Relish

Today, amid menu planning for a four-day educational sailing and camping trip for thirty-six, I found myself lost in my mind due to the unassuming condiment, relish. As I deliberated between ordering ten Costco pounds of dill relish and sweet relish, I turned the word over in my mouth and observed its onomatopoeic qualities. There’s something about the phonetics of “sh” that provides a certain sense of satisfaction.

As I determined that the sweet relish trumped the dill, the revelatory moment arrived and the word wrapped my thoughts, sentiments, and lifestyle as of late into a neat little window of perspective. I’ve experienced such enjoyment, appreciation, and enthusiasm since planting myself into the lush Pacific Northwest environment among intelligent, intriguing, and fulfilled people. An internal shift has occurred. It feels as though my new self is eclipsing the old, transcending past the omnipresent stratocumulus that silently hangs over Eagle Harbor.

More than just adding a sweet crunch to my veggie dog, relish is my mindset, my mantra, and furthermore, my goal for the spring. Maintaining constant awareness of logistical details weaved into the big picture of the program flow is a consuming task.  Finding moments to relish between the packing, the prepping, the S’mores and morning wakeup calls will be a challenge to be savored. 

Americans Aren’t Lazy

Ridin’ the college essay train here, but I’ve got to aim to keep my steady five hits a week…

In the spring of 2009, I was invited to go on a trip to help build a house for a family in Tijuana, Mexico. Though I’d been living in Los Angeles for nine months and Tijuana was only a two-hour drive away, my mind was consumed with glossy thoughts of the sunshine-filled California dream. The invitation involved staying the night with the wonderful North family, who’d founded the non-profit, Build a Miracle in 2001, and then spending the following day working hard with the other American and Mexican volunteers to lay the foundation for the house.

The more I learned about the organization and the family behind it, the stronger my anticipation grew for the trip. The North’s began building one house a year for struggling single mothers in the 1990s; mothers who were not only working full-time while keeping their kids in school, but also volunteering at their local community center and chapel. The hearts of these women were made of gold and once the North’s family, friends, and fellow parishioners heard about the meaningful way they were supporting these Mexican families, donations were inevitably made and the organization was made official.

I was a bit nervous about doing a good job on the build, but as soon as I met the Norths, I was comforted by their good-natured presence. We awoke early that morning and crossed the border smoothly, passports in hand. I was stunned by the stark difference in the quality of life between sparkly San Diego and dilapidated Tijuana, bewildered that someone would think to and dumbfounded that someone would have to use something so conspicuous as a crusty refrigerator door as the roof of a shack.

It was still morning and the sun beat down on us as we climbed out of the North’s SUV onto the dirt road in front of the bare opening that was to be a foundation of a house in a few hours. There was a quick rundown announced in Spanish and then English on the building procedure and we were introduced to the family whose house we’d be building, along with about fifteen others in the community. We shook hands, grabbed shovels, and got to work.

Besides some of the practically homogenous Latino populations in some of the neighborhoods in which I’d worked in Los Angeles, up until this point in my life, I hadn’t spent much time in a situation where I was one of the few English speakers – the only one who was not bilingual. Despite the language barrier, I was surprised at how easily it was to work alongside our new Mexican friends, giggling when two people carrying a heavy log would shout “beep beeeeeep” so that I’d know to jump out of their way.

After the first hour, we hit a groove, and assembled, mixed, and poured bucket after bucket of cement to lay the foundation. I’ve always been athletic and I trained at the Division 1 level for springboard diving in college, so after two years of conditioning and weight training, I was able to hold my own with some of the older men in the group. Before I knew it, we’d finished, and we were invited to a different part of the neighborhood where mothers and grandmothers had been preparing food to nourish us after a long day of building.

