Three somethings, actually—my siblings who, though congratulated for their achievements, often neglect, albeit unintentionally and especially with my dad deployed in Afghanistan, to recognize the (critical, application-completing) time I spend helping them study for their tests, fielding basketballs in winter darkness for their games, or chaperoning them to their charity league meetings, out-of-town parties, and other activities. But I’m not one to complain. Because regardless of my sacrifices, whenever a medal is dangled from my siblings’ necks, a certificate transferred to their hands, or they simply feel accomplished, I swell not with credit-taking nor vicarious pride, but the unconditional, you’re-closer-to-the-best-version-of-yourself-and-I’m-thankful-I-could-help-you-achieve-whatever-you-have fulfillment that might normally be expected of parents. As such, whether it be advising Josh to complete his college applications long before deadlines to avoid the heart-poundings and sweat episodes I endured, warning Emma about unprotected left turns (my own weakness) on her driving test, or reassuring Philip after he receives a disheartening grade, I’m most proud myself in these ribbonless, everyday interactions with my siblings, and it is my only hope that my efforts to engage with my siblings as a role model instead of onlooker have made them as proud of themselves as I’m of them.
Monday, April 1, 2019
Friday, December 28, 2018
Book Banning is Not the Answer
Book Banning is Not the Answer
From the outright banishment of Shel Silverstein’s A Light in the Attic for encouraging children to “break rather than wash” their dishes to the rise of “sensitivity readers” as an integral part of the publishing process, books have been banned, burned, and purified for many years and for even more reasons. Though such approaches, at least in school settings, intend to shelter students from, or at least reduce their exposure to, unsavory, controversial topics, such restrictions and limitations―such censorship―detriment more so than benefit students, especially when not only is a book’s original text altered, it’s blacklisted as well.
Whether it be single usages or repeated phrases, language has long been a justification for book censorship. And as evidenced in southern California’s 2010 ban, of all things, the Merriam-Webster Dictionary due to its definition of a certain phrase, clearly no text is safe from such treatment. But to ban a dictionary because of a single definition―whatever it may be―is to ban the dictionary’s other 470,000 words, ironically including “censorship” and “ludicrous” (not to mention other vulgarities and obscenities). And still, if a dictionary was kept in the classroom as it should be, whether a student flips to that particular page to that particular definition by chance or purpose, it’s likely better from a parent’s or teacher’s standpoint, that a student be first exposed to such a term from the impersonal type of a dictionary than the graphic imagery and explanations of a classmate. Which reveals another issue with removing the dictionary. Besides the fact that students just wanting to define an unfamiliar word can’t, such action may prevent wanderings to or protect students from learning a certain definition at school, but fails to address the fact that at their homes, in their own dictionaries, if students are so curiously inclined―as they likely are―they may look up the very phrase they were unable to and “share” their findings the next morning―essentially producing the exact effect supposed to have been prevented.
As evidenced in the warranted-or-not war Venado Middle School, armed with fat, black markers, waged against Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451 and all its “hells” and “damns,” much more effective means of controlling access to language do in fact exist. Though it is certain that Bradbury would have preferred the novel be read in its original form―“hells” and “damns” in all―surely blacking out offensive language is a much better alternative to doing away with the book entirely. As for the aforementioned banned dictionary, following the example of Venado Middle School is the easiest solution of all considering the word is 1) alphabetized and 2) can be shaded over without detracting from the rest of the text. Though no one wants students running amok armed with an arsenal of foul language, parents and teachers should, by all means, opt for censorship with black ink over banishment with trash cans if done so for the sake of maintaining an age-appropriate environment in regard to language.
But for many books, banishment isn’t as easily undone with black markers―especially those books banned for controversial racial or sexual content. Take Harriet Beecher Stowe’s Uncle Tom’s Cabin, a novel which unearthed to an America on the brink of civil war the horrors and treacheries of slavery. It’s been banned for racial stereotyping and language. So has Harper Lee’s To Kill a Mockingbird. Fitzgerald’s masterpiece The Great Gatsby for language and mere sexual references. Walt Whitman’s poetry collection Leaves of Grass for homosexual themes. But all are American classics and all indeed captured, at one time or another, the essence of America: what America was, who Americans were, and whether or not America needed to change. The equivalent of Christians banning the Bible or Muslims the Qur’an, banning these texts deprives young Americans of the opportunity to sip the lifeblood of their country, to admire classic artifacts, to touch and hold and read history.
