The Title

No, I didn't make a mistake when publishing this post. I intended to name it "The Title" because that is exactly what I will be discussing in today's angry post.

With only about one week left of school before I graduate, the pressure is on. Generally, the ends of terms are harried with various tasks that you would rather not do. All those assignments you procrastinated on during the months; all those little things that cause you far too great of a hassle. That description is only valid when you exclude grade 12. See, at the end of the year in grade 12, things are even worse. Not only do you have to do all those missed assignments so that you can maintain your university acceptance, you also have to deal with all those things that come with graduation. 

In fact, tomorrow, I walk across the stage and grab my diploma from my principal, thereby signifying that I have persevered and achieved what has been my societally imposed purpose for the past 13 years. Really, it hurts just seeing it written out - "13 years". I spent 13 years in school everyday to get what? A piece of paper? How sad. What's more sad is that those years feel nearly totally wasted. I can't figure out why I did the daily grind, and that's unfortunate. But, I'm not going to whine about that right now. I'm going to count my blessings as a student gaining some minimal amount of freedom from the shackles of my community-college-educated teachers. At least now, when I begin to pay for school by attending university, the capitalist system should allow me voice dissatisfaction and potentially have my grievances be sustained. Right, hopefully university is better. 

Back to the big final weeks.

One of the major things that usually follows graduation is prom. Prom is that amazing day, filled with wonderful people, beautiful dresses, lots of liquor and plenty of fun. At least that's what it's supposed to be. From my experiences, and through ample hearsay, I have learned that prom is seldom that. Most of the time, you aren't friends with everyone in high school - far from it. You're generally friends with a small clique. Why? Because that small clique is the group you choose to spend you're time with, supposedly because they are most similar in ideology to you. Not necessarily political ideology - you get it, I'm sure. 

Then there's the second aspect - the outfits. Those "beautiful dresses" that all look like they were made by a blind, candy-store owner. Hideous and tacky, sometimes outrageously colorful, and sometimes made of fabrics akin to those of spacesuits - these are the dresses for prom. Worst of all, they are all strikingly similar. The same ugly sweetheart necklines and the same ugly lengths. They're horrible. I'd argue that prom dresses are just re-purposed curtains, but that's just me.

Then there's the liquor, which is supposed to exist, but doesn't because parents stand on the perimeter and inspect prom-goers. At least that is the case at my upcoming prom.

Did I mention that this all costs you a hefty 175$? 175$ for dinner and a dance and 3 hours of your life. Obviously, if you have a date, the price will double.

So, does that all sound like fun? I'll tell you something: Of the 150 people in my graduating class, only about 65 are going to prom, and the price is the least of the concerns.

My school wasn't even planning on having a prom. In fact, around March, I asked the social coordinator at my school if and when prom was happening. She told me that prom was "Such a white girl thing to do", and that, if I wanted a prom I should go and organize one. Well, thanks for the advice, social coordinator. Regardless to those remarks, a short while later, my social coordinator went on the school Facebook group and asked how many people wanted to have a prom. Lo and behold - many. Then, she began preparations.

After spending 4 years at my school, I realize that I am not friends with many people. We're all very different in ideologies. I don't like to take caffeine tablets in order to prolong the amount of time I can physically study my physics homework. They do. I like to do things other than study. They don't. You get the idea. 

So, when the prom plan was revealed. and the price was announced, I considered all options. I realized that I probably wouldn't enjoy being cooped up in a window-less ballroom with those people. I wouldn't enjoy paying 175$ for that experience and I wouldn't enjoy picking out a bubblegum colored curtain to use as a dress. So, I decided to do my own thing. My parents encouraged me, and a lot of the other kids at school were also doing it. After all, everyone wants celebrate the end of school, and, if ~90 kids aren't going to the official prom, that means that there are a lot of "mini-proms" happening. 

I decided to organize my own mini prom. My parents had told me that they'd gladly give me 175$ if I wanted to go to prom, but they'd give me that money if I wanted to do something else too. I figured that I could book a trip for a few days somewhere close by for about the same cost, and I began preparations. Oh, the obstacles just seemed to never end!