Before we headed over to eat, Adolfo, a warm-hearted director of programs for impoverished children in Northern Mexico who also helped coordinate the logistics of the builds for Build a Miracle, brought us behind the space where we’d been working to a worn-down shanty. Oscar, the father of the family for whom we’d been building, stepped forward and told us more about his life, as Adolfo translated. He explained to the group that despite his daily hard work at his job, he hadn’t been able to afford anything more than the tiny space we were crammed into and overflowing. He expressed his deep, sincere thanks to Adolfo, the North family, and the Build A Miracle organization for providing him with a house with enough space for his wife and two kids.

Then, Oscar pointed to me and I inquisitively looked back, anxiously anticipating Adolfo’s translation. He’d said that I had impressed him with my strength and hard work, and I’d changed his perception of Americans because up until today, he’d thought they were all apathetic and lazy. I couldn’t believe my ears and upon hearing this, I shrugged bashfully, and smiled at Oscar.

I’m a person who lives to serve, whether it is for the thankful or the thankless. The sense of gratitude and nobility I experienced when I heard Oscar’s translated words transcended any sort of award won or task achieved. I’d felt a yearning to represent the Build a Miracle group positively, but that day I identified a deep sense of social responsibility within myself. I came to realize the importance of intercultural understanding and strength beyond force, that is, strength in character. I have always prioritized being a good person, but that spring, when I learned to represent altruism and service in my daily words and actions was one of my greatest accomplishments yet.

Personal Statement

I have this tendency within the realm of blogging to begin brilliant posts with vivaciousness and creativity and after a highly-motivated start, leave them to rest as “Drafts” in my account. There is none of that behavior when it comes to college applications, so at least I can drop in an essay or two. Here is my personal statement…

 

The Life of Tea

It can take up to twelve years for a tea plant to bear seed, the same amount of years I attended grade school. With the polymath bud planted in me by my educator parents, I explored the surrounding terrain and spread liberal roots in Rhode Island, with the aspirations of growing high in stature.

It is said that the higher the elevation at which the tea plant grows, the more excellent the flavor. Transplanted from my public school education to a private Quaker school atop the bucolic Providence East Side acclivity, I thrived within this privileged garden of opportunity. Provided the ideal conditions for development, I matured to a heightened version of myself.

The top 1-2 inches of the mature tea plant are picked for harvest. Deemed desirable for my athleticism in the sport of springboard diving, I was recruited and gathered into the University of Pittsburgh’s yield, which meant practice first, books second. I’d hoped to cultivate my duende and propagate ideas and versions of myself, but stunted from a lack of scholastic and creative fertilization, my ambition began to dry out.

In the production and processing of tea, it is wilted, bruised and partially oxidized and its leaves turn darker. I worked hard during my freshman year, despite my situational doubts and feeling the confines of my character, until a friend committed suicide. I drooped into depression, my spirit contused, my world shaded many shades darker than before.

Just as the darkening of leaves is stopped by heating in tea production, my move to Los Angeles was the photosynthesis I needed to regain my curiosity and resiliency. The dyad of sunshine and volunteering for AmeriCorps served as the stake I wrapped myself around and from this experience, I was again fortified.

Most tea sold in the West is blended to compose the most appealing selection of leaves. I branched out after my first offshoot to Los Angeles, traveling to Mexico and Ecuador to volunteer, single-handedly coaching a high school girls lacrosse team, volunteering on organic farms, and meditating silently in the desert. This variety of adventures filled me with an assurance that I could be of value; that I could mean something important to somebody.

The way in which tea easily embodies multiple aromas allows for an infinite array of blends. Though my myriad interests derived from my broad range of experiences often overwhelms me, I’ve learned that a bachelor’s degree will enable me to grow stronger in character, discipline, and scholarship. Furthermore, the achievement will increase my capacity to serve others and seek social justice, multiplying the positive difference I will make in the world exponentially.

Like a cup of tea steeped long enough, I’m ready to be poured. My leaves have been brewing, developing a rich, distinctive flavor. I hope to be taken in and enjoyed, filling others with warmth, comfort, and happiness.

Exit Through the Gift Shop

via banksyfilm.com

“Exit Through the Gift Shop” is a film about a guy who failed to make a film about street art. The documentary is unique to begin with given the way it came about, but what begins as an innocent story about a French guy living in Los Angeles who wouldn’t put down his camera blossomed into a frightening narrative of what can happen when one’s ego inflates.

