The Good School

So I have recently been thinking about my future a lot lately seeing as how its quickly approaching. Since about late elementary school, when I learned what an ivy league school was, I wanted to go to Harvard. Why Harvard? Because I knew that it was the best of the best, and all the good successful people went there. 

Around eighth grade, I began watching House. I know this may sound silly, but it was that show that made me want to be a doctor. One of the doctors on the show had attended John Hopkins, which made me want to as well. Some how I heard about Columbia, possibly from another doctor show, and since the beginning of my freshman year, that is where I wanted to go. 

This year, I have been through quite a change. I can feel that I am not the same person as the last, and that’s a good thing. I have been thinking a lot about materialism and a couple of weeks ago, I began assessing my life, and my relationship with items. Somehow I began thinking about where this hold on objects originates, and I seem to have traced it back to college. 

Example:

Q: Why do people want to go to a good college?

A: To get a good education.

Q: And why do you want a good education?

A: To get a good job.

Q: And why do you want a good job?

A: So you can make money and be successful.

But wait. Isn’t the definition of successful somewhat subjective? Or have we been brainwashed into thinking that success is defined by the car you drive, the house you live in, and the clothes you rock? My hypothesis is that we have manifested the combination of two words: wealth and success. They are now interchangeable. When someone is successful, we think they are rich. When someone is rich, we think they are successful. 

But what if that isn’t success to you. What if success is being happy and being content with what you own and having little desire to acquire more? What if you measure success in the people you help, the way your children turn out, and the people you make happy simply by being there. 

Then society will once again fuck you over. That’s my hypothesis.

But it is this very idea that has me questioning something I was so sure of only a month ago. If my idea of success differs from that of the above plan, then do I need what people call a “good” job?  And if i don’t need a “good” job, do I need what people call a “good” education? And if I don’t need what people call a “good” education, then do I need to go to a “good” school?

No.

Peace.

Our differences

So I went to my hair place the other day to get my her did or weave done, whichever you prefer. First of all, I hate it there. It’s not the place itself, or the people working there, or even the people getting their hair done, its the looks. For those of you who don’t know or haven’t realized, I am black. Since I am black, I have what is commonly known as black people hair. The non-black people may not know what I mean when I use this term, but all the people with black hair know what’s up. 

Let me explain black people hair. It’s nappy, coarse, thick, tangly, pouffy, in short, pretty much everything you don;t want your hair to be. It sucks. Its so hard to take care of and it never looks the way you want it to. This is why I go to my hair place, because they can idx this problem and give me better hair. 

When I do go there, I get what is known as a relaxer. Its a perm, but just the opposite. They put a really harsh chemical on my hair, and voila, I have white people hair, or something close to it. This is a good think, I like it. My problem is the way people look at me. Three days before my relaxer, due to the extreme chemicals, I can not wash it or straiten it. This sucks because it is necessary for me to flat iron my hair daily so it doesn’t look like poop. So for three days I walk around with black people hair, which sucks. What sucks even more is when I am sitting in the chair, my hair being combed out into what is essentially an afro and noticing all the people watching me. What makes it even worse is that the place I go is coincidentally the same place all the rich, white women and preppy teenage girls go too. I have never seen another black person there. 

I can’t say I blame their staring. I just really hate being the one they stare at. I want to scream to them, “I’m black, what are you expecting?!?! but I am able to refrain. Like I said before, the place is full of all this primly, overdone people who get their hair done once a week, there eyebrows done twice a week, and their nails done daily. I am not a girl. I mean I am in the biological sense, but it about stops there. As if my black hair wasn’t enough to make me feel bad, I have to spend three hours with these people who are total girls. I feel so out of place. I don’t want to get my eyebrows waxed or my nails done or any of that stuff, but if you want to fit in with these people, that’s what it takes. And they know I shouldn’t be here, you can see it in the way they look at my bushy brows, nasty nails, and dissimilar do. 

I guess my moral of this tale was that it’s all fine and dandy to be different, until you actually are. We as a society say that its our differences that bring us together, but webster, along with life, suggest otherwise. 

Peace.