But not just classics deserve to be read and saved from banishment. Because similar reasons are often cited for banning contemporary books, and most recently, with a target on sexuality, as evidenced in Figure 1.
Though not one of these most challenged books, Jay Asher’s 13 Reasons Why has still aroused controversy regarding its sexual themes and approach to teen suicide and depression, especially considering its recent adaptation into a film series with a whole other set of problems. According to the New York Post, as “one of only a few school leaders in the country who has taken [13 Reasons Why] out of circulation”, though Leigh Grasso, the Mesa County Valley School District curriculum director’s intentions to suspend the book were out of respect for victims of a recent succession of teen suicides, this was, unfortunately, an inappropriate means of addressing the situation. Because in effect, by banning the book and really any conversations that may have spawned from it―the main intention of author Jay Asher―Grasso not only directed attention away from the book but from the issues of sexual misconduct and suicide themselves, when the contrary could have been much more beneficial for this community.
In my own community, having suffered the loss of a loved and respected teacher also to suicide, though I did not know the teacher myself, rather than allowing this loss to become diluted with every passing day, I resolved to educate myself about this issue. The first place I went: 13 Reasons Why. The book, that is. Though I may have been able to circumvent a school-wide ban on this book by reading it in my cool bed with a warm light burning, it seemed much more appropriate to read it at school―in the environment in which I best learn and where I could ask my teachers questions and discuss this issue with classmates. I understand that others may have reacted differently to this story, but personally, from this novel, I not only learned about suicide and how even seemingly insignificant actions can produce drastic consequences, I realized that every story deserves to be told and read and heard. Hannah Baker’s, the seven students’ in Mesa County Valley, the teachers in my community. Because sure, the “hells” and “damns” and “f---s” of writing can be done away with, but never should the actual stories―the substance. And without that book, without the ability to read that book at a critical time, though I would not have committed suicide myself, I may never have learned what I needed to about this issue and perhaps even have gone about my own affairs without so much as a second thought.
And still, as the American Library Association determined, with 42% of book challenges initiated by concerned parents, though parents should be all means reserve the right to regulate their child’s reading, that’s really all they should be able to control: their child’s reading. Quite frankly, my parents explicitly forbade 13 Reasons Why, and considering other teenagers like myself are willing (and capable) of reading materials forbidden by parents, there is no question that the same can and will occur against the wishes of school staff and administrators. Clearly, banning books is a flawed tactic.
As evidenced, banning books does not eradicate those same books from existence nor prevent them from being read or written, but regardless, there have been unfortunate shifts to “identify potential pitfalls in a novel’s premise or execution” (Alter) by means of so-called “sensitivity readers.” Though intentions are once again well-meaning, as these readers sweep through drafts, and in some instances, through books recalled from publication, sanitizing books so that they glance by but never directly address “potentially offensive” or inflammatory issues, such censorship (as it should be called), homogenizes modern literature, and will continue to do so, until each bookshelf in America ends up something like the one in Figure 2.
Figure 2
No one wants to celebrate a week like this one.
By allowing writers to just write―to fill their canvases of blank screens and white pages with ink type and graphite streaks, to write without concerns of “purifying” their work so as not to be at the risk of controversy or banishment, only then will their audiences, especially student audiences, be able to relate to and understand their work. Because if schools become saturated with stock literature and (as shown in Figure 2), simply “bland books”, students may very well stop reading and stop learning from their reading: two consequences certainly not intended by “sensitivity readers” and school administrators alike.
Though no one wishes to find a copy of 50 Shades of Grey (or worse) anywhere in elementary or even high school classrooms, students deserve to read just as much as writers deserve to write. As soon as either of those is taken away, either through banishment or censorship, though not true in all cases, students are deprived of a primary source of societal, cultural, historical, and most importantly, personal knowledge, while writers are deprived of a primary outlet through which they can share their own societal, cultural, historical, and personal knowledge. So books, even those that stir up controversy and are found offensive, should never be banned, and ideally, not censored (except in small, non-lethal doses), because when they are, Montag and the rest of the firefighters might as well put them up in flames.
