Why do we need labels?
Why do I need to tell someone what type of girl I am, or what type of person I am?
Why can't I just be me? Why can't we just be we?
I'd like to imagine, that in a perfect world, we wouldn't have to worry about what type of person we were. That someone could enjoy music but not be a theatre geek, or someone could enjoy reading but not be just a bookworm.
There's so much more to a person than how they come across. I am an entirely different person than how I am perceived by most people. I have layers, just like cake and onions. So does everyone else. Layers upon layers of personality, interests, skills, and hobbies. So much more than how they come across. And some of those layers collide and mix themselves up with one another, and often layers develop because of influence from others.
And yet, people still are being classified into categories on some kind of invisible social ladder, only shown through the effects it has on people and their lives. A label is a confining box, and I am a free spirit. Free spirits and confining boxes don't work well together, and I don't want them to.
The idea that labels confine us to one social class seems like the worst part of it all. But that's not the worst part of it to me.
The worst thing about it is how simple it is. How we, as humans, now having outgrown so much, having industrialized and having gone and travelled to space and seen the stars, and travelled to the deepest parts of the oceans, and having understood the concepts of gravity, and learned to communicate across continents, and yet still being able to put simple labels on each person, as if we mean nothing more.
That's truly the saddest part to me. How one thing defines us instead of many. How we are classified into one category, like we don't matter any more than that. As if we're not so much more vast and complex than that, as if there's not so much more depth to us. As if we don't all think and feel, and how we're not consumed by thoughts of deeper things, of the universe and the stars. That's how I feel, anyway. And I'd like to imagine I'm not alone.
We're being pushed into a meaningless existence, a simple one, when this is the time that we should be expanding and developing as a species, and learning more about one another, but most of all, connecting.
In order to fix anything at all in this world, we must first understand how we each are so complex and so unique and so beautiful, before we do anything else. That is the key to unlocking the future.
Or at least, that's what I believe.
I am a nerd. A theatre geek. A singer. A gymnast. A vegetarian. A bookworm. And so much more.
What are you?
Sunday, 3 April 2016
Hey bloggers! Today, I've decided to share a compilation some of my past writing with you, stretching back to the age of nine or ten. I wrote small books by stapling paper together at a much younger age, but as the drawings are the main part of those, I've decided to share only the stories that I wrote without pictures.
Poem from the Third Grade
This piece wasn't for school, it was simply something I wrote for fun sitting at my tiny desk one day after I finished all my school work. I was obsessed with poems in those days, and I tried to make sure everything rhymed. I got rid of some blatant spelling errors, but kept any other mistakes for entertainment.
Beneath the sun that shines through the clouds,
a little robin does nothing but frown.
The name was Catterkin, she sat in her nest,
everyone said she got F on the flying test.
All she did was sit there, all cranky.
All she did was sit there, all cranky.
Even at her little son Franky.
She was quite mad, and sad a bit too,
For she just slipped in a pile of poo.
That little robin made me so stressed,
even with that cute mark on her chest.
They say when the moon rised she rised too,
stopping to tie up the lace on her shoe.
She seemed not to enjoy all the attention,
though she was being watched by all the extensions.
She didn't like much at all,
even a dog of twenty fweet tall.
The width of her wing span seemed rather long,
and she hated the subject of King Kong.
Everyone realized how much she was sad,
and they all felt rather a bit bad.
They tried to cheer her up with a song or two,
and with happiness she made life through.
The Fourth Grade
Much to my dismay, in the fourth grade I was never encouraged to do creative writing. I rather disliked my english teacher, for that matter. But that didn't stop me from getting creative in my spare time. I wrote many stories, some of which really did not make sense, but others I wish to continue some day.
I was deeply entrenched in my Narnia phase, and I wrote the beginning of the continuation of Susan's tale to lead her back to Narnia. It ends abruptly, and I never got back to it. I hope I will someday.
Beyond the Wardrobe, the End of Susan's Tale
An 85 year old woman stood in her front lawn, listening to the sound of a moving truck. Her trembling hands touched her mail box. She gently stroked the rust and again thought of yesterday. She had had a daydream of the strangest sort. It was of four children, two bors and two girls, standing around a lampost. It was and had been quite clear in her mind and it was almost a... what did they say... deja vu. What could it be? she wondered.
"Um excuse me ma'am, but we must leave." said the moving man.
"I don't understand, I'm not that old." the old woman said.
"Okay, let's go." the moving man replied impatiently.
"One more look around." she protested.