This little incident

The summer between my freshmen and sophomore year, I befriended a person named Jessica. I had met her through work, and we had a mutual friend that had both invited us over one night. We were both two teenagers who had been given too much freedom and our summer nights proved to be quite the experience complete with stealing a road cone sign and putting it on the doorstep of this douche cake we knew, as well as knocking over a few road signs, with a bit of midnight runs for toilet paper and eggs. We were immature, as most of our generation is, and how I still am today, and these petty crimes were enough for us to get our kicks.
When school started, we were able to keep our friendship alive despite the reduce time spent together. Ours was a friendship that came so easy, and seemed like it was one that could remain. But alas, all friendships have their troubled waters. Although it occurred later than most, when it hit, their was no recovery. The death of our friendship was somewhere in early July, and it still has not been repaired. I have put much effort into fixing this friendship, because losing a friend is one of the biggest hurts a person can experience.
I only open this old wound because of an incident which occurred last night that made me think of it. Last night I worked, and when I came in, all seemed normal. Then I heard that my general manager was coming in unexpectedly. Since I am never compliant with any of our rules their at Culvers, I had several piercings in as well as nail polish on. I quickly ran to the back and removed my illegal attire.
Soon after, my boss walked in. She yelled for three of our employees to go into her office. Not long after that a cop showed up and walked back to join them. I had only the faintest idea of what was going on and only because I badgered my manger into telling me. Apparently a couple of our employees had been drinking before work and one of our managers had found out and told Julie.
One of these people used to be my best friend, and all three used to be people I hung out with. While this post is not intended to harm anyone’s reputation, it made me realize that maybe this was not a person whose friendship I should value. I personally would never drink before work, and had we still be friends, I wonder if my opinion would have changed. I am not sure that she is really the best person for me, and one that I should have tried to get back.
I would however like to say that Jessica is a wonderful person and should not be judged on this action alone. Regardless of her choices, she is still someone I care deeply for, someone possessing many positive qualities, and someone who I can say has had a positive impact on me and my life.
Peace.

Our Ideal

So at my school, there is this program called the Langford Team. It is a group of about 20 students who are chosen based on their leadership qualities, who have to take a two-day workshop class to learn how to lead and solve problems, then must work with a local company to help them solve a problem of their own. I tried out for this, submitted my resume and obtained my references, and did not make it.
I can’t say that I was crushed I didn’t get it, but I was a bit disappointed. My problem with this situation isn’t that I don’t get to waste five days of my life doing something I never wanted to do in the first place. My disappointment comes from rejection.
I guess I never really noticed it until now. It seems that my happiness is directly related my achievement. I do not really care for this idea however. This means that for the rest of my life, I will have to consistently achieve something just to satisfy me. That is really sad, and I am not too happy with this idea. I do not know what to do about it though.
I decided that my accomplishments are only measured in comparison to others. As a matter a fact, that’s how everyone’s accomplishments are measured, because that’s the only way they can be. In our minds we form a picture of how things should be, of what nice is, what mean is, what beauty is, and what success is. All of these ideals are based on things we have seen from other people. We take the good qualities of people, the ones that we think all people should have, and use them to develop our ideal person, and this is what we use to judge ourselves.
My biggest pet peeve are the people who claim to not compare themselves to other people. This is complete bullshit, for this is impossible to do. The word compare is proof enough to dispel this notion. But these are the same people who say they don’t judge others, a task that is also impossible.
The most we can hope for is not to be too hard in our comparisons. To accept that not everyone is the same along with the idea that our ideal person does not and can not exist, and even they have faults are their own.
Peace.

Practicality

As children we are influenced greatly by the toys our parents buy for us. Most of these toys, at least the action figures, display an image of justice and kindness, compassion and integrity whether it be in the superman toy or the police man doll. We grow up with these toys understanding them to be the good people of the world, the ones we should all aspire to be. They become Gods in a sense, and when later on in our life people ask us what we want to be when we grow up, we think back to those days of the firefighter toys and respond with what we have come to know as heroes. We want to be doctors and police men and all those people who we have learned our successful and good. 