Monday, December 10, 2018
Intersection-Sitting and Other Problems
I hate driving. All of it. As if it helps, I never drive with the radio on, always under the speed limit, and make more unnecessary stops than there are cars in downtown’s infamous, always-overflooded-but-I’ll-still-go-look-to-see-if-there’s-a-spot parking garage. I won’t even bother mentioning the heart attacks I have on the freeway.
Only on quiet streets lined with empty houses will I dare lift a sticky palm to slide the window down or adjust the air conditioning―though still without music. I’d be lying if I said I felt relaxed during, let alone enjoyed driving, but oddly enough, I manage to maintain my composure at intersections. Mainly because when I approach one, I know what to do. Or rather, what I’m going to do. Because at intersections, I’m a “waiter.” So when a stop light flashes that dull yellow, rather than accelerating across an intersection, I always sit and wait.
Of course, opposite to “waiters” are “goers”―those who burst across an intersection when the stop light flickers that same yellow. Besides being reckless, a public danger, and a nightmare for “waiters”, “goers” aren’t all that bad. Because worse in such situations are the fence-sitters of intersection crossing: “intersection-sitters.” These indecisive drivers begin to enter an intersection but out of guilt, shame, confusion, or fear of getting ticketed, abruptly slow and sometimes even sit and wait in the intersection. Only in this instance, they’re not sitting and waiting safely behind a limit line which, once again, I’m usually behind (save the times when I started driving and “intersection-sat” myself).
Just like when “intersection-sitters” refuse to associate with “waiters” or “goers”, when fence-sitters refuse to associate with some political opinion or another, they not so much adopt neutral opinions as they do default to them either out of distaste for the opposing sides of an issue, or even, according to economist Eyal Winter, because “[they] just don’t care about politics, which…lead[s] to voter apathy” (qtd. In Brookridge). And in doing so, fence-sitters, albeit unintentionally, reduce significant political issues like abortion, immigration, and global warming to matters as unnecessarily opinionated as best Pop-Tart flavors. Understandably, it can be difficult to establish an opinion beyond defaulted neutrality in politics, and even driving, without becoming overwhelmed by the traffic of opinions in conversations and of vehicles through intersections.
But if fence-sitters ever do manage to navigate the chaos of political discourse and emerge with an opinion of their own, they need not worry about brazenly expressing their newfound opinions. Because in politics, and still driving, neutrality is less an issue of unenthusiasm for opinions than it is of citizens adopting “neutral” ones to justify voting abstention. Granted, voting-eligible citizens aren’t exactly set up for success in voting considering the United States lacks the convenience of simultaneous citizenship and voter registration. Inevitably, in imposing the trouble of voter registration on citizens themselves, a great number neglect to, forget about, or simply refuse to do so, as evidenced by the findings of researchers commissioned by the Pew Center on the States that, “at least 51 million eligible US citizens are unregistered...more than 24 percent of [those] eligible”. And with a quarter of voting-eligible citizens not even registered to vote, it seems almost impossible that of the remaining three-fourths, a sufficient number will cast ballots.
Consider the most recent election. As chaotic and controversial as it was, voter turnout only increased from the 2012 election by 1.6 percent from 58.6 to 60.2 percent (Wilson). While many neutralists by “voter apathy” refused to cast a ballot, many opinionated citizens, especially in relation to the most recent election, became politically neutral after assuming that “it ma[de] no sense to vote” (Wilson) when on a national scale, their one vote would be rendered obsolete. Though it should be noted that single votes have in fact altered the course of American history (think the election of Rutherford Hayes), and it should be understood that a single vote most likely won’t determine any modern political outcome, it is certain that 39.8 percent of possible votes missing will, especially considering that the demographics of non-voters are not evenly split among political parties. And if that’s not convincing enough, neutral and opinionated non-voters alike need only look to history to realize they are not only important but often the most important in political decisions.
