BLOG POST 10)

PART 1)

Scene selected: The lunch room scene after the picnic-with-a-boy auction.

Character: Fellow students of Julie and Bryce.

Script: Was it finally happening? 

We all knew it was going to happen soon enough. 

Julie and Bryce had been on-and-off, head-over-heels, relentlessly stubbornly in love with each other. They just didn't realize it. 

They were so completely oblivious as to how strongly they felt about each other. 

We all knew the timeline...Julie was infatuated with Bryce since the second grade. At that point, Bryce was, no doubt, disgusted with Julie. He could make her his easily. So then he pursued that other blonde, popular, girl. But of course, that didn’t last. 

He loved Julie.

Rumors soon spread around the school that Bryce had been daydreaming into Julie’s eyes. 

At this point, it was clear. But for some reason…

for whatever reason the student body wasn’t sure of, Julie’s eyes didn’t light up around Bryce anymore. 

They were filled with hate and loathing. 

It was so frustrating to watch them take affections to one another on different timelines. 

But here we were. All sitting in this lunchroom, aware of the competition between the blonde girl and Julie to win Bryce’s lunch basket. And Julie didn’t bet? Was she really over Bryce? No, it couldn’t be. We were all rooting for them since second grade, she couldn’t give up now. 

Bryce: Julie, I need to talk to you.

Julie: What is it, Bryce?

We all eagerly lean in as she see Bryce awkwardly grab both Julie’s shoulders to steady her and squeezes his eyes shut. As a look of confusion plasters across her face, he slowly leans in, lips puckered, ready to steal, what was rumored, Julie Baker’s first kiss. 

Suddenly Julie breaks from his grip and turns around and darts out of the lunchroom. 

Bryce: Julie!!

Though we didn’t want to, we all knew it was middle school normal behavior. 

We could feel a plummeting drop from our hearts into our stomachs as shallow, cold hearted laughs erupted from our mouths. 

As soon as they escaped our mouths, we could seen the ashamed and hurt expression upon Bryce’s face. 

He bolted after Julie, his friend Garrett following. (Who we all hated for his opposition to the Julie and Bryce love affair.)

Garrett: No, Bryce stop!

As soon as they left, the lunchroom fell silent. 

We all looked at one another, repulsed by the agonizing behavior we had just produced. 

Eddie Truman, the boy Julie Baker bet on, looked sad. 

We all felt horrible. Julie and Bryce were meant to be together, yet silent support was all we knew. 

QUESTIONS

The movie does a phenomenal job with telling different perspectives throughout the story. At times, it would get confusing to have to realize that the director was backtracking the story to retell at scene from the other main character’s point of view. But overall, they did a wonderful job successfully using alternating viewpoints.

I believe Bryce’s family was more uncomfortable than the Bakers. They had a more dysfunctional social aspect to them. The overbearing judgment of the father, and his abuse towards his daughter, it ultimately differentiates from Julie’s father, and their acceptance and help towards his brother. 

I believe character is ultimately more important in Flipped. I think the plot relies on character. As Julie’s affections towards Bryce evolve, the plot follows those changes. Without her realization from her father about the entire painting having a completely different meaning from the small aspects of it, the plot would have nowhere to go. Overall, without that, the movie would be of Julie’s continuing infatuation for Bryce. 

BLOG POST #9

How to Write About Twins; How to Have Twins

When the amount of care is doubled with having twins, so will effort. First thing's first, no matter the circumstance it is crucial to dress a set of twins in the same outfit. Color coordination is vital. If the same outfit is not available, resort to the same color. When your children grow up into young adults, they will love looking back in the heavy scrapbooks you made and see the consistent outfit pattern you followed. 

Next, gifts galore! Make sure any holiday shopping you set out to do involves sets of the same gift! Here's where you can get a little crazy. Instead of repeating the same color duo, you can buy the same present but purchase the gift in different colors! This is so convenient because, seeing as they are twins, meaning they must have the exact same interests and personalities, will be ballistically ecstatic! 

When knowing a set of twins who aren't your children, comparing them is also something they really love. As if there isn't enough unwritten competition in their lives against one another already, you should spice it up just a little bit more and point out their similarities and differences! It's so fun to have people acknowledge ways that your twin exceeds you! 

Have fun with your insanely satisfied clones!

P.S. I was fortunate enough to grow up NOT living with these sort of things, not saying that they are wrong or displeasing, but in my eyes, this is a sort of childhood I'm glad I was not objected to. Having an identity of my own is satisfying; although some aspects of being a twin is inevitable. Of course, it should be pointed out that I'm not an identical twin so I cannot relate to that perspective. 

BLOG POST #8

I have noticed the language between the lines in life

 and it says that I'm exhausted. 