She tried two more times and gave up. People helped her board a handicap truck. As the hustle of the city flew by her she remained still staring at nothing, not thinking. The truck stopped at a light. She turned her head around and saw a park. It was an ordinary park, nothing special.
This piece was written on a whim, and it's perhaps the worst thing I've ever written. It is hilarious though, and I get pleasure at the imagination in it.
I was sitting at my desk, listening to Mrs. T lecturing us about how she's had it up to her with us talking, when I heard a strange sound coming from the back row. I looked over my shoulder to see what was going on. Alice Testernon was making a science project. It was a volcano. It was sitting on her desk and she was fiddling with it, putting vinegar and baking soda in it.
All of a sudden, it exploded all over the class room. "Owwwww!" Shirley Kisternalo shouted. The "fake" lava had touched her. "It's real lava!" she shouted. Soon, everyone was running (and screaming) down the hall. "Alice is a maniac!"
Alice ran around the school, making the miniature volcano explode. Soon about five kids were in ambulances and everyone else was still panicked. "Take her to the loony asylum!" someone yelled.
I stopped panicking, and looked at Alice. She was slowly turning into a... vampire. Suddenly, I knew what to do. I ran to the nearest delli and ordered some steak. I quickly paid, and with the steak in my hand, I ran back to school. I saw that no one else was there but Alice the vampire. Panting, I charged at Alive with all my might. I hit the steak onto the campire's heart, and it fell down. I knew that Alice was still alive, but she was just Alice, not a vampire. The end.
The Sixth Grade
I couldn't find anything from the fifth grade, but there was no shortage of writing from the sixth grade. I had a very encouraging teacher who gave me very good marks and feedback.
This piece was possibly my favourite to write, even though it was very short. I thought it was very well written, but for some reason, I got a worse mark on this one than all the rest. It was really only a 93, but for someone who kept on getting 100s, it was an extreme emotional blow. I believe the prompt was "write a short story involving the weather".
The Hot Day
Cheff stumbled down the hill, his arms spread out to his sides. The beads of sweat on his head sparkled in the sun. He launched himself into the stream that had always been there to relieve him. He tugged the collar of his shirt, letting air touch his sticky body.
"Cheff!" Jenna, his sister, ran after him, a glass of water in her hand. She poured it onto his head as Cheff slowly got up, spreading out on the prickly grass instead. He closed his eyes and fanned his hands toward his face.
"You smell," Jenna said. "Get yourself in a shower." She tossed her head back.
"Running around on a day like this. You'll kill yourself."
This one was written with a Halloween writing prompt. We had a few to choose from, and I chose the one about a girl who planted some pumpkin seeds that, the very next day, sprouted into a giant pumpkin. I got 100 on this, I suppose because the ending was more conclusive.
Stephanie pushed open the orange door to meet the overwhelming smell of pumpkin. "Can you say James and the Giant Peach?" she whispered to herself. Though it was quite unlike her favourite school book. There were no hallways or tunnels. It was simply the inside of a pumpkin. She closed the door and knelt on her knees. The guts of the pumpkin surrounded her head like cobwebs. She brushed them away and cleared a path around the inside of the pumpkin. "Cir-cum-ference," she said, pleased to use one of her spelling words.
It only took a few steps to get around the pumpkin. Stephanie sat with her back against the wall of the gourd, and heard a faint ticking sound. Wait, no, a beating. A pulse. She pressed her ear against the hard surface of her pumpkin. It was the thing pulsing, once almost every second! She placed both her hands next to her face, and felt the rough inside. She felt all around the interior of her pumpkin. The beating was everywhere around her, growing louder by the millisecond. She stuck her forehead against her pumpkin, and noticed the unusual roughness and colour of it. Blue lines decorated the wall, with a slight red tinge. Her pumpkin... it had veins!
Stephanie, suddenly understanding what the ticking was, scrambled on all fours. The seedy, slimy, strong smelling guts seemed to wrap around her body, enclosing her. It suffocated her, sucking all the breath from her lungs. She felt for the door and pushed it open with her rather mummy-like hands. Finally, she was out. Her fingernails scraped the dirt. She slid on the ground, trying to get herself as faraway as possible from that... she couldn't call it a pumpkin anymore.
As she stumbled in the house, her brother looked up at her from his homework. He tilted his head sideways. "Stephanie, you look like you were attacked by a pumpkin."
Stephanie nodded, breathing hard. "Yes, quite literally dear brother, yes."
I'll leave it at that for today.
So, what did you think? It is fascinating to go back and read old pieces of work from childhood. You can find quite a few jems. Let me know what kind of writing you had to do in elementary school.