From Me to We; From Crazy to Cult

Today I got to miss a day of school. Generally, this is a prospect which would make me happy. Actually, I cannot recall the last time I missed school and felt bad about it. Even when I'm sick, I'm happy to miss school. So yes, I am not the biggest fan of school. But today was an exception. Today, I would've gladly attended school. I would've happily sat through my French class. I would've gratefully sat through my confusing physics class, and hell, I even would've smilingly written my math test. I would've done all these things to avoid We Day. 

Crazy, cult, prozac, psychotic, unwell, worship and cocaine - all peculiar words which I will now officially associate with We Day and the Me to We organization in general.

Today is a life changing moment for me. I have experienced enlightenment. I feel wiser. It's incredible.

Here's the story:

So, a few weeks ago my wonderful French teacher (probably my favorite) explained the concept of Me to We to my class. She followed this explanation by asking how many of us would be interested in attending "We Day", the event associated with those who take part in the Me to We club. I raised my hand. First, the concept of giving back in your own way sounded appealing. Second, the concept of legitimately skipping school on the day of Math and Physics sounded fabulous, frankly.

Our teacher explained that being part of Me to We usually entails selling some products they tell you too. However, my teacher being very cool, made it very clear to us that we didn't need to do that; she told us that we could give back in our own ways. Particularly, she suggested that we maybe educate ourselves about clean water, or education, or something, and then share our knowledge with some other people at our school. This seemed good enough to me. So, a friend and I agreed to go and our teacher readily accepted us.

Being that the event is one which comes with a lot of hype, many people in our school were eager to go. Many people signed up to go, but there were only 20 tickets. In the end, 20 of us got to go. Naturally, we were very excited. Like I said, We Day comes with a whirlwind of hype, so going is something that is almost revered. If anything, We Day seems like a concert. There are a bunch of big name performers, so it's some sort of incentive to go. For me, most arena events are fun. I enjoy being in a huge crowd of screaming people. Sure, smaller, more intimate concerts are better, but arena events are a-okay by me. Finally, my friends were going.

If you were pathetic at math and physics. If you didn't speak the respective, numerical languages, wouldn't you be happy to disappear for a day? Sure you would. Now, what if you were not just disappearing to wallow in your own pity? What if you were disappearing to go to a concert with your friends?

Needless to say, I went to We Day today. 

As you may have probably figured by now, I hated it.

Scratch that.

I didn't hate it. It scared me. Actually, it scared me to the point that I was regretful of not sitting in my amazingly brain-draining physics class. More than that, it scared me to the point where I was begging the universe to melt me into the Earth and use me as fertilizer for the crops in Mozambique. No, even more than that, I was hoping to be sitting in my grey math class and staring blankly, as per usual, at my test paper. Yes, yes, it was actually bad.

What could be so bad about an event as innocent as We Day? So much. For starters, it's not all that innocent.

First, for those of you who may not know what We Day is, I'll give you a run down:

A Me to We club at your high school may exist. It's purpose is to help others, whether locally or globally, in any way. This can be done in many ways. Some raise awareness, others raise money, but the basic goal is the same: help. Not a bad premise, right?

Anyways, We Day is supposed to act as an incentive for people to join the club. If you work hard to help people, your school gets tickets to We Day! There you get things and listen to your favorite musicians and speakers. All of these things inspire you to be wonderful and continue helping. Fair enough. And this is what I thought We Day would be.

Honestly, I am not the biggest fan of speeches, when the subject matter is, to me, uninteresting. As much as I love delivering them, I hate listening to them. When a person tells me about their life-changing trip to Thailand, I say "fine." Realistically, white people usually go to places like Thailand and Africa for one purpose. Need I say it? Sex. But they aren't all bad. For argument's sake, let's assume that the story we are being told is solely for inspirational purposes, and no sex exploitation of underage Thai kids has taken place. I'm still not interested. It bores me. But that's just me. I'm more there to listen to the music and be with my friends. But I digress.

My class made it to We Day. We took our seats and got excited. We took some pictures, and excitedly waited for the show to begin. And soon thereafter, it did.

One of the first speakers was the founder of the organization. The man was inebriated, at least I think he was. My conclusion comes based on the fact that I have never seen a man act that way without having a solid concentration of cocaine in hiss body. The guy jumped with each syllable he said. He flailed his hands. He grinned so broadly that his cheekbones nearly disintegrated. And most noticeably, his eyes were wide. They were the eyes of a cult-leading, cocaine-intoxicated man. Actually, if I had to draw a comparison, it would be to Joel Osteen. You know the televangelist? Yeah, him. Except that even Joel Osteen seems less jacked up than this guy. Joel Osteen doesn't prance around the stage; he doesn't gallop from one side to the other of a stage. That was this We Day guy. He was crazy. Seriously crazy. And the worst part was that he kept getting back on stage. It wasn't like he said his piece and then rushed back to the pharmacy for more Prozac. No. He would say his piece, get off the stage for a period of time (supposedly to snort a row of coke), and then return to say more stuff.

But you know what was worse? The fact that the man was worshiped like an absolutely almighty god. As soon as he was announced, the crowd of mostly tweens would scream as if Justin Bieber was about to come on stage. This leads perfectly into what irked me, or rather, shocked me the most during this event. The Heil Hitler signs. Any person has, at some point in their life, seen this picture, or one like it, from Nazi Germany.

All these Nazis holding up their salute to the Furher. This is what was happening at We Day. No, this is not figurative language. This is not a metaphor. This is actually was all the children at We Day were doing to their Furher. They held up their arms, and they put up three fingers in the shape of a "W" and saluted the Hitler of We Day. It was mind-boggling. The fact is that I had never previously experienced anything like that. Perhaps that is why it was so shocked. But honestly, it was probably shocking mostly because of the resemblance to Nazi Germany. I am kind of at a loss for words. To describe the feeling you get when you see 18000 people all take part in the same greeting is awing. It's indescribable, but it is shiver-inducing - it scares you.

I was scared. Then they started chanting after him. He said "we are powerful, we can change the world" and they repeated after him. I didn't know what to do. What's more, you couldn't escape the terror. There were people standing at each door and you were informed prior to the event that you could not leave your seat during speeches. Having taken psychology, it sounded a lot like a cult to me. In a cult, the leader is enthusiastic. You repeat mantras, so that your brain doesn't have the ability to consider the things happening around you. You establish unity through a common salute or gesture. Your connections to the outside world are cut off. This is what was happening at We Day.

After a solid hour of speeches, a performer would come on and sing something. The crowd would applaud them. But no band got nearly as loud of a welcome as any speaker. Each speaker gave basically the same speech. It was mind-numbing, yet they were cheered for immensely. That is insane. Since when do regular children like speakers more than singers?

I won't drag this on too much longer. I just needed to express my disbelief with the event.

We Day is not a bad idea. To get kids excited for helping the needy is wonderful! It does, however, stop being so wonderful once you consider the means for hyping the children. Cult mentality is not right, no matter the cause, and especially when children are the victims. I am still confused about how one person manages to brainwash such a vast amount of people. Perhaps it isn't just one person, though. Maybe it's just peer pressure. When you look around and see your friend holding their arm up in a Nazi -I mean, We Day- salute, you naturally feel inclined to follow along with it. But it is still so wrong. It is upsetting that people are so much like sheep.

I would love to help out as much as I can. My teacher gave my Me to We club an array of possibilities for helping. I hope to take part.

What I never ever want to take part in again is We Day. I will never go into such a perverted environment again; at least I will avoid it at all costs. Because it is sickening and disgusting and so many more down-putting words. I cannot muster the skills needed to express how nauseating We Day was for me.

If I have the choice of taking a math test or going to We Day, I'm going to go with the math test. Frankly, I don't know if I would I have survived an hour longer. Maybe I would have started slitting my wrists. Being surrounded by my friends was not actually helpful. I felt hypnotized and fearful. I was ecstatic when it ended and when the guards removed their ugly figures from the doors to free me from the purgatory of We Day. I was happy to get the chance to walk through the city with my friend and grab some food. It wasn't special, but it wasn't We Day.

What I found was that greed is no good. I wanted to go to We Day so that I would avoid school, and maybe karma was payed me back for it. I wanted to go to We Day for the fun, the friends, the concerts, and instead I got the scary speeches, the crazy people and the Nazi-reminiscent salute. I yearned to go to We Day, and was willing to do anything to avoid math and physics, and this was the universe's way of telling me to not be so wanting.

So, learn from my mistakes. Don't be so blinded by the apparent shininess of an opportunity that you don't even consider the negative sides of it. Take part in the helping, but don't take part in the cult. Don't do that to yourself.

Back to School. Mortified.

Here you are: My longest post to date! A whopping total of 7133 words.

I just looked at a thesaurus. I was looking for a synonym to the word "petrified". I'm tired of using "petrified" and "very scared". I want to use something fresh to ring in the new school year. More importantly, I wanted to use something stronger; something emotionally evocative and potent. I've stumbled upon "mortified"! Yes, that works! How exciting!

