Chapter One

I was sitting in my Biology Writing class today (it sounds as boring as it seems) staring absent mindedly at a blank sheet of paper.  My assignment for the day was to write a personal statement that would highlight my long term commitments.  I was supposed to outline my future according to my current major—Biology.

So, rather than completing the task at hand, I grabbed a pen and doodled along the sides.  I made a paper accordion out of the scraps from perforated edges.   I even considered crafting a paper airplane out of this blank sheet. 

That is when I realized that I had already approached this assignment with an apathetic attitude.  I was very familiar with writing personal statements and mock application essays with the same, ambiguous topic.  What is your goal in life? Why do you want to do what you want to do? Why did you pick this major? What is your inspiration for that major?  I can almost quote the responses I have given for each question.  But, out of all of them I had never written a paper about biology.

I was purposely stalling because I did not want to write about why I loved biology.  Frankly, I do not love biology.  I do love its challenge but I do not love the content or its context.  I could not meticulously point out the things I loved that involved science.  Unless, that is, I could comically write a fanfictional script to “The Big Bang Theory.”  Maybe I should point out that my favorite scientist is Sheldon.  How about that, biology?

So rather writing about science, I began to write about literature and English, journalism and creative writing.  I wrote about the first novel I read when I was four. I wrote about the first poem I had published in the school paper when I was in the second grade.  I wrote about being the only freshmen to compete in UIL ready writing. And I wrote about this—save your scissors. 

This should have been the point in time when I realized that maybe I shouldn’t be studying biology.  This should be the turning point.  But is it?  Am I the type of girl who is bold enough to take risks and draw outside the lines?

Sometimes I want to believe that my life is one gigantic book.  It has its own table of contents.  Yet somehow I feel as if I am only flipping back and forth to the index.  I am only looking for what I need to see and what I need to hear and I am not enjoying the full novel.  I feel like if I were to continue on that way, then I’ll only have the spark notes version of a life and not the full text.

Whoever reads this, I truly hope you are braver than me.  I hope you follow your heart.  As Mark Schwahn would say, “you simply cannot measure a dream.”

--save your scissors.

Somebody told me that this is the place....

I have a heavy heart.  After nine consecutive years, One Tree Hill, is having its final season.  The opening credits to the announced January series finale stated, “Come back to Tree Hill for one final season.”  In that moment, I felt almost lost—I felt a sense of disfiguration and disorientation.   I have looked upon this fictional place called, “Tree Hill” as my own home.  The voice over, Brooke Davis, in the series preview  says that “Tree Hill is home” and that home is “good.” 

Not to be overly dramatic, but where can I possibly go—emotionally and mentally—if home will no longer be home anymore?  If Tree Hill is gone, surely a part of me that has grown over such nine years will be gone too.  

I am dedicating this blog entry to One Tree Hill, the drama series created by the ingenious Mark Schwahn because I feel that most of my writing and the inspiration to write has evolved from his creation.  For nine years I have been inspired by his inventive storylines, his realistically beautiful characters and this fictional place that is, in all fair, “good.” 

It may sound completely absurd that I am so emotionally tied to a television series—but in reality, One Tree Hill is much more than a mere television show.  In some way or another, I have related (at least once) to every single character.  I have felt the heaviness, unbearable feeling of a heart ache, I have lost as much as I have gained but I have also been able to survive it all.

I have looked upon One Tree Hill as a guideline throughout most of my childhood.  I have embellished myself in this fictional life so that I can understand how to grow—how to shape myself.   I have learned that ,”[my] life is being shaped right now.”  Looking upon this aspiring show,  it has been the plaster-the glue-to my life and the person I have become.  With all honesty, One Tree Hill has been the catalyst to every big dream I have ever had.   

I have learned a lot within these years.  I have learned that family, although it may be broken at some point, will be strong.  It only takes a few off that family tree, a few spare leaves, to help you grow.  I have learned that battling heartache and loss will only make you stronger in the end.  In fact, it just might give you another life to live.  I have learned that in this life, things will always fall apart and I have learned that there is always some way to put it back together. 