Just a head up, I’m going to ruin the story for you…sorry.

What happens is, this Angeleno, Thierry Guetta, follows all of the major street artists in Los Angeles and London around and winds up with hundreds of tapes of unorganized footage of these artists’ work. The one and only artist he struggles to catch on tape, the famously mysterious Banksy, catches wind of Thierry and his street art video habit and makes a calculated decision to let him film Banksy at work.

After a great deal of Thierry’s filming, Banksy challenges Thierry to actually create a documentary on street art, as it has become such an intriguing counter-culture phenomenon that has the potential to really mean something by reaching a wider audience. Thierry creates a choppy, haphazard film, so Banksy challenges Thierry to perhaps do his own street art instead.

This is where Thierry’s story becomes astonishing. Thierry names himself, Mister Brainwash, sells his clothing business to fund a large team of people to turn his ideas, heavily influenced by Banksy, Shepard Fairey, and other street artists he’s been filming for years, into a massive collection of pieces, and holds an opening in a mammoth space. Turning to his friends for a seemingly small favor, he asks Banksy and Shepard Fairey for a bit of endorsement and creates billboard sized versions of their promotions, catching the eyes of the media. Thousands of people turn out for his opening, he sells his work for tens of thousands of dollars, and he becomes a raging phenomenon in the street art world, with his work displayed all over the world.

What is important to keep in mind about Thierry is his delusional tendencies: leaving his family for long periods of time for fruitless, yet adventurous trips to film street artists, shamelessly filming absolutely everything all the time, possibly unhealthy devotion to street artists. Where is the line drawn between a combination of passion and hard work to become successful and living in an entirely different world where you make all of your own rules and craft, technique, and struggle go by the wayside?

I watched the “B Movie” from the “DVD Extras” section after the documentary ended, dumbfounded and reaching for more of an explanation of what I’d just seen. During the piece, the art critic, Matthew Collings, said that he found nothing remarkable about Banksy’s work and that it “quite obviously isn’t really anything.” Collings had studied at various art schools and had held prestigious positions within the art world that he felt gave him credibility. Banksy was his Thierry, an unrefined rascal with no regard for the rules granted unwarranted success.

It raises the question, how do we value art, or anything for that matter? Popularity? Technique? Technology, the internet, and our connectedness provides the power for any one individual to rise to fame overnight. Does that mean that it is undeserved? Thierry worked hard bossing people around to bring his vision to life in a way that the majority of people who viewed his show responded to positively…should he be discredited just because he pulled every possible string he had in order to pull off a desperate acceptance?

As someone who admires and researches artists and their backgrounds to try to discover what it is that drove their success, stories of viral stars like Thierry and Rebecca Black blow my mind and truly speak to our society and the kind of world we live in today.

Squiggle Jail

At the nursery school, we shun weapons. I am coming to realize that talk of weapons, use of toys as weapons, and general depictions of destruction are quite common among four-year old boys and sometimes it is harder than one would think to keep the weapon play at bay.

Today during outdoor play time, I was chased by four of these speedy little hellions and held captive in “knife jail.” Somehow, I morphed from captive to live punching bag. One boy would hold each of my hands or latch themselves onto each of my jacket pockets and the other two would charge into my frigid, unshielded body. Then they all decided to stampede towards me all at once with no conscience about whether or not this game would be fun/safe for everyone involved.

I’m a strong believer in creativity mollifying any unsatisfying situation with children and I thought, enough of this “knife jail” and acting as a human target. I said, “Hey! Since we’re not allowed to use weapon talk, how about we turn this “knife jail” into… into… squiggle jail, where instead of chopping me into a million pieces, I’ll… I’ll separate into a million squiggles!”

I watched with anticipation as the little wheels turned in their little heads, and then to my relief, they all ferociously hollered, “SQUIGGLE JAILLLLL!” as they “locked” me to the jungle gym.

The victory was mine.