In just a few very short, very sweet, very speedy hours the first full week of school will begin. September 14th will mark the beginning of of my end. By "end", I mean both demise and literal end. In layman's terms, it will be the mortifying start of grade 12, the mortifying crescendo of high school, the abrupt opening of the doors of adulthood, the real world and all its responsibilities. This is the unpackaging of me from the bubble wrap emballage (wrapping material) I have spent my life thus far in.

Subconsciously, this is the matter which pierces and paralyzes me with fear in the depths of my heart. Superficially, it is the applications and rejections that cause me the most preemptive grief. The notion that I will now have to advertise myself like a cereal box to the very qualified folks at admissions boards around the world is tear-inducing. I have always had trouble and reluctance at directing glassy eyes to stare at me. Coming from an avid debater, this might sound strange, especially when you consider my "line of work". So much of debating consists off of adequately displaying your strengths. Actually, the communist inside of me hates it. Scratch that, it's not the communist - it's the lazy, parasitic turd that is well aware of her own shortcomings and lack of advertising material. Naturally, this scares me; no, mortifies me, because I know that this ability to advertise is the sole solution and glimmer of hope I must cling on to. That is what my years of "living life" have reduced me to - a blank cereal box.

As a cereal box, I have no brand name on my label. In fact, you've probably even heard rumors about my icky taste. If not, then all you have to do is flip to the back of the box, find the ingredients list, and see that I am full of shit. Unlike my competitors, I have no brand name, no pretty advertising, and most of all, I have no nutritional value. Of course you aren't going to serve me as breakfast to your kids.The fact is that, in my generation, there seems to be more and more good-looking cereal boxes. I look increasingly dull; you might not even notice me. If you do, you'll either put me down, or even chuckle at how sad and tragic my appearance looks amidst all those shiny boxes. You will have rejected me.

Again, who could ever blame you? Why would you pick a lack-luster box, which contains sub-par ingredients? 

Just why?

Next to me, we have boxes that have won countless award; boxes' whose manufacturers have worked tirelessly at making them special in some way. So yes, it is obvious that you would reject me. And get this: I don't blame you. I wouldn't pick me either.

Rejection is tough. It's not something that I am accustomed to.

And this is the case that plagues so many universities. This surplus of impressive students. This overproduction that means that even some of the good ones won't get in. There just isn't enough room. So, where does this reality leave the decent, average Joes (i.e. me) at? It leaves us with a broken heart and a letter of rejection. Some can shrug it off, find a silver lining, be an optimist, and so on. Others, well, others just can't. They start meticulously looking back  at where it all went wrong. Regrets flood their mind, they fret, they enrage themselves and they get whisked away to the darkest pits of melancholia. The saddest part of it all is that all that retracing, all that regret, fret, anger and depression amounts to nothing. It doesn't get you accepted; it doesn't change anything but your own mental state. It's that terrible feeling where you don't see a purpose in something negative, but you do it regardless. And that further perpetuates sadness. Now, you're sad that you're pointlessly sad, and so on, and so forth. You become pathetic.

It's that rejection that mortifies me superficially. I know, I should've kicked it into overdrive a few years ago, when my mother pleaded me to do so with tears in her eyes. Out of plain laziness, pure indifference, or rabid spite, I did not. I assured myself that I was better than the rest; that I stood out and that any university worth its salt would see that. I failed to recognize that I was a sum, a number. My SAT score, plus my school grades, plus my awards, equals me. However unfortunate, it's true. We can debate that these factors do not determine success, we can raise ethical concerns about the process, we can take the stance that a person is more than just the sum of their parts. We can do all that, but it won't change anything. 

Maybe, I'm just really lame. Maybe I'm not special.

For a prestigious school like, say, Harvard to shuffle through 37307 applicants each year with a highly personal approach would be impractical, inefficient, and really stupid. They have a limited time. Time is a commodity. Time is money. And so they have better things to do with that time.

Back to cereal:

Why spend hours at the cereal aisle in the supermarket contemplating the intricacies of brand A and brand B, when you could just grab the first good one, and be on your merry way?

If you've ever heard the song Changes by the small-time band Stars (Before you click the link note that the video features a naked woman dancing. She has boobs, a perfectly shaved vagina and a strange Splice-like tail. They are all visible, so if that mortifies your Puritan mind, just skip the video and check out the lyrics instead.), you may be able to recall some pertinent lines: "Changes, I've never been good with change/ I hate it when it all stays the same/ Caught between the cold and the wave/ My heart beats up again"

That's the predicament I'm in.

My whole life, I've looked forward eagerly to the graduation of high school. (Always pictured myself as valedictorian, by the way). Now that it is so close and I'm supposed to start making accommodations for the path past my secondary institution, I'm getting cold feet. I want the change; leaving high school is what I crave. I would hate it if it stayed the same, but I'm mortified of change. This is deep down, of course. Because superficially, I'm not afraid of making that blind leap, I'm afraid of not being given the opportunity to do so (i.e. not being accepted to university). Sure, I think well, and my grades are OK. I have a lot of extra-curricular activities on my not-really-existent resume. I even have a few awards under my belt. But I lack one fundamental thing: work ethic.

I'm like Greece, on a small scale, and without all the debt. I think that I don't have to do anything, but that I can still live lavishly.

I know a boy who just started school at Berkeley. According to Facebook, he's studying political science. I remember taking the bus with him to school many mornings in elementary. I remember taking the bus home with him many afternoons in high school, in my grade 8 year. I look back, and I think of him. I reflect on how we have both grown and how our paths have diverged. In hindsight there were probably subtle signs that made that diversion foreseeable. I'll give some examples: In elementary, he knew a lot relative to the rest of our class. Our class was even a class specifically for kids with high I.Q.s. To stand out academically there? Well, it's no small feat. Most vividly, I recall how, during a class research trip to the library, as I was daydreaming and wasting my time away, he was looking at something in a book. The question of who invented the train drunkenly tumbled into my mind and I set out of a quest to find the answer, and disturb as many people as possible in the process. No one knew as I blurted out the question to people ignorantly. Until I arrived at him. He looked at me seriously and responded "James Watt". I was taken aback at the fact that he actually knew and so I stood there with a dumb face. So, he elaborated: "James Watt invented the Steam Machine."

I shook the feeling and said my clearly brilliant reply of "Cool, thanks."

Then, as I further reflect, I remember him sitting on the bus everyday and reading. He seemed so deeply enthralled in the content on the pages of his fat books. He loved reading. I remember one time when he missed his stop on the bus because he was too into his book. I so envy him. His enjoyment of reading was something I was not born with, but something I so wished I had. In fact, I remember the teacher of our class consistently checking up on him to make sure he was doing his work and not reading for pleasure, instead.

When I left the school that we both attended to go to my new one, I loosely kept in touch with him through Facebook and text message. We didn't talk often, but we were aware of what was going on in each other's lives. After all, that's the purpose of Facebook, right? I would see him post new photos, I would like them, as to acknowledge that I have seen them. I texted him once accidentally. His name was next to the name of another one of my contacts on my phone. I had meant to send that other contact a message about meeting for a project of some sort, but it ended up going to him. He responded, informing me of my mistake. I apologized and figured that I may as well use this mistake to see what he's been up to since my departure from his school. He informed me about how he was soon going to leave for about a year on a trip around the world. The very notion was fascinating to me. Apparently, his father had a sabbatical in Australia, and decided that he should extend it to a full-blown trip. Pretty cool, eh? I suggested some places and that was about that.

I saw his travels on Facebook and I was naturally a little jealous of his year-off. He explained that he was still keeping up with all his schoolwork on the trip, which, in my mind, kind of sucked. If anything, it took away from the premise of travel. Why would you work during such an incredible experience? But I digress.

He came back to Canada in the Spring or Summer, I think. I left a brief comment on a post of his on Facebook, and, apart from a message wishing him a happy birthday in August, it was basically the last I heard from him until the next school year. That's when I had to take my SAT. What mortification.

Since none of my friends could provide any insight unto the daunting SAT, I turned to him. I fired him a quick message, which was less intended to get any information than it was to calm me down. He did calm me, and truly expended quite a bit of time answering all of my questions very adequately. At one point, during a text discussion, I put my Psychology 11/12 class knowledge to use and mentioned id. "Id" is basically the opposite of superego. Here's a quick explanation:

Supposedly, we have two voices in our head that determine our decision making. One is superego, the other is id. Superego is the voice that strives for perfection. It adds up all the things your mind has declared as ideal (i.e. finishing your homework on time, washing the dishes immediately, exercising, not consuming the whole chocolate bar etc.), and encourages you to take actions in accordance with those ideals. Then there is id. If superego is the angel on your shoulder, id is the devil. Id goes for indulgence over moral superiority; id gives into temptations. For every decision you make, both id and superego are at play. They provide their arguments for their respective sides in your mind, and your mind decides which one to listen to. Now, some people usually go with id, others usually go with superego - and it is this statistic that labels you as either more id-driven, or more superego-driven.