I have collected a few people 

- or rather they have collected me.

 I feel like a monster - I love them entirely, but they tire me out to a point of identity crisis. 

I have to take them in doses, like prescription pills.

 But I feel terrible for my constant leaves of absences. 

We are all in this disoriented stage of limbo because of the hanging time between the phase from child to adulthood. 

They do not understand, I have to get back what they drain. 

My tendencies offend; they create tension.

 It seems all my life I surround myself with people who are in the same position and we all take rather than give, there a few rare neutrals. 

I find myself as a giver. 

Some are drawn to me and unfortunately;

 Its starting to make me wilt; 

there's this illusion of alienation tailing my heels. 

BLOG POST 7

PERSUADING A THREE YEAR OLD TO EAT THEIR BROCCOLI:

   Yes, the broccoli is green and smells funny and isn't sugary and sweet like everything else you love. But compare it to other foods you look! Don't you like other foods that happen to be green? For instance, remember when that green apple looked kind of weird but then you tried it and enjoyed it? Maybe broccoli will be the same! You'll never know unless you try it!! And it might smell bad but so does sweet potato and you love sweet potato! Don't try things just because they scare you and you don't know them that well, try it and be brave! You might end up liking it, or hating it. Either way, you will be confident in your decision for future notice. 

BLOG POST 6

BLOG POST: LANGUAGE, POLITICS, AND REGIONALISM

• My results were fairly accurate. Its actually really intriguing because I have family in Lincoln, Nebraska and maybe that’s why I pronounce some of the same words differently, or name some of the same terms distinctly.

• I think someone would want to take a quiz like this to see if they are true to their hometown. Also, just out of pure curiosity. I think we all are itching to see where we could fit in; where we could be accepted along. Its a crazy concept.

BLOG POST #5

     American culture is a hard to define simply because everyone has a different idea on what if may be, based on their experiences or environments they were raised in. I define American culture as having many rights, and being a in a democratic state. I also see it in a negative perspective. I believe that American culture can have a selfish, greedy aspect. Immigrants are represented in a controversial light. Being from elsewhere, sometimes Americans believe they are superior. Of course, the key word here is ‘sometimes’. Also, there is a polemic view on immigrants coming to America to venture out to take jobs away from born and raised Americans. On the other hand, I find this absolutely ludicrous, seeing as how all Americans are immigrants themselves. Children of immigrants are seemingly pressured to balance both cultures. This is difficult because every person has contrasting views on how this child should be educated, based on previous traditions and in general.

    In the photo I’ve chosen to observe, a woman is sitting on a wooden chair, with good posture, and staring off into the distance. This photo reminds me of nothing in particular, but I have a photographer in general that takes photos like this that I enjoy. This photo suggests about children of immigrants that they feel a renewed gratitude about emigrating to the US because of the hardships their parents endured, or at least in this woman’s perspective she feels this way. Other people could interpret this differently because of many factors. Age plays a crucial role in this photo especially because a chronic event that affected the world globally occurred at this time. Previous experiences play another major role in basically just interrupting everything. I definitely sense a connection in this photo and How The Garcia Girls Lost Their Accents have a broad relationship in the fact of having parents who reflect on their pasts, and I sense an uncertainty of identity in both photos.

Story

        Strays of brown hair scattered around my face, bright blue, glazed eyes, rosy, chubby cheeks, I stood there, tears streaming down my face, with three crayola crayons in my stubby fingers, purple, gold, and red. The only thoughts in my head were the anxiety of breaking the rules, and if it was worth it; to restore the happiness once there.  

        It was around the first week of kindergarten, and I was already anxious enough about the new norms I had, and now was supposed to be accustomed to. Being a rather obnoxious and social child, I was always looking for ways to introduce myself and create friendships between my fellow classmates.

        Though it was a number of years ago, I remember mumbling a quiet greeting to a big eyed, chocolate haired girl. She placed her hand on her hip, cocked her head to the side, her bangs swiftly following, and flashed me a gorgeous smile, her two pink lips spreading apart to reveal pearly white teeth.

        “I’m Leah!” The girl chippered.

        “Hey, I’m Emma!” I replied with the same, (if not more), happy tone ringing in my voice.

        I knew we would be the best of friends from that very first conversation.

        As school progressed, I began to meet new people and make awkward kindergartner small talk with others. But only two people stood above the others, my very own teacher, Ms. Olson, and that one chocolate haired girl, Leah Harman.

        Ms. Olson had short, golden blonde hair and seemed to share that same effortless charisma that Leah also possessed. Although she was well into her early 40’s, no wrinkles seemed to be present, and I thought of her as the prime example of beauty.

