humility

Each activity I have attempted in my life I have excelled. I have done wonderful in school, great in basketball, soccer, and track, accomplished in drawing and painting, and each other category that comes to mind. If at first I was not the best, I would work diligently until I would succeed. This life style made it acutely difficult to accept any degree of failure, no matter how big or small.

Therefore, a pride was embedded within my own talents leading to my most humbling experience to date.

The humiliating sport which became my Alkali’s heal carries the name Cross Country. Imagine running miles and miles on end without actually going anywhere. I was not a terrible runner—at first—actually during sophomore year I was better than average. However, senior year kicked me off my high horse of glory. My times slowed and my mentality melted. I can remember the look in the eyes of my mom trying to comfort me at the end of each failure of a race. But all the shoulder pats and “good jobs” in the world could not improve my damaged self-esteem. For four years my heart and soul were thrown into this sport only to be smashed, broken, and returned. However, even in this mentally grinding state I never considered quitting. Through the pain, the humiliation, and the disappointment in myself the thought of quitting was worse than anything else that could happen.

I can remember crossing the finish line on my last race. I was finished! I could not believe it. Months and months of training and pushing myself were over. The triumph felt after completing such a challenge is more rewarding than anything I could have ever done. The perseverance demanded by cross country is a lesson I will not soon forget.

what if

In response to my last post I would like to say that my family is amazing. Although in my mind I complain about all the questions and advice, I know they do it because they love me.
It is actually a good problem to have. I am very fortunate to have so many who care about me. I am just afraid of letting them down.

What if I can't do very well in college?
What if I don’t find a good career?
What if I want to be an artist who doesn’t make money?
What if I want to become a missionary?

I don’t know what they would do if I did not become something great. I just hope that they will love me, no matter what I am doing with my life.

important decisions

Here I am, a senior in high school, ready to make some of life's most important decisions. One being what to do I want to do with my life and were will I go to become this.

But guess what...

I'm not ready.

I am confused, frustrated, annoyed, angry, and worried. I don’t have enough money to pay for college—not by a long shot. How can I pay for the type of college I want to go to? One way is by getting scholarships, but they are hard to get. If I don’t get a 31 on the ACT I can kiss that full ride to UK goodbye! Not that UK is my first choice, honestly the only way I am going there is if I can manage to go for free!

I thought I wanted to go to a private college—one that will help me to realize who and what I want to be. However, after extensive research it seems that anywhere I go will help me to do this.

This dilemma wouldn’t be so terrifying if it was not for the fact that my family has unknowingly placed more pressure on me than I can handle. My mother only talks about how much college will cost and how I have to go where we can afford. My father does not understand my desire for a different life outside of Kentucky. My uncle wishes for me to go to the most prestigious colleges. Each person in my family have their own idea for my life. I think it is actually their own lives they wish me to lead. That they had something they wished they could do, but couldn’t. I have become their outlet for success.

Well guess what my loving, over caring, intimidating family, I have no idea what I want to do with my life! It is as if I went through high school believing that I could do what ever I wanted to do, but I don’t even know what that is! I wish everyone would just not talk about it and let me figure my life out on my own, and let me ask for help before everyone dives in trying to fix it!

Kindness

It seems as if we live in a world where kindness is taken for granted. It is accepted but rarely appreciated, and hardly ever rewarded.

This is why it does not surprise me when people are so rude. Perhaps at one point in their life they had shown kindness to others, but were only given grief and heartache in return. This might have been a cause for their sad state. How depressing is it to go through life and never have a kind or thoughtful word escape your lips? They probably do not care how other people view them. Whether they are known to be sarcastic, rude, or just plain mean. But that really isn't the issue. The issue is how they feel about themselves after putting someone down. I suppose it is a false sense of power. However, I cannot help but wonder that, in the end, they wish for a change.

I try to be kind; there are times I find myself having trouble keeping that always positive smile imprinted on my face. When walking down a crowded hallway people are going in every direction. They are cutting in and out, small groups stopping in the middle of the traffic, and others just trying to get from one end of the hall to the other. Being polite in these situations is a challenge for me. I want to just scream "get out of my way" but I know that would be no use. So I side step and allow people to pass, and will hold open a door. Not once will a thanks spill out of one mouth. It is as if it is expected, not something that a person does just to be kind.

Without gratitude kindness becomes dreary. Sometimes I forget to stop and think that maybe just by one act, a smile or a thank you, could changes a persons day. Just one moment can make all the difference. It is my own choice if I want to make this difference for the better or for the worse. How is it that I am allowed to hold so much power?

As I sit here rereading my thoughts my mind has changed. I wrote the above earlier. And although I support most of what I say, I failed to shine a light on the more positive experiences of kindness. The ones that make being kind not so dreary anymore.