Here's the scenario that our teacher gave to us to see if we were more id or superego driven: You have a paper due tomorrow for school. It's your average essay, on your average subject. Your teacher wants it in tomorrow, and if you don't hand it in, she will take off 10% for every day that you're late. Today, your friend calls you. Surprise! S/he has just come over from the adjacent province for a vacation, and will be in your city for 5 days. S/he wants to hang out right now. You were best friends a year ago, but s/he moved and now you only message/Skype each other. You really like your friend, and you obviously want to see him/her, but your paper is due! So, do you put off the paper, and go hang out with your old friend, either accepting the 10% late consequence, or telling yourself you'll get it done in morning? Or, do you tell your friend you'll hang out in few days because you really need to finish this paper, and risk either not making the most of your friend's short time in your city, or having other things come up which would further jeopardize the chances of you seeing each other in the short 5 days?

If you pick the former option, the chances are that you are more id-driven, and if you pick the latter option, the chances are that you are more superego driven.

I would drop everything and head for my friend, but I know that most of my schoolmates would not.

So, I mentioned that I was more id-driven, and for the first time ever, he asked me a question. He asked me what the term meant. He hadn't taken psychology because of a timetable conflict So, I explained it to him almost exactly as I did above, and asked him where he sees himself. He responded that he was probably more superego, and soon thereafter, he pulled a superego move on me. He ended the conversation, telling me that he had some sort of track and field race in the morning, and needed to rest. I smiled a sad smile, not at his statement, but rather at the fact that I knew that I would never be able to make such a statement myself, and said "sleep well".

I distinctly remember my friend once blabbering on and on to me about something completely pointless one night, and me patiently listening and responding until she finished. By the time she finished, it was 2 in the morning. I was similar in stature to a corpse, and my brain felt as if it had undergone shock therapy (i.e. fried and scrambled). Now, that would've been just fine if I didn't need to wake up the next morning; it would be just fine if I had nothing brain-requiring to do the next morning, but I did. I had a huge debate competition to attend - the biggest of the year, in fact. I needed to be rested physically, so that my body could tolerate the travel to the tournament location, the long hours of debating on food with no nutritional value, and the waking up at 6:30 in the morning. But more importantly, I needed to be rested mentally. How do you think of points and draw on information deep in the crevasses of your mind, when your mind feels like a plate of greasy spaghetti? It's excruciating.

The entire time while she was rambling, I was asking myself "how?" How was I going to do tomorrow? I debated how I would wake up, how I would think, how I would avoid passing out. And to every doubt, I provided an answer. The same way I always thought of an excuse for not finishing my homework, the same way I always managed to assure myself that things would work themselves out, I managed to convince myself that the universe had a plan for me, and that, if I failed tomorrow, it would be destiny. I told myself that I would find a way. I would manage, even if that meant fainting once I got home. And I asked myself the most important question: Is it my moral duty to listen to this girl? And the answer was yes. I knew that I wouldn't be nearly as upset to do badly at my tournament, as I would knowing that I was too busy to lend an ear. If anything, I was bringing myself good karma prior to the day.

I went to the competition and did well, as per usual. I scored in the top 8%, I think it was.

I felt like I did the right thing. My id allowed me to hit two birds with one stone. We can argue that I was could've done better had I been well-rested, or that I wouldn't have gotten sick afterwards had I slept, but who cares? But, maybe it wasn't my id, maybe it was just my father's words resonating with me.

But I'll discuss that a little bit later. Let's just talk about a few small points I endured with my Berkeley friend:

After a few years of not seeing each other face to face, a free day at my own school gave me the opportunity to visit to his school. I wasn't going with the intention of seeing him specifically, but I knew it would be nice if I ran into him. I found my best friend first and walked around the school with her. I noticed some of the changes, and greeted some of the familiar faces. I texted the Berkeley Boy (good ring to it, eh?) to find out where he was. He gave me his locker number, and I decided that I would pay him a visit, when I had the chance.

I saw him walking outside during the lunch break, but I was occupied with some old friends, so I couldn't quite meet him. I later saw him walking the halls with a girl, while I was sitting in on my best friend's class. I quickly debated running out of the class and catching up, but I remembered that my best friend had told her teacher that I was a non-English-speaking Serbian girl. Running out and saying "hi", in English, to the Anglo-Saxon Berkeley Boy would be suspicious, to say the least. So, I waited until school was almost over, and made my way to his locker. He was there talking to a friend, and I greeted him with a smile.

The encounter was slightly awkward. In fact, I still feel as if he wasn't even sure that it was me greeting him. He gave a rigid smile and an alienated "hi". I thought that he was going to stop for a second and ask me about how I had been, but he didn't. Instead, he made a confused face and told me that he had something to do. In the spur of the moment, I responded "Oh yeah, me too. I just wanted to say 'hi'. Good to see you!". Naturally, I didn't have anything to do, but I didn't want to come across as chronically available, either.

When I was very little, I vividly recall my father telling me "Natasa, it is the ugliest thing in the world when a person doesn't have time. Always have time for people. Always." To this day, I hold my father's words as true. It's so ugly, for lack of a better word. When I see someone saying "sorry, I gotta go!" in the middle of a conversation, it upsets me. I know that, in reality, it's unfeasible to always have time. We aren't all unemployed, careless, whimsical students like me, but I wish we were. I think that people would be a lot happier. If you ever doubt it's possible, remind yourself of this: my father is a Ph.D, and a big shot at his company, and he is the one that said those words to me. I don't know if I'll make it far in Western society where time is a commodity, but I don't want to be heartless and say no.

This Berkeley Boy ended up travelling Europe for a month, or so, during summer break, before touching down in California. His time was so wondrously allocated. It was as if he was a living spreadsheet. Every moment of his being seemed meticulously dedicated to one thing. He had a time for his academics, a time for his sports, even a time for his fun. His life seemed planned out to a tee. I was slightly envious, of course. Most of my life is spontaneous. A friend calls me and asks me if I'd like to go on vacation for 3 days with her, starting tomorrow. I say yes.

So, of course I would not have turned him away, if he had arrived at my school. I mean, realistically, I would've stopped and chatted with him regardless of the affairs I had planned. Being late to my sports practice, or even missing it altogether, wouldn't render me, or my day, worthless. I would make the time to catch up with him, but I respect his decision nonetheless. He obviously has a different priorities list set out for him.

In my mind, there are very, very, very few things that cannot wait. If you are rushing to the hospital to support your wife in childbirth, I understand telling someone that you can't quite chat right now. The same goes for, say, a very special kind of doctor's appointment (you know the kind that you have to sign up for months in advance?). But the majority of things can. Work can wait, in most cases. So can school. So can practice, and so can dinner. What can't wait, or what takes priority in my mind, is people. But that's just me.

The Berkeley Boy did try to make it up to me, in a between the lines sort of way. I think that this was because he recalled our relationship in grade 8. In grade 8, we used to wait for each other, take the bus, and sometimes even literally go out of our way to hang out. We would sometimes get off ~6 blocks early, just so that we had more time to talk. Occasionally, we would stop at a coffee shop along the way, and enjoy our coffee. It was very chilled out. Sometimes, he'd even bus the entire way to my part of the city. I doubt that he would do that right now, and that's just a life lesson - people change.

Anyways, The Berkeley Boy texted me later that faithful day I visited the school with a piece of information. He let me know that he and his friends were on their way to see a movie in my part of town. This was sent to me in the form of a statement. He didn't invite me to see this movie with his friends. He just let me know that that was what they were doing. I think he was informing me of this, so that I would come along, but he didn't make that clear, so I didn't show. I appreciate openness. If you want to see me - tell me straight up. That's why I appreciate a certain boy at my new school, but we'll get to that later.

There you have it - Berkeley Boy:

There you have it. That is the profile of a person that successfully gets into Berkeley, and likely goes on to have success in the future. There you have it.

I wish him all the best because he's a great guy!

But, do I stack up?

I'll never be able to so perfectly prioritize tasks, and manage time. I'll never be able to so miraculously deny temptation, and go do what I have to do to achieve that higher goal. I'll never be able to pinpoint that one goal and perseverantly pursue it. I'm a failure. And, as a result, I will not be accepted into Berkeley, unless God Himself descends on Earth and uses his mighty whatever to get me in. The same goes for all the other good universities. Honestly, I'm questioning if I'll even be able to get into my local, solid, decent university of BC. I don't know if I have what it takes.

Maybe I am just an uber-pessimist. However, when I take a look around my high school, I see what all the other kids are putting in. Girls are suffering nervous breakdowns, people are on the brink. I have been told, on two separate occasions, but two of my friends, that they were seriously thinking about killing themselves. Yes, that's how bad it is.

Take another example. I got 4 tickets to see a play tonight. My mom, dad and sister have all already seen it, so they don't feel like going again. I have 3 extra tickets, and I don't want them to go to waste, so I turn to texting as a method to get them used. I send a text message to a few kids I feel will be interested. My best friend has a hike to go on, so she can't make it. My other best friend has a band practice at 7 in the morning on Monday, and cannot risk getting home at 11pm. Fine. So, I guess I'll have to find some less-close friends. So, I fire a text to a girl who graduated last year. She took me on a 3 day vacation for free, so I guess I kind of owe her. This girl didn't go to university. Until January, she is doing nothing, and she has never said "no" - she always has time. Nothing changes this time, and she accepts the offer gladly, on 4-hour-notice. Her boyfriend's sister will tag along. That's two down. I have one more ticket to give away. But who will take it?

