yikes. Second, if I explained everything I was afraid of, the person would freak out. Double yikes. Third, “afraid” doesn’t cover it at all. Try “terrified”. I am terrified that all my friends will leave me. I am terrified that I will get bad grades. I am terrified that I’ll become invisible, that nobody will notice me. I am terrified that my teachers will hate me. Did I mention my deep-set fear of bad grades? Though none of these fears have any founding, that makes me fear them all the more. So I work extra-hard to keep my friends and get good grades. I act exceptionally weird and wake up a 4 a.m. just so that I can be different. I am polite to my teachers and try to be their friend as well as their student. I try so hard and I’m always making new goals to stretch toward because, if I don’t, I might realize how lonely I really am. I can’t blame anyone else for this, because, after years of putting on a mask of the face I think people want to see, I have secluded my real self too deeply. I have developed a distance with my family and friends which they attribute to my being a teenager, a distance that is only alleviated in rare moments of clarity: in the throes of laughter that sometimes seize us for the strangest reasons, or the unified sadness we all felt when our parents announced we were moving. I am terrified that I’ll lose myself completely, so I make it one of my goals to pull myself out of the shadows and share it with everyone. I just do what I always do: square my shoulders and try to make it through.

I am so excited about both this year and next because they are full of my own personal ambrosia, my own personal food for life: opportunities. Every day is a turning point, every moment a decision. I devour these moments, always with my goals in mind. I delight in moments of triumph: an “A” on a history test, praise from a French teacher, a friend’s birthday. I respect moments of sadness, offering comfort: the death of a beloved pet, a problem wrong on the math homework, a gym uniform lost. Each of these seconds is a treasure, even the sad ones, because they build lives. I don’t look forwards to any one moment, because I can never guess when the perfect one will hit. I just revel in the opportunities that stretch before me like an immense road riddled with obstacles. As I set of into 8^th grade, as I set off into life, I smile down at the road and do what I always do: square my shoulders and try to make it through.

Goals. The recurring and ever-present theme in my life. Goals shape my work, my friendships, my home life, everything. Academic goals are basic: all “A”s on report cards, great teacher reviews. I would expect nothing less of myself. I’m not conceited, I’m not self-absorbed, I just know my capabilities, and to lower my goal, or to not reach my academic goal is just degrading. School is one place where I shine. It’s just like a laundry machine: you only get out what you put in. I give every class my all, and it shows. Academic goals are no problem as long as I keep my head. I plan to achieve this goal by trying my best, every period of every day. That’s all there is to it. My only extra-curricular activity, besides reading, are my drama classes at Piven. Yes, I know I’m dramatic enough, but they’re fun and I might want to be a professional actress someday. I have been invited to join the Piven performance project for 7^th, 8^th and 9^th graders who have shown excellence in their work. This is a lot more serious than my normal classes: the audience isn’t just parents obligated to come to their child’s performance, it’s adults who pay for tickets and expect a good show. My goal is to give it to them. I’ll practice my lines excessively; give my best in class, whatever it takes to reach my goal. Personal goals…well, those are hard. I really want to keep all my friends and make as many new ones as possible, but it’s hard! It’s not one of those “try your best and you’ll succeed” things. To make new friends you sometimes have to change yourself, which is a no-no. Supposedly. I’m also told that change is sometimes for the better. Thus, the “supposedly”. How am I supposed to differentiate when there is no rubric, no guidelines for friendship? Very difficult question, right? So, my plan for achieving THAT goal is just this: square your shoulders and try to make it through.

Home is my base, my haven, a place of study and fun, homework and happiness. My parents are divorced (Ahem, I think I’ll know that a year from now, but I’m operating under the assumption that I have amnesia.) but both houses hold love, compassion, kindness, and my genetic ancestors (a.k.a. parents). My goal for home is going to be harder than any other because, as the saying goes, “old habits die hard”. I am used to secluding myself in my room, pouring over my books or computer or listening to music. However relaxing this may be, it’s feeding a growing distance between me and my family. I don’t know how to reach out, bridge the distance, but I’ll do what ever it takes, from creating a hit comedy-action TV show called “Rebecca the Habit Slayer” (like Buffy the Vampire Slayer, except for the chosen one breaks habits, not bones.) to doing push-ups while chanting “I’ve got family, yes I do. I’ve got family, how ‘bout you?!” I hope it doesn’t take any measures that drastic, however. I think I’ll start by just slowly incorporating more family time into my routine, like gradually adding the flour mixture to cake batter. Whatever it takes, I’ll do it. I’ll face the challenge as Buffy does: by squaring my shoulders and doing my best to get through it.

