Musical Rewards

Musical Rewards

“What?! Wait, we're singing now?!” How can this be, the last part ended a minute ago. The clamor of shoes, the rustle of fabric. Everywhere we pass people...and stairs, down lots of stairs. First a left, then a right...and another right. All the details are lost in the rush, the only thought making sense is to follow the person in front. “Ok everyone, be quite now”, somewhere the calm voice of the director registers in the back of my head. The usual centerpiece now becomes a sideshow overshadowed by my racing thoughts...A couple minutes...that's all until our performance. We're actually here, this is it. The shock sets in and with it, restlessness...This is it. The whispers of “good luck” match to ours of “we got this” to fuel for the excitement. It squashes all hope for quiet. We do have this, I find I'm reassuring myself, with our best piece, “witness”, we can't fail.

Another choir finishes their song. With my heavy exhale comes the whispered exclamation “we're next!” All other people are now gone. Were alone with the sound of the choir on stage seeping through to us. Yet the energy is still stronger here. In the exited whispers and the emphatic shushes...in my rioting stomach. The adrenaline is racing through me like an electric current. This is the moment, this is our chance, the one chance to show everything. The applause roars back to us. Unconsciously I shift from foot to foot. “We got this.” For once it is easy to smile. We're suddenly ushered onto the the stage and then it's gone. Everything's calm. My mind blanks. All our energy and focus is directed into the music. All else is blocked out. We are the only things left in the world. We are the only ones that matter. And then it hits me...the joy, the release. When the world comes back, so comes the thought...

“this is why we live”.

The Anatomy of a Running Shoe

Anatomy of a Running Shoe

Here we go.  This is my time.  Below me is a thick white line.  It is not just any thick white line, it is one that when I cross, my whole life changes. No longer do I care about appearance; no longer do I hold back, the only thing I care about is giving my all.  Before I cross, I treasure the last few seconds of taking deep breaths of oxygen.  I feel it dive into my lungs and then escape through my nose.  I jump up and down desperately loosening everything I can.  As I jump I can feel every muscle in my body working together.  My body acts as the lace of my shoe.  It connects everything and holds inside it the potential to do anything.  Everything in my body is clenched because it knows the challenge of what is ahead, just as the lace is pulled tight because it is preparing to desperately fight to stay tied.  My eyes wonder and I am bewildered by the fact that all bodies are so unique.  I look to my right and see a statuesque girl that is very tall and has prominent muscles showing, and to my left is a girl about half my height who is squat and sturdy.  How strange that we all train our bodies similarly, all have the same goals, yet there is still not one obvious ideal body type.  Some of the fastest distance runners are tall, some are short, some have little muscle mass, and some have a lot...  There is not one that is undoubtedly faster than the other, just as though there is no one shoe lace undoubtedly better suited than another.  You can trim or tie a shoelace however you want, you can shape and tone a body however you would like, but good luck trying to turn one into something it’s not. 

My ears are flooded with the cheers and yells of anticipation from spectators and teammates.  I feed off their energy, and work to inspire them to realize that anything is possible if you have support not only from others, but also from yourself.  I would trust my teammates with just about anything imaginable.  I give an infinite amount of credit to them for creating who I am today, for they have comforted me and have never let me fall.  I never would have dedicated all my free time and energy to this, if the people around me failed to provide me with the plethora of support I receive.  I’m sure you have heard someone say, “Comfort is key”, when buying shoes, right? However, this concept can be applied to more than just a shoe.  Similar to my running shoes, my team provides me with just the right amount of comfort and support needed to reach my full potential.  They will always be by my side preventing me from getting hurt.