Initially, there was plenty of interest, but that just kept dwindling. Some people decided that they would go to school prom, others had overly-protective parents who wouldn't let them spend 3 nights away from home, others couldn't afford the price tag, which I set at 200$. I advertised my trip as being basically the same price for 3 nights, as prom is for 3 hours. I expected it to be fantastic. Eventually, the 17 people who had initially expressed interest dropped out and left only 6. It was going to be only 6 of us girls. The group of the girls actually was formidable. I feel highly comfortable around all of them. Moreover, boys would have detracted from the comfort-level. Even moreover, the smaller the group, the less the chance of something bad happening. When you're in a house with 20 teens, it's risky. When you're in a house with 6 teens, the odds are much better.

Things seemed perfect.

I finally had the money from all 6 and was ready to book. All those obstacles I had had, had melted away. I just needed to find a nice place for 6 and book it.

Of course, that would be too easy. The universe needed to throw me another curve ball.

It came in the form of my best friend telling me that she would like to reschedule the trip. Why in the world would she want such a thing? Because she wanted to go to school prom. "I just think that we could do both." is what she said to me. She wanted to go to school prom, and then go on our trip some other time. Obviously, I wasn't going to agree to this. 

First of all, my one friend didn't warrant the rescheduling and restarting of planning for this trip. Second, she wasn't special. I wasn't going to alter everything for the other 4 girls and myself in order to accommodate her current whim. Third, I had no intention of going to school prom. I don't fancy those people. I don't fancy their over-priced price. I don't fancy 3 hours of parent-supervised dancing to top 40 music. Frankly, I'm too cool for that. I thought that my friend was too. After all, she had seemed very excited and had given me her 200$ just a few days prior. So, what could've possibly instigated this drastic change? I asked.

She first told me that she had hoped that more people were going. How she had realized it, a lot of people were going to go, and they were all going to be our friends. Well, that deserved two responses. The first was that yes, a lot of people were going to go, but fewer people was easier logistically, and I also personally preferred it to the discomfort that would come with having a large group of acquaintances. The second was that our only true friends through high school had been each other. She wasn't highly socially active when I met her, and I was. I had had many acquaintances, she hadn't. Nonetheless, those people were all acquaintances - she was my friend. Now, however, those acquaintances of mine had become hers, apparently. And apparently, she was so close to those acquaintances, that she wanted to spend the night with all of them rather than 5 of us. 

I think she missed the talk about quality versus quantity. 

After a day or so, she told me that her reasoning was different: Now, she had done some introspection and stumbled upon a big philosophical question: How would she feel in the future, when she reflects and recognizes that she had never gone to "official prom"? She didn't want to risk that potentially negative feeling and therefore needed to go. That was all fine, and I was not going to hold her back. She worried if I was mad. Well, of course I was. Here she was, posing as an enormous obstacle to my success of planning this trip. But, I wouldn't tell her that.

I don't want to hold her back from her desires in what is her last week of school. Obviously, we aren't going to stay friends forever, so what's the point of trying to force it in this home stretch of high school. She had changed a lot over the years, and perhaps I had too. After considering this all, I told her I would do my best to accommodate her. And, really, I am going way out of my way to make this pleasant for her. I am doing her a giant favor, really.

I know what her two reasons are in actuality. The first is the lack of people. When I met her, she was new to the country. She didn't have enough connections in order to get invited to parties and social gatherings. She was quiet and not particularly social. That was attractive to me. I was a social butterfly with plenty of connections, but I needed someone quiet to keep me grounded. I genuinely thought that she was the way she was authentically. I didn't think that it was any facade. But it was. Because as soon as the opportunity presented itself, she jumped on it. As soon as she found a group that invited her to parties, she was partying well into the nights. She wasn't actually a quiet person at all. It's just that, at school, I had fulfilled that niche since the start, so there was no space for her to be a partying, loud kid; she felt pushed into the shadows.

