Year's End

It is official. As 2013 is drawing to a close and I think about its ups and downs, I find myself wishing I were in Times Squares, witnessing the moment in which the ball drops. Yes, I want nothing more than to be standing amid confetti, fluttering down on us, and sweaty people, who have been holding in their urine for almost a day.

It seems as if only yesterday I was welcoming 2013 into my life, and now, I'm two hours away from celebrating the birth of a new year. I'm terror-stricken. I'm shocked. The swiftness of the changing seasons won't slow down anytime soon. We're racing against time, and the finish line is only getting farther and farther away. It seems to me that we spend our lives waiting. Waiting for the right moment. Waiting for the right partner. Waiting for the right job. Waiting for a phone call. Waiting. Forever waiting. How about we stop waiting and do something about it? It's time to break out of the necessity of waiting. Perhaps this is what 2014 and every year thereafter will teach us: to chase after our dreams. Cliched though it may seem, there is a reason it gets repeated so often: it's great advice.

The clock is ticking the precious minutes of 2013 away. When it strikes midnight, the first blank page of a 365 page book will open and it is within our power to write the best possible story. Let's make it a good one.

Happy New Year! May 2014 bring you prosperity, health, and all that you desire and want!

The Closing of the Year

We are edging into a new year. We are arriving at the place where endings and beginnings intersect. Where new years are accompanied by new beginnings, last years mark the ending of a chapter. It is a cusp where "before" meets up with "after." Where the echoes of the past brush up against the resonance of the future. With new years, new possibilities blossom into existence. New loves enter our lives, and old ones slunk back into the cave whence they came. Opportunities sweep in, promising the attainment of success. Present friends become sweet memories; future friends greet us with open arms; people we knew are lowered into the soil from which they sprang; the news of birth are carried over the phone; heartaches, grief, joy, and excitement will also find their way into the inflorescence that is our lives. This is the beautiful cycle of humanity. New years remind us of the covenant between man and nature: the prospect of a fresh start, of reconciliation, of harmony and love.

I've never really thought resolutions were necessary, but the older I get, the more I feel that I need purpose, a motivation--something for which to live.

So, these are my resolutions for 2014:

1. To write.
2. To continue writing.
3. To write even more.
4. To read the stack of books on my night stand.
5. To make more friends.
6. To be less judgmental.
7. To be more confident.
8. To buy more books.
9. To stop procrastinating.
10. To shed a few pounds.
11. To brainstorm ideas for a children's book.
12. To read the Psychology textbook I've never bothered to read (it wasn't cheap, either).
13. To adhere to my New Year's resolutions.

First Time

Desperation led me to create this blog. It began with the necessity to come up with a final project for my senior year (I could not wriggle out of it; it was either do or don't graduate). I toyed with the idea of interning for a newspaper agency, but I thought better about it. No. I wanted to have my own column, or as close to a column as I could get, because it would permit me to do a little fun, informal writing. It will be fun, I reassured myself, you'll see. According to research (or writers, in this case), the only way one can improve one's writing is by writing. Though reading is a powerful tool, and a timeless one at that, one cannot master the craft of writing unless one writes daily. We should set writing goals for ourselves. For example, I have decided to write at least 300 words each night and increase this word count as time progresses. I must say that it is a pretty solid short-term goal, huh? Time will tell.

Introducing oneself is, perhaps, a challenge given that most people refrain from revealing too much information about themselves. First and foremost, I must come forward and disclose a secret which has been haunting me: I'm not human...

Just kidding!

My name is Gema Guevara and I'm a senior at the Sound School (too much information?). I read and write for fun. Actually, I write better than I can speak, so there's that. Some people are gifted public speakers, I'm not. Yes, similar to writing, the art of public speaking can be mastered--it is an arduous process, one which can be surmounted, of course. I have two cats whom I adore immensely. In college I plan to major in English with a writing emphasis. My favorite subject is English. Oh! I have an innate passion for music. I often picture myself as the lead singer of a glorious rock band, signing autographs and wallowing in success. Oh, imagination will take you everywhere. 

I think this is it for now. I will update this blog periodically; and it will be a challenge given the fact that I don't always finish what I start. 