For the main character, Lucas Scott, his love and devotion for literature and writing has given me the courage to write on my own and to write strictly from the heart. Because that is where the best stories are.

Peyton Sawyer:  I have intrinsically incorporated music into my life.  From Nada Surf to City and Colour, I have learned that “music can save you.”  And although every song comes to an end, there isn’t any reason why I should never stop enjoying the music.  Her willingness to dream has made me the catcher. 

Haley Scott:  I will always believe that Haley is the most vulnerable of them all—and yet, she will always be strong enough to act just sane.  I remember Haley as “Tutor Girl” and as valedictorian of Tree Hill High.  Because of Haley Scott, I thought it was, frankly, cool to be a nerd.

Nathan Scott:  He is one hell of a legend—a dreamer and a fighter.  I have truly understood from his story the truth about forgiveness. To be quite frank, I had always admired the way Nathan Scott stayed loyal to himself--and most importantly, to his goals.  It was evidently clear that he could have given up multiple times.  In fact, he had enough reasons to quit.  But Nathan knew what he wanted--He wanted to play for the NBA and he was unwilling to accept anything else. He didn't settle and for that, I consider Nathan Scott a human trophy of indurance and perseverance.

Brooke Davis:  With all respect, my favorite character.  The one character that has evolved from the girl behind the red door, to the most beautiful, courageous person I have ever seen on One Tree Hill.  I think that the person that grows the most—the one who comes through a tight tunnel with bruises and scars and is still beautiful—is the one worth noting.  I have truly loved the person Brooke Davis has become.

Love. Forgiveness.  Bravery.  Ambitions.  Friendship.  It sounds all very simple—but it is not.

After nine years, One Tree Hill comes to an end.  So here’s to nine years of love, nine years of forgiveness, nine years of bravery, nine years of ambitions and nine years of friendship.  It feels “good.”

Song Bird

November is my favorite time of the year.  Although, as a Texan (who’s unwillingly native to a year-round Summer), I can only imagine what “Sweet November” can encompass.  I would like to think that I could walk along pavement that would  be covered in a blanket of crisp, honey toned leaves with the smell of Autumn hanging from a hammock of crimson clouds.  I would imagine that scent to be of cinnamon, a sweet tasting Brule and of spiced pumpkin and fallen pinecones.   

November is supposed to be beautiful.  I do have yet to live the vivid imagery in which I describe, but I can only hope that my winter endeavors in New York will give me a bit of that Autumn atmosphere. 

Another thing that comes to my mind when I think of November—I think of music.  As usual, my music taste is very subtle.  I created a playlist to share with you and I will dedicate this blog to it.  You can listen to many of these on Pandora if you were to create these following (beloved) stations: City and Colour (of course!), A Fine Frenzy, and The Weepies.

Save Your Scissors’ Sweet November Playlist:

A Fine Frenzy: Almost lover

Florence + The Machine:  Cosmic Love

Missy Higgins: Where I stand

The Violet Archers: You and I

Barcelona: Come Back When You Can

Walking Ashland: Take Me With You

Old 97’s: Question

Iron & Wine: Jezebel

A Fine Frenzy: Last of Days

The Mostar Diving Club: Worlds Apart

Vampire Weekend: Horchata

Ben Harper: Walk Away

Stateless: Bloodstream

City and Colour: Northern Wind

Frou Frou: Breathe In

Iron and Wine: Flightless Bird

Michelle Featherstone: Coffee and Cigarettes

Nada Surf: Always Love

I highly recommend  every single one of these songs.  If you like some of these songs, you might also want to add “Augustana” as a station to your Pandora.  Those that are not familiar with Pandora, it is a free internet radio that allows you to choose the music you ideally want to listen to.  By “creating a station” you will find songs that reflect your musical taste.

