Mindless Chatter

Everyone is gearing up for homecoming. And I mean everyone. Some people haven't been asked, others have been asked multiple times by multiple people. (Though I fall into the first category, I do not plan on holding a pity party anytime soon.
It doesn't feel all that great, to be completely and totally honest and vulnerable. But that's alright. I have my fun on stumbleupon.com anyway.
The amazing thing about Homecoming is the noise. I mean, my school's homecoming isn't for 3 weeks still, and people don't stop talking about it. 10 minutes after someone is asked, absolutely everyone in the entire school knows about it.
Conclusions are drawn, assumptions are made, and that's that. People talk, whisper, throw notes, mouth words across the classroom.
Nobody's quiet about it.
Because, really, let's face it. Homecoming is not a private business. It exists as a social event that everyone goes to, everyone hears about, and everyone makes little inside jokes there. Everyone dresses up, everyone dances. It's Homecoming. It's what everyone does.
Why can't the dates be private? Well, this is highschool. Nothing is really too private. I have yet to decide whether I like this or not.
But Homecoming. Admittedly, even I'm looking forward to it. I love the dresses. No, I cannot dance. I'm bad, even for a white girl.
I will, though. I will dance barefoot amongst the crowd.
Maybe.
I decided to comprise a list of the cutest ways people were asked thus far at my school.

One guy had the person reading the announcements call to the office the girl he was going to ask. In the window, he stood there in a suit, holding a bouquet of roses, and a little sign that said "Homecoming?".

Another taped arrows down the hallway to his girlfriend's locker, where a collage of pictures of them was, as well as a sign with the words: "Will you go to Homecoming with me?" on it.

Different guy wrote "HC?" on every page of a girl's flip folder, then signed it on the last page.

Others cover girls' lockers with sticky notes spelling things out.

Yes, this is highschool. Yes, everyone freaks out about these little romantic acts. And that is not an exaggeration. People just make so much chatter about it. I'm guilty of this as well, unfortunately.
So I don't really know how I feel about Homecoming. I don't know if I really even want to go. You could say I'm a little nervous about the prospect.
But it's Homecoming, for Heaven's sake. I certainly can't miss it..

The Bullycide Project

The greatest problem today is not crime. 

Hear that? (cue whispers: "Not crime? How can it be? The world is rampant with morons with guns!")

Guns aren't the only thing that can kill oneself. 

Today, my school hosted this absolutely moving presentation about bullying, by a group called the Bullycide Project. So I cried and cried and cried through it all. (Quietly, of course.)

And it started me thinking, as several things do, about this glorious city I live in. 

Flint's rate of bullying isn't worse than other places. In fact, I'm sure it's better here than some of the elite cities of rich kids like Rosewood. (shoutout to you if you love PLL.)

And that's what affects everyone most today, I believe.
To me, bullying is worse than a bad crime rate or a few unnecessary shootings. 

Don't get me wrong. Are those things horrible? Yes. 

But are they absolutely the core of everything evil in this world? Absolutely not. 

Okay, okay. So Satan encourages all evil, all these bad things originate with his horribleness and corrupt self. 

But don't you think those people pulling the trigger on others in this city have at one point or another wanted to pull the trigger on themselves? 

That's only natural, I think. I know that I'm not the only person who has thought at one time or another: "Maybe it would just be easier if I was gone." 

Those bandits certainly have felt the same way. If they're going as far as to wreak havoc on other families, they've got to be going through some intense mental pain. 

Really, those criminals are just what we talked about today. Big bullies. 

A student dies every thirty minutes of their own hand because of bullying. 

We've all heard the stories. Dharun Ravi's, who videotaped his roommate at Rutgers. Phoebe Prince, who I assure you was not an Irish whore. Carl Joseph Walker-Hoove. 

This is not okay. 

So why are so many bullies let off the hook while adult bullies spend lifetimes in jail? It doesn't make sense to me. If they're going to dole out punishments, they might as well be fair about it. 

We all need to realize that life isn't easy for anyone. Everybody has issues sometimes. It's not a simple world to live in. 

I need to improve myself most of all. I generally feel like an okay person, but gosh I can be mean. And I hate that!! I don't want to be considered mean! I need people, I love people, I love human nature. We're a perplexing and wonderful species. 

A species that can dance and laugh together. 

A species that cries together. 

Takes punishments for each other. 

Smiles at each other. 

How can that be the same species that makes each other cry?
Trips each other in the hall? 

Breaks each other's hearts? 

Kills each other? 

What happened to humanity? This amazing place isn't likable all the time. 

That's not my fault. 

It's not your fault. 

It's not really anyone's fault entirely. 

So bullying. Everyone does it, and everyone is a little bit of a victim of it. 

However: it's up to us to stop it. One comment at a time. 

In the Beginning...

Wow. 

A new school year has yet again arrived. I've been attending for about 2 weeks now, and am thoroughly overwhelmed. This could be for several reasons. 

1. It's high school. This is normal.

2. I guess I'm slightly intelligent. Therefore, I decided to be ambitious and sign up for all advanced classes. 

3. I'm in the marching band. Two 3-hour rehearsals every evening does not give me any wiggle room for homework. 

4. Lack of an outlet. Believe it or not, all the things that de-stress me require more than 5 minutes before bed. Like writing this blog, like reading a magazine, like painting my nails.

So I become... stressed. 