Farewell Christmas

I am convinced that after midnight on December 25 the excitement of the holidays begins to die down. Visions of candy canes and sugar plums stop dancing in our heads. Stockings hanging by the chimney are carefully folded and stashed away, along with the other Christmas ornaments. The tree, which strongly symbolizes an ancient pagan tradition, is carefully stored in the attic or placed on the curb, awaiting the arrival of the garbage truck. The holiday spirit is, once again, bidding farewell.

Christmas is most people's favorite holiday. It is the time when families exorcise the ghost of troubles past and reunite around the dinner table--enjoying each other's company and love. However, the holidays also leave a bittersweet taste in our mouth. Once they're over, we wish we could travel back in time and relive the day over and over again--or at least until we tire of it. Christmas digs a hole in the ground of our soul and leaves it empty. Our trinkets--which were so beautifully wrapped and placed under the fir tree--are painful reminders of a day long gone. And we wonder, "Was it real or was it a dream?" No, it was undeniably real. The candy wrappers littering the floor should serve as reminders that it happened. We can and have had perfect days. Christmas was mine.

Post-Christmas blues is horrible. It has been likened to depression. It slowly eats away at you and constricts your throat. It is a cloud floating ominously over your head, waiting to release the accumulated raindrops. It produces a lingering feeling of emptiness after the last relative has waved good-bye. It is a sickness of the soul derived from the ingrained notion that we can't be happy any other day of the year, except around the holidays. I had an amazing Christmas and I'm sad to see it go.

I'm grieving. I'm processing. If I don't have a funeral for this day of wonder and magic, I'll never move on.

SAT: Stupid American Test

America is obsessed with test scores. It's convinced the masses that if they don't have the highest SAT score or perfect GPA they won't be able to succeed in college. Hello! No one believes that anymore. And then we ask ourselves why American education is, pardon the vulgar expression, shit.

Yes, I've been debating with myself about moving to Finland. Finland is in the highest global ranks in literacy and mathematical skills. In fact, Finnish don't administer standardized tests, save one which is taken during the last year of high school. What is the U.S. trying to prove with its standardized tests? That it's easy to hire a tutor who can help students memorize useless information which they will later forget? Anyone can sit through an exam and spew out facts. And, ladies and gentlemen, the question becomes: how many of these students will actually be able to retain the information? Exactly.

Moreover, Finland has adopted one of the most rigorous curriculums in the world. The latter includes psychics, philosophy, biology, music, and at least two foreign languages. Some people can't even spell the word "significant," let alone speak another language. This curriculum is without a question laudable. Why can't we follow in the footsteps of the Finnish and actually prepare our students for the real world? One of my weaknesses is math, and I'm not afraid to admit it.

It would be highly immature to hold the education system fully responsible for this weakness, but to a certain extent, they are. I remember when my sixth-grade math teacher had a nervous breakdown during the school year. Don't get me wrong, she wasn't a good math teacher to begin with, but her mental breakdown completely hampered her ability to teach the subject. She yelled at us for asking simple questions, talked too fast, and didn't bother to help us. As a matter of fact, she expected us to master the lesson in seconds. No, I am not exaggerating. At any rate, my math skills were never reinforced. That and I never bothered to practice. Schools should be more than learning institutions. They should encourage students to pursue their academic interests. But, as it is the case, most schools have lost faith in my generation. More and more teachers are choosing favoritism over equity.

Schools seem to revolve around standardized testing. What's the point of testing when teachers aren't going to bother helping their students? I'm aware that they have a strict core curriculum to follow, but have they forgotten that a student's future is at stake here?

I've applied to countless educational programs only to have rejection letters demoralize me. The reason? I didn't have the perfect score. I would love to tell the committee in charge of these programs that the "perfect" score doesn't define me. Yes, I concur, I am terrible at math. We have a love-hate relationship, but that WILL NOT stop me.

You want to know why kids grow discouraged? Because adults discourage them. They convince them they will never be good enough, or successful enough, or smart enough. Wrong. I'm sorry your dream bubble was abruptly popped, but it doesn't give you the right to eradicate someone else's dream.