Grab a Cinnamon Brule Late at Starbucks. They are now back in season! Add a touch of soy milk and just a hint of nutmeg.  Enjoy a warm Pumpkin Spice and add a pinch of brown sugar.  Take your ipod, plug in those ear buds and simply b r e a t h e!

Try

      

              There is one illustrious piece of artwork that still adamantly resonates within me even to this day.  In the year of 2008, I stumbled upon a Swedish short film entitled “Try” that was a notable fifteen minutes long.  Surprisingly, within such a small frame of time, the video captured an immense amount of psychological thoughts and simply got my mind reeling—artistically, emotionally, and poetically. Jonas Akerlund’s short film was initially made for the 90’s sensational rock-band The Smashing Pumpkin’s latest single, “Try, Try, Try.”  Together, along with Billy Corgan’s lyrics and Akerlund’s short-film, Try tells an intrinsic heart retching story of two homeless young lovers, Linda and Max.  

            The video begins by displaying a visual of a blazing sunrise.  The camera captures a bright, bulbous sun that makes the entire screen burn a crimson orange.  It gave me a sudden warm feeling, the type of warmth that has an efflorescence to make one shudder at its beauty.  Immediately, I thought of what a sunrise would mean symbolically. As a literary element, the sun symbolizes happiness, life, and spirituality.  It’s an emblem for glory and brilliance. At this sunrise scene, Akerlund presents a voice over of Linda.  Linda, the main character, shares a rather significant childhood story:

 “I remember this clearly; when I was a little girl I had a dollhouse. Hours and Hours I would spend putting my dolls through lifetimes: work, kids, play. All of it happened in that little house.  I remember that perfectly. The rest is a little fuzzy. See somehow, I left it outside for a couple of days. When I went back to play with it wasps came to build a nest inside my dollhouse.  It looked like a twisted apple or something.   Back then it was scary—terrifying.  But I remember thinking, in that little girl way, that just like my dolls, wasps needed a place to stay too.  When my stepfather came home, he burned it all. Everything.  I cried all night long.”

Akerlund’s content presented through Linda’s story will foreshadow the entire short-film.  Initially, I thought, through formal analysis, that the sun would symbolize the usual clichés of happiness, warmth, and brilliancy. I was wrong.  My perception of the sunrise altered the moment Linda said that wasps had taken over her dollhouse.  The dollhouse was Linda’s most treasured item and now it was infested with wasps, distorting it into what she described as a, “twisted apple.”  This happy image of a dollhouse and its pristine perfection was now withering away by a wasp infestation.  Throughout Linda’s life, we will see this correlation as the bigger metaphor of Akerlund’s shortfilm.  While Linda tries and tries to obtain a life that is as perfect as her dollhouse setting, she struggles as a homeless, pregnant prostitute, living a life that might as well have been infested with wasps.  The sun’s symbolism is continuously embellished in Linda’s story.  The fact that her father burned the dollhouse—her treasured hopes and artifact—

will foreshadow Linda’s burning fate in the end.  While Linda confesses her lugubrious experience, the beautiful sunrise scene slowly alters into a sunset.  That warm, fuzzy feeling I once felt and the illusion of happiness seemed as if it had been shattered.  Within a minute of the short-film, Akerlund had captured all of these thoughts and emotions.  I felt eager at first—warm and comfortable as Linda described her beautiful dollhouse—but towards the end, the feeling became ephemeral. 

            After Linda has shared her childhood memory, Akerlund captures the present scene of Linda and her lover, Max.  The scene is shot in an abandoned parking garage and the two homeless teens are lying on top of piles of ragged clothes, litter, and filth.  The walls behind them are tainted with graffiti.  Almost instantly, I knew that Linda’s life did not end up as perfect as her dolls’.  The lighting effect that Akerlund used truly eluded the entire lugubrious, melancholy, and dreary feeling.  The color scheme was a dull spectrum of navy blues, charcoal blacks, and cement grey.  It was shadowed the entire time and every scene that followed lacked Linda’s warm sunrise I had first fallen in love with at the beginning of the film.  Although, Linda will continuously refer to this evanescent sunrise. She is dying to see it and dying to feel its warmth; as am I.  Now, the sun will be Akerlund’s on-going metaphor.  Linda will state in this particular scene,

“It’s funny really—how a life works.   The things you try to hold onto, you try to remember, those are what you end up losing.  And everything you try to forget or throwaway, those are the things that stay.  Like I said, it’s funny.” 

