The Motions of Life

The ups and downs of life cannot destroy us unless we allow it to happen; however, if we stand strong and carry on, we see how those ups and downs can strengthen our character.

[cyberdetective23]

A Time to Reflect

I always knew I would enroll in college, ever since I was 12 years old. However, I could have never imagined I would be attending a small university with friendly and studious adults. Through all the storms and raging waters I have come across this first semester; my advanced English class was a breath of fresh air. There has been a plethora of times in which I have despised English class because professors want you to write the way they want, and this effected my writing style in a dull and unauthentic way. However, my professor this semester has been an angel in disguise. My professor taught me the values of telling my story my way; my story has value regardless of the event/situation; and my story should always come from my heart with authenticity and flow.  As a free writer, I have flourished tremendously; I receive comments of praise about my humorous and organized style. My confidence has blossomed- I am no longer trying to hide in my cocoon, waiting to sprout wings. I discovered my voice when writing about equality- not just for females and the LGBTQ community, but for everyone. Furthermore, I have learned to value and love humanity, because everyone has a story that can be of value to a person in need of advice. If there is one thing I could change about this class, it would be the crappy computer system they have set up- it is atrociously slow and obviously moody. As I leave this class, I will cherish the tips and lessons I have learned, and utilize them in every writing prompt I do. I am also thinking about writing a fanfiction, but this is something I will have to think about. Remember, your story has value and could possibly be the advice that someone needs to fight their own battles.

[cyberdetective23]

Secret Compartment

When I was in the sixth grade, I had a purple password journal that could only be opened via voice recognition. The journal came with a secret compartment that you could open by pressing a big, white button. In this compartment, I would store things such as buttons, keychains, money, coupons, and Chucky Cheese coins. When you’re at this tender age of innocence and rampant imagination, you tend to store all kinds of crap that are irrelevant, but relevant to you. The buttons I stored were buttons given away at my Auntie’s funeral; the buttons had her face on them. The keychains I collected were “found” in my cousins house lying haphazardly and forgotten on one of her dusty tables in the living room. The money, albeit slim, was from my pirate adventures in the store or at the park; this was money that had been dropped carelessly on the ground- must have been my lucky day! What I’m trying to say is that the things we collect can have sentimental value... at the time. It’s when we get older that we deem the things irrelevant, and, in the end, dispose of such memories. When I was in the ninth grade, I had no troubles throwing the journal away and everything that was in it. This was like me throwing away my sixth grade adventures, but it had to be done because time doesn’t stop for anything, and new memories must be made for a new you. Perhaps, I’ll start over again and have a secret compartment where I store things throughout my adult life, maybe I’ll eventually have to trash these memories too, but for right now, this would be irrelevant crap that’s relevant to me. 

[cyberdetective23]

The Way I Am

Every Sunday morning consisted of dressing fancy and attending church. I absolutely dislike Sundays, and that’s because you have to spend all day in church; go home and finish whatever laundry and homework you didn’t complete from last night; and eventually succumb to the darkness, reawakening to another tedious week. However, these mundane events are not why I dislike Sundays; I dislike Sundays because that means I have to put on a dress, sometimes fancy slacks, and wedge heels. If you ever get the chance to know me, you’ll discover that I despise dresses and skirts touching any part of my body. Sure, I’ll wear shorts and the occasional dress (very rarely though), but I prefer jeans nonetheless. The only reason people catch me wearing heels or dresses is because my mother and Nana will buy this crap, without me knowing, and force me to wear the clothes. If this doesn’t count as non-consensual I don’t know what does. 

Well, what is your style? Glad you asked, dear reader! I’ve always been interested in the edgy and bold kind of look, with a little sprinkle of femininity. I’ll break it down- ripped jeans, high top sneakers (just tennis shoes in general), cool shirts (I absolutely adore the shirts and hoodies boys wear) and the finishing touches bling can provide; this is the style I adore; this is the style that represents me; this is who I really want to be. Alas, I explained this to my mother and Nana, and they took it with a grain of salt. To this day, I still cannot break out of my shell and be me- a tomboy at heart with a spark of femininity. My “passion for fashion” is blocked by my two guardians, and I will only be able to cross to the other side in due time. 

