an open letter to college

To college:
I am ready. I am so ready. I think, I think.
Twelve years of preparation for four years of living. Really really living.
Learning? In the classroom? Yes, of course.
But learning. Away from the books. That is what I call learning.
Life will hit me in face. Away from the face shield that is my dearest Lexington, Kentucky.
No more of those rolling green fields saved for the majestic creatures admired at Keeneland.
More like cold, cold, cold weather. The snowiest winters I've ever seen.
But I am ready. I am so ready.
Ready for the excitement, ready for the newest experiences, ready to take the world by storm.
At least from Connecticut.
Ready for the 3 AM study sessions, ready for the sweet taste of dining hall deliciousness, ready for the freshman 15. Ready for the goofy suitemates, frustrating papers needing attention, walking across the gorgeous campus whiteness in the largest overcoat I can find. Ready for the working hard, the playing hard, the living hard. Ready to cheer on that champion hockey team, ready to cheer on the perhaps not-so-hot football team, ready to emanate and embody the school spirit so dominant. Ready for the best experiences of my life, the opportunities for me to grab. Ready to be a part of the tightest community there is, ready to join a family, to meet those lifelong friends who await me. I am so ready for you, college.
I think.
I think I already love you.
Ready or not, here i come!
Boola boola.

Jessie

children's poems ftw

Children's poems may be for children, but I thoroughly enjoy them. Take this poem for example, called "Be Glad Your Nose is on Your Face" by Jack Prelutsky.

Be glad your nose is on your face,
not pasted on some other place,
for if it were where it is not,
you might dislike your nose a lot.

Imagine if your precious nose
were sandwiched in between your toes,
that clearly would not be a treat,
for you'd be forced to smell your feet.

Your nose would be a source of dread
were it attached atop your head,
it soon would drive you to despair,
forever tickled by your hair.

Within your ear, your nose would be
an absolute catastrophe,
for when you were obliged to sneeze,
your brain would rattle from the breeze.

Your nose, instead, through thick and thin,
remains between your eyes and chin,
not pasted on some other place--
be glad your nose is on your face! 

Silly-- perhaps, but even silly poems can be saying something worth saying. "Be glad your nose is on your face." Genius. We as teenagers (as humans even) seem never to be satisfied with anything. Complaints have become so prominent in our natures that we hardly even noticed them anymore. But what if our noses were on top of our heads, in our ears, or between our toes? Certainly worse off than we are now. Be thankful the nose is on the face where it is. 

Subliminal messaging? Of course! The poem is for children, but the message is for everyone. The humorous arrangement of the message is what makes the poem memorable and enjoyable to all. Stop complaining! Your nose may be too big, too small, oddly shaped, or stuffed up, but at least it is not between your toes. 

a cheater's guide to love

"The half-life of love is forever." - Junot Diaz

(semi-spoiler alert)

This Is How You Lose Her is a story about love. It's love, but not that kind of romantic cheese only girls can find the heart to enjoy. On the contrary, Diaz's novel is about a cheating sex addict whose experience with love and relationship is all but romantic and cheesy. This Is How You Lose Her is that fascinating story centered around the all-too-common view of women as objects-- the idea that men are more interested in sex than relationships and commitment. Our sad protagonist only discovers his own destructiveness after the permanence of heartbreak.

The novel is an expert look into this dismaying perspective of women and relationships. Yet, while it may be dismaying in this culture, it seems to be quite prominent in Diaz's Dominican culture, where the patriarchal dominance of men diminishes the level of sanctity customarily associated with romantic relationships. And Yunior was exposed to this culture. His destructive father surely was not a help in the respect towards woman. His addiction to sex was certainly not helped when his rather old teacher offered him sex.

And when he finally found the love his life, he simply screwed it up. Did he know better? Sure-- but an addict is an addict. It was perhaps the shock of the heartbreak that causes his inner transformation, when he realizes that the half-life of love is forever. From there, Yunior can perhaps begin.

bye bye nest

Since I soon will kiss the nest goodbye in the near future, it may be fitting to find some appropriate poetry:

Waving Goodbye by Gerald Stern

I wanted to know what it was like before we

had voices and before we had bare fingers and before we

had minds to move us through our actions

and tears to help us over our feelings,

so I drove my daughter through the snow to meet her friend

and filled her car with suitcases and hugged her

as an animal would, pressing my forehead against her,

walking in circles, moaning, touching her cheek,

and turned my head after them as an animal would,

watching helplessly as they drove over the ruts,

her smiling face and her small hand just visible

over the giant pillows and coat hangers

as they made their turn into the empty highway.