As we grow we learn about other choices, the more common careers that majority of society ends up in. Working in an office for an inconsiderate boss becomes a more natural career choice, perhaps even a more feasible alternative than the heroic option we wants had. We accept that our dreams are really just that, dreams. They’re cute when you’re little, but it’s time to grow up, we tell ourselves as society sends a similar message through its many vices. And that’s what we call it when our spirit dies, simply growing up. 

So why then our jobs that seem glamorous and valorous deemed childish and impossible? What part about these jobs says that they can only remain dreams, and not break though the barrier into reality? And why are some people able to disregard all of the nay sayers and continue with their dreams? One word, one idea has shaped our impressionable young minds into bitter, close-minded adult ones. Practical. This word has defined our society. I cannot count the number of times I have heard someone dismiss an idea or thought or dream using the excuse of its practicality. This word is wall. It prevents creativity and kills imagination along with stealing the dreams of the dreamers. People focus too much on this word, and because we have been brainwashed into believing its severity, we are unable to look passed it to the possibility that, regardless the odds and the forces fighting against us, maybe I can.

And that is what the world is missing, those two words. I can.

Fuck practicality.

Peace.

A city is a city is a city..

So like I  mentioned in my previous post, I spent some days in New York. I have wanted to live in New York for as long as I can remember. I suppose this is mostly because I have been drugged by the Hollywood Breakfast at Tiffany’s persona of New York that has been given off by countless feel good movies. When I was there, however, New York lived up to all the things I imagined it to be. It was just as beautiful, just as big, just as diverse as I had expected. I do realize that I have only stated the pros of the New York demeanor. Despite my romantic description of the city that never sleeps, I also have a realistic stance on this place as well. It was just as crowded, just as dirty, and just as sad as I had also pictured it. No place is without its faults though. 

While I spent time there, I realized that I had primarily focused on what I had thought to be the good aspects of the city. I only realized this because I began to notice the cons the more I was there. There are so many people there. You end up becoming only a dot amongst so many bodies. I am a person who likes to stand out perhaps to the point of annoyance. But I like to know people, to have close ties with them and to be able to form a relationship with them. 

I now see that such relationships would not be possible in a big city such as New York. There is no way I could make a big difference there when there are so many people, and so many suffering. I feel a bit naive, or maybe I feel a bit duped. I have lived the ida that no other place was more perfect for me than New York. After being there, I am now a bit apprehensive as to whether or not this is true. 

This is a bit sad in a way, simply because it’s always a bit disappointing when you realize that imagination and reality don’t quite match up. But in another way, knowing that no matter where you go, things we’ll always be consistent is a reassuring idea as well. 

Peace. 

My dad

So I went to New York this week and had some really good experiences. We went to this cathedral, this really old school one. It was so cool, so beautiful. While I was there, there were candles lit. They were of course for prayers. I am not a religious person, but there are a few aspects of religion that I really rtespect Personally I can't commit to one simcaply because I don't know enough about them, and any commitment should be made with full knowledge of what you are commitiing too. But when I was there I saw candles. This is one part of religion that I really like. I like caring about people and the thought of respecting someone in that way is very meaningful to me. 

I had to light the candle. I maninly lit if for my father. I guess to understand the story I am about to tell, it is necessary to know the back story.

When I was three months my father and mother split up.My mom left, and I didn't see him for a while. When I was seven, my mom and my sister and I went to my grandparants house. My father was there. That was the first time I had seen him since I was a baby. I was only seven, so I didn't really talk to him. I wasn't sure what to say to someone I hardly knew. Because of this, I never really spent time with him. That summer, my mother got a call from my grandparents saying that my father had died. I remember how I responded. 'can I stay home?' That's how I responded to thr death of my father. That still haunts me to this day.

My father's birthday is around this time, and every year since then, I think about him during this time. When I was there I decided to light a candle for him. I didn't pray for anything in particular, just for him. It's really hard to think about him now. I know its pretty cliche, but I just wonder if he's proud of me. He is the only person ever who I have been conerned about that. When I think about him and the things I do, that's the only reason I do the things I do. It's sad really. I will never be able to make him proud. But that's all I ever want to do. I love him. 

Peace.