For her, a party of 6 likable girls isn't fun. If there aren't going to be police coming or if there aren't going to people choking on their vomit and nearly dying, it just isn't worth it. 

The second major reason lies in the title of this post. The title of "official prom" is a difficult one to miss out on. It doesn't matter that it will be terribly lame and boring, it is called "prom". It doesn't matter that everything about it is tacky and gross, it is called "prom". It doesn't matter that all those people there are acquaintances, at best, to her, it is called "prom". You have to go to prom. That's just a rule. You can't go against the grain and do your own thing, you have to conform to prom. 

It's like Bachelor and Bachelorette parties. You know? People go to Vegas and get wasted, and get with strippers and hookers, but it's ok. Even though they have a fiance(e) and are going to get married within a week, they can have guilt-free sex because it's their Bachelor party, and it's their last bit of freedom. Why? Didn't their freedom disappear when they started seriously dating their significant other? No, their freedom will only go away when their significant other attains the elusive title of "husband" or "wife". How sad. That's the reality. 

It causes me some sadness to think that my friend falls into that category; to think that maybe she has always wanted to be someone else, but that I have held her back by being louder and more social. I really shouldn't be worrying though, I too am graduating, I too should be happy-go-lucky. I have wanted nothing more than to escape the confides of my uninspiring high school and my uninspiring peers. The time is finally here. 

Is my friend doing anything malicious? No, she's just following her heart, and who could blame her for that? Certainly not me. So, is this a smear post? No, it's just a sort of pitiful expression of sadness. Why did I hold her back? 

I think far too much. I graduate tomorrow! I'm free tomorrow! Life is upon me and it's all going to be perfect. I feel so loved by everyone around me that I am a fool to let something so minuscule in the grand scheme of things upset me. I shouldn't. I'm going to book that trip now, and I am going to have a great time knowing that I was cool enough to let "official prom" pass me by. Furthermore, I'm going to have a great time with those girls, whether my friend decides to show up or not.

I'm going to go book that trip now. Thanks for reading.

Can You Take a Joke? Part 1

I am about to speak to you from vast experience, so buckle down, grab your notepad and listen up.

A few weeks ago, my rather uneventful romantic life took a drastic leap. All of a sudden, as of what I firmly believe was a curse, boys left, right and center, were very interested in me.

The curse? Well, one day, while I was sitting plainly in my music class with a group of friends, someone brought up romance. Everyone shared a story of love - crazy girlfriends, current crushes and whatever else. There I stood completely silent. That's when Gavin, the leader of the conversation, who also happens to be one of the biggest players in the city, turned to me and smirkingly said "So, Nat, how's your love-life going?" I smiled politely, and responded "Oh, you know, it's not moving." Both of us giggled. Gavin found my reply cute. Our conversation progressed onto other matters and all that was spoken about quickly found itself buried into the depths of our minds.

Until the next day.

The very next day, everything began tumbling and, like any tumbling object, gaining momentum. It all started with my friend of 4 years asking me to prom with romantic intentions. This situation was dealt with effectively. I simply expressed my desire to remain friends, and friends alone, and my friend agreed very easily. We made the mutual decision to forget the event and continue on the happy road to graduation as nothing more than friends. According to my friend, Violetta, however, a man and woman can never just be friends - the man always seeks more. I disagree, but that's a discussion for another time. 

Soon after the slight misunderstanding, as I'll refer to it, with my friend, I had to deal with a whole other issue. A house party.

Seemingly banal and regular, I attended a house party hosted by a friend from school. This particular friend didn't have many friends at our school since he was new to it, so the party consisted mostly of people I didn't know from his old school. Initially, I was afraid that it would be awkward for me to be at a party where I didn't know anyone, but my friend assured me that all of his friends were very welcoming. I took the risk and it paid off. True enough, all of his friends from the school in the suburbs were pleasant and friendly. They made me feel very comfortable.