I remember the day I turned to a school counselor for help. I was interested in taking a college class at a nearby university, but as soon as she took a look at my PSAT scores, I sensed a storm brewing. For all her education, this lady lacks tact. There is a way to say things. She didn't broke the news to me with tact and grace. No. Instead, she was brutally honest. Don't take the phrase "brutally honest" lightly, either.

I remember her exact wording: "Are you having trouble with math because of the language?"

Um, no. Math is universal. Numbers are pretty much understood by all races. But, thank you very much. I guess you didn't know that I'm a two-time winner of the district spelling bee; or that I'm bilingual, well on my way to becoming polyglot; or that I was valedictorian of my eight grade class. I ended up taking Psychology 100. I also received one of the highest grades in the class.

She made me feel stupid. Actually, my fair share of critics have made me feel stupid. This is what the American education system has been reduced to: criticizing students who struggle academically.

According to an article published by the New York Times, our "work force has some of the weakest mathematical and problem-solving skills in the developed world." And you wonder why.

I recently applied to an academic program which, if accepted, would've allowed me to get a head-start on my college education. That is, I would've graduated early and started taking college classes at a prestigious university. And the best thing? It's all paid for. I knew my SAT scores would be a deal breaker. Guess what? I should have listened to my instincts. I still had hope. Hope should die last, right? The interview went well. I bared my soul for God's sake, which isn't easy for me to do given that I'm an introvert. This program was open to all New Haven seniors. Only two seniors from my high school applied, myself included. The other candidate had the perfect score and was accepted into the program. Why am I not surprised? I don't know him that well, but if his bulky textbooks are any indication, he likes math.

People give me pity looks when I tell them I want to be a writer. I even finish their unfinished sentences, "I'm sorry. You're still living in la-la-land." And this is yet another example of discouragement at its finest. Unspoken words are usually louder than spoken ones. I'm sorry I'm more of a right-brain thinker. I'm not a people pleaser, teachers included. If writing is what I like, writing is what I'll do.

There is one thing that infuriates me no end, however. And that is when a student asks a teacher if spelling counts, to which the teacher responds: "As long as I'm able to decipher the word, you're good." Seriously? And this is why 80 percent of Americans can't spell. These people are teaching your kids. Aren't you the slightest bit unnerved? How hard is it to fetch a dictionary and look up a word? Or, wait, wait, even better. How hard is it to download the Merriam Webster app onto your smart phone and type in a word? Apparently, it's rocket science. Or maybe I'm Neanderthal in thinking that spelling is still important.

I have test anxiety. My SAT scores are far from being perfect. Well, fear not for the answer is here: high SAT scores, and standardized tests, do not measure your intelligence. They merely reveal one of five things:

1. Your parents have enough money to hire a private tutor. 

2. You can remember information. Good job! Your long-term memory has not yet been damaged.

3. You took a summer SAT prep. What are you trying to prove? That you're an overachiever? Good job. 

4. You're good at math. Congratulations! You won't be living on the streets like we, right-brain thinkers, will.
5. You want to apply to an Ivy League. May the odds be ever in your favor. The college admission officers are fuckin' ruthless. 

Music Addiction

Christmas is upon us. O, the joy of the holidays is intoxicating, isn't it? Family, friends, food, and love. What more could we ask for? I know. Talent. I envy those with a musical talent. I would've liked nothing more than to be the lead singer of a rock band. Music is what revives me. It's what makes me feel alive, happy, and invigorated. Oh, there are rumours floating around the school? Tune them out. Play your favourite song and smile. Imagine if we lived in a world without music? If the world were a big egg bereft of any sound, save that of silence? Yes, it's not a pretty picture, is it? I'm thankful for music. It's the boyfriend who will never cheat. The best friend who won't spill your secrets. The teacher who makes class fun. It's therapeutic. Comforting. Addicting. Stimulating. I prefer the sweet symphony of a song over the discordant sound of human voices.

The City that Never Sleeps

Connecticut is a great place to visit, but it's not a great place to live. I'm a big city girl; suburban life pushes me over the threshold of ennui. There is absolutely nothing to do. Were it not for the unparalleled reputation of Yale University, living in Connecticut would resemble living in Iowa--everyone's heard of it, but no one wants to go there. I'm not inveighing against the state which has watched me grow. This isn't the purpose of this post. It is, however, a depressing state. Yes, it has its sunny days, but most of the time, clouds seem to blanket over life. They hover over us like malevolent entities anticipating the moment at which to strike. Oh, and it's always cold in Connecticut. Summer is gone in the blink of an eye, and, in lieu of amiable weather, we are left with temperatures below zero degree and chunks of ice.