Ah--- goodbye from the point of view of the dear parents. I will be leaving my parents an empty nest, and I think, what in the world will they do with their lives now that I'm leaving? What will they do... be thankful that there are such things as "minds to move us through our actions / and tears to help us over our feelings?" Will they watch as I walk away from their car? There must be some sensation of fear, hopelessness, and sadness within any parent who must relinquish a child into the "empty highway." A mother cannot let go-- I know my mother will not: she "hugged her, / as an animal would, pressing [her] forehead against her, / walking in circles, moaning, touching her cheek, / and turned [her] head after them as an animal would, / watching helplessly." This poem seems to specifically connect the mother with an animal, a sentient being presumably with no mind to move through action or tears to get over the feelings. She can only feel. It's pretty sad, actually. 

we're here!

Time for spring break. What does that mean? It means... this year of school is over. It means... senior year is over. It means... no more high school? It's hard to believe.

I have finally heard from the last of my schools, and the end result is better than I could have ever imagined. But as I take a step back, nostalgia gets the best of me. We're actually going to college! And while I'm quite excited about that, I am also quite sad about that. Lexington has been my home for 17 years, where my closest friends, family, and memories reside. I am anxiously awaiting the exciting, fascinating, enriching experiences ahead of bigger cities, new people, and an amazing education. Yet... I am leaving behind just as much as I am gaining.

We're finally here. This moment we have looked forward to from the very beginning, and it's actually here. Do we feel as excited as we thought we would? Is it as awesome as we thought it would be?

Relief. That's what I feel. But it's bittersweet-- theme of the year. Saying goodbye isn't always easy, but it's something I'll have to do in a few short months. Time is flying away from us, but maybe we should feel as good about that. High school will not last forever!

fleeting youth

Let it be known that we are adults/ almost adults. Is that scary? 

This thought crossed my mind upon reading Bryan Borland's "Chasing Fireflies," a rather sad depiction of the loss accompanying the transition from childhood to adulthood. Do you still remember those nights "where [you] were content to run in circles, / arms outstretched, / chasing fireflies [?]" That kind of feeling of real freedom, the kind you can taste as a kid who didn't really have anything to worry about. As we cross the boundary from kid to no-longer-a-kid, will we see what Borland saw? Where life "has raised her mask and / revealed her face to be / the unexpected, / where even her smile / might be interpreted / as cold or callous." Have we already begun to see what Borland sees? 

The fact of the matter is, we are growing older, and a growing age calls for growing responsibilities. It is sad to think that the wonder, imagination, and magic of childhood may only be a faint memory, when the complexities of life begin to really slap us in the face. We won't have faithful guardians for much longer, those loving parents who have, for 18 years, shielded us from the worst. Will we change in the face of the evil that inevitably pervades this world? Will we have the "the heart to seal their fate / inside a mason jar [?]" Things changed for Borland. Things will change. That's the sadness of the fleeting youth. 

poems

"Poetry is what gets lost in translation." - Robert Frost

Have you ever thought of the transition between the words on the page and the person reading them? Does the entire intention really get through? Does anything get lost in translation?

The more I think about this, the more I believe in a divide, a certain amount of depth eliminated with the jump from words to mind. Every time I write a word, commit a thought to paper, does my reader really understand what I was thinking, what I'm trying to convey? Prose can be clear and illuminating but can also be limiting in a way, losing that sense of depth, emotion, poignancy, or intention that is ultimately lost in translation.

Poetry can be different, though, and for this reason, it is what gets lost in translation. The freedom allowed in the form of poetry is precisely what allows for the expression of thoughts, ideas, and feelings that usually remain untouched in the prose of the conventional nature. Poetry captures the imagination, states the relatable in a way that is understandable. The jump from paper to thought is manageable, eliminating that ordinary cost of transition. Poetry is what gets lost in translation.