However, standing in front of this white thick line, the thing I believe is the most crucial aspect not only to winning a race, but in life, is strengthening your soul.  For me, running is my outlet, it teaches me more lessons than any person ever could.  As I stand in front of this line, the thing that helps me the most is digging deep down inside and realizing why I chose to do this.  Why do I have a special love for this sport?  Why do I like pushing my body to its limits?  The answer is always simply the same, because this is what makes me happy.  You have to want it; the feeling in your soul has to be right, just as the feeling of your shoe sole has to be right.  When buying running shoes, you look for one that feels right, the sole that gives you the most confidence and strength, when “buying” (earning) a first place medal in a race, you have to find within your soul something that provides confidence and strength. 

I feel my spikes digging into the track, and the pressure of my whole body on my left foot. This is it.  This is the moment when everything comes together.  No longer is it my teammates and supporters, my soul, my body, those things make up who I am, so now it is just me against the world.  I quickly glance down at my shoe, no longer is it separate pieces in a factory.  No longer is it the sole, the laces, and the support/comfort, those now make up what it is today.

With my eyes glued to the gun, I take one last deep breath, I tighten my bouncy hair one more time, and with that I am ready.  I am ready to show the world what I’m made of.  Everything led up to this moment.  The hours of pushing and sweating, the ups and the downs, the technique, I have all I need. 

I take a few steps back from the thick white line, and patiently wait for the man with the white hair and shiny gun to signal the beginning of my reign.  “On your marks, get set”; I feel my legs pounce up to the line. “BOOM”.  It is now every man for himself.  It is now me on my own, I blocked out the world, having one thing in sight.  The sport of running fits my personality almost as perfectly as my shoes fit my feet, so nothing is going to get in my way now.

WATCH ME. 

 

Trapped

Cole Hanson

Period 6

WLH, Bennett

4/25/14

Trapped

My uncle had warned me about certains parts of the city.  He had said they were unpredictable and teeming with the kind of people you didn’t want to be close to.  But against my better judgement and uncle’s advice, I often traveled alone in Kuala Lumpur.  I usually carried a backpack with only my laptop and money, but nothing that could be of any use if I was caught in a dangerous situation.  I was unprotected and because of my skin color, I stood out like a flashlight in the dark.

It was a beautiful, Malaysian day; a calming breeze graced the humid air as the clouds above me began to part, giving way to the warm rays of the sun.  I was walking along a fairly busy road ridden with potholes, cracked sidewalks, and the occasional fruit vendor.  The day had been fairly uneventful and I was on an errand for my uncle.  Before I had left the apartment, in a precautionary tone, he warned me that a couple of foreigners had been kidnapped by locals and held for ransom on the very street I was going to take.  He said to move quickly, but not too fast, and to keep away from the sidewalk near the street so that no one could drive up and snatch an assuming me.  However, he assured me that everything would be fine and that if I heeded his cautions, nothing would go wrong.  I thought it was very interesting that even in a place that was so expensive to live, such activity was still very prominent.  

I continued my journey and tried to keep those thoughts out of my mind and attempted to focus on the intriguing environment around me.  I looked up and saw monkeys scrabbling around in the tall, eucalyptus trees above.  I could see the massive skyscraper apartments I had just left, dominating the horizon and environment.  Beaten-up taxis and blacked-out BMW’s alike sped along by weaving in and out of lanes, competing for the open spot.  Even though I had been in Malaysia for about two weeks and had become relatively familiar with the environment, the sight of a family crammed on a moped always gave me a renewed sense of gratitude.

“Boy!”  

The sound of a voice calling out in the crowd of people that swarmed the streets broke my concentration and returned my focus back to the world.  I figured that the voice belonged to the father of some lost child, so I kept walking, looking ahead for the sign that signaled the road that I would be turning on to get to the market.

“Aye, boy!”