Now, I was provoked with this idea of the hardships in life we are forced to endure.  I believe that Akerlund used this quote as a subtext to explain that life is a continuous, ineffable battle—one that we can never win.  My personal interpretation was that Akerlund was trying to convey that we must spend our lives trying, trying, and trying but essentially we will always remember the struggle more than we can ever remember the gain.  It is important to remember this particular quote because in the end of the shortfilm, Linda’s voice over will repeat these exact same words—over expressing Akerlund’s subtext in his work. 

            Akerlund will continue to show us Linda and Max’s life but will also capture some disturbing footages that will spark some ideological criticism.  Linda is pregnant and clearly a drug abuser.  She looks to be about eight months along with the way her stomach protrudes out.  The camera catches a side profile of Linda, really exemplifying the fact that she is far along in her pregnancy with the size of her dome shaped abdomen and then it shows her drinking straight from a wine bottle.  This was utterly disturbing but for some reason. I believe that Akerlund was not intentionally trying to make his viewers feel appalled.  I interpreted it as though Akerlund wanted to show the brutal, raw truth of a desperate situation and explain this fact—some people do not get to live a good life.  Akerlund showed some bold and blatant honesty in these scenes and for that, it has become my favorite work of art.  The film will continue to take us through Linda and Max’s life.  They are seen in a quick station, snatching and stealing what they can fit in a bag and hopping on subways and begging in stations.  All through these scenes the viewer can still hear the distant echo of the subway station noises, the murmurous introduction of the Smashing Pumpkins song and Linda’s voice over:

“I know the world is hard and cold, and can hurt you bad I also know it doesn’t mean to. It’s not personal. And I know you have to try pretty god damn hard not to take it personally.”

Immediately after hearing Linda describe how she manages to get by such a terrible life, I could see pass the ideological criticism of it all. Akerlund portrayed Linda to seem as though her way of managing her life was by trying hard not to let it control her.  Linda’s main motivation was to simply—TRY.  Now, my personal interpretation of the short film was to understand the beauty of an ugly struggle.  Linda will list the things she so desperately dreams about: a house, a bar, dishes, clothes, dryers, TV, internet, etc.—things that are so modern and obtainable for myself that it makes me feel unbearably sorry for Linda.  Akerlund will show that Linda’s own interpretation of life is simply “getting by.”  Linda will continue to explain her dream and hopes of the life she wants to live but the scenes will show the perverse reality of it all. 

            What really resonates within me was Linda’s courage and positivity.  She says, “It could get worst” whereas my interpretation can be, how worse can it possibly get?  Even more so, when Akerlund continues to provoke some major controversy by showing Linda and Max surviving off by prostituting themselves. 