Yesterday I was at a food court with some of my art class friends and as I held the door open there were a few “thank you”s that were sent in my direction. I appreciated them as I wondered if they had always been there. Maybe I just forgot to listen. I went to get Chinese food and I was the only one in line. There was an older Chinese man serving me. It looked as if he had been there a long time. For the minute that he gave me my order I tried everything I could to make him smile. It did not take much; just a few “thank you”s, a smile and a nod. As I was picking up my tray to leave he reached into the jar of fortune cookies and gave me one. Since they were not free I tried to deny the offering, but it was a gift. We did not even speak the same language but each of us impacted the other.

That small spark of appreciation in an older lady’s eyes as you help her with a door and the look of surprise when you find the owner of the dropped money, this is what makes it worth the effort. I believe it is because of these small occurrences in life that some people choose kindness.

I am discovering that it is not about praise, rewards, or pats on the back that we are kind. We are kind to make those around us happier.

My Art

There is so much in life that I want to do. I want to help people, have a family, write a book, travel, and these are barely a dent in my endless list of goals. I would love to be an artist, but I don't know if that could be my only profession. Maybe one day I will be well known and talented enough to make a living from my art, but I truly don't see that happening. But that doesn't mean I will stop creating.
The truth is that no matter where I go in my future art will always be with me. I want to travel and paint what I see and feel. I want to learn more as I grow, and since I am growing my art will grow as well. Art will be in my future. I have found something that I love, something that is a part of me. Painting has trained my hands to work in delicate situations. This could affect my future career options if I decide to become a surgeon. Using the delicate instruments is similar to a paint brush, and surgery is even viewed as an art form by many.
I began taking art classes when I was in the seventh grade. I had never used oils, only pencil. I was a very shy girl in this new art class that was full of strangers. I did not speak much; I would only talk if I needed help from my teacher. After a while I did open up. The art gave us all an even field. We were connected by it, if nothing else. I grew because of this. However, I did not just grow as an artist, I grew as a person. It has given me the chance to be who I am and discover who I want to be.
All of my emotions and my creativity are reflected through my art work. I discover more about myself. I can stand in front of a blank canvas for hours and have no idea what to put on it. I think of a million things, but not one seems right. Then the idea hits me, and I know exactly what I want to paint or draw. I can work for hours and not even realize the time that has gone by. When I was younger I use to have crayons, just like most other kids. I loved the colors, the shapes, and trying to draw what I saw. I did not realize that these colors and shapes would impact my life so much. I did not realize the self expression that came from the tip of the paint brush or the emotion that can be created with a pencil.

A Moment With Nature

Take a walk with nature.

Breath in and breath out, slowly and deeply.
Take one step at a time, left and right.
Look around you, and don’t rush.

Notice something different?
Perhaps it is the silence, that stillness,
That unwavering promise of the absence of sound.
Can you hear this silence?

Look at the trees.
Do you see that life, that undeniable life,
Reverberating behind the facade of winter’s rest?

Do you feel the pulse of the wind,
As it whispers secrets to the trees?
It tantalizes your senses,
And a gentle smile flickers across your mask.

Remember this moment.

Poems

Just Listen

To listen is to understand,
But when understanding becomes difficult,
Who shall be the one to listen?

If one is merely hearing they do not comprehend,
What they hear is a train passing through.
There is noise, a resounding blast, and it is appreciated,
It disturbs their quite emptiness.
But once it is gone it requires no further meditation.

What happens when no one wants to listen?
What happens when understanding is too agonizing?
There will be a famine for listeners.
People will thirst for sympathy,
As a scorching desert craves Gods’ tears.

This day might come,
But then, perhaps it will be stopped,
Perhaps by you.


This was written when I was procrastinating. I was putting of writing a different poem. This may seem like a very strange form of procrastination, and I guess it is. Anyway, the assignment was to write about something I could hear singing but I did not really know what to listen for. So all these thoughts of listening and trying to understand was transformed into what you just read. Now for the actual assigned poem...


Who can hear the song of a race?
Can you hear the rhythm,
From explosions against the ground?
Can’t you hear the crowd sending praises
And disapproval?
They are a wave of vocals,
Clapping to their own beatind and struggle
For each agonizing breath?
Hammering against their chests,
The heart sets a tempo.
Can you hear the choir,
On the side lines .
There is a song, but who will listen?

This is about a cross-country race. If you have never been to one I highly recommend it.

In the Name of Honor

My painting of the woman name Mukhtar Mai

This is a book report I wrote for my English class. It is about the book In the Name of Honor. I encourage you to read it.