If I got the offer, I would gladly take it. Not because I'm a big fan of theater (I'm really not), not because it's a 55$ value (I don't need the money), but simply because it would be fun to go with a friend and because it would be something a little out of the ordinary. Instead of sitting home and wasting away, I would be watching a play.

I text one guy first and he says "I'm sorry, I can't. I'm afraid I'm too busy this weekend."

I text the second guy and he says "Oh my gosh that sounds so dope! Unfortunately, I can't come with my tight schedule, but have fun and tell me all about it tomorrow!"

Did you hear those responses? Would you expect such grown-up replies from teenagers? Moreover, note that it is the first week of school. We don't have pounds of homework yet, so why are they so busy? It's that competitive. I have given up. It looks like that final ticket is indeed going to waste. I can't bear to hear another "My busy schedule won't allow me." The only people that ever have time are the people that aren't going to university; the people that are destined to be failures. How does that make sense. It seems that you cannot be successful unless your schedule is jam-packed. I don't want that.

My parents think that it is possible to be super successful and still have tons of time for fun. They couldn't be more wrong. The fact is that my parents raised me to be this way. To have time, and to have a life is what they saw as important. If you want to go to university, both life and fun need to be put on an indefinite hold. And I know that my parents would hate seeing me locked up in my room, behind a textbook, memorizing anatomy and SAT tricks. I know that they would hate if I was a one-trick pony, who only knew about academics, and didn't know anything about pop culture, or communication, or sport. But that would be the reality that they would need to accept.

We are the millennial generation, and we are well aware of how hard it all is. We know today that a Bachelor's means nothing. A Master's is decent, but far from a shoe-in . And well, don't even expect a sure thing with a Ph.D. It's so much more competitive than anyone not currently suffering through it can imagine.

My friend's tutors for calculus and for physics both have Ph.Ds, but they are working as tutors because they don't have any work. These are degrees in the sciences. Can you imagine what the case is with a degree in the humanities? There is an over-saturation of goodness. Let's go back to cereal boxes:

How do you choose a box when all of them have nice packaging, similar nutritional value, and good taste? How do you narrow it down? What are you forced to look at? Moreover, what happens to the lack-luster boxes like me? Do we end up collecting dust on the shelves, until the manager decides to put us on super-sale just so that we disappear from his aisle shelves? I think so, and to some extent, I've come to terms with that. I know my short-comings. I know that I don't stack up. The issue that protrudes even further, though, is my parents. My parents and their great expectations.

They came from a socialist country. University was free, and everyone lived in similar conditions regardless of their work. You didn't need to go to post-secondary, but you really could. Acceptance was dependent on one entrance exam, for the most part. There was very little pressure. Strangely, I am not the only one in this predicament. I'm not the only one with parents like this. Sure, not everyone's parents came from Socialist Yugoslavia, but nearly everyone's parents grew up in a very different time.

I watched the movie Ferris Bueller's Day Off a few days ago. Ferris Bueller talks about getting into university. He doesn't even ponder the possibility that he won't manage to; instead, he frets over the possibility that he won't get into the same university as his buddy.

Ferris Bueller.

Ferris Bueller could make it into university.

I am not as bad as Ferris Bueller, but unlike him, I live in constant fear that I won't be wanted. I wish I had such security and assuredness.

I sympathize with my parents. They were raised in those types of conditions, so naturally they expect the same for me. They believe that I will get into an incredible university, study well, have fun, pass, and go on to have a marvelous career that fills me with joy. When I tell them the situation, they reassure themselves, and me, that there is still a solid chance. They say I write well, I think well, I get on well with people, I have fantastic exam marks, which make up for the fact that I have average school marks, I'm charming, and anyone that takes the time to know me will recognize that. But who will take the time to know me? Which admissions officer? Please let me know, because I will be quite keen to apply.

In a fit of sadness and low-self-esteem, I sent a message to the University of Chicago. They had sent me an email advertising themselves to me and encouraging me to apply. At first I was gleaming! Then, I got suspicious. So, I went online and I looked up the situation and found that, much to my dismay, U of C had sent about a million other children the same email. I read further and learnt that certain universities do this to seem more prestigious. Basically, they encourage a ton of people to apply, and then their acceptance rate appears lower. It's an artificial form of making yourself seem more wanted. I was flabbergasted and very sad when I found this out, so I turned to my release method - writing.

I gathered up the nerve to write them a letter, with the subject line "Am I Really Special?". I figured that I had nothing to lose. They weren't going to accept me for sure, so making myself stand out in some way may give me a very faint ember of hope. In the satirical email, I explained my failures, and questioned their motives for inviting me to apply. I, of course, knew that the motive was a perverse, self-interest one, but was nonetheless eager to hear their response. Very quickly, I received a reply that said something along the lines of "our admissions process is very holistic; we look beyond the numbers. You should reply regardless because, if you apply, there is a chance, but if you don't, then there isn't even a chance."

I mean, it was wise advise. If you aren't afraid of rejection, applying everywhere isn't a bad idea. It really doesn't cost you anything, except the small application fee, which can even be waived in some cases.

My situation is strange to me, but not to my peers. Basically, I don't know if it is I who is mortified of rejection, or if it is I who is mortified of my parents reaction to my rejection. I don't want to crush their hopes. I don't want my little sister to be scarred with the notion that she may not have a chance of university regardless of how hard she works. My sister is a hard-worker, really! She tries very hard, and pours her heart into academics. She organizes her time spectacularly and is oh-so on top of things. I adore her and am so glad that she is the way she is, but I am scared that my short-comings will have an adverse effect on her.

I don't know what to do with myself. I'm almost 18-years-old, and I am at the maturity and life-preparedness level of a two-year-old. I look at the people around me, and they all seem to have it all figured out. No one seems to be facing the dilemma, as much as me. But then again, if it weren't for this blog, I bet that the majority of kids at my school would feel the same way about me; they'd probably think I had my whole writing career planned out - from bestseller, to anthology. I project myself well, but when it comes down to it, I'm struggling... a lot, but so is everyone.

It seems to me that, no matter what age you are, no matter what position you hold at the office, you are always unhappy; you always see flaws. No one seems to be at peace with themselves. No one seems to be able to accept who they are. Why are we all so unhappy with the people we are? Why do you feel like you could always be something more? Why does society put so much pressure on us to be something and someone?

I feel like we all end up badly. Those of us that completely reject the "be someone" philosophy end up bizarre by social norms and discarded by society. Those of us that embrace the "be someone" philosophy, and the greasy ladder and the ambition, end up in a mid-life crisis. What are we to do?

I look at my neighbor. An Eritrean immigrant, who is on welfare and spends his life walking around the neighborhood looking for someone to chat with. I look at my other neighbor. A Canadian, alcoholic man, who believes firmly that he is a photographer, musician, sailor and singer. As weird as their days seem to be, they are at least expected and planned for. There is a certainty about them. The Eritrean man knows that he will go for a walk, stop someone and chat about nostalgic times. The drunk knows that he will wake up, chug down a liter of Irish Cream, walk down the street with his camera in hand and eventually stop at the Sea Wall, where he will shoot some pictures of the ocean.

Then there are the kids at school. You have the Chinese girl, who suffers mental collapses because of the 98% she gets in a class, and whose planned path is to get into Harvard and become either an accountant, a lawyer, a doctor, or an engineer. You have the white stoner who knows that he will come to school, skip math, skateboard a little, get high and then go to a trades school to become a plumber.

Everyone fits into their own little area. Then there's me. I don't know what to study in university. I don't fret over 98% - I celebrate. I don't get high, nor do I want to go to trades school. Quite simply, there are too many things that I don't know. Sadly, I'm too afraid of the remedy, as well. The remedy being that I just need to try it out, and see what works. I'm too much of a wuss. I like certainty too much. I don't want to deviate from sureness. High school's monotony and routine is sureness, but it's so boring.

Remember how I promised to come back to the boy who tells it like it is? Well, it's time for that now. Here is the story of the artistic stoner/skater at my school.

He stands out at my primarily Asian school, not just for his race, but for his demeanor too. He takes photographs, skips class, doesn't try hard at school, isn't worried about university, and he is very blatantly honest. He likes me, and he doesn't do some between the lines flirting - he makes it very obvious. He tells me he wants to sit next to me, he tells me he wants to hang out, he tells me things sometimes even too crudely.

One time, I mentioned that he was socially awkward. He was very upset by this. Note that I am crying of laughter while I write this paragraph. So, he stopped talking to me for about a week. After a week, he broke the silence. He came up to me while I was standing with a crowd of friends and asked me for some of the chocolate I was handing out. I smirked a little because I felt strange about the situation. Then, after eating the chocolate, he remained in his spot standing. His best friend stood behind him and tugged at him to leave, but he wouldn't budge. And very soon, he spoke:

"I'm not socially awkward, you know."