Again, I figured the call was not meant for me, however I curiously glanced back up the street to see who was yelling out.  As I scanned the mass of people behind me, I saw a tall, scrawny native man hanging on to the door of a small, battered truck, looking in my direction.  Our eyes met and he nodded.  A turning sensation of heat climbed up through my limbs as I immediately remembered my uncle’s cautionary words.  I began to quicken my pace and studied the area for a safe place near a police post or even a crowded mall where I could lose this man.  I turned back quickly to assure my distance from him, and lost my balance on one of the many uprooted sidewalk plates.  I tumbled and felt adrenaline surge through my body as I realized that I had just given the man time to catch up.  I was in pain and now unaware of my my pursuer’s whereabouts.  People continued to pass, nobody even cared enough to look down at the fallen white boy.  At that point, I realized that in this foreign country, I was an outcast and on my own, faced with an unknown threat in an environment I barely knew.  My head began to throb as I rolled over the curb slowly, trying to pull myself up by my bleeding hands.  I heard the yell again and I scrambled to regain my bearings.  

As I fought my way through the crowd to stand up, anxiety gripped my heart and my body began to shake, wracked by the possibility of the man catching up to me.  My legs and arms felt disconnected from my body and I stumbled forward like I was stuck in a dream unable to control myself or the events around me.  I was alone and my body felt useless.  

As soon as I began to run, a strong, rough hand clamped onto my arm, yanking me back.  

“Get off me!”  I yelled as I fought my unknown adversary, strangled by the paralyzing thought that I would never see the world I loved again.

“Boy, boy,”  the voice was connected to the hand.  

Why wouldn’t anyone help?  Thoughts raced through my mind as I struggled alone, tired and nervous.  

“Calm down, calm down.  You dropped your wallet.”  

I turned around, my heart beating fast as I looked up at the voice.  There before me, was the skinny native man I had been running from, with his hand outstretched, holding my wallet.  

I just nodded cautiously, breathed deeply and took it from him.  

Learning to Float

Paola Campos

World Lit. Honors P.6

Ms. Bennett

22/4/2014

Learning to Float

A moment captured with the press of a button and the bright flash of a camera.

Six years later and the first thing I notice are the four simple words that were religiously etched on to the inside of her left wrist in perfectly looped cursive.

I refuse to sink.

Just as the words never faltered to appear on her supple, pink skin, they were continuously conveyed through her passionate words and poised actions.

She was confident and collected, but knew how to act with empathy.

She was relentless and determined, but understood when it was time to step away.

She was riveting and admirable, but was capable of letting her guard down fearlessly.

And now, she was gone.

In mere seconds, a tidal wave of despair engulfed me, dragging me deeper and deeper within my own conflicted conscious. Grief ran through me like a disease. It ate away at my thoughts, contorting and corrupting them beyond my own recognition. It took control over my voice, twisting words into venom and spitting lies at those who were undeserving.

It had been 64 days since my sister had her accident, and 56 since she slipped away from us in her sleep. We were told her death was painless and quick, but they couldn’t have been more wrong, because the pain of losing the one person who knew you better than you did was both overwhelming and infinite. But in that moment I began to understand that nothing, even the most traumatic and painful of obstacles to overcome, lasts forever.

There are sayings that people use about time healing all wounds, but that’s not completely true. Time does not heal all wounds, all it really does is patch them up and conceal them long enough to be forgotten under more recent, fragile wounds. Time makes you numb, which others consider to rule over the hollow sensation of depression.

But a dazed heart can only be distracted for so long.

I realized then that no matter how much time passed, your wounds never truly heal, but the way you face them does. It is one thing to allow sorrow to control your life, and another to fight back and refuse to sink, because life goes on and your time is limited.

Lena would have chosen the latter.

And now, so will I.

For the both of us.

When Practice Fails

When Practice Fails

When I was given the opportunity to speak in front of over a hundred people at my school auditorium, I was pounced on the opportunity. For the first time in my life, I would truly be the center of attention. I had always begrudged those who were brave enough to speak in front of a large audience, guiding the atmosphere of an entire room, weaving words and sending message in a profound yet enticing way. I myself had always wanted to be speak that person who guided the room, but the opportunity had never presented itself, until, when I accepted an invitation from my school to share my thoughts on technology inside the classroom. It was an issue I did not care for, and an issue I knew little about, but I saw an opportunity, an opportunity to get my thirty seconds of fame and be the focal point of a discussion for the first time in my life.