Imagine one world; it is a small world, but it is also huge at the same time. It holds billions of souls where each one is unique and special. Many of these souls have wonderful lives and live in freedom. Now imagine a woman who is peaceful and faithful to the tradition of her people. She does not speak out against her elders or anyone else. Now imagine this woman being ripped away from her peace. Imagine this woman being surrounded by darkness with the only light coming from death. Will she fight this darkness? Or will she take this evil light and put an end to her misery? This is the choice that Mukhtaran Bibi faced. In the world of Pakistan she was a nobody. She was a woman, a poor woman; therefore she meant nothing. She was an item of trade. Prejudice is alive, not just for African Americans, not just Muslims, but for women. It is a plague that has been inflicting this small world since the beginning of time. There are many ideas as to what may cure this plague, but each one is a slow and agonizing process that will only work with time.

Mukhtaran Bibi was 28 years old when her life came to a halt. Her 12 year old brother was initially accused of speaking with a woman above his caste (later accused of raping this woman), and the punishment fell upon his sister. To restore the honor of this woman’s family, Mukhtaran is gang raped by the village leaders. “I am there true, but it isn’t really me anymore: this petrified body, these collapsing legs no longer belong to me. I am about to faint, to fall to the ground, but I never get the chance—they drag me away like a goat led to slaughter.” (Mai 9) How could she resist these men, these animals? She could not. When a woman is raped, her honor and her life are stolen. In her situation women are suppose to kill themselves to save their family from the shame brought upon their shoulders. Mukhtaran knows this and desperately attempts suicide, but she was stopped by her mother and an inner flame that was lit the night of her tragedy. “Finally, out of nowhere, a surprising fit of anger saves me from that stupor.” (Mai 19) Now she longs for vengeance. This is a startling discovery because all her life she has been taught to forget herself and the silence of submission. She decides to speak out, to take a stand, and to do what no one dared; she demanded justice. “Aside from my family, I have only one strength to call upon: my outrage.” (Mai 31)

Mukhtaran realized that she is sorely disadvantaged, for she is illiterate. All she knew was how to keep a house. She knew nothing of her rights, or if she even had any. She was taught in the ways of her people, “It teaches us to forget ourselves.” (Mai 91) Soon she realized that intelligence was her key to vengeance and to equality. She must not despise men; this will not win their respect, which she must gain. Mukhtaran states that, “the solution is to fight men as equals.” (Mai 112) This seems insane, when she does not have a standing, at least not yet. It is difficult, to say the least, for her story to be told accurately. Corrupt police, pawns of those in power, twist and turn her story until they say she has made up the whole thing. They try to take her mind and replace it with lies, but she stays strong and does not allow her precious freedom of thought to disappear like a stream in summer. She takes her case all the way to high courts. Eventually, her story was told world wide and soon it became the heart of a women’s right movement.

Mukhtaran Bibi started a school with donation and compensation money. Her dream was to educate the girls of future generations. This became her life; it kept her breathing and her hopes high. She wanted the girls to learn more than what she did as a child so that their fate would be different from hers. “The wife doesn’t know how to read. For her, the world exists only through her husband.” (Mai 89) Mukhtaran was changing this for over a hundred girls. Her life was and is in constant danger because she was a threat for the powerful. However, with support from her family, friends, and the silent hopes of many, she stands in courage. This education was a mere step on the path to equality, but battle rages beyond intelligence: it battles tradition. This was shown in the story of the educated woman who is raped and, like Mukhtaran, is ignored by the law. “These two embattled heroines have shown us that any woman, whether she’s educated or illiterate, will have to fight hard to obtain justice.” (Page 142)

She began as a poor peasant woman who was divorced, but respected. She spoke out and was freed. “I had no idea that speaking about one’s pain, about a secret that feels shameful, can set both mind and body free” (Mai 89). Now Mukhtaran has become a symbol of women’s struggle, not just in her village or in her country, but a symbol to the world. It is strange that women, who are treated like dirt, are also seen as honor to the men. This is just the spark that is needed to ignite an explosion of unasked questions. Mukhtaran Bibi says, “The real question my country must ask itself is, if honor of men lies in women, why do men want to rape and kill that honor?” (Mai 150). This “honor” that the men carry is perverse and will only be changed with education and time. Mukhtaran Bibi, now called Mukhtar Mai meaning “respected older sister”, is a new person, she has called for reform, has challenged tradition, and she will not be silenced.



This is a poem I wrote after being inspired by Mukhtar Mai...

Silence.
She walks above the ground,
Floating unnoticed.
She keeps her thoughts to herself,
Her fears, her dreams, she is taught to forget.

Silence of submission.

She is taken into darkness,
She screams but in vain.
She makes noise,
But nothing is heard.

Silence

A fire begins within her,
She will not extinguish it.
Her tongue is suddenly free to speak,
She speaks her dreams,
She roars like a lion.

She is heard.