"Touché." Is all I could think. But, instead of saying that, I said:

"I know, I'm sorry if that upset y--" and I was cut-off.
"Yeah, it really did. It made me really sad." He said with the saddest and most serious of faces.

This whole time I was fighting bursting out into laughter.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to, it's just that someone told me that." I justified.

And his poor friend is still gently smiling at me, almost apologetically, and tugging at his backpack.

"Well, I don't know who told you that, but they're wrong." He replied; his face equally serious.

And now his friend spoke and said "Come on, dude. Let's just go. You said what you wanted."

He didn't even turn to look at his friend, instead he dismissed this remark and said "I'm not done!" Then, he turned his attention back to me, and spoke as if he was completely oblivious to the crowd of our peers watching him.

"Okay? I'm really not. I'm not socially awkward, and whoever told you that doesn't know me."

I'm rarely at a loss for words, and I'm rarely as taken aback as I was in this scenario.

"Okay. Sorry." was the only thing my puny mind could fathom saying.

And, for the first time, his friend's tugging came to some avail, since this guy turned his back and walked away.

Now, what was the point of this anecdote? I don't know. What's the point of most of my anecdotes? I think that folks retain information better when they a bunch of relatable examples to call upon. I know I do.

What I'm trying to show is that as peculiar as that boy's actions were, they were straightforward , unmistakably honest, and very stand out. All this aside, these actions were very distinct to him. He knew, and knows, who he is and what he wants with himself. He has his plan, planned. He may not go on to be a lawyer, engineer, accountant, or doctor, but at least he knows that and is at peace with it.

But here I am, wallowing in pity. Stressing and worrying over some things I should've stressed and worried about years ago. I'm so tired of being sad. It's exhausting. Should I accept the fact that I'm done? Am I done? All I get is mixed messages.

I'll end this monstrously long post with a song and a bit of hope. Perhaps I am falling and failing, crashing and burning, but I heard a song called First by a band called The Cold War Kids. In one portion of it they say "Flying like a cannonball/ Falling to the Earth/ Heavy as a feather/ When you hit the dirt/...". That's all I can hope for. Maybe I'm falling, but perhaps the fall won't be so bad.

But then again, maybe I won't go through a mid-life crisis, or be discarded by the world. Maybe, and this is a really small maybe, I'll be OK, and so will everyone around me.

The Girl at the Pool - Part 10

I woke up on a terrible Monday to get ready for school. Luckily, I had gone to bed early and was well-rested. I put on my debating skirt, -boy, are skirts ever uncomfortable- my black pantyhose and my debate face on. I knew that talking to Mr. Forman would not be easy, so I had to be prepared. The previous night,  I had talked to my true friend and she had agreed to come with me to talk to Mr. Forman, as he had sent her an email requesting to see her as well. When I got to school, I began ranting about the issue to my girlfriend. I don't think that she was listening. She's heard me rant about so many things, so many times that I'm sure that she has a mechanism to go deaf each time I start ranting.

My classes weren't going well, all I could think of was what I would say to Mr. Forman. I was stressed,  but nonetheless, I kept a straight face. Over lunch, I saw my true friend, and she told me to not go off on a whim about the freedom to expression/speech. She told me to basically just say that I was wrong. As the gangstas would put it: "AWWWW, HELL NO!" There was no way in hell that I was going to accept guilt. I had done no wrong, and of that, I was sure.

My true friend came to my last block class to pick me up. We walked down the hall and arrived at the room. Mr. Forman was sitting there and he greeted both of us with a really nice "hey girls!" Then we got into what had happened. He asked if I understood his problem. I said no, because I honestly didn't. I couldn't believe it when he told me that his issue wasn't the emails, it wasn't my actual post, but rather that it was the comment that I had left about his "forcing". My mind flooded in disbelief. I honestly thought that he had some problems. A grown man was nit-picking over one word, telling me that he didn't force me.

I said, "okay, but then what would you call it?"

His answer was "nothing, your outburst was out of line, and apologizing was the right thing to do."

"Okay, I understand that it was out of line, but I still don't see why I shouldn't have used the word 'force', what else could I have called it?" I demanded.

"It wasn't force because it was the right thing to do, no matter what you think it was right, and I'm right. I'm done." He said, as he stammered out the door.

Wow, right? In between this issue, he had stated that he hadn't received the emails from the wretched woman until last night, and that he was upset by them. When I asked him what he intended to do, he simply responded that he wanted to forget about it. So why wasn't I allowed to forget about my outburst? Why was I FORCED to apologize for my statements? Most importantly, why was this woman getting a free pass?

The Girl at the Pool - Part 9

My cursor was headed for the "pokes" button, I poked back all the people that had poked me. As soon as I was done, I was off back to the newsfeed, with every intention of logging off. Something stopped me, a comment from my old coach at my old school. She was telling me that she was dealing with the issue, and that I have no reason to write a response. She understood my anger, but cautioned me against writing the email. Though I am not sure of the exact timeline, I believe that my ex-partner private messaged me to say that I was putting my debating career in jeopardy, if I were to send this letter. I expected him to say this, so I didn't think anything of it. I thought however, that my old coach would be more supportive and she wasn't. I don't blame her, in fact, she may be right. Okay, okay, credits to my ex-partner too.

Alright, I obviously had to explain the circumstances to them fully. So I did, and I added that I was forced to apologize by Mr. Forman, and I implied that he needed to do something about it, just like my old coach had done for her school. Look, he made me apologize for something that was actually fairly justified, but was he going to do anything about this crazy woman who was making unjustified, false allegations against my ex-partner and I? I didn't know yet, it was already around midnight, and I didn't expect any sort of answer from him until morning. I went to bed that night with a clear conscience.

I woke up in the morning, and had a really good breakfast. I gobbled it down, despite the fact that I wasn't hungry. Then, I proceeded to logging onto Facebook. I was interested in seeing if Mr. Forman had responded or not. Surely enough, there it was; a scalding, scorching, rage-filled comment from him. He told me that my comment was "out of line" and that he hadn't "forced" me to apologize, but that that was the right thing to do! I was in utter shock. I mean, I know that he isn't an English teacher, but still, is he unaware of the meaning of the word "force"?

First of all, I don't believe that my post, or comment, was out of line. I simply responded to a person's comment with clarification for why I would need to write a response to this tournament director. Secondly, I was indeed forced to apologize. Maybe I'm retarded, but from what I know "forcing" is when you make someone do something against their will. I apologized to that woman because Mr. Forman requested it of me, not because I felt like it. Mr. Forman forced me to apologize. Regardless of whether or not apologizing was the right thing to do, I didn't want to do it, hence I was forced. Also in his comment, Mr. Forman told me that he would speak to me after the weekend about the remarks I made. I was excited. I loved getting in trouble when I was right!

The Girl at the Pool - Part 8

The debates were finished, I was happy, and off to the awards ceremony. Hopefully I wouldn't make another scene. My ex-partner was sure that he hadn't made it to Provincials, but I was sure that he had.  20 kids were going to pass. They announced the novices first. Now, it was time for the juniors. The senior results had already been announced and they weren't pretty. This served as no comfort.

"Number 18, from University Hill..." Oh my, I had just barely made it!

"...Emily!" Oh my goodness! Oh my goodness! Oh my goodness! My fantastic partner had moved onto to Provincials! I was so happy!

"Number 15, from Eric Hamber…" Oh my! I knew that my ex-partner was only being hard on himself!  He had made it!

"…[My ex-partner's partner]" Good job! Even better, now my ex-parnter would definitely be on the list and higher up.

"Number 14, from University Hill…" Okay, as much as I'd like to seem humble, I wasn't. I knew that it was me!

"...Nat Mico!" I freaked out, and danced as if I had been possessed by the devil. Also, I knew that because my ex-partner was better than me, he'd for sure get through to Provincials.

The numbers kept progressing to no avail. My ex-partner had not made it through. I was heavily depressed for the rest of the night.

I arrived home that night, to a congratulations from my father. I logged onto Facebook. My true friend from the start of the this story had posted a congrats to all, and misspelled my name in the process. I commented on her post, explaining how to spell my name. Then my ex-partner chimed in and copy/pasted a comment, in which I had explained how to spell my name to him. Then when my true friend was getting annoyed, my ex-partner posted another comment, only this time in Serbian. In translation, it meant "the language is hard". My true friend was freaking out and telling us "evil little grade 10s" to "get off her post". Anyway, my partner went on to make more Serbian comments, which he would later delete for God knows what reason, and my true friend told us to "stop flirting". Okay, we weren't flirting. Up until a few days ago, I had thought that my partner was asexual - not necessarily a bad thing. Disregarding my anecdotes, let's move on to my next point.

