OPMS

Standing under the cerulean sky,
my eyes enraptured by the butterflies
perched on flowers
stalks in bloom

in hues of white, purple, and blue.
I held your hand as you
explained to me
the bright orange and black
caterpillar is a gulf fritillary
that will someday become
one of the butterflies surrounding us.
A microcosm of life before my eyes
I fell in love with nature
for the first time.
With a reason to pursue
an elusive dream
I became a child possessed
by the calling to read, to see,
to know
as you encouraged me to grow
in intellect, in spirit,
in character.
A metamorphosis that opened my mind
to not only the world beyond
the classroom walls
but also to the meaning
of a friend like you.
In that moment I knew
that this school
would always be like my home
the smell of old wood
the yellow brick building
the infinite expanse of green
fields and trees
the dappled brown coats
of rabbits and goats
frolicking nearby
as I explored on my own
familiar places
now mere traces
a memory that resonates
of where I came from
who I am
and the people that changed me.

AP Lit Essay [written in 2008]

It was that time of year again—summer. Days stretched on endlessly; most girls spent their days tanning and nights talking on the phone. However, my friend Laura and I raced around the lobby of the local ice rink, playfully chasing children. For the past four years of summer, Laura and I had volunteered at a figure skating camp designed for beginner figure skaters. “Gotcha!” we yelled as we grabbed them by their waists, while they squealed and tried their best to squirm away. Their shining eyes and flushed cheeks reflected the carefree essence of childhood. We led the young campers outside; the warmth from the sun engulfed me, causing me to shiver with pleasure after spending the morning inside a freezing building. While Laura began the morning exercises with the children, I leaned against the brick wall of the building, studying her. The children followed her movements precisely; it was clear that she was a natural leader.

I remembered the first summer, seven years ago, when I had attended the same figure skating camp. For the first time, I made friends who saw me for more than just a quiet, studious girl. More importantly, that summer, my friendship with Laura had blossomed. As typical children with runaway imaginations, we found endless ways to entertain ourselves in the locker rooms assigned to us--swinging on the cool, metal bars that ran across the room or telling horror stories about the mysterious, red light that always shone on the wall of the locker room, even with the lights off. We chased each other senselessly in the dark, both of us laughing when one of us stumbled. By the end of the summer, we had unknowingly memorized the position of every crack in the wall and every bench in the room. In the most ordinary place, I had experienced the most exhilarating adventures. We continued to grow up together after that summer.  During my middle school years, it had been just the two of us on a clean, empty sheet of ice in the mornings. With the freedom to perform without judgment, I exuded confidence in every movement. I pictured the stands filled with people, cheering as I soared through various spins and jumps. Alone on the ice, my imagination roamed, and I lived in my fairytale as if it were reality.

My thoughts snapped back to the present as the morning activities ended; Laura led the children back inside while I picked up the equipment. By the time the equipment was returned to its proper place, the children were on the ice, skating. Walking down a narrow hallway, I paused by the locker room where Laura and I had spent so many summers before. For some unexplainable reason, I felt compelled to enter. Without turning on the lights, I stepped into the shadowy room. The same, dank smell of sweat and dirt permeated the air like it had countless summers ago. I brushed my hand against the rough, uneven wall, missing its familiarity. The bars, now rusting, still hung from the walls. However, as I continued examining the room, I was momentarily confused when I noticed that what had once been a hallway was now blocked by a brick wall. I laid my cheek against the wall and felt a wave of grief wash over me. Aspects of the rink were changing, erasing the memories and places that had shaped my childhood. I wanted proof of my past so badly—I needed my past to show me that my home was here, and the wall seemed to dictate the impossibility of it all. With a sinking feeling in my heart, I found myself weeping against the wall. Moments later, I felt a hand press upon my back. Blinking back tears, I recognized that it was Laura. She pulled me close, and my head sank into her shoulder. Realization hit me hard. Even though my home was changing, Laura would remain the same—a dependable friend who would always remind me of my past and influence me in my future. Like two spools of thread, our lives had been woven by destiny into a tapestry that told our two individual stories as one. Our intertwined histories traced back to that first summers when my life truly began, and I would always find a part of myself embodied within her. We heard footsteps echoing outside the door. The campers were searching for us, so I nodded to Laura when she asked if she could go. I stayed for a few minutes longer in the unlit room, saying goodbye to the concrete remnants of my past. Then, taking a deep breath, I opened the door and stepped out into the light.

Untitled

Icy tendrils choke my heart,
I wish I could stop shivering.

I lay motionless under these covers
trying to silence my mind
trying to stop these tears
trying to understand
what the fuck is wrong with me.

Maybe if I search hard enough
through the barren wasteland
(that is my heart)
but it's like a blank sheet of paper
nothing there
no feeling
no memory
no existence
formidable in its emptiness

I have been living in a fog,
stumbling blindly toward
the illusion of light,
erasing myself along the way
until I'm left with an empty page.

There is much space to be filled
with my words.
I have yet to write a new beginning.
I am the author of this story.

The Dust Bowl Autobiography [written 3.15.05]

I love reading my old essays; I wrote this one in 8th grade. The post below has not been edited at all; there are definitely a few punctuation and grammatical errors as well as awkwardness.