The people are, for the most part, nice. But, of course, rudeness is ubiquitous. I like to think that our dearth of vitamin D fluctuates our moods (I should know better). However (there is always a "however"), Connecticut lacks the excitement which abounds in big cities. The spirit of life, unpredictability, closeness which big cities seem to possess is what draws me to them. The adrenaline pervading the air is almost hallucinogenic. You can't get enough of it. The blood of the city flows deep in your veins. There is a foreboding sense that something big will happen, and you wait for it only to realize that it's your own energy pulsating like a spinning star.

I've been to NYC quite a few times and it's my dream city. Yes, New Yorkers don't enjoy amiable temperatures, either, but the warmth of its denizens makes up for the extreme weather conditions--it pierces through the icy veil of winter. The city is so overpopulated that you don't even realize when the temperature drops into single digits (or perhaps I don't notice). There is never a quiet moment in NYC. It is, after all, the city that never sleeps. That is what I like. Yes, nature provides much needed mental comfort, but only for so long. Cities bustling with human activity, with ardor and adrenaline is where the action occurs.

But my affinity for big cities stem from the sole reason that I can let my inner animal loose. I can run and explore, not worrying about looking over my shoulder.

Wouldn't it be grand to just throw your morals aside and have fun? Naughty list people have more fun, after all. Also, let's not forget that the promise of freedom that comes with big cities is nothing short of intoxicating. They offer an opportunity to have fun. I don't mean family-outing, Christmas-morning, Prada-shopping fun, but genuine fun.


I know, I know, you're probably thinking that I'm just another small-town girl dreaming big. And, yes, I am. Dreams are what make possibilities happen.

Pi Poem

An amazing writer posted this pi poem on his Facebook page. I found it encouraging and inspirational. These are words of wisdom indeed.

Bruises

And so it is Rosalie, in pain, who is best able to cope with...well, pain. The aftermath is always the worst, because then you have to pick up the pieces of your former self. It is like a jigsaw puzzle. The interlocking pieces were perfectly assembled, but a storm scattered them away till nothing save a cardboard backdrop remained. It is our job to search for those missing pieces and restore the puzzle to its former glory.

Life doesn't hurt. Please, let's not get confused. People hurt other people. Life is fair in its own right. People aren't. Life will render its judgment and trust me, it will be fair.

But a bruised ego is far more painful and harder to heal than any wounds. We become an eggshell which has been beautifully cracked. A perfect mistake. And the pain is so great that its victims seek refuge in the black void of space, bereft of any life. But worst of all is the shattered image we have of ourselves. The porcelain dolls, so intricately sculpted, are now fractured on the surface. Deformed faces hide behind a veil, hoping the veil isn't pierced and their feelings revealed.

And so it is Rosalie, with a bruised ego, who is best able to tap into a well of talents and put her feelings down on paper. 

Success

I thought I had it within my reach; I thought I was the one. I wasn't. The harmless email came at 10:46 A.M. I wasn't aware it was sitting innocently in my inbox, not knowing it would ruin my day...and my eyeshadow. It was a punch to my ego...one of many more to come. My confident demeanor shattered and frustration bubbled to the surface.

Was I not good enough? I asked myself. Why can't things go my way once and for all?

It was then, during my inward chaos and temper tantrum, that I was able to see things for what they really were. I am good enough; in fact, I'm too good. They don't deserve me, because I deserve better. I know who I am, I know what I'm capable of, and I'm well-aware of my weaknesses. Letting me go is their lost, not mine. If anything, I have gained a lot from rejection. I gained strength, determination, and experience. Success isn't always about winning. Success is staying in the game even though you know you've lost.

Don't get me wrong, it hurts, but life doesn't stop for anybody. It keeps going, and so should we. More opportunities will come my way, and I'll finally be able to seize them...all on my own.