This American tradition of political apathy takes its roots from the colonial era of oppression under Britain. As tensions between Britain and America escalated, two distinct groups formed in the colonies: the Patriots, for whom the only option was independence, and the Loyalists who opposed separation from the British crown. Yet, as Kennedy and Cohen write in The American Pageant, with “many colonists...apathetic or neutral,” the Patriots, a minority movement, needed the greater numbers of neutrals to separate from Britain, while Loyalists clamored for neutrals for the opposite reason. With both ends of the revolutionary spectrum fighting for the neutrals’ loyalty, this group clearly possessed a value they themselves did not know. And as evidenced in the consistently low percentages of voting-eligible citizens actually casting a ballot in modern elections, this isn’t much different today.
As deep of a history political neutrality has, impartiality―not neutrality―is the cure. Though often considered synonymous, impartiality relates to the equal treatment of separate parties, while neutrality deals with lack of alignment with a particular viewpoint. Back at the intersection, though I pride myself on waiting at every intersection and every yellow, this isn’t really impartiality, or at least not the ideal version. Though I may respect the intersection-crossing methods of “goers” and regard them in the same manner as I do my fellow “waiters”, true impartiality―the neutrality-curing kind―is the kind that realizes not every intersection and not every stop light are equal, and as such, each one encountered should be approached distinctly from those before and after. But not only that, each one should be approached with the understanding that what may be the best approach to one intersection is not necessarily the best to others.
So this means at the voting booth, rather than working through the ballot by just voting down or supporting every measure listed, considering each individual measure and its accompanying arguments deliberately and separately from those issues preceding and following.
Though my driving certainly isn’t the best, and I really should consider crossing intersections in certain yellow light instances, for my own safety and sanity, I won’t. I can only hope that soon, at the voting booth, I’m a whole lot more impartial there than I am behind the wheel.
Friday, July 13, 2018
Of Oldest and Eldest Siblings
“Are you the oldest?”, a woman interrogates, exaggeratedly gesturing in my direction.
Amused, I glance at my siblings and chirp, “Yep,” before leading my siblings away.
Of the many questions my siblings and I are asked when introduced as a group, this is perhaps the most common, to which I always shrug or mumble a disinterested response. I am by no means a liar, but in certain circumstances (such as this one), I am prone to making exceptions.
“Actually, I’m not just the oldest sibling, I’m the eldest sibling,” would be a truthful response, but considering not even my younger siblings are aware of the distinction, blatantly correcting my interrogator would serve a minimal purpose. I instinctively bristle at that term “oldest”. Why does it matter that I was born before my siblings? I never asked (or even wanted) to be born first. Alas, that I can neither change nor control. But I do maintain the capacity to neglect my siblings or to assume my role as the eldest sibling. So, of course, I prefer description as the “eldest” to the temporally denoted superlative, “oldest”. To be asked if I am the “oldest” is to be asked if age alone distinguishes me from my siblings when of course, that is not true. And, as the word suggests, the oldest sibling is just that - a passively and carelessly aging firstborn, while the eldest sibling actively aspires to be a respectable model for younger siblings.
As the oldest sibling, I intimately understand the complications of being the firstborn. One such disadvantage being the enduring torment of awaiting a parent’s permission for certain privileges, (and in my case, specifically soda.) For years, I privately worshiped this sacred substance in empty aisles, envisioning the glorious day when I would partake of a drink other than water. Yet, it was only after relentlessly badgering my parents with raucous calls of, “Can I have soda? How about soda? Mom, have you ever had soda? Did you like it?”, that my parents consented to soda at the legal “drinking age” of twelve. But I severed my spiritual relationship with soda when my parents extended their consent to all of my siblings as well - forever tainting the glory I had envisioned. As for other coveted privileges, I utilized similar strategies only to yield equally disappointing results of inclusion of all my siblings for “the sake of equality”. This pattern of simultaneous permission disadvantages the oldest or even “firstborn” child, but I have realized that there are no such disadvantages to being the eldest sibling.