            I believe the turning part and the most brutal scenes in Akerlund’s short film are Linda’s drug scenes.  The footage captures Linda and Max sitting in a filthy bathroom, using toilet water to fuel up their heroine needle.  In these scenes I had to embellish on some psychoanalytic criticism.  Akerlund capture’s Linda’s eerie high with vibrant footages.  The shots seemed to be stretched out and moving as if to make the viewers feel dizzy or sick.  It shows inure pictures of what we would imagine to be the perfect family with the white picket fences, a beautiful woman sunbathing in an American flag embroidered bathing suit, a family having dinner, and a young girl sitting peacefully on her bed.  In the background there is constant creepy giggling and sadistic laughter along with the splitting octave of a needle grinding against metal. Suddenly, Akerlund’s scenes are highly altered to show a different take on each image—a rather perverse take.  The perfect family living in the big, colonial style house is shot to death by the husband, the woman in the bathing suit is now in the pool slitting her wrists, the family at the dinner table is regurgitating their meal, and the daughter in her bedroom is now mimicking some rather pornographic explicit content.  These were clearly psychological scenes that made me feel uncomfortable.  It had the same dark, psychological drug effect that is continuously seen in Darren Aronofsky’s movie, Requiem for a Dream.   Besides Akerlund’s psychological effect in this sequence, what really strikes me was Linda’s commentary.  She compared the feeling she got when she was high and used it as an allegory for The Wizard of Oz—going from a world of white and black to a world of all color.  She described it as if the drug symbolized the tornado and this tornado lifted her to a high where suddenly “everything changes to color.”

            The ending heightens the significance of this Swedish short film.  Throughout Akerlund’s video I see what it is like to be Linda—homeless, sick, poor, unfortunate—and I’m emotionally linked to the character.  It pains me to see her in pain, it sickens me to see her sick, and it makes me feel helpless to see her so hopeless. And suddenly, I believe Linda was right.  We, as humans, believe the things that are most tragic is what characterizes our fate because we always hold onto the things we are trying to forget.  The ending scenes show Linda rushed to the hospital; she’s bleeding and is dying.  Once again, Akerlund features Linda’s voiceover, repeating the same quote she had shared with us at the beginning of the film:

“It’s funny really—how a life works.   The things you try to hold onto, you try to remember, those are what you end up losing.  And everything you try to forget or throwaway, those are the things that stay.  Like I said, it’s funny.” 

At this point in the film, I was crying so hard I nearly made myself sick.  I was well aware that the repeating scheme of this quote was foreshadowing Linda’s death.  In fifteen minutes, I had witnessed one of the most tragic stories. Linda ends the film by saying that she was right all along; she had finally found her place, “It was sunny. Like California,” all while the remaining footages captured her casket being burned.   

            Jonas Aklerund’s short-film, Try, is my favorite work of art because of how it affected me emotionally.  I always found it odd that I enjoyed reading depressing novels and watching sad films, but Linda, Akerlund’s main character, proved to explain why I had such a masochistic taste.  The most depressing, tragic stories are the most memorable ones.  Linda believed so and so do I.  Not only was I emotionally attached to the film, I was amazed at Akerlund’s bold context—he was brutally honest no matter how much controversy the video sparked.  This is what I consider to be “art.” 

Artist’s Website:

http://www.jonasakerlund.com/

Song of the day: Try, Try, Try-Smashing Pumpkins.

Greener without the scenery

It has been quite some time since I have written in my blog.  My tedious schedule has made it rather difficult to be able to sit down and lavish in such finer things---besides some blasphemous chemistry (and I say this with MUCH exaggerated sarcasm. Consider it my hyperbole for the day, literary fanatics!)  Thus, my creative outlet has become a mere measly spark in my everyday life.  That, surely, must come to an immediate end.  I love writing and therefore, I must be diligent with my time and spare some for save your scissors. 

I will note that the majority of my (mental) time has been fantasizing about New York.  I have had quite the “Empire State of Mind,” if you ask me.  After my summer rendezvous in this chaotic city, I have realized I have fallen madly in love with New York.  I have also realized it is the best metaphor for anyone that has had some outrageous ambitions in their life.

 The first place I went to in the city was NYU’s bookstore.  I was flabbergasted, to say the least.  Our bookstore at Pan Am can only occupy a fraction of NYU’s intellectual loveliness.  I wanted to simply engulf myself in every single book.   If I were to be asked why I am now applying to New York University, I would immediately reflect back to this timeless moment.  It may sound ridiculous, but it was then that I had another outrageous epiphany—when I purchased my first NYU patriotic banner—that I would be the idealistic NYU student.    I do not mean to sound narcissistic; rather, I simply believe that I would be an intrinsic addition to the student body.  It felt right and I had an irresistible urge to buy a few textbooks.  In fact, I contemplated whether if I should go on with my day pretending as if I were an NYU student.