I spoke with most of them and they shared stories about each other to me. I learned about the notorious alcoholic, the desperate dater, the celebrity, and a plethora of other fun titles. I envied the group a little because of the level of comfort they felt amongst themselves. They felt completely free to insult and taunt each other, like true close friends. No one ever got legitimately angry at anyone. At my school, that seldom seemed the case: People get highly offended by joking remarks and seem generally less free in their speaking amongst themselves. But I digress.

After I spoke with however many people at the party, I had to go home. What a bummer because I was really enjoying the company. So, I rested through the rest of my weekend and showed up to school on Monday. This is when I received some confidence-boosting news. 

Violetta, myself, and the host of the party I had just attended, all walked home together. This was rather typical for the three of us. Violetta and I needed to reach the bus stop, and he lived on the way, so it was logical. He usually was even kind enough to wait for the bus with the two of us -though sometimes it was just me- for as long as it took. But, as I mentioned, that day's stroll brought with it some exciting news.

My friend asked me if I remembered a certain boy from the party, I did and I told him so. Then, my friend tried to elaborate on that boy, but I, in my usual fashion, interrupted him. I believed that it would be rude to speak of matters that Violetta was unaware of without filling her in, so I took it upon myself to first do that. Violetta, obviously, hadn't attended that party and therefore needed filling in. I explained the boy to Violetta, and, after about 10 minutes, asked my friend to continue with his story. By now, the story had slipped his mind, but, after insisting he pour every ounce of his energy into recalling the tale, he remembered it.

The boy from the party had told my friend to pass along to me the message that I was cute in his opinion. I was flattered. 

No matter how many times I get told I'm pretty, no matter under what circumstances the compliment is received, it never gets old. I love it. And, of course, I do wish that someone would see something more to me than my outstanding facial symmetry, but I'm not going to complain. So, I was cute and that was the end of the conversation.

I got home, and after having a bite to eat, received a text message from the party host. His words (and emojis) were full of vibrance and happiness. Something had apparently made him so excited that he simply had to share it with me. I was in shower, and so ignored his messages. By the time I was finished, I had approximately 10 unread messages waiting in my inbox from this boy. I was surprised and asked him to please share. The line of questioning began first with what my opinion was on being told I was cute by his friend. I again expressed that I was flattered by the remark. He told me that he had a similar message to share. According to him, I was very popular with his friends from the school in the suburbs. A second friend of his had confided in him that I was cute. Contrary to the first friend, this one expressed an interest in dating me by asking if I was single. 

How flattering.

The party host asked me if the romantic interest was mutual. Of course it wasn't. I had known the boy in question for 1 hour, and in that one hour, he was slightly under the influence anyways, so I didn't know him nearly well enough to feel anything romantic towards him. Moreover, at the party, the particular boy had come across somewhat full of himself. He told me about so many achievements of his and all about how great he was. This, in and of itself, was a turn-off for me. I don't need you to advertise yourself to me - if you're great, I'll see that, thanks. Naturally, I didn't say any of this to the party host, who was texting me this and acting as an intermediary because I didn't want to offend his friend.

After I explained that I was not interested in his friend, the party host decided to do what is known as "wing-man-ing". This is when you talk up your friend in order to entice interest in him. I read the host's messages and grinned. How utterly cute it was to play wing man; what a friend! Nonetheless, I wasn't changing my mind. And that's when the weird thing happened: The party host, who has been passing on messages to me and talking up his friend, stops replying to my messages briefly. This is highly unusual for him; he is the type who is readily available on phone. So, I put my phone down and went to chat with my friend, who is the guitarist in my band, and who will be discussed in greater detail later on. I made plans with the guitarist to get churros and bubble tea. I can't remember why churros, but that's irrelevant anyways. After I made plans, my phone lit up again. I pulled my thumb downwards to display the message that I had just received and there it was, in all of its adoring glory.

The message, from the host of the party himself read "Maybe I'm interested, listen, fuick everyone else wanna go out?"

My-oh-my! Well, wasn't this just grand?