Being the lovely human I am, I got off my true friend's post, and proceeded to create my own. I wrote a brief post on the Debate club's closed group page. In this post, I thanked my partner, congratulated everyone, and all that other crap. However, there was one thing in my post, which I would find out would come back to "bite me on the butt". At the end of the post, I explained that I wouldn't be on Facebook for the rest of the night, for I would be formulating my response to the terrible tournament director of the previous tournament (not Regionals).

The Girl at the Pool - Part 7

The next day was Regionals, it started off bad. I looked at the schedule of debates and it was tough. In fact, I'd have to face my polite partner and his new partner from two nights prior in the third round. Honestly however, I knew that I wouldn't make it to Provincials, and so I was really only coming to have fun. I regret that I ever gave up on winning. Our first match was against the school which had hosted that tournament two days prior. Guess who sat in to watch? Yes, the bitchy tournament director. I almost fainted thinking that she would be my judge, so I came up and I asked.  I was determined to have her transferred to a different room, if she was a judge. She said that she was just a spectator and I was elated. I knew that she had only walked into that debate to throw me off with her presence, but what that lady didn't know was that I feed off hate. I love it, it's motivation for me to do well. Like with all my first debates, I wasn't as good as I could've been, but I was decent. Luckily, the girls we were facing had no idea what they were talking about, so we seemed better than we actually were. My partner from my school was fantastic and gave some of the best debate speeches of her life. AMAZING JOB, EMILY!

At the end of the debate, the judges provided feedback, as they are required to. Then this old, shameless tournament director proceeded to give her own feedback.

"Oh, I didn't know that you were a judge." I stated.

"I'm not, but I have some feedback as well." She replied.

"Well I really don't feel that non-judge feedback is relevant, so I'd prefer that you don't give your feedback to me." I POLITELY declared.

She blushed and went outside to give feedback to her debaters.

My second debate had my heart racing. I was going up against the reigning champions. Oh god. As it appeared, they weren't actually all that good. I think I did really well against them, so I was super happy after that round. Then it was dinner time, and there was some damn good food. Lasagna, salad, pasta salad, coffee, tea, cookies - the works. My dinner happiness was cut short however, by the partner from my old school. According to him, he had failed in his first two rounds. I brushed it off by saying that he's just being hard on himself - as usual.

Next round was awesome! "Ex-debate partners take each other on!" I could see it in lights. Okay, so I was sort of intimidated because he is so good. I screwed that speech up so bad. HORRIBLY! Oh well, I knew that if anything, I had lost to him. He deserved it, he had prepared far more material than my 3 hour research had.

Last round was fine. A couple of good debaters, and luckily for me, a good judge. Who? My ex-partner's dad was judging me. That went down fine.

Off to Victoria!

The Girl at the Pool series has not yet been fully published, so some of you may not be aware that after coming in 14th at the Lower Mainland West Regional competition in debate, I advanced on to Provincials. This is my first year to be able to do so, and I am very grateful for the opportunity, especially considering the fact that I had to overcome many obstacles to actually make it.

The first obstacle which stood in my way was all those private school kids, who always have the upper hand - I did that. Secondly, I had advanced onto Provincials with that partner I had talked about it my previous post incompetence. (I refered to her as the one who has a long way to go in debate.) Usually, that would be a great thing, because I really think that she was a good partner, who worked well with me. Here's the problem, two days before registration for the tournament is due, she dropped out on me. She had a bunch of excuses and sort of left me hanging, but I'm a big girl and I can fend for myself.

Scrambling, I emailed the tournament director and kindly asked if there was anyway for me to still attend the tourney. Amazingly, this fantastic tournament director found me a partner on a few days notice and I could still attend. Funnily, my new partner was also from a public school. What's more, is that my new partner was the girl who had won first place at the tournament where I had made a scene. I was pretty sure that she had hated me, but when I finally met her, she seemed as nice as possible.

We discussed our topic of prisoner voting, and came up with a few points. Then we went on to recount some debates we had been in, which we considered to be horrible. This girl has had considerable success in debate, considering that it's just her first year. We parted ways after a few hours and she set up a Google doc for us to share and add any other facts to.

I had succeeded in getting that sorted out and I was going to be able to compete in my tournament. It would really be a shame if I was unable to sort it out since I had already booked a hotel and called up my two best friends in the whole wide world to come and be my moral cheerleaders in Victoria. They agreed, and I was/am excited to be going with them!

Last night, I packed a change of clothes and a set of debate clothes, I packed my phone charger, my toothbrush, my hairbrush, and some snacks for the ferry trip. Despite having sent both my friends an itinerary, I called them to confirm some aspects of the trip. (They aren't the types that would actually take the time to read an itinerary, so I'd rather be safe than sorry. Despite having told myself that i would go to sleep early so that I could wake up refreshed for the debate, I went to bed around half past eleven.

When I first started debating, I would be unable to sleep the night before the debate due to nerves and excitement, after a few debates however, the feelings died down. Now it is 6:00am the day of my debate. I was supposed to wake up at 8:00am to catch a ferry. However, something isn't letting me sleep. Instead of sleeping, I am blogging.

It doesn't really matter, I guess. But despite my immense confidence, I have a few butteflies in my stomach. I tried to disspell these butterflies and cast them away by listening to Polyushko-Polye on repeat last night. I feel like Soviet Communist Party march songs are extremely inspiring, and listen to them whenever I am in need of a morale boost. 

In a few hours my friends will be here, they will assure me that I will do well in my debate because I am the best at what I do. We will get on the ferry, and probably be reported as nuisances for being so loud and obnoxious. It's going to be fun. In Victoria, they'll probably watch a few of my debates and go do some of their touristy activities. I'll go to my end banquet and have a good time. Honestly, I probably won't be able to sleep in Victoria either, in part due to nerves and in part due to the fact that one of my friends sleeps like a starfish, and if I end up sharing a bed with her it's going to get ugly.

When I get back, I will post all a out what happened, but for now, I am going to really try and go to back to sleep, or at least go to my living room so that I don't look like a blogging nerdy loser. (Right now, I am sitting on my bed typing out this post on my phone; my phone is getting really hot).

Whilst writing this post, I have seen the sunrise, and the sky change from a smokey navy blue, to a dim and pale sort of blue. I have watched as the thick clouds of dark blue have evaporated away from my window, to reveal the cloudless sky, which is still not a bright blue since the sun hasn't fully rose. I have heard my mom wake up, something which almost never happens. I have heard the pitter-patter of her steps on our wood floor, as they made their way to our bathroom, then to our kitchen, where I heard the tap begin it's irrevocable waterfall. She's washing dishes.

I know that when I do wake up, she will look at me with loving eyes, and beg me to go back to bed, or at least tell that I have nothing to worry about. 

As this day gets brighter and the sun climbs higher into each pore of the eternal sky, I am feeling strange. Some feeling of such utter beauty is overcoming me. Some feeling which is encouraging me to be an early riser. My eyes keep drifting from my phone to my window, and I cannot stop them. It looks like it's going to be a beautiful ride on the ferry.

The Girl at the Pool - Part 6

So what did this terrible letter say? Well apart from all the stuff about how she was unhappy with how the night went down in general, she provided three main reasons:

A) My partner and I cheated her in order to be a hybrid team.

B) We delayed debates by taking extra time in the hallways to prepare.

C) I had an extremely embarrassing outburst at the awards ceremony.

Okay, I can't deny C, but I can say that I proudly stand by it. I voiced an opinion, as I was taught to do - both by parents and educators. My statement was justified, and required no apology to this woman organizer. The only person I may have need to apologize to -if they had requested it- was the girl who had won. I was being the change I wanted to see in the world.

Next is A, we cheated? Okay, let's look at that. She claimed that my partner had told her that we were permitted to participate as a team. Clearly, by the emails, anyone can see that we never said that. We said that there is a rule in the DSABC constitution that apparently allows hybrid teams, but that it is an unclear rule and that we are discussing it with the president of the DSABC. This unfit tournament director simply said that our registration has been accepted. She payed no mind whatsoever to the rules, and signed us up as a hybrid. Meanwhile, the DSABC president got back to us. She said "no". Why would she say such a thing when the rules clearly state that hybrid teams are allowed without restrictions as long as they are approved? Well because she is the coach of a private school, and god forbid that they don't come out on top. Officially however, she said that her "no" was because she didn't want to create "power teams". Anyway, since I knew that she was just lying, I replied to her and asked her for clarification, and why teams were allowed to compete before. She replied after a couple weeks, and avoided all the questions that she couldn't make up an answer to. Once again, the answer was "no". Fine, but we were already registered and could not change that. Because this tournament organizer hadn't bothered to check the rules, because it was too late, and because we really didn't want to not go together, we didn't say anything. Everything was rosy when we got there and she hadn't said anything about the rules. So a blatant lie from a blatantly bad person.

As for B and delaying debates. That also wasn't our fault. That was her fault, due to her terrible organization. She hadn't briefed the judges about why and how long the preparation time would be for the impromptu topic. The judges in our room looked at us and asked us if fifteen minutes would be adequate preparation time. Both my partner and I and the opposing team agreed, and we left the room to prepare in the hallway. Nice of us, eh? Anyway, this woman had now made another rampant lie without any evidence to back it up.