As Belgian psychologists Vassilis Saroglou and Laure Fiasse explain in their 2003 paper published in the journal, Personality and Individual Differences, as the oldest sibling, I am predicted to be “responsible, competitive, and conventional”. Though my personality may align with the characteristics of this listing, (and I can’t say I disagree with any of them), these adjectives were concluded from studying patterns of behavior in oldest siblings without regard to interactions with their younger counterparts. So, when referred to as the oldest sibling, I cannot help but feel that this term isolates me from my siblings and enchains me to a string of qualities that essentially nullify my relationship with my siblings (and undesirably so). Thus, the eldest sibling distinguishes himself from the oldest sibling by utilizing his characteristics as the sole firstborn to benefit not only himself but his younger siblings as well. Just as how I remind Josh to remember his lunch, encourage Philip through light competition, and explain to Emma that no, she does not have to dress like her friends.
This critical distinction between the terms eldest and oldest sibling was initially apparent to me when, in 2004, my dad had been deployed to Iraq. At this point, my youngest sibling had not yet been born, but my other siblings and I accompanied our mom in my dad’s absence. As a curious toddler, I listened to adults repeating the peculiar word, “deployment”, in regular conversation. “Goal-oriented and determined”, it was the oldest sibling that requested a definition of this unfamiliar combination of syllables, “deployment”. However, it was the eldest sibling that explained this new term to his younger siblings and promised to support them while their dad was “deploy”.
Although I hardly remember the first fourteen months of my life (the only fourteen blissfully alone), I am told that rather than reveling in my parents’ attention, contrary to oldest sibling stereotypes, I was often preoccupied snatching at the air, desperately seeking to latch onto something. As I grew, I graduated from clawing at vacant space to pinching my fingers and toes. But it was not until fourteen months later, when my brother was born, that I stopped searching for an object to hold, and held onto him instead. I gingerly held my sister, and still years later, my youngest sibling, in the same way. I held them because I needed to. That was my purpose. And it was necessary for my younger siblings that I fulfilled that purpose. If not, I would share a roof, plates, and toothpaste with my siblings, but only as a neighbor - a roommate.
Oldest siblings do not maintain the same levels of necessity as eldest siblings, primarily because distinguishment from younger siblings on the sole basis of living the most days is irrelevant. Insignificant. Unnecessary. Even as a toddler unaware of the nuances between eldest and oldest, I acted as the eldest sibling in consciously choosing to involve myself in the burgeoning lives of my siblings - though I very well may have grabbed a bag of popcorn and watched.
As I continue to grow alongside my siblings, striving to surmount the stereotypes of oldest siblings, it is my greatest hope that in time, my siblings too will come to know me as their eldest and not oldest sibling. But for now, whenever I am asked, “Are you the oldest?” in their presence, I can only flash a grin and respond, “Yes, I am the eldest.”
Monday, June 25, 2018
Just a Garage
It’s nothing special. Really, it’s just like every other garage. It’s crowded, cluttered, and anyone who dares enter to look for something always leaves carrying something else. And though its contents have changed over the years, relics I should have long discarded and treasures I should have better preserved still await the day a warm hand will brush off their coats of dust and take them elsewhere than the bottoms of creased boxes or lift them from the cold, concrete floor. Cabinets galore line the garage’s stucco walls, each shelf choking with an odd assortment of belongings not important enough to take inside, but “essential” enough to save. It’s hard to imagine how a disfigured pogo stick, a single rollerblade, and space-consuming snowboards for snow I’ve seen once made the cut.
When I was younger, whether I ventured into the garage to grab my sneakers or slipped inside at darker, more sinister hours to convince myself that dull creakings and shallow echoes were just that, I remember being scared. Scared that the velvet black folding into the corners of the garage and lurking along the edges of grainy, coarse shelves would somehow swallow me as well. Scared that I’d get lost in the labyrinth of cardboard columns and forever breathe the stale air of things lost and forgotten. Though I still wield a broom to hack away at dangling spider webs, or worse—spiders themselves—now I’m less afraid of death-by-shadow than I am worried about, with the flick of a switch, what might be brought to light.