A third suitor altogether. That tumbling object that was my love life, was tumbling and even gaining momentum. Of course, the message was, again, highly flattering. This boy knew me more so than the rest of his flirtatious counterparts, so his disclosure of interest was even more flattering. And so, everything was looking just rosy, except for one small detail - this amor was a one way street. 

Personally, I had never seen the boy in question as anything more than a friend. Though he was a fun guy to be around, and always had interesting stories to tell, something about him guarded me from feeling anything romantic towards him. I adamantly believe that it is the height-ist inside of me. See, I have always pictured my significant other as someone significantly taller. This boy is shorter than me; not a lot, just a little, but still. Furthermore, his appearance is just generally not one I envision myself with. I know, it sounds superficial, but that's not all. I think that, if I actually really enjoyed his company, I could overcome the physical barriers, but I don't enjoy it that much. Why? Well, because of the title of this post, of course! 

The Broken Proletariat

Did I ever mention that I go to a music school? What a wonderful place that is. I so totally love that music school, that words would do my feelings no justice. It's my fourth year in it, and I will not be applicable for re-entry after I graduate from high school, so I am highly upset by that right now, but it was good while it lasted. 

For four years, I have been in a DJing program. I've learned how to manipulate music software, mix songs, create them, and later spin them up on the turntables. 

This year, things changed slightly. I was put into an extra program on top of the DJing.

It's a band. 

Since my music school teaches many things, they had the smart idea of putting various students into a single band. You have one kid that's a pianist, you have another that's a guitarist, a bassist, a singer and so on. Now, all of these kids take the classes that qualify them as their respective instrumentalists on top of the band class. Of course, as a DJ, I don't fit into a traditional band. I expressed this after being asked to join, but the registration lady assured me that it wouldn't be a problem. She said that if DJing was not malleable enough to be used in the band, the instructor would just do his best to teach me quick bits on other instruments, so that I could be useful. It was worth a shot, so I did it. The instructors at the school are great, classes are free, and the other students are amazing, so I had nothing to lose except an extra 90 minutes each week.

Here's a little about my DJing class: About two years in, I had mastered most of the software stuff, become good at making songs, and become coordinated enough to use the turntables. So, after those two years, my DJing class had morphed into something that I hadn't originally thought it would be - therapy. Yes, I know. But I have an excuse:

See, the school that I go to is on the cushy west side. Money isn't an object and people are, in general, not the best. The school is toxic because everyone's ambition is sky-high. Kids don't sleep; they are too bogged down with APs and SATs. Very few of them can carry a conversation that goes beyond the realm of the school chemistry curriculum. The way they look at me is strange; as if I have some rare blood-condition that makes me terminal. And to them, I am inflicted with the plague of mental-illness. Many of them think, because of my happy-go-lucky attitude, my "hippie-ness", my lack of homework-completion and my excess of blogging (i.e. doing things that don't count towards my grade), I am sick. Yes, to them, I suffer from optimism. It's difficult.

That is why DJing is therapy. I get together with probably the coolest kids in the city. Kids that don't have unhealthy ambition, kids that enjoy their time skateboarding, and kids that are generally content with being kids. We talk and make music, and it's highly relaxing for me. I don't feel like I suffer from a terrible plague when I'm around them, and it's quite nice. So, I look forward to Tuesdays. 

This is why I accepted band class.

What a good decision it was! I learned a little bit about playing synthesizer because I needed to play that for one rendition we played. I learned about piano for something else, and I am presently practising a part on Vibraphone for the song we just wrote. It's great.

We sit together and pool ideas for melodies and lyrics. We play them and we learn other stuff in the process.

Hold on: My absurdly long introduction is not done yet.

Due to my instructor's constant lateness to class, me and my 5 band-mates have a lot of time at the start of class to chat. From what I recall, at the start of this year, none of us knew each other, but we've gotten to know each other decently since then, mostly because of these chats. 

As is customary however, as the year progressed, we formed into smaller groups.

Two of the girls in our class became very close. I became well-acquainted with the lead guitarist. And, the other two band members are usually late of absent, so their presence is scarce in the chat-sessions.