As I go through this impending application process, I have been stumped on the essay prompt.  The Common Application, (torturous fragment of my memory can vaguely point out how much I despise returning to such tasks) has supplements for each university.  These supplements call for additional information that the university requires in order to postulate a more “rounder” perspective of their fellow applications.   The question I have spent some amount of time on, perplexed with the flippant amount of ideas I may have for such a vague topic, is to describe something that intrigues/inspires me. 

There are many things that “inspire” me to say the least.  But, in this case, I would like to turn this question around and write about the “inspiration” my absent father has indirectly had on my studies.  It is not the approach they are expecting—but then again, I’ve always had a tasteful, spontaneous approach to writing.

Here’s a brief synopsis of my “inspiration:”

When I was growing up, I would do anything for my dad’s attention.  I rarely saw him and the few times I did I wanted to make them count.  Unfortunately though, my cousin would always tag along on these scarce visits.  My father adored my cousin and I knew, even at such a young age, that my father loved my cousin Amber more than he would ever love me.   It is a very profound thought for just a child.  I hated being aware of my father’s lack of interest and I resented him for making it so believable.  

I was also aware as to why my father preferred to love my cousin rather than his own daughter.  You see, Amber had talent.  She could sing.  For the rest of our childhood, I would always remember Amber as his little, cacophonous song bird.   But my father saw Amber’s voice more than just mere talent—He envisioned Amber as a star and as a clear ticket to Hollywood where money was just an extra incentive.    Money was always something my father lacked and therefore, his only priority was to always have some sort of constant currency to help him get by.  Their living style was much dissembled.  I would not go into details—but I know now that my dad would do anything for easy cash.  

Amber would sing every time I would visit. She’d sing all day and my dad loved it.  It got to the point where I was absolutely desperate for my father’s attention.  I knew from experience that I did not have such talent. I could not sing and I could not dance.  So, I tried to find my own talent.  I was good at writing and I loved to read.  I was a good student and that seemed like the only “talent” I cared for.    

I was an ambitious little girl and I made it a goal to make straight A’s on every single report card.  By the time I was in middle school, I had received notable honors such as “Student of the Year” and “Texas Honor Student.”   I immediately found my success in school and my love for my studies to be the perfect way to depict my character as "talented.”

So, while Amber continued to sing, I continued to study.  Amber would go to Broadway and I would go to an Ivy League.  I remember the multiple times I abated a “normal” childhood and found myself maturing faster than I had ever intended.  When I was six, I had already read a flippant amount of books and had started my own book list.  When I was eight, I knew that I wanted to go to a prestigious university.  I was determined and I was positive that my father would see my determination. 

Sadly though, I suppose my father was particularly incredulous of the thought that being a good student could be a talent.  I would like to think it takes a tremendous amount of self discipline and perseverance to have progressed this much in my studies and I suppose that within it-self makes me a talented individual.  To be quite blatant about it all, I took my fathers’ indifference to our relationship to get me where I am today.

It may sound rather perverse, but my absent father was the one that inspired me for all the most absurd, infamous reasons.    Thank you, Dad.  I have made it this far because you, without knowing, gave me something to (still) fight for.

Song of the day: Buried Myself Alive- The Used.  I have been in love with this band since I was in middle school. Granted, I went through a long period of  loving grundge, punk, rock-alternative music, but The Used has been one of the few bands I have consistantly had a taste for since then.

It's just text book stuff

In a mere week I will be traveling to a becoming city of colour (pun intended).  I will be relishing every minute of my time as an aspiring journalist in New York City.  I can only imagine how different the East Coast is compared to my usual Southern living.  The suspense makes me have a very fugacious attitude to my impending travel! If I can conjure enough courage, I will have a very poignant resume ready for Seventeen Magazine.  I have this blog to thank for that!