So, I hope that if I/you have amnesia our memory is returning. If not, try re-watching the Buffy seasons. They hold a lot of memories. Good luck, because your success is, to put it lightly, pretty intimately entwined with my own. Also, don’t obsess about your weight, it isn’t healthy.

My devotion as long as I live,

Rebecca (a.k.a. you)

P.S. You may have noticed the excessive use of the phrase “square your shoulders and try to get through it”. Please, future me, do not sneer at my redundancy: it was intentional. In theory.

This one was inspired by this year’s Language arts teacher. She had me write a letter to my self about goals and school and everything, but I ended up loving the exercise and pouring my soul into it. I loved it and will post my letter if you want to read it. Stating your goals, your ambitions, what you feel is like a blog post or a journal entry, but I think the fun in it is re-reading it after a long time to see how things have changed, how much you’ve grown. It’s therapeutic and I left the experience feeling relaxed if emotionally vulnerable, the way I always do when I spread my heart out in words. I suggest writing about your fears and ambitions and things you love. To write them down is to make them more tangible, making the fears easier to face, the ambitions easier to reach, the loves easier to hold on to.

11. Read a book without even looking at the title.

This may sound crazy, but sometimes favorite things are born out of taking a chance. Books are so hard to judge by whats on the outside, so don’t let that bias you and just jump in.

12.Make a spur-of-the-moment dessert.

Use what you have in the house, find an easy recipe and get cooking! Being spontaneous is fun and invigorating and all this costs you is time. Plus dessert is fabulous and delicious! Baking is relaxing, and has great end results. So, why are you still reading this? I’m expecting cookies to be in progress!

For now, let them eat …cookies!

They appealed to every sense that they could: sight, smell, taste, feel. Even the sounds of the restaurant seemed to encourage and inspire delight: the low murmur of the fellow guests voices, the quiet resonating clink of wine glasses gently falling against each other. The perfectly trained waitstaff were polite, well timed, helpful, and they oozed professionalism. I practically feel like I am defiling the memory of the place by blogging about it.

As for the sense of smell, they left nothing to it’s own devices. When we had a course involving poached steak, to make up for the lack of the grilled flavor, they poured water on dry ice that caused the mist that spilled out onto our table to smell like grilled steak. Furthermore, on another course that seeked to inspire thoughts of a garden, they placed a curling, if lovely mass of tomato vines and flowers upon out table.

The plating was beautiful, careful, precise…much like the food itself. Every positioning was carefully thought out, nothing unintentional.

What blows guests away is, obviously, the food. All my preconceptions were shattered, like glass yielding to a sledgehammer. From the very first bite, I knew that I would trust this chef to feed me whatever he liked. Every texture, every flavor, even the simplest or most seemingly insignificant things drew meaning, contributing themselves, delicious alone, mind-blowing together. It seems that Alinea’s main purpose was to break down every wall that you’ve built, showing you that if you would just relinquish your trust to them, they would guide you to the Oz of the food world. I have always been one of those people who was afraid to fall over backwards even with someone standing right behind me because I’m afraid that they won’t catch me. With this experience, I fell over backwards, but not only was I caught, but I was catapulted into a new realm. There’s no turning back now.

I will never question my mom’s retro recipes after my surreal, dream-like night at Alinea. I will always cradle the memory of that night close to my heart, peeking at its vibrant beauty like a butterfly trapped in my hands, before tucking it into the pack rat corner of my heart, a messy place reserved for things that I love.

I find that Alinea is not just a reflection of truly amazing food, but also of what makes us each a better person. Care for whats important to you. Paying attention to the smallest things. Dedication and hard work. Love, for what you do, and what it does for others. Trust, and the act of inspiring it. Food is not just a means to an end. As my mom says, it’s a love song. What you cook and why you cook it is a form of expression, one that is deep set in our consciousness, but always present. Cooking is an art form. A dance that may be primitive or modern, reminiscent of a sense of family, or honoring the beauty of human innovation. As I was at Alinea, I considered it’s traits and its similarity to the traits of the person who brought me there.