Everyday I learn something new about myself, and although I’m reluctant to show the different shades of who I am, knowing what I represent and that soon I will be free to be me, gives me the strength to endure whatever societal pressures I may face. 

[cyberdetective23]

Ironic, no?

What is up with mathematics? Everyone says we need math in every aspect of our lives, but I never imagined myself standing in the store, contemplating whether I should buy an apple based on its circumference, the square root of the stem, and whether or not the derivative of the apple is continuous and infinite. Yeah, hell no. Also, I totally suck at math. Although I receive A’s in my math classes, that’s only after I’ve cried myself to sleep and threw temper tantrums in my room. So, when I had to participate in a mandatory STAAR Algebra 2 test, let’s just say that all of my emotions decided to vacate my body and leave me a shell of myself. Now, I’m sitting in my chair, sweaty palms, 5k heart rate, and shaky legs. The three hour timer was cruel and sadistic- laughing at my demise as the minutes and seconds scurried around the clock. Have you ever seen those actors in horror movies, when their eyes dilate due to fear? Yeah, that’s similar to how I was looking- dead inside and rattled with fear. After the test, I felt depressed, like an absolute failure. THIS is why I strongly despise math; I always feel defeated, less than, and all around...stupid. Fast forward one month later, and our test results arrived. Guess what? According to the STAAR score ranking, I ranked average, or “good standing” as they put it, on the test. This for me was an extraordinary result because I have test anxiety, and did I mention that I suck at math. I remember jumping for joy, turning cartwheels, and emitting this strong exuberant aura. I was ecstatic in the women’s locker room, so much so that one of the female coaches stormed in and told me to keep my noise level down and get ready for warm-ups. Isn’t it ironic how the things we hate the most turn out to be the things that make us most jolly? 

[cyberdetective23]

My Experience With Coded Language

`After reading the book, “You Can’t Touch My Hair” by Phoebe Robinson, I remember a chapter in the book in which she discusses the offensive pain coded language can cause somebody, and how people are unconsciously using this type of language when speaking with various people. 

If you don’t already know, coded language is “language that, on the surface, seems to mean one thing to the average person but has a different, often pejorative, meaning to the person or group of people being talked about”. 

There was a time when I experienced coded language. I was fourteen and taking my Thursday self-defense class, at the time, I was the only girl in a class filled with boys. There were times I felt like a baby bird being hunted by a hungry hawk- the eyes I caught from the boys in that class were “interesting” to say the least. I never allowed for their “daggers” to pierce my pride, and I trained hard like the rest of them. Well, I was practicing take down techniques with this boy, and after I executed the technique, the boy hopped to his feet and told me bluntly, “You’re pretty tough for a girl. Wow, I didn’t think girls could be all that strong!” I felt proud yet troubled by his words. Does he really think girls are these weak sitting ducks that can’t do anything but cook and clean? This was the first of many coded languages I experienced while taking this class. Here’s another two to get the blood boiling for all my ladies: “A girl taking a self-defense class? Shouldn’t you be practicing cheer or something?” “Oh, you don’t mind getting sweaty?”

I’ll admit, I’m not a saint either. I have unknowingly used coded language. My father works with autistic children, and when asked to describe my father’s field of work, I told my friends: “my fathers helps “special” kids to find their way in the world.” I know, how ignorant and immature of me. But, allow me to explain this ignorance from a situational standpoint. I was thirteen and still a little wet behind the ears when it came to cognitive, developmental, and psychologically disabled children, as informed by my father. Ever since then I have tried, and am still trying, to learn how to think before I speak and respect people and their feelings. I can only learn this by being critiqued and doing the research myself. I’ll get this down pack, we all will, believe it!

[cyberdetective23]

Old Man Ricky

     It was supposed to be a mundane trip to my local Walmart, but little did I know that I was in for a ride of awkwardness and a small amount of creepiness from an unlikely person. 