In fact, this blog has been without a doubt inspiring.  I have an evocative idea to get a small, measly tattoo of some scissors along my hip.  Thus, I will always remember what it feels like to write. Not to mention, as much as I hate to undermine stereotypes, it will show some musical significance to the band that has been the prodigy in my life and my writing. 

Onto another subject, I can openly admit that I have had a wonderful dalliance this month.  What could I possibly love more than writing?  My Netflix account! Alas, I have a very surreptitious confession to make.  I consider this secretive and very clandestine because I always thought that I had SOME standards.  As much as I refused to watch Glee, I have reluctantly become a Gleek.  With all honestly, Glee makes me rather….Gleeful.  Oh my, I must be delusional at this point, eh?

Besides succumbing to the Gleek Frenzy, I have rekindled my love for the band, Imogen Heap.  I had first heard the band’s music when the lead singer was known as Frou Frou, singing for the Garden State soundtrack with the hit, “Let Go.”  The lyrics were captivating.  I like the unusual, indie poetic writings these days.  Imogen Heap’s music was advertised multiple times in the Fox’ hit TV show, The OC.  The OC, like One Tree Hill now-a-days, was known for a lot of indie, underground jams.  In fact, The OC put a massive media spotlight on The Killers before they became “main-stream.”  It was typically a cynosure for indie music and it was my cup of tea.

So, this rather pointless blog has come to an end.  I would like my song of the day to be very predictable.  Try Imogen Heap’s  “Speeding Cars.”  It was my favorite song. Partially because it was well conflate with what I was feeling at the time----pretty damn blunt. 

Love washes over a multitude of things

This is something personal I would like to share.  I wrote this for my cousin's time capsule and now I would like to share it with you.  Today is his third birthday and I can honestly say, if it is even remotely possible, that I love him more with each year. Happy Birthday, Jackson.  I love you.

For Jackson

When we were children our first priorities were rather simple: steal cookies from

the cookie-jar, watch cartoons for hours while lounging around in our Disney decorated pajamas, and maybe throw some tantrums until Mommy or Daddy purchased that new Malibu Barbie that came with three different assorted bikinis.  Looking back at it, as children we took more than we could ever give and never had the wisdom to ponder what it meant to be thankful, and know the true glory of sacrifice.

In my household, I was the baby of the family; therefore, the center of attention. I lived in my own world, where the highlight of my day was learning the French alphabet with Mr. Barney’s help while sipping on two bottles: one filled with milk, the other with apple juice. How ironic—I had to have the best of both worlds even when it came to what was in my bottle.  I was a spoiled child who didn’t know what the rest of my life would hold, or if in that life I’d ever come to a point where I’d have to make a decision that wasn’t for my own selfish good.  I proceeded to milk the benefits of being the only child until the very day Jackson William Meadows was born.  It took a 6 pound 12 ounce little boy to mold me into a woman of dignity and compassion. 

            At first the sudden news that there would be another addition to the family seemed wretched.  How could this be? I’m the baby of the family. But it seemed as if everyone was enthralled with the new boy that would soon be born and forgot that it was a priority of mine to remain their little princess  As the impending due date got closer, I separated myself from the rest of my “ecstatic” family.

            I still remember the day my mother called when Jackie, my aunt, was giving birth to Jackson.  I remember her voice, an escalating crescendo, and the shrilling excitement when she yelled “JACKIE’S HAVING THE BABY!” For that split second my lips curved into a wide grin and I yielded my own selfish thoughts and showed some excitement for this new little person. I had succumbed to the infectious excitement.

            My mother came home late that night to inform me that my new cousin was in critical condition.  Jackson had a leak in his left lung, a heart murmur, and an enlarged kidney. It didn’t dawn on me how severe his illness was until it was a life or death situation.