        It was there, everyday in my homeroom with Ms. Olson, that I developed my passion and determination to find the ability to write in everything I do. She taught my the core of the idea of language, the alphabet, and strategies to spell, and pronounce.

        After growing this untainted impression of Ms. Olson, one could imagine my obedience and dedication to her. But of course, being only five years of age, my wisdom was lacking, and things such as “common sense” were nowhere near being understood.

        Following an everyday lesson, Ms. Olson decided we would learn about the US flag and talk about the value and importance it has to many US citizens. When going over the composition of the American flag, and the colors made up of it, red, white, and blue, she continued to pass out cardboard packs of crayola crayons.

        Leah was having a bad day and was talking to me about something along the lines of her breakfast not being what she wanted. I, trying to be the best of friends, wanted to do something to demolish the frown on her face and replace it with the brightest of smiles.

        Knowing it was the wrong thing to do, I valued Leah’s happiness over the discipline I had demonstrated recently, and took three random colors, purple, gold, and red, and scribbled all over the blank outline of the US flag that Ms. Olson had just handed out.

        Ms. Olson, staring horrified at my personal “masterpiece” I had just created, started to recite a string of harsh words that felt like pins stabbing every inch of my body. Following the lecture, (in front of the entire class), I could feel the aftermath of those pins and could feel a stinging, burning pain in the corner of my eyes. Rubbing away floods of hot water pouring from my eyes, I felt two arms wrap around my waist.

        Leah whispered a kind, “thanks Em, I smiled”, and I knew that’s what mattered most.

        So, over ten years ago, I discovered that sometimes mental health should be valued over education, even if you’re hurt in the end. Nowadays, I still practice that rule. If my anxiety is at the brink of a mental breakdown when taking notes, or writing an essay, its always best to step back, and do whatever it takes to plaster a smile on my face. Whether it’s eating a handful of chips, or hugging someone, or taking time to call a friend, its worth the time given up. And as a kindergartner, I find myself impressed by the bravery I displayed in an effort to make a friend happy, who I still consider my best friend to this very day.

MY PERSONAL PHILOSOPHY

        “Don’t tell me I’m beautiful. I have already heard the word rubbed raw across the flesh of so many girls before me. Thrown at them like rocks that beat the skin of those we do not understand. “You are beautiful,” we yell with such contempt. “God dammit, why won’t you just believe me, you’re beautiful!” It is not a compliment. It is a victory march of your own self sacrifice. “You’re beautiful,” we say through gritted teeth. “You’re beautiful,” we spit out through tears, looking at a reflection we hate. “You’re beautiful,” we say, holding a body that has never felt the arms of another. “You’re beautiful.” Don’t tell me I’m beautiful. A word like that floats on the surface, give me something with depth. Tell me I’m intelligent. Tell me I’m courageous. Tell me that when I laugh the whole world smiles. Tell me that my voice is sweeter than strawberries. Remind me that my hands have helped flowers grow, painted the ocean, and captured the sky in my phone. Assure me that with a mind like mine, I can change the world. Don’t tell me I’m beautiful. I don’t really care if it’s true. I’ve spent years trying to convince myself that beauty goes through and through. Don’t tell me I’m beautiful. I’ve felt the world splatter against me enough for a lifetime. I am better than the “beautiful” that slips from your lips. I am the ocean, 36,000 feet deep. There are parts of me you have never seen. I am outer space, infinite in your search. I am not simply “beautiful”. I’m a masterpiece.”

        The above is a favorite quote of mine I found from “tumblr”. This speaks to me on a variety of levels. Being a woman in today’s society, (whatever the age made be), there is this expectation of beauty. Although there are sayings and kind phrases from loved ones stating, “you’re beautiful in your own way”, the way modern society functions, said phrases aren’t exactly promoted. Women are often seen as weak, inferior, and objects for men to use to their pleasure. I am an incredibly strong supporter of the concept of feminism and the belief that women should be treated equally as men, in whatever aspect that may be.

        Coming from this notion of feminism, a very common and desired compliment used is the phrase, “you are beautiful”. Girls from incredibly young ages have this goal in their mind influenced by the world around them of beauty. It has always been a shared dream. This poem, or excerpt, goes against that entire perception. It brings other wonderful qualities in a female’s life to view. Intelligence, wit, kind heartedness, joy, braveness, creativity, and etc. These often fall in the shadows of the goal of appearances. All looks diminish eventually, we grow older and wiser, and what’s left behind are the elements that count. Your fear, values, heartbreaks, dreams, loves, experiences, are the very origin of your nature. How you appear won’t ever give so much as a hint to your true colors.

        I try my best to remember this in times where I feel insecure, beauty is only skin deep. It is a used, shallow, underrated word, and I think our generation often forgets that. This is why that piece of writing is an addition to my personal philosophy in life.