     I was browsing the produce aisle when an old man, who looked to be in his 70s, kept eyeing me like a hawk. Well, he does work here. Maybe he’s just making sure I don’t need help with anything? As if reading into my thoughts, the old man casually walks in my direction, and smiles with his eyes. Mind you, this is during the pandemic, so our mouths were covered, hence, the smiling with his eyes. “How are you doing today?” he asked me. “I’m fine, and you.” He steps a little closer towards me and says in a friendly tone, “Great, now that I’ve met you.” I jumped a little as his declaration, feeling my hairs rise on the back of my neck, indicating that I should stand guard. I threw the old man a warm smile with my eyes and began to scoot away, but he began to follow me. Peeking into my basket, the old man observed the variety of vegetables and fruits I picked: “Oh, whatcha’ cookin’? I am a little hungry myself.” Look, I didn’t want to be insolent to an elder, and maybe this is just how old men talk to young girls...I guess. “Oh, no sir. I can’t cook. I don’t think I’ll ever learn.” I responded matter of factly. “How about I take you out for a steak dinner. Do you like steak?” Like the gluttonous kid that I am, I shook my head rapidly. Wait, what am I doing? The man chuckled and told me how his wife and grandkids go to this steak house in Cedar Hill. Did he just say wife and grandkids!? At this point, I was starting to think this old man was actually an “ol’ booster’ (Google it, or ask your grandparents if you don’t know). I glanced at his name tag, for security reasons, and discovered that his name is Ricky. 

     After about fifteen minutes, Mr. Ricky is still tailing me and asking if I have a boyfriend and commenting on how young I look. Okay, he knows that I’m young, but why does he keep flirting with me? Shit was starting to get real, and I was feeling very awkward with each passing moment. Little did I realize that Mr. Ricky was helping me choose the freshest of produce, and made sure to inform me of their latest shipments and discounts. Towards the end of my grocery shopping extravaganza, he helped me bag my items and told me to take care. 

     I told my mother and grandmother about this event and we all found it hilarious that this ol’ booster was literally taking the phrase “live your golden years” to the tea. I would still run into Mr. Ricky at Walmart, and with every trip he would ask me how I’m doing and to take care of myself. What I thought was an old man flirting with me was really an old soul that knows how to be a gentleman and seeks to provide me life advice. Although I don’t see Mr. Ricky at the Walmart anymore (don’t know what happened to him) I will not forget his words of advice: “Don’t stress too much; you’ll turn gray and wrinkly. I didn’t stress, and look how good I look.” By the way, Mr. Ricky had enough gray hairs and wrinkles to pass as someone’s great great great granddad.      

[cyberdetective23]

One of the items on my bucket list is to travel to Japan and Ireland. Seeing different cultures and meeting unique people is a dream I hope to achieve one day, but let’s take things one step at a time. A couple of years ago, I accompanied my mother to Fort Lauderdale, Florida for my cousins wedding- a wedding on the beach; a wedding that was supposed to occur during sunset, with a beautiful , scenic view of the sunset beach; instead, I snapped this dark photo (last one) and had to use the majority of my filters to lighten up the photo. Either way, this adventure in Florida has increased my desire for traveling, and I hope to make future posts of my bizarre adventures.

[cyberdetective23]

Jeremy

     The teen years are like a rollercoaster of emotions and tirade of wild, fascinating adventures jammed packed into one life- your life. Some say that sixteen is when the most fun starts because you usually receive your driver’s license along with a car; your first prom; and other extraordinary materials. Well, I received my driver’s license when I was sixteen, however, I did not receive my car until after graduation, and I was eighteen. Yeah, I was a little late to the party, but believe me there was a probable reason, and that reason was- my driving skills were horrid. 