            I remember walking into that hospital.  There were so many unfamiliar faces but out of all those faces they shared the same distraught frown.  It was a look of either sorrow, of weariness, or of utter confusion. But it was a look that sought answers— what most of us wanted in life.  The nurse directed us to the room  Jackie was in. It seemed like forever as we walked down all those halls, halls that had no color of life or any striking features that could distinguish them from all the other halls. But I can guarantee you; I can remember each hall individually as if it were permanently embedded in my memory. That day will stay with me forever.

            We entered Jackie’s room and I noticed that she looked as if this pain had sucked the life right out of her. Her china doll face would contort with agony everytime she made the slightest move. Words could not form—sorry wasn’t good enough.  Instead, I laid my espresso hues intently on her murky blues as they flickered with doubt. After a long stretch of silence, the nurse came into Jackie’s room to take the family to the “critical conditional unit,” where little Jackson was struggling for his life in an incubator.

            Since the nurse informed us that only one family member could accompany the mother, my mom and Jackie’s’ husband decided that I should be the lucky one to take Jackie to see her son for the first time. Yes, this very moment was the first time Jackie set eyes on her newborn child.  I guided her wheel chair down the isles of incubators. Each one of the many machines greeted us with a melancholy beep. It was such a lugubrious sound, nothing like the nursery rhymes I wanted my baby cousin to hear.  I stopped at the last incubator where Jackson laid, his frail body trapped inside a glass box that displayed a maze of wires snaking mercilessly in and out of his porcelain skin.  Two IV’S were stabbed into his tiny wrists that were sprawled to either side of his body like a small plea of surrender to the pain in which he had to endure.  The nurse stood before my aunt and I while she tried to explain what each monitor was going to do to help Jackson.

 “Do you want to touch him?” the nurse asked Jackie while my chestnut haired aunt nodded her head in a silent agreement.  The look on her face could have brought me to an involuntary fit of tears. Never have her murky orbs looked so distraught.  Herr eyes that used to possess such life were now slowly drowning in the depths of her own tears.

            There was a small circular opening where she eased her trembling hand into the box.  With tenacious delicacy, a solitary fingertip touched his tender palm and in that moment of clarity I surrendered my vanity and let the tears cascade down my cheeks.  I stood before a mother who would sacrifice anything to save her son; I had yet to ever fight such a battle. They say that the greatest act of love is sacrifice. I believe it.  The hand that had caressed his palm was still quivering, the same way my bottom lip trembled when I had the chance to touch the apple meat of his cheek. But I had to be strong. I had to be the adult.

            Jackson’s condition only got worse. But as we went through those days of sorrow, I was no longer a haughty, supercilious, self-absurd girl.  I was finally shaping my life into becoming a young woman who had to experience a near fatal tragedy.

Even in his moments of sheer pain, Jackson managed to put a gummy smile on his face.  The innocent way his lips would curve into the bow of a cherub is an image that will never leave my memory.  Still to this day, Jackson is battling his health issues and I, as a young woman of new wonders, see his constant fight as a beautiful battle.  I love my little cousin and I want everyone to know it.  I love the sound of his gurgles when I hum Coldplay songs to him, and I love the warm sugar-cookie smell of his hair.  I even love the loud screech of his cry.

            I could have acted the way I used to, but I realized that I couldn’t continue to blame everyone.  In the end there isn’t any feeling of satisfaction in putting the weight on someone else’s shoulders.  We must battle our own wars. Things aren’t always going to be fair in the real world. That’s just the way it is. But, for the most part, you get what you give. Because of Jackson, I now see life as a constant moment to build new mysteries, to mold new beginnings, and to make something good out of it. The rest of my life is being shaped right now and I hope, for my baby cousin, that I will continue to be the young woman he has helped me grow into.

Song for the day: Sara Groves- When It Was Over.  My aunt use to sing Jackson this song in the hospital.  It is in fact a religious song. I find it rather moving even though I am not the slightest bit religious.  If you like this song I would suggest Sarah McLachlan's song, "Angel."