Success is NOT about being a valedictorian (though that's always nice), or about having the highest SAT score or attending the most prestigious college in the country. Success is within us. It is the wood burning in the fireplace. It is the encouragement we need to fight for our goals. It is falling and picking ourselves off the ground, more determined than ever before and with our heads held high. Success is surrounding ourselves with positive energy. Success is confidence. Success is motivation. Success is putting a limit on our self-pity. Success is knowing that you can do it even when society tells you that you can't.

Success is me.

The Inner Voice

I am her. The little voice of self-doubt, blazing merrily. We all have it, but very few can silence it. Negative energy flows from this infinitesimal voice. It is stronger than congeries of mammoths standing on the floor of trodden snow. Why do we doubt ourselves? Is low self-esteem the cause? Or maybe we believe we don't possess the capacity or means to fulfill our goals, but here's a little secret: we do. We are more than capable to climb over the mountain obstructing our path to success. We are more than capable to leap through the ring of fire and still announce, "I'm alive." Self-doubt is what kills our dreams. It's what holds us back. We want to succeed, don't we? Well, it's time to hush our inner judge. We may think we're not qualified for opportunities, but guess what? That's a myth. The power of wanting is the key to a fulfilling life. If we don't want it, we will never have it. Wanting is going after a dream. It is trying, failing, and trying again. We learn from failure. We learn from rejection. We are best able to learn with a bruised ego. Sometime we need to fall to rise. It is inevitable.

I, for one, thought I was standing on solid ground, but a simple rejection revealed my foundations were fragile. I knew opportunity had missed my door, and maybe, just maybe, I was not good enough. But I now know that's not true. When one door closes, another opens. If a window is locked, run to the next one. There will always be someone who, no matter what, will see potential in you; who will believe in you; who will look past useless test scores and grades and say, "You're the one. You can do it." But, then again, there will always be someone who's better than you. Someone who's been able to surpass all expectations and is the student model. Guess what? Maybe I don't have the perfect grade or perfect attendance, but I have a bottomless well of determination. And that is worth a hundred test scores.

Teen Rambling

You may not know this, but rebellion is clothed in dark, familiar garb. Let me explain.

I'm passive-aggressive. It may not be an overtly noticeable quality, but it's there, buried beneath layers and layers and black clothing and ripped jeans. Although my choices of garment may be dubbed "unladylike" and a "fashion disaster," I assure you that I've never been happier. My mother doesn't approve, but she doesn't understand that there's a method to my madness: I don't want to be like everyone else. I refuse to act like your media-controlled, half-asleep, iPhone-using, everyday person. But in a paradox, I have discovered that in straying from the crowd I'm becoming less and less who I was and more a carbon copy of what I strongly dislike: our mainstream culture. 

In the afternoons, as I drift toward home, I can't help but notice the great number of young people who have adopted my edgy fashion style: Converses flash bright, dark pants absorb the colors of the visible spectrum, and black hairs straightened and layered resemble my own. When did alternative become so popular? It wasn't when I set out on my journey to insubordination. That is not to say people didn't like it then, but it was a rare gem. Our society has convinced us that labels define our position in society. If we want to be reserved a spot among the elite, we must be seen wearing this season's collection. We are once again proving that we're nothing more than mirror reflections of other people's idea of originality. Sure, everyone wishes they had the finest clothes, but not everyone can afford $860 wool sweaters.

The fact remains that I'm a silent rebel, a passive-aggressive. I conduct my affairs covertly, always watching and calculating the moment at which to strike. Who am I kidding? I'm too afraid to break the law. Though, in the past, I've unheeded signs forbidding pedestrians to step on grass. That must surely count as defying behavior.

I presume this is the reason why I'm too afraid to speak up: I don't want to tarnish my reputation. But the greatest heroes of history spoke up, besmirched their family's name, and were condemned to death. (I can't believe I just compared myself to unnamed heroes). Why are we so afraid to be heard? Why do our voices intimidate us? The government wouldn't be an arena of turmoil were politicians not afraid to disagree. Why is it hard to embrace our individuality? To praise it? At the end, it all boils down to one single fact: we are made of the stuff of stars, and when we die, who we once were--our atoms, genes, molecules--will disintegrate and become one with the universe. Why do we care what other soon-to-be stars have to say?