After hitting the lights, I don’t have to look hard to find―or rather, considering its size and proximity to the garage door, look hard to notice―the shoe rack. Besides the fact that all I associate with that rusted scrap bit are pointless attempts at sorting its contents by color, size, and owner only for it to be ransacked, when I do notice the shoe rack, it just reminds me that it wasn’t all too long ago that I could comfortably slip my thin legs into those just as thin blue rain boots, or wriggle my even smaller toes into those small, brown Crocs. I try putting each pair on again. As if I hadn’t already guessed, I couldn’t.
I’m not sure why I keep those shoes around. It’s not like I really want them, because if I did I’d keep them inside. It probably has something to do with my insistence that when they’re buried amidst the jumbled heaps of withered clothes and garish Christmas decorations and unplayed board games, they’re close enough that I won’t forget, but far enough that I won’t always remember. That is, forget the times I would dash into the pounding rain in those thin, blue rain boots only to retreat into the dry haven of the open garage again and again, or remember that those same boots have faded in the garage for much longer than I spent wearing them.
In the far corner of the garage, like all others, the shelves are clogged with stuff: bright cones, deflated balls, paint cans rimmed with crusted flakes, a sampling of half-working emergency flashlights and lanterns, standard boxes. I’m just looking at the boxes, though, and one in particular. A box of books. A box of textbooks. A box of thick, medical textbooks that my dad referenced when he started practicing surgery and others my mom studied to become a dermatologist. I used to watch them, my parents, watch them with those books with doting eyes and hushed whispers. I told myself when I was older I would pore over those textbooks until my eyes were red and scratchy. I told my parents I would pore over those textbooks so I would be just like them. But I am older now. I’m older, and I haven’t touched those textbooks. But I hope that even if I never read them, someday I’ll have my own textbooks in my own garage suffocated by my own stuff. I would like that.
I’m not leaving just yet—at least not until I find that cabinet of pictures. The issue isn’t where the cabinet is, it’s that the cabinet is surrounded by, blocked by things. With a frayed rocking chair at one end and a dark table my dad carved at another, along with little room for adjusting either, I barely manage to ease the cabinet open, revealing just a shallow gap. Lacking any alternatives, I grimace, clench my teeth, close my eyes, and shove my wrist into the alcove before me, praying to the Lord Almighty that all I feel are photographs. Afraid my prayer will expire, I grab the nearest stack of pictures and wrench my arm straight out.
As I sift through the different photographs, sliding each image behind the last, I’m relieved to have a good one (which spares me from another trip into the cabinet). So as I rub my oily fingers in hazy streaks across the picture, smudging my face and tracing my flashy smile, I can’t help but return that smile. Because in the confines of this concrete storage room—in this garage—though I’m reminded of just how fleeting the past seventeen years have been and the next seventeen will be, as I stand here, in the present, clutching a thing of the past and wondering how or if it will matter in the future, if I want to remember, or if I want to forget, I need only unlock the garage door.
Wednesday, December 20, 2017
Open Letter to Jennifer Lawrence
My dear, Jennifer Mockingjay Lawrence,
You truly are “The Girl on Fire”. I have never known someone to fall down so often and so gracefully, but when you do, the revolution in Panem isn’t the only thing “catching fire”.
Even outside of playing Katniss Everdeen, you are supposed to be a good shot with a bow and arrow. You should know that I too used a bow and arrow once and almost didn’t miss. Regardless of my accuracy with a bow and arrow (or lack thereof), I know exactly what we’ll be doing on our first, second, and forever date, or at least until you get bored. (And since I’m willing to lay down with an apple in my mouth and let you shoot at me, there’s no possible way you could be.)
Now, don’t take this the wrong way, but I also heard you like eating, and especially pizza. (I mean, who doesn’t?) If I ever ask if you’re hungry and you reply, “Yeah, I could eat”, know that I know that you’re starving and that we’ll soon be piling into my parents’ 2002 Honda Odyssey (I’ll do you the courtesy of driving), hitting the nearest pizza joint, ordering one of everything, and engorging ourselves like we aren’t going to feel sick and disgusting tomorrow. As long as that’s what you want, of course.