But this is only the beginning, teachers tell me. Upperclassmen warn me; it only gets more difficult as time goes on. 

However. 

I am surviving, aren't I? I'm writing from the Media Center during my study hall. It's not easy, but I'm here, Fresh, and alive. 

I have formed a few mere ideas about this place. 

People care, here. No matter if it is in the middle of Flint, dead-set in the ghetto. People care. Not that I
know that many people yet, because I don't. And not that I even know that many people's names, because I don't. But even the Seniors that I'm absolutely terrified are going to point me in the direction of my next class, if I ask them. 

Groups are as solid and clique-y as Alison and the Pretty Little Liars. They stick together, naturally, and let virtually nobody in. It's intimidating. Yes, I have people from my school in some of my classes, but at moments, it's just me. And I don't know who I can approach, it seems like nobody really wants me around. 

But I don't think that's true. I think everyone, surely, must be as insecure and worried as I am. 

We're Freshmen, after all. 

Homecoming. That's in about a month. I don't know if I want to go yet. Everyone's saying I should, it would be fun, I'd love it, I don't have to take a date. 

I don't necessarily want to take a date. But I'd wanna go with some dude as friends maybe. I don't know. Or maybe a group of people. 

Would that be better? 

I do love dressing up. Dresses are lovely. I can try dresses and only dresses on for hours at a time. 

I can't really dance, though. So I don't know. 

Okay, I get it. None of you care about whether or not I want to go to Homecoming. In fact, you care almost as much as the Seniors sitting in the opposite corner of this library do. 

You want to hear about Flint. 

There were tons of sirens last night. My mom kept noting it. You might think that that would scare the living daylights out of me. 

If you think that, you are incorrect. 

I want to live in New York, people. If I can't deal with a couple sirens as I'm heading off to sleep, then I would never survive. 

I cannot live a life of fear. I highly advise that you don't either. 

There's so much beauty in Flint. If you're too scared to go there, you will never experience any of it. Open your mind, please, for just 5 seconds. 

I live in this city. I wake up here every morning, eat breakfast, and go to school here. I practice my clarinet and march in the parking lot and football field. 

The simply gorgeousness of this place does not get old. 

Guys, this is beauty! And this, right here, is what life is about. 

Finding the beautiful in something that has imperfections. 

So don't be afraid to come here. Really. 

Putting the Fresh in Freshman

Highschool.
How can ten letters inspire so many different reactions in so many different people?
Some shake remembering highschool. It was the "worst years of their life".
Others laugh out loud, claiming it's the peak of everything wonderful.
Still others divulge in a simple smile, as though they know a secret they can't tell.
Surely, not everyone's experiences were this different. They couldn't cross vast worlds, from miserable to shades of Heaven.
Or maybe that's just me, being naive.
I think the most important thing, through all, is to keep your chin up, for back of a better phrase. To remain a "glass-half-full" outlook. And in examining, I find that the optimistic people are the ones who enjoyed their highschool all the more.
Generally, I'm over-the-top optimistic. I'm painfully cheery and bright. I just feel sunny. Like blindingly so. I don't know why. I don't know what I've done to deserve this brilliant glow. 
I really need to take this with me. Through highschool, through life, through thick, through thin. This is what matters. When people ask me, twenty years ago, whether I liked highschool, I want to be able to say: "Why yes. It was absolutely, without a doubt in the world, unforgettable in the best way.
I'm a freshie. Freshman. 9th grader. Low man on the totem pole. Whatever you want to call it will work for this illustration.
Right now, I'm having so many ideas thrust in my direction. Not that that's a bad thing, but it feels so different. Not only ideas, but things to remember. This class is this way. Lunch is this hour. Your locker is this one, your com is here.
It's all so incredibly overwhelming, it must be easy to get distressed and depressed. I guess that for some, the depression sticks. For all four years.
"I can't wait to get out of highschool."
In others, it's fleeting.
"I'm sure tomorrow will be a better day."
And for a tiny little few, they aren't touched at all. And how lucky they are.
Oh, for all those who only read this cause it's about the most dangerous city in America, here you go.
My highschool is in FLINT. Some nights, while practicing with the band in the parking lot outside, we've heard what we assume to be gunshots.
You know what the truly amazing part is, though?
It doesn't make a difference to me. 
I'm so not afraid of this city! It's not a bad place to live! None of us have ever gotten killed during practice. Not even one person. I mean, sometimes we feel like we're dying from working so hard, but we never actually have.
So highschool. Exciting. New. Different. I've gone from a school of 200, to a class of 150. I know, tiny, tiny numbers. It's still a weird leap.
What does highschool mean for me, after a week?
It means a lot more responsibility. More work. More activities to juggle. What feels like millions of people judging me off things teachers say every single moment of the day.
But it gives me a chance to be spread my wings a bit, and to grow. I've always felt a little cramped. Like a huge bird in a little egg. Scratching, poking awkwardly, unable to get out of the space I'm in. It was, in its sense, comfortable. I didn't dislike it, but I knew in my heart of hearts that it did not present a true challenge for me. Life was simple, yes, but it was monotonous.
Now, I'm in a position to learn and to be challenged more than I have ever dreamed of being.
I thank my parents, teachers, and school for setting me up for that.
And I thank all my old teachers for preparing me for that.
The change feels nice. It fits me well.
And now, out of the egg, I can stretch out, take a few wobbly steps, and stretch my wings. And only then can I really fly.