Mind Your Mother

I’ve always found it ironic that the name “Hannah” means “graceful one.”

As my mother and I approached the tenth mile on the hilly twelve-mile bike ride to and from the nearest Trader Joe’s, my weariness turned quickly to doltishness. She grew rightfully nervous as I rode up next to her on a small sliver of sidewalk, and I jested that she not be afraid of the prickly bush I sandwiched her between. I sped ahead after growing bored from slow biking, and as I turned back to ask whether she’d like to turn right or left, I crashed into the very row of bush I’d been taunting my mother with earlier and ricocheted off of it hard onto a fortunate patch of grass.

Serves me right.

I dusted myself off and scanned for scrapes. I tried to ignore the unusual clicks, creaks, and jolts of the bike chain for the next two blocks as we were so close to home, and as I pedaled hard to hastily cross a busy road, the chain snapped clean off.

Positioning my sternum laden heavy with groceries over the bike handles, I managed to rhythmically kick off the ground to free wheel my way home, my mother laughing, steady on her bike in front of me.

Be careful of the way you speak to your mother.

The Little Chipmunk

I walked into “The Purple Room” to find a small boy curled up on the ground. Suddenly, he perked up, smiled, and stuck folded hands underneath his chin, emulating a chipmunk.

I love kindergarten.

I was visiting a school near where I live in an attempt to find a job that I’ll love doing. I’ve worked and spent time with kids in elementary, middle, and high school, but just recently discovered the wonders of kindergarteners. I attempted sitting down on a wooden chair the height of wastebasket with a square paper napkin sitting in front of me. It was snack time.

“My name is Penelope,” one cutie patootie sauntered up to tell me. “One time, I ran away from home and some African-Americans picked me up. They gave me back to my parents.” Oh, this is going to be just hilarious.

The day flew by and I survived flying balls of play dough, paint smeared, germy fingers, and shrieking, a noise I have yet to become well-acquainted with. By mid-day I was exhausted in the best way ever. After helping to lead the little rascals outside to the huge playground on the warm November day, the director of the school called me inside to talk about employment.

“Can I talk to her?” The little chipmunk boy asked, whose name I’d found out was “Matias.” The director smiled and told me to meet up with her after our chat. He sat down on the concrete step and I sat down next to him. “What would you like to talk about, Matias?”

(And I swear this is actually how the conversation went. Keep in mind that Matias is four.)

“I want to know what you think.”
“What I think? What I think about what?”
“Member when we were talking?”
“Do I remember when we were talking at snack time?”
“Yes. It was then.”
“Hmm…something about…how old you are?”
“No.”
“When I asked you what your favorite color was?”
“No. It was about names.”
“Ohhh. I wanted to know your full name.”
“Do you speak Spanish?”
“Un poquito,” I said with a pinched thumb and forefinger.

He smiled at this. He told me his full name and told me he was bilingual. He was the only bilingual kid at the kindergarten and probably figured that since I was brown, there was a chance I’d be bilingual too. After our conversation, he asked where I was going. “I’m going to see if I can come here to the kindergarten more often,” I replied as I walked him to the playground. “Hasta luego!”

“Hasta luego, amigo!” I’m an “amiga,” but I’ll take it. A. Dorable.

Capturing Relationship Dynamics

I want to be a better writer. I’d like to learn how to articulate myself in a way that resounds so familiarly with people that it stays with them. I’m currently reading The Accidental Tourist by Anne Tyler, and her way of achieving this works so well that I’ve been thinking deeply about her depiction of an important relationship nuance.

Macon Leary is quite a quirky character, obsessed with systems and “chilly” in demeanor. His son had been killed while away at summer camp – an undertaking Macon hadn’t been pleased about in the first place. His wife just left him. He writes tourist books for people who simply want to do the business that has brought them overseas and be done with it.

At this point in the book, he’s in a bit of an anxious and sorrowful state and he’s reflecting on how he and his wife had met at a party in high school. The dynamic of their relationship comes to light in just a few pages.