     My mother and father bought me a 2015 Jeep for my graduation. My mother was reluctant in bestowing the car upon me, but my father convinced her otherwise. I’m a big fan of the Disney cartoon, Phineas and Ferb, and one of the characters I found to be cute was Jeremy. So, I decided to name my cute, four-wheeled companion, Jeremy. Jeremy and I traveled everywhere- from the store, to the gym, to the mall, and wherever my mother demanded me to take her. Oh, I forgot to mention that my mother accompanied me on every journey- ha! The three musketeers. 

     One day, I decided to take Jeremy out by myself and go to Dunkin Donuts. “I’ll be back before my mom knows I’m gone”, I thought. As I started the engine and prepared to reverse out of the driveway, I noticed our dumpsters were blocking the path. “Okay, I’ll just maneuver around them”. Now, this may be easy for some, but like I mentioned earlier, my driving skills were horrid, therefore my maneuvering skills were too. Before I knew it, I’m on the other side of our driveway; at the end of our driveway there was a pole- guess what got caught in the pole- oh, yeah, my front bumper was caught on the pole, so I decided to do the “smart thing” and keep reversing out. “This is a strong, sturdy car, what’s the worst that could happen?”. I spoke too soon as I reversed back frivolously and tore off the bumper of my car. All I could think at that moment as I sat in the middle of the road with a “loose lipped” Jeremy was, “Mom is so going to kill me”. In the end, let’s just say I was without a car for two weeks, and had to witness the accusatory glares of a very pissed off mother. Yeah, this is one wild experience I’ll never forget.

[cyberdetective23]

Mommy and Daughter ‘Car Business’

Ah yes! There is nothing more informative and monotonous than a car ride with your mother. If surviving the awful song choices and exasperating lectures weren't enough, wait till you hear the gossip and “slip ups” your mother may spout. 

My mother is the perfect candidate for car talks, or as we like to call them, ‘car business’. If you’ve heard the term ‘house business’, then you should know what I’m talking about. It was one Saturday afternoon that my mom and I went on our frequent grocery adventures, and we all know how tedious the task is. Well, my mom decided to spice things up by having a little heart-to-heart. If you're like me, discussing topics with your mother can be weird and tiresome, especially when you have to explain precisely your opinions to someone who was born centuries ago. In the end, I surrendered to her idea of a car talk. Little did I know I was in for a ride of secrets and hidden feelings. 

My mother and I are busy people, so we don’t have the luxury of making dinner every night. Fortunately, my Nana is always there to cook us hot meals, which are quite delectable. She takes pride in her cooking, and doesn’t like for someone to criticize or complain about her cooking; I’m serious when I say this, you do not want to tell my Nana her chicken is dry, or her beans didn’t have enough seasoning; she will exaggerate and call you ungrateful. Well, yesterday night she made her famous okra gumbo; however, her recipe was a little disheveled, and my mother and I had to eat a bowl of slimy mush. Yuck! We of course didn’t say anything, in fear of getting our heads knocked off, so we told her we enjoyed it. 

Now, while in the car with my mother, she revealed a secret I never thought I’d hear from her. She doesn’t enjoy Nana’s cooking anymore. In fact, she finds a lot of fault in her cooking, ranging from too much salt; too dry, and overall decent to say the least. As mentioned before, criticizing that woman’s cooking is foreign, but here she is saying the woman’s cooking is okay. Her tirade of secrets doesn’t end there. My mother also revealed how my father annoys her to the end. He never shuts up, and he buys the oldest cars ever; “he’s not all that cool as he thinks he is”, my mother said. 

Once my mother paused and realized all the information she revealed, she glanced in my direction and discovered that I had this mischievous look of: “I’m so telling it on you”. She quickly recoiled and told me to keep this between us. This was ‘car business’. I agreed, but under one condition-”buy me a snack from Starbucks, this car ride has me hungry”. 

In the end, whenever I think of my mother, I think of ‘car business’ and the many ways I can blackmail her into buying me Starbucks.

[cyberdetective23]

It is during our darkest moments that we must focus to see the light. -Aristotle

(via cyberdetective23)

[cyberdetective23]

It is during our darkest moments that we must focus to see the light. -Aristotle