However, the day of my speech, the minute I walked up the stage to deliver my address, I could not move. As I looked out at my audience, I was flooded by a tidal wave of anxiety, anxiety I had never expected. Of all the emotions I felt while practicing my speech, frustration at my stuttering, disappointed at my inflection, anxiety was never one of them.

In all my hours of practicing, the idea of me being nervous had never crossed my mind. What was there to be nervous about? If I felt my speech was not proficient, I would just edit it some more, and rehearse it again. There was nothing to be worried about since the practicing of my speech, like a video game, had an infinite number of retries. I had spent hours in writing my speech, excruciating over every pause, every sentence, to make sure of its fluency and its perfection. I had spent hours more listening to speeches over the internet, and desperately tried to imitate their voice, their inflection, their calm yet suave ability to communicate present thoughts in such an in a confident and elegant fashion. I tormented myself and destroyed my pride as I read to myself in front of a mirror, wincing at every mistake, every awkward pause that dragged out time itself, every stutter where my mouth fought its own words. But in the end of my hours of rehearsing, I felt absolutely confident about my ability to move a room with my words.

What this meant was that there should have been no reason for me to be worried. I had run through my speech perfectly in front of the mirror, paused exactly where I needed to pause, slowed down my speaking exactly where I needed to slow down, and raised and lowered my voice perfectly at the exact right moments. I had no reason to believe that this speech would be any different to the many others I had practiced my myself. So why did I feel so helpless?

The moment I made eye contact with all the members of the audience, I might as well have just had six cups of coffee. Time was moving at twice its normal speed and I sheepishly introduced myself, “Hello, my name is Eric Ping, and I am a sophmore at this school”. And it was there that it occurred to me that I had completely forgot the first line of my speech.

I stared blankly at the audience, the audience who trusted me to speak to them, who were waiting to hear my voice and along with it, my insights. And while I tried to maintain a respectable composure, inside I was screaming. My heart thrust itself repeatedly at my rib cage, struggling to ram its way out of my body. I could feel my pulse thumping along my heart, throbbing down my neck and I stared at my audience, muted.

It took me almost a full twenty seconds to remember my speech while I stood there awkwardly, clasping my hands together and scanning the most inner recesses of my mind to find the chunk of my consciousness where I had stored the first line of my speech.

Again, I tried again to speak. “One thing the we must remind ourselves is that...” and my mind blanked. What were we supposed to remind ourselves about? That public speaking was inherently unfair, that you won’t be rewarded for your effort if you succumb to anxiety. My knees slowly gave away as I reminded myself of how many people will witness my failure. As I stood in front of fellow students, tripping over my lines, my knees started buzzing, and I was consciously aware of my knees vibrating from left to right, once in a while, jostling my two knees together. And this involuntary buzzing seemed to spread upwards, and I eventually, my entire body, my arms, my lips, were vibrating intensely.

I realized that all my exercises I had committed to inflection were useful. I could forget trying to sound profession, I had already botched that opportunity. Now, it would be a miracle for me to finish the speech. I raced through my lines, no longer caring about my tone of voice, my inflection, my eye contact. I was vulnerable when I stood up in front of the stage, and I needed to get off as quickly as I could. As adrenaline pumped through my body, my speaking speed increased, with each word racing the one previous, all fighting my tongue to speak. And I no longer cared about creating a good impression. All I wanted was to finish my speech, so that I could at least claim to cross a finish line, in however pathetic a fashion. My words fought my tongue, slurring my words, the gears in my head failed to turn. I spoke like a computerized voice, mindlessly throwing words out of my mouth, putting no meaning behind them.