“She came over to him and asked what he was acting so stuck-up about. ‘Stuck up!’ he said. ‘I’m not stuck-up.’
‘You sure do look it.’
‘No, I’m just…bored,’ he told her.
‘Well, so do you want to dance, or not?’
…And thinking it over, he saw that if he hadn’t looked stuck-up she never would have noticed him. He was the only boy who had not openly pursued her. He would be wise not to pursue her in the future; not to seem too eager, not to show his feelings. With Sarah you had to keep your dignity, he sensed.” (50)

During my first intimate relationship, this was exactly the way I approached it initially. Don’t show any signs of affection – let him make the first move.

“…Macon’s only hope was silence. He sat back, still and aloof, knowing that when Sarah looked she’d see nothing but a gleam of blond hair and a blank face—the rest darkness, his black turtleneck blending into the shadows. It worked…She signed her letters I love you and he signed his Fondly…Sometimes, he was almost angry with Sarah. He felt he’d been backed into a false position. He was forced to present this impassive front if he wanted her to love him. Oh, so much was expected of men!” (51-52)

There’d been so many actions of mine throughout my relationship that had come from trying to keep up a particular image, which was the only way I believed I could win true affection and respect. At some point during those first few months, I’d fallen into a well of a certain self.

“…So they married the spring they graduated from college, and Macon went to work at the factory while Sarah taught English at a private school. It was seven years before Ethan was born. By that time, Sarah was no longer calling Macon ‘mysterious.’ When he was quiet now it seemed to annoy her. Macon sensed this, but there was nothing he could do about it. In some odd way, he was locked inside the stand-offish self he’d assumed when he and she first met. He was frozen there. It was like that old warning of his grandmother’s: Don’t cross your eyes, they might get stuck that way. No matter how he tried to change his manner, Sarah continued to deal with him as if he were someone unnaturally cool-headed, someone more even in temperament than she but perhaps not quite as feeling.” (53)

A year later, I felt he must know the real me at this point. He must know that when I act that way, I’m only trying to impress him. However, how is one to know anything another is thinking when they continue acting a particular way? Consequently, in my significant other’s mind, I existed as someone different than who I believed myself to be.

I’m in awe at Anne Tyler’s keen ability to express such a common occurrence in relationships. Being aware of how one is perceived is important because it allows people to understand each other better. I’d love to be able to aid that process as a writer.

 

Brussel Sprouts and Butternut Squash

Half an hour has not even gone by since I finished my meal, but I’m too excited to not write about this.

In an effort to become more social media savvy (since these days, it’s almost as important as a Bachelor’s degree), I’ve been downloading apps onto my Google Chrome browser. The BBC Good Food app has great recipes, enticing food photography, and a tone to it that I appreciate.

Have you ever seen a recipe and thought about it daily until you get around to making it? That was this. This was Roasted Butternut Squash with Goat’s Cheese. One of those recipes that I’d usually shun for having too many ingredients (14) and too many directions (8 sentences).

I changed a few things. I used spinach instead of “courgette,” which is zucchini, in case you didn’t know…I didn’t. I omitted pine nuts and bread crumbs and used freshly grated Toscano cheese instead of parmesan.

This was the outcome.

Sous chef, Mom, was a beast on the brussel sprouts.

We make a great team.

Even my cereal and trail mix-eating father loved this dinner. I’m pleased.

Autumnal Economy Cards

I always have anxiety about buying greeting cards. They’re never quite right; too corny or sentimental. I would rather spend the $4 on food.

I have a really creative friend in Pittsburgh who used to create handmade cards and they were always so beautiful. I’m not craftily gifted, but I have the initiative. Hence, the autumnal economy card!

Leaves are malleable until they die completely and then they dry stiff. I only take the ones that have already fallen off the trees, to respect nature. Sew a leaf onto the front of a piece of folded card stock, stick it in one of your Harry Potter books, and voila!

If you’re in super frugal mode, use a piece of blank paper or rip a page out of a magazine – my favorite is The New Yorker – and fold and tape until you have a makeshift envelope!