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It was around 1931 when the disaster occurred. I was only a child, and I did not understand anything. Only recently have I learned how difficult life was in the 1930’s. I was living in the Great Plains in the west, my parents growing crops and holding a prosperous life. Life was easy, until the decade of the Dust Bowl. Little did I know how much devastation it would cause.

The years of the 1920’s in Texas are wonderful. Our crops are surviving, and the food we bring home each night full-filling. Wheat is our main crop and it brings in most of the money we need. But miles of untamed fertile soil are still yet to be turned into farmland. Many of us new settlers hope to one day own this land and turn it into another busy farm. My parents are extremely proud of the crops we have grown so far.

It is 1931, and months have gone by without rain. The crops are dying, and my parents worry about the income. Also, the winds have gotten to be stronger than normal. Dust is blowing, and it covers everything. When I go outside, the world seems to be under a blanket of brown dust. The fields are becoming barer as each day passes.

Now four years have passed, and no rain has fallen. When I hear the sound of thunder, I hope to hear the pitter-patter sound heavy burden that does not go away. Soon, my parents have to work for the government for relief checks, because all of our crops have failed. Still, my parents are not giving up hope, and I believe they are too ashamed to admit defeat. These last four years have been difficult for everyone living in the Great Plains. A reporter came by the plains and called it the “Dust Bowl”.

Every breath we take is dusty. I dream of rain, but I never hear it. A feeling of static electricity hangs in the air, like a heavy burden that does not leave. The air is always dirty, and every breath we take seems to be dusty. Immediately, adults and most children are all falling ill with a mysterious sickness. Later, I find out that is from all the dust particles, which is causing pneumonia. Folks around this area call it “dust pneumonia”. There is no real cure to pneumonia, so some people die. Many families have given up surviving the Dust Bowl. A quarter have already packed up and left for the east. Unfortunately, the dust is heading closer toward the east each day. Because of this reason, my parents believe it is the best to stay and wait for the rain. Soon, the dust reaches the east, and for the first time, easterners taste and feel the dust.

A year later, the government is starting a soil conserving project. It is 1937, and fertile soil is disappearing, as the rain had. Changing the ways of farming will be hard on dedicated farmers, including my parents. Mother is becoming ill from dust pneumonia, and I do not know if she will ever be the same. Father seems distant all the time, as if there is nothing left upon the land. All the dreams he has had about fertile farmland have dried up, and now he has nothing to dream about.

Good new soon arrives. Another year later, 65 percent of soil has been saved. Many more families leave the plains they had dreamed to be their home. Everyone says that the Dust Bowl is creating another Sahara Desert. Still, my parents vow that they will never leave, and that they will stay until the rain arrives. I feel like a part of me is dying, as the world seems to be. My mother gets weaker everyday, and my father remains distant.

Finally, 6 months later it rained. My heart soared at that moment. Immediately, my parents healed from whatever they were suffering from. Somehow, the air seemed cleaner, fresher, and it felt good to breathe it. I savored every moment, and I held on to every strand of the feeling. This experience made everyone realize how careless we had been to the soil. The harsh effects have changed the way we farm today. Soil is not a renewable resource, and with nothing to hold the soil, the wind blew it all away into the ocean. Therefore, we had to learn to use the soil as a gift.

drawing

fluid motion upon my skin
delicate tracings
simple lines
it tickles
i'm hiding a smile

because we're alone
and it's midnight
your hand upon my shoulder
as you color in spaces
those empty places

now filled with care
a blossom that lasted
so short a while
it faded away
just like us

AP Lit "Metaphor for Self" [written August 2008]

I wander through a virgin forest, reaching out to touch every living, breathing soul growing across my path. My eyes are drawn to a brilliant blend of purple and white, her beauty seemingly exotic, raw, and naked against a background of deep hues of brown—the perfect flower for a Polaroid. How lovely she must feel to be captured as the only beautiful thing in an empty world.

Although small, she still manages to stand out. Delicate and enchanting, the flower’s dazzling purple core and white embroidery reach for the sun buried between dizzying layers of trees. Healthy, dew-covered leaves rustle as they are caressed by a gentle breeze. Brightly colored bees gather around in celebration, and birds fly by to drop off a melodious note. Wanted by all but rarely found, she is hidden in the most exotic areas. Stretching deep into the soil, her roots anchor against constant, battering rain. As each flower blooms with rainfall, she only grows more elegant, and with each blossom, new possibilities unfold.

When I spot a passion flower, I pause to imagine myself in her skin. Like looking into a mirror, she is a constant reminder of the person I yearn to be: beautiful, strong, and loved.

tonight

moonlight spilling through my window
soft and sweet through black velvet night

and thoughts of you flood the room
your words, once so sweet, divine
your hand, once upon a time, held mine

i remember
i said i'd give you a chance
to prove that i could trust again
i said i'd give my heart to you
to handle, to care for as your own
i said i'd always stand by you
to show you what love could be

today, i saw you across the street
you never turned, you were blind
to the heart that you had left behind

finding strength under this lovely light,
i say goodbye and let you go