Bloody Smile

Bloody Smile

Among the sea of sneakers, I spot Ryan’s torn up running shoes, Ted’s bright Nikes, that nice girl from Econ’s white Converse.  Some of them toss me a hello.  Speaking to people is a pain, but I’ve been working on it.  Today I manage four return greetings.  Sometimes-

“Jeez, man.  How many was that- four?  That’s, like, a record.”

I forgot to mention that I’m walking with George.  He’s the tallest short kid you’ll ever meet- five feet of person and three more feet of annoying.  Friends since first grade, adopted by each other’s mothers- that whole cliché.

Anyways, I’m shyer than his little sister, and he loves giving me a hard time about it.  I don’t really mind, though.  It’s just George.  I tell him to shut up and walk faster; the hallway is emptying out now as kids file into classrooms.  Half running, I ask him if he knows anything about the trig test that’s about to kill us.  Before I can catch his reply, I catch.

Death.

In my rush to get to class, I bump into the worst mistake of my life.  I’m on my butt looking up at the embodiment of mean.  My new friend is a refrigerator with hands the size of textbooks.  Hate oozes from two little pig-eyes, dripping down past a crooked nose into a sneer.  I want to run.

Before I even have time to try to apologize, to realize how stupid I am, I’m being picked up and thrown into a locker.  The impact stamps the breath from my chest.  I want to run.

I already know what George is going to do.  I try to choke out the words to tell him it’s alright, that I really don’t mind, but he glues himself to the bully.  He reaches up to grab the guy’s coarse red shirt with one hand and has the other balled up into a fist.  Red-shirt is slow to react.  His attention is still half on me as he rotates around.  I want to run.

“That’s my friend, asshole,” George’s voice is venom.

A second crawls by, screaming and silent.  The hallway holds its breath, watching this little punk pick a fight with Goliath.  Two seconds.  Nothing moves.  Three.  I want to run, I want to run, I want to run.

A meaty hand swallows George’s punch, and the slap of skin on skin rips through

the silence.  Before the echo fades, Red-shirt slams George onto the floor.  A giant fist

works back and forth like a piston.  Something in George’s face snaps.

All of a sudden, I want to run.

At the jerk hitting my friend.

When Red-shirt is done with us, we lie there.  George, the tallest short kid in the world, is out cold.  I get up and limp to the bathroom.  I see somebody there in the mirror.  A smile is dancing down blackened eyes, past a broken nose, onto his split lips.  He is alive.

Hopeless in Crimea

“Long live Russia!” “Long live Russia!”

“Leave Crimea alone!”  “No joining Russia!”

“Order! Order!”

 The loud uproar outside his house jolted Andrei, who was sitting lazily at the breakfast table, eating a pirozhki and sipping from a tall glass of milk. Andrei took a large bite and darted to the window like an arrow to take a peek outside. He saw a sea of white-blue-red tricolor Russian flags drowning out the blue-yellow Ukrainian flags. It was a showdown between pro-Russian activists and Ukrainian protestors. Scores of armed Simferopol police, wearing riot gear and black helmets, were yelling and shoving the mob to keep them away from the polling place, where a serpentine line of Crimeans eagerly awaited their turn to vote in the national referendum. Andrei’s parents- Nikolay and Maya - looked at each other in despair, resigned to the big choice their country was about to make. Andrei’s family belonged to the ethnic Russian majority in Crimea, and the referendum would decide whether they remained Ukrainians or Russians.

 “I guess this is it! The day has come when we can be proud Russians,” said Andrei’s father Nikolay attempting to sound enthusiastic, but his voice trailed off before he could finish.  

“What shall we do? Much is at stake for Russians and Ukrainians alike,” Maya, Andrei’s mother groaned. She paused and looked out the window, where demonstrators were tirelessly waving flags and shouting slogans. Maya was a very insightful woman, not easily swayed by popular opinion. She believed that Crimea should remain with Ukraine. Maya continued, “My cousin Alexei, who lives in America thinks we are too gullible and trust Putin’s propaganda to join Russia.”