This whole email was obviously unacceptable and extremely unprofessional. Worst of all, it CC'd the president of the DSABC. I was deeply hurt and I immediately forwarded it to my parents. They too were appalled. Along with what I had seen, there was also a defending email in response from the Hamber coach, who I had previously mentioned has taught me everything I know about debate. Another response from my partner, who was being too nice, as usual. The woman was talking behind my back, and she was absolutely horrid. My parents asked me to formulate a reply, and I did, but I didn't send it.

The Girl at the Pool - Part 5

My parents gave me their take on things: from what I had told them, the judging sounded horribly biased, and I was right to raise awareness. My dad however, did suggest that I do it in a more civilized way next time. Thanks for standing by me guys! That was the end of that day and night. After having a late-night snack, to compensate for my sixth place shortcoming (as individual speaker) I was in a dream state. In many cases, I dream about debates, and really good speeches after I attend them. However, the debates of that day were so horrid, so bad, that I couldn't dream of anything.

This whole day had felt like one short film. The outburst, the lone child agreeing with me, the laying alone in a desolate school gymnasium, the tears, my friend calming me in the halls, the snazzy dude stopping me at the door, the look of utter shock on the faces of all these people, the undeserved apology I gave, the final goodbye from my partner, the cold, wet walk to Mr. Forman's car, the drive back, the bright, distorted lights, the crossing of the Burrard Bridge with my imaginary music playing, the ride up to my apartment in the elevator, the soothing by my parents, and my eventual sleeping.

I woke up in the morning, refreshed and feeling better. I was sick with some sort of stomach ache, so I didn't attend school. I stayed home, in bed, for I was both mentally and physically sick. I tried to busy myself with catching up on homework and other things of that nature, but was unsuccessful. All that my mind was capable of bearing was the events of the night prior. Call me unforgiving, call me Miss Grudger, call me spoiled, but I couldn't wrap my head around that night, or the apology. Being the kind person that he is, my partner had provided me with the password to his email. Being the cunning person that I am, I figured that this ass-a-holic lady would most likely send an email of disdain to my partner, for she did not have my email account. So I logged onto my partner's account. I knew that even if an email had been sent, he wouldn't let me know for some time. Why? Because Regionals were coming up the next day, and I'm assuming that he'd want me to have a clear mind, so that I could kick some Lower Mainland West booty.

Regardless, I logged onto the account, and found myself to be right. This tournament director -who had preached professional behaviour to me the previous night- had written an extremely accusing and hatred filled letter to my poor, polite partner. She is 55-ish years old. My partner is 15. Is it okay for a woman, who runs a website/company on communication skills, I might add, to send a terrible letter to a teenager? I don't think so. I mean, look, if you are really unable to overcome that outburst by this adolescent, then you probably aren't fit to be working with adolescents. If you can't take "the high road", then why wouldn't contact the child's teacher, or their coach, instead of the child himself? I don't know, maybe hormones screw up after menopause.

The Girl at the Pool - Part 4

The thoughts rushed through my head at a billion per second. Why should I have to apologize for exercising my right to freedom of speech? Why should I have to apologize for taking the initiative to state something that the majority of the people were thinking? I shouldn't, right? Okay, sure, maybe I didn't make my statement in the most civilized manner, maybe I didn't file a formal written complaint, but at least my voice was heard - literally. After much persuasion Mr. Forman, I was pressured to apologize, I was forced to apologize. I went up to the tournament organizer, a feminist-looking, short-haired, male-faced woman, and her short, fat, scrunchy-faced companion. I apologized for my "erratic" behaviour and I said that this will probably be the end of my debating career. They said that my outburst probably hurt the girl who actually won first place. I told them that that wasn't my intention, but regardless, I'd stand by what I said.

The night ended with my teary-face and a polite goodbye from the world's politest partner. I walked out with Mr. Forman and stepped into his car. As we drove through the dark, rainy night, I glanced into the nothingness (skyscrapers) through the dew-covered windows. The bright lights became distorted through the tiny water droplets, which I found to be on the outside part of the window, when I tried to wipe them away. Somehow, it was the perfect.

On the way, Mr. Forman gossiped about another boy in my school, and told me about how he hadn't expected me to act that way. According to him, I had always seemed so professional in my manner of being. I guess that makes sense, but it's a rather harsh judgement, considering that he only ever sees me debate. If only he had seen me outside of debate - I guarantee he wouldn't have said the same. I basically told him that I hope that he isn't mad at me, and that I hope that this action doesn't reflect badly on the school, as a whole. Alright, so that was the end of that. I walked the few steps to my building, buzzed my parents to let me in, and voila! I then proceeded to take the longest -and loneliest- elevator ride of my life. I got upstairs, and my awesome little sister was at the elevator door. She did some cute little move, to signify that she was happy that I had come home, and I gave her my dust-covered ribbon.

She was ecstatic! A first place ribbon! She devised a quick, little scheme: I would stay in the hallway, and she'd go into our apartment and show my parents the ribbon and then she'd say "presenting the best debater, Nat!" Then, I'd walk in, and the rest is banal. So, I walked in to the applause of three people. My mom saw my tears, and decided that they were tears of joy, so she started crying with me, so did my younger sister. I hated raining on their parade, still, I told them that I was actually crying because of the days events.

The Girl at the Pool - Part 3

So after my little ''outburst'', I stomped out of the auditorium, and started crying in the halls. It was bad. Luckily, I had a true friend with me, and she walked out to comfort me. She had just come to spectate, but she ended up taking on the role of psycho-therapist. She persuaded me to come back in for the team rankings. I listened to this wonderful, kind person, who would later prove to me that, even though she is a North American girl, she has some serious backbone. Anyways, I walked back into the awards ceremony, they announced the top teams, and my partner and I got best team. I didn't want to take my award because I have a lot of honour, dignity, pride, ego, sense of justice etc.. The North American girl was on my side, but this snazzy guy -who thinks he is really cool- came up to me with all his swagger and was all like (in an extremely sensual voice) "don't be a sore loser, go up there and accept your prize", then he sort of nudged my shoulder, and I was up at the ribbon area.

My partner and I were standing there, and they gave us these ribbons. Then they tried to shake our hands, my partner did shake hands with them, I simply could not find it in me to do that to such assholes. I took my ribbon, stuffed it in my bag, and I was out of the auditorium, to have a good cry. I ran around the enormous, foreign school, trying to find somewhere where no one could find me. I succeeded, and found refuge in the gym, which was unlocked and empty. I layed down on the gym floor, and threw my ribbon of first place through one of the basketball hoops. It got stuck in the netting, and I didn't want to get it.

After about 10 minutes, I decided that it would be time for me to go back. After all, my new debate coach - Mr. Forman, who is a champion swimmer who enjoys teaching debate- had kindly offered to drive me home that night, so that I wouldn't be subject to Vancouver's treacherous transportation system. Once I got back, I found a bunch of the people from my school and my partners schools quietly talking. I still don't know what about, but I my guess is as good as yours. I was greeted by Mr. Forman, who was going to drive me home, and told by him that I needed to apologize.

"Apologize to who?" I asked.

"To the tournament directors." He responded.

The Girl at the Pool - Part 2

I had a debate today. It was at a public high school. My partner was the one that I had discussed in the previous post "Incompetence". As I had said before, he is amazing, both as a person and as a debater. Anyway, since I don't know if I mentioned this in the previous post, and because I'm too lazy to look back, I want to mention the fact that he is extremely insecure. He's one of those people who constantly belittles themselves. I hate that, but oh well.

As a joke, he had downloaded Queen's song "We are the Champions", to prove that he was sure that we were going to win. A pretty unexpected move, coming from him. Then, when we finally begun our debates, he joked around again - saying something about how we should walk out of the awards ceremony if we aren't first place. Right, this was a joke, but it did have some merit. I knew that he was fed up with always losing, and more than anything, I knew that he deserved to win. There wasn't one person at that debate that was better than him - not one! The boy was flawless, he had every single little aspect of debate down. In fact, my peer agreed. She said that if she were a judge, she'd ask to have her scoring region moved beyond 95/100, just so that she could give him a higher mark.

Anyways, after the last round was over, I was happy. I knew that we had done really well, I knew that he had done better than me and I knew that, as a team, we deserved to win. Anybody would've known that. Also, the topics at this debate were the worst topics I have ever had to debate. The person who made up those topics is most likely retarded, or really scared of generating any controversy. So I told him that he deserves first place, as an individual speaker. Being the good religious boy that he is, he said that he hopes I win first place speaker, and I said "no, you deserve it more" and so on.   After a little bit, we all took group photos and reflected with our coaches on how our debates went.