As for your previous significant others, I don’t have anything against them except for the fact they aren’t me. But not entirely.
Though you never actually dated Josh Hutcherson, just in case, I’m going to cover him and the character he portrayed anyway. Sure, he’s attractive, but I’m also drop-dead gorgeous if I do say so myself (and I do). And if you like him for his fascination with bread, you should know that I can make a mean buttered toast and once ordered a “hot dog with just bun”. (Note: I’m also open to eating other carbohydrates and starches as well as any other unhealthy foods. Like you, dieting is not my game to play.) Peeta Mellark is supposedly a pretty good artist from practice with all of that frosting he used in his family’s bakery, but I can draw and paint and color inside the lines as well and very well. So basically, with me, you’re getting everything good about Josh Hutcherson/Peeta Mellark and then some.
As for Chris Martin from Coldplay, if you’re expecting me to sing to you like he did, well, I can’t. Although, I do know all the words to the best song ever written, “The Hanging Tree - Rebel Remix”, and as such, might be able to lip-sync (but not sing) it for you. (Dancing not included).
You say that you were attracted to Darren Aronofsky because of his talent and brilliance. I don’t deny he has both of those, but I’m equally (if not more) talented and brilliant. Not to mention he is twenty-one years your senior. And if you’re willing to date someone so much older than you, in a few more years, why not someone ten years younger? (We should wait a few years not only so I’m older, but so I can hopefully grow taller than you. If I don’t, I’m completely fine looking up if it means I’m looking up at you.)
With that said, beloved, if this letter ever does find its way to you, you should know that I would volunteer for tribute, fight in every Hunger Games, and… Actually, no, I wouldn’t. I’ll really be lounging on my couch, eating chips, and watching your movies with a throbbing heart.
To our future together,
Steven Noll
Thursday, August 3, 2017
The DMV, The Happiest Place on Earth
Write about how you started driving (or why you don't).It was only two months ago that I passed the written driving exam and obtained my learner's permit. Considering I turned sixteen in November of 2016, I discovered that I'm able to not only put off school assignments, but other things as well, namely driving. For whatever reason, I insisted that I wasn't prepared to drive, and thus deliberately provided any excuse I could to delay the attainment of my learner's permit. As one of my friends pulled up to school one day in a rusty, unhinged car, I figured that I could still wait to get my license. That is, until a few weeks later when another one of my friends pulled up to school behind the wheel. Then another. And another. Finally, as I engaged in lively banter with my circle of friends during breaks, I was surprised to find that I was the only one to not have a patterned lanyard dangling gleefully from my pocket, concealing a ring of keys at the bottom. As I stood there, envying my friends and their sleek licenses, I finally took the initiative to complete the online driver's training program that I had started months prior.
Although I had finished the online program quite quickly after that point, I was unable to take the written exam because the local DMV was only open during school hours and closed during the weekends, leaving me with the options of either skipping school or waiting a few extra weeks. Of course, I waited the few extra weeks, dreading the fact that after studying for academic finals, I would have to study for another final of sorts: the driving written exam. However, because I was so motivated to start practicing actual driving prior to the start of the new school year, I studied incessantly, refusing to stop reviewing and covering any and all material related to driving. As I scheduled an appointment at the DMV, I was astonished to find that I only had to wait a few days, not months, for an appointment.
I can tell you with great confidence that I had over-prepared for the written driver's exam. I was ready to write free response answers on parallel parking or entering the freeway, but in the end, it was all simple multiple choice. I can also say with great confidence that the textbook knowledge I gained of driving from such intense studying continues to benefit me as I drive behind the wheel.
Sure, I've been honked at already, and yes, I've run over curbs as well, but I haven't had any issues with when to stop or go or identifying signs and their corresponding meaning. However, it is especially important that I learn to better control the vehicle because I have three younger siblings, which really means I have three younger people I'll have to start driving to practices and picking up from school. I must say that I don't drive for leisure or pleasure, I certainly don't find it "fun" or "enjoyable", but it is an essential skill, and hopefully one that I improve throughout the next few months. Because if not, I'll find myself being chauffeured everywhere by my mother.