“And what did you tell him, Maya?” Nikolay pressed.        

“I gave him the right answer. I told him that we’re not idiots. How can we trust Putin’s empty promises? - Promises to provide better life for us. My grandfather Vadim taught me well not to trust such sorts.”

“What happened to your grandfather, mom?” Andrei cut in, not able to contain his curiosity anymore. Andrei, barely twelve, was wise beyond his years.

“My grandfather was from Donetsk. He lived through the horror of the Holodomor, the Ukrainian famine of the 1930s. It’s a well-known truth that Stalin starved Ukraine into submission to gain control over the land,” declared Maya.                    

“But we’re Russians. Why didn’t Stalin protect our family?” asked Andrei, struggling to understand these grim facts.            

“You don’t want to know about Soviet tyranny. You are much too young to stomach such things.” Maya countered, trying to avoid a discussion on brutal Stalin era. 

Although Andrei was disturbed by the mention of Soviet brutality, his curiosity trumped his instinct to not press his agitated mom at this time. “I’m twelve years old, mom! I need to know about Russia’s past if I were to become a citizen of Russia.” Andrew plopped down on the sofa by Maya, his eyes demanding an answer. 

Maya glanced at Nikolay, silently pleading his permission as she cautiously proceeded to educate Andrei about Stalin’s tyranny. “Fair enough!” she said. “Stalin was ruthless. He wiped out opposition by packing off all the land owners (Kulaks) to brutal prison camps in far off places like Siberia. Stalin grabbed all the farmland and called it ‘Collectivization.’ As peasants put up a fight, Stalin decreed that all the harvest belonged to Soviet Russia. The Ukrainian grain was used to buy machinery from the West and support Stalin’s campaigns while the peasants starved.” Maya paused and drew a long breath, gently stroking Andrei’s hair. Guessing that much worse was about to come, Andrei drew closer to his mom. “Tens and thousands of children and elderly died out of starvation while the Soviet soldiers were fed well. The soldiers buried people who collapsed by the roadside even if they were still breathing.” Maya’s voice cracked as her emotions engulfed her.

Andrei’s hair stood up on the back of his neck, sending chills down his spine. His head reeled with questions as he held on tightly to his mom. How could anyone be so monstrous? What good is it to rule by force? Why can’t rulers be kind and provide freedoms to their people? Is killing the only way to remove opposition?... Maya tried to calm down Andrei but he wouldn’t stop. Andrei snapped, “And the West did nothing to stop this massacre?”

Maya had no choice but to explain further. “The West tried sending grain but the shipments were ruthlessly confiscated by Russia. But the fact is that the West made money from the sale of modern machinery to Soviet Russia.” Andrei couldn’t fathom the ways of the world. How could the world give up empathy and kindness in exchange for money? Then Andrei remembered his teachers mentioning that Russia is the sole supplier of gas to its neighbors.

Andrei put two and two together and asked Maya, “Who will stop Russia now if it threatens to cut off gas to Europe?”

“There you go!” “You spelled out my worst nightmare!” exclaimed Maya, looking proudly at her son.  Young Andrei squeezed the pillow, struggling to feel secure. He had hoped and wished with all his heart that Russia would honor its promise to give a better life, if only to save its world image.

Nikolay, who had been patiently listening to their emotional discussion, interrupted gently- “Son, I am afraid that we don’t have a choice here. Russia has already taken over Crimea. Sham or not, we have to vote in the referendum.”  “You stay safe!” shouted Nikolay as a desperate prayer and ushered Maya out the door like a dutiful soldier. Andrei nodded quietly, trying to get a grip on his feelings. Doubts and fears enveloped him once again as he began to feel powerless. What is to become of his family?  Would Russia treat them well?  Would Putin be the savior of Crimea or become another Stalin and starve the Crimeans?... Only time would tell.