We finally made it to the awards ceremony and they started calling the top ten individual speakers, and the top five teams, or something like that. They begun with the tenth best individual speaker, and worked their way up. They called me as number six, which was totally unfair, as I had done much better than sixth place, but regardless I didn't say anything. I crossed my fingers and hoped for the best for my partner. First place wasn't far from reach. Obviously, I was wrong because they called him as second best speaker. That was unacceptable, he had deserved better. He can't stand up for himself and so I would. I yelled out, in a very un-debatey way, something along the lines of "he should have gotten first place and I should've gotten better, this isn't fair and this sucks! The judging is so biased"

Then, I heard a highly functioning sociopath yell out something along the lines of "I agree! He should've gotten first place!" A little bit of reenforcement never hurts. My partner was accepting his ribbon and staring at me like "what the hell is wrong with you, crazy lady?" But he never actually said anything, but let's be clear, the way someone looks at you speaks louder than his/her words. I knew that he didn't really approve, but I really didn't care. He is insecure and has an issue with fighting for his rights. So let's clear the air completely, my partner is not retarded, he has the ability of telling right from wrong, but he sadly has no backbone, like many other people in North America. The "highly functioning sociopath" is not from North America, so he's pretty tough, I guess. However, it may just be the fact that he is a sociopath.

Sick Priorities

I'm sick today. For the gazzilionth time this new year, I am sick. I'm not just a little sick, I am sick sick. It's bad. It's a pro-d day today, so I am not actually missing any school. The issue arrises when I come to the realization of the fact that I am sick to the point that I cannot actually enjoy my pro-d day. On this lovely long weekend, I would really like to go out and introduce my friend to bubble tea. I'd like to go get some coffee with my friends. I would kind of like to go to my old school and practice with my panicky partner for an upcoming tournament. Can I do these things? Yes, I can. The problem is, I cannot do them with pleasure, or to the best of my ability. So, I guess in a way, I cannot actually do these things. That is why I will not be doing these things today. Well, not all of them, at least. 

Last night, I felt like I was getting better, so when my girlfriend called me and asked if we were still on for tomorrow, I said sure. Firstly, I really want to get together with her, as I haven't seen her in a while. Secondly, I really wanted to introduce my other friend to the BEST bubble tea in the city. I love going out with these two girls because they're amazing, too. Also, both of these girl's had recently agreed to travel to Victoria with me for 3 nights, just to watch my debate tournament! They seriously deserve me coming out to see them. Another thing is that we agreed to meet relatively close to my place, so I wouldn't be traversing the whole city just to see them (they however, are doing exactly that). So I have decided that because it would unfair for me to cancel a few hours in advance -despite the fact that they could definitely hang out with one another and despite the fact that they wouldn't be at all mad- I will be going to meet them. 

As for the panicky debate partner. He's great! I make fun of him for being a worry-wart, but he really hasn't been all that panicky these last few days - generally, he is though. So I was invited to his school's debate club meeting today, too. They have two sessions, one from 11am and one from 4pm. Both reasonable times, especially the 4pm block, which I'd prefer. However, I will not be able to attend either. Why? Because I woke up too late to attend the early one, and because the early one is also being led by some sex-obsessed cretin, who likes to spread rumours. I wish however, that I would drop this computer right now, go take a shower, put on some normal clothes and go to that practice, so that I can practice with my partner. Sadly, something in my head is telling me that it just isn't that important. I get to be lazy today, right? It's a long weekend, I can prepare my case with my partner some other time online. I'm sick and I don't want to make the relatively long journey over to my old school. Not to mention the fact that I really don't want to wash my hair right now (and I REALLY need to). 

Okay, so why don't I go at 4pm, well because -quite frankly- my friends are more important to me. If I meet them at 2, then I probably won't be able to just talk to them for an hour and then head out to my old school. Also, I think that I need to be at my apartment in order to let my little sister come in from school around 4. Yes, yes, I know, I'm just making up excuses. If I were really sick, I wouldn't be able to go anywhere, and I guess that that's partially true. But think about it, today is Chinese New Year, and the place that has the BEST bubble tea in the city is smack dab in the middle of a Chinese Market Place. That sounds SO interesting and fun! Debate, on the other hand, is starting to feel like a chore for me. I never thought that I'd say it because I was so infatuated with debate when I first started, but it is becoming more and more of a duty, as opposed to a fun time. Even debate with these awesome kids at my awesome old school is starting to feel heavy. As for my new school, the children are rather banal and the coach hates my guts (openly, too), so the lustre of that debate practice had eroded a while ago. In fact it has faded off so much for me that I actually skipped it last time. It's not even a real class! This isn't like when you skip math class or science because you didn't do the homework, or because you just hate the class and are forced to take it. This is like when you have something you love to do, and YOU elect to take it - then you skip it. It makes no sense. There's no homework, no tests - you just skip it. It's terrible. 

Now I will wipe the tears off my face, head for the shower and go meet my friends. We are going to have a good time and learn new things, all about the Lunar New Year. We are going to watch the expression on my friend's face when she tries bubble tea for the first time, and we are going to let loose. I will not think about Debate. 

Lastly, I want to apologize to my remarkable partner for his devotedness and his understanding in all situations. Sorry, I promise to come next Friday, and if you want, meet you over this weekend. You may be the very thing that makes me and Debate's relationship work again. If you are Debate's gift, he made a good choice, a choice which may just make me stay.  

The Girl at the Pool - Part 1

As a swimmer, I get to meet a lot of people who also swim, mostly at my club. These are swimmers of all ages and all types. Since they all swim at the same time, and at roughly the same time, it is easy to determine who is worth your time and who isn't.

Many of the swimmers that I have come across are total stuck up douches, but every so often, you come across someone remarkable. As my little sister is also a swimmer, I get to hear a lot of stories about her friends from the pool and what they do. In a way, my sister's stories let me get to know a person, before actually getting to know them. I learn a lot about each one of her friends and what they do, how funny they are, etc..

One of her friend's, who she mentions most often, I have known for a long time. She is 11 years old, really tall for her age and pretty - in a funky way. She always has a smile and is always talking about stuff. Needless to say, she is my kind of girl. I like people like her.

Ever since I was little, I have had the notion that older people know more than their younger counterparts. Thus, I never would've considered the fact that one day, I'd actually be learning from someone younger than me - but that's exactly what happened.

A few days ago, my little sister came home, and begun divulging a "juicy story" to me. It had to do with the really tall girl. She told me that this girl had sworn during practice, and thus was asked to stay after practice, so that the coach could have a word with her. I was surprised, as this girl really didn't seem like the type who swears. Apparently, some really annoying boy was annoying her, and she said the dreaded words "fuck you" to him. This is no big deal in my age group, but I guess that there are higher standards for younger kids.

Personally, I would have given him more than just a swear word if he had said the things he had said to her to me. I would have punched him in the face - and I'd have every right to do so. He had said that it had slept with the girl's mom. Okay, I mean, I get "mom" jokes, but you can't just go around telling people that you got it on with their mom - especially not out of the blue.

This boy had, according to my sister, been the most annoying living soul ever since he started swimming, with his constant teasing. Anyway, the coach talked to her, and told her all about the negative effects of swearing, and you know, gave her the proverbial "slap on the wrist".

This is always traumatic as a young girl, especially one who isn't used to criticism, so she cried.

What's the point that I'm trying to get at here? Well, I talked to this girl the next time I saw her at the pool. A covenant "shower area" talk. I blatantly asked her about what my sister told me. This girl, being the amazingly wise young girl that she is, admitted. She said that she felt really bad about it. I told her not to worry, and that she's a good kid - that's when she said the stupendous thing. She looked at me and she said "well, it's probably better that I did". Such a simple phrase, but it really got to me. I asked her "why?" And she elaborated. She gave me a very philosophical statement. This really tall girl said "well, you know, if I hadn't said anything, then I just would've kept it inside. And then, one day, I'd just get a gun and kill everyone." Initially, I laughed, and I told her that I totally supported her decision.

That night, I went home contemplating the complexities of life. (I'm trying to say I had nothing to do, so I just thought about whatever I could). Then the thought popped into my mind. What she had said was true entirely. You can't live your whole life only observing injustice, you actually have to voice it  - for your own good. You need to say what's on your mind, otherwise you'll end up doing exactly what she said - grabbing a gun and killing everyone.

I really did think long and hard about this. The degree of political correctness that currently exists in our society. Everyone encourages you to speak your mind, but they don't actually want you to. If your opinion is any different from the social norm, society will eat you up and spit you out. Those people that want you to voice your opinion, only want you to do so if your opinion is the same as their's. That's BS, in my opinion. So I realized that I need to speak up. If I don't, well then I'll probably end up killing either myself, or those around me. I don't want either.
I asked myself: "what is a social injustice that I need to speak up about?" I couldn't really think of anything that was within reach. The typical ideas of world peace and poverty came to mind, but those were just impossible. The next thing that came up was probably the most prominent thing in my life. Debate. I thought about all the injustices that take place in debate. How there are always undeserving winners, and how the tournaments are -for the most part- fixed. I decided to speak up. I decided to say what the majority was thinking, but how? I knew that most of the people in my school agreed that the tournaments were fixed. I knew that this rigging had actually made so many of the debaters in my club fed-up. Some weren't even going to tourneys with the intention of winning, rather just for fun. These debates had crushed the hopes of success of so many children. Somebody needed to say something.