My dad works hard for our family, and goes through life with precision and yet an open mind. He wears his heart on his sleeve and inspires, as well as gives, love and trust, showing all of this with no fear or hesitation. People take him as he is, because he is honest about every aspect of his life and pours his soul into everything he does. He shows brilliance and dedication. He inspires normally contrasting things (like me and my sister) to work together.

His influence shapes things, and every life that he touches seems to brighten a little for his involvement. I can but hope that when I grow to the age when Karl does not beg me not to visit his site, I can reflect a fraction of my fathers traits.

The reason I wrote this is because everyone is going to have regrets in life. And not all of us are going to turn into vampires and thus live in tortured humanity forever, though that does sound fun. In a few installments, I’m going to put out a few things that I hope will prevent you from ending up writing auto-biographies that make me cry and are all about your regrets. In other words, when it comes to real life, fairy cake stories are good, like a beautiful gem in the horrific ocean that is the modern world. An ocean filled with poverty, cruelty, loss, greed, and so many unhappy endings. So many things will feed this ocean, anything that causes rage or stress or grief, from the queenofspain being ill to the loss of a child to a pregnant teenager whose family is too poor to afford to get her an abortion. A lot of things are out of our control, but the beautiful moments will sparkle, casting a ray of light through the darkness.

Though I can’t keep you from the things that will hurt in life, I hope that some of the 101 things that I am going to list will help you to build ties to your friends, family, community, and yourself.

I hope I can help you build and embrace that gem of hope.

To do list:

1. Dance in a grocery store

My mom does this. I used to be embarrassed and try to make her stop, but then I realized something: it’s fun! So now, whenever my mom and I are in a CVS or the Jewel-osco, and we hear a good song, we just dance, even though I look like a cockroach in its death throes when I do. People stare, but who cares? Letting go of your inhibitions and expressing yourself is a natural, healthy, beautiful thing to do. It sometimes takes an excellent mom to show you that when a person puts their soul into something, it shines.

2. Talk to the girl who everyone ignores

In the book in the Gifted series Out of Sight, Out of mind by Marilyn Kaye, a girl becomes invisible when she feels invisible. She’s ignored, or at best, made fun of. In New Moon by Stephanie Meyer, Bella has a recurring nightmare about being trapped in a void. In an episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, a girl becomes invisible because she is so plain that nobody notices her. These were all fictional cases, and though people might not literally become invisible, everyone deserves to be noticed. Bella is right to fear alienation. Sometimes, being brave enough to talk to the new kid, or the shy kid, or the kid with no friends, or the really weird kid will earn you a new best friend. Fate smiles kindly upon the brave.

3. Bake a cake with someone close to you.

It might be your husband (yes, I know, Denise. Patriarchy. Right.), your sister, your mom, your friend, anyone. Working together to build something, especially something caloric and delicious is fun. Making something successfully has a thrill of its own, but sharing is a true joy. I know it sounds corny, but some of the funniest, loveliest, most endearing moments are born in the kitchen. Not to mention the fact that everyone loves baked goods.

I will continue the list, but for now, “let them eat cake”.

Whether we be mommy bloggers, life bloggers, book bloggers, or “miscellaneous un-life” bloggers, we each touch the blogging community and serve to make it better. Some of the things I have experienced in those couple days at the conference touched me more deeply than a lot of the experiences I’ve had in my life. One of these was something my mother told me, after her Keynote that had left me with torrents of tears streaming down my face.

I sat at my table, smiling at Sassymonkey and gnawing distractedly at a kabob as I watched the brave kareoke-ers as they sang.

“Remember my speech,” My mom said suddenly from beside me.

“Oh yes, it was brilliant,” I replied, sounding all too much like Giles from Buffy when he’s distracted.

“No, that’s not what I meant,” my mom argued. ” I want you to remember that if you put your mind to it, anything can be achieved”

The way she said it made it sound less Disney movie, and more epiphany post material. My mom knew she was going to have a Keynotes speech before she even wrote it. She is confident, talented, drop-dead gorgeous, and without her, I never would have met the amazing women, and men, in a minority, that I met at the conference. I want to thank her so much for everything she’s done for me, but I cant ever find words to describe it, just like I can’t describe Blogher fully, so I guess I’ll say the only thing I can:

I love you, mommy. I love you forever, and this blog is my love song to you.