The first class, I met the lead guitarist and he introduced himself. He played guitar well, so that was an automatic big plus. He seemed like a nice person - that's the vibe that he gave off, at least. I began talking to him gradually. It was good. It became fairly usual for us to sit together for an hour after each class and talk. I liked it, and it served as a chance for me to get to know him better.

Now, I know what you're expecting - a love story. But, no, that's not what this is. I'm just trying to give you a feeling of what he's like.

He's a nice type of guy. Really. He isn't quiet, but most of what he says is intended to be a joke. He is so frequently sarcastic that I have found it difficult at times to distinguish between his serious statements and his sarcastic statements. I most vividly remember the first night that he decided to take the bus in my direction: He made a joke, which I took seriously, so I corrected him in his fallacy. This is laughable. After I began elaborating on the mistake he had made, he looked at the ground in sad silence, and said "I was making a joke. I keep trying and you just keep knocking me down." That I do. I was sad at my stupidity and at his sadness so I laughed nervously and told him I'd do my best to differentiate between his jokes and serious declarations in the future. 

Another time, I recall him joking that his grand father is Obama.

Best of all, I remember one of the first nights we talked, when he very openly showed me that he has diabetes. Diabetes is awful. Apparently diabetics have insulin pumps attached to their, well, asses. And no, I don't mean their pet donkeys, I mean their butts. How do I know that? Because he showed me!

One of the first classes we talked, I offered him a hard-boiled quail egg. He told me that he hated eggs, but I insisted that quail eggs were completely different and that he should really try one. Kindly enough, he did. He bravely put that whole miniature eggs in his mouth, and then his face cringed. He looked horrible. His cheeks swelled, so as to make ample space in his mouth so that he wouldn't have to swallow the currently chewed-up egg. I was laughing, but eventually managed to push through the giggles to tell him that his is welcome to spit it out. Without hesitation, he turned his back to me and spat out the egg with vigour. I apologized for causing him pain, all while laughing at him. I offered to make it up to him by baking something actually decent for him and the rest of the class. I asked what he likes to eat. He couldn't think of anything, so he said "good ole cookies". Then he told me he had diabetes.

That scared me because I didn't know what diabetes meant. I asked if he could still eat cookies and he said "yeah. I can eat anything". I inquired if that would cause his sugar to skyrocket and thereby cause him to be dead in band class. To that, he very proudly pulled the backside of his pants down a little to expose part of his ass. There, a little plastic tube sticked out. He pulled the little tube, which led him to his pocket where a small cassette-player-like object lived. It was his pump. He told me that he just presses a button after a meal, and the machine does the rest for him. So cookies it was!

Eventually, the often-absent girl in our band asked me about my relationship with this guitarist guy. I told her that we just talk, she expressed regret at that and told me that she "ships" us. I had to go to Urban Dictionary to find out what that means. It means that she endorses a relationship between us. Well.

Then some other random guy in our music school, but not in our band class, asked us if we were dating. The answer was no. The boy has a girlfriend. See? I told you that no romantic love was involved.

As of late, the boy doesn't accompany on the bus anymore; he goes the opposite way, but we still talk a lot before class. 

The boy was nice enough to help me once. We were all learning how to play drums: Being the uncoordinated and pathetic creature that I am, I couldn't manage to play the slightest rhythm on the chair we were hitting with sticks. The time came when the teacher requested that we all give the rhythm a try on the real drum kit. I didn't want to try. The teacher didn't notice, which had meant I had gotten away with being pathetic on a personal level only. Then the boy asked me if I had tried, I told him honestly because I thought that it wouldn't matter to him at all. I was wrong, because then, the boy did something unlike himself and shot his hand up to inform the teacher that I hadn't tried the real drums. The teacher then made me get up and play. In hindsight, I am happy that he did that. I played better on the kit than on the chair anyways. So thanks to the diabetic guy for that!

All this is fine. I've spent ridiculously long creating a great image of the protagonist of my post. Now that we've all agreed that he's a fabulous fellow, let's talk about what he said. His statements on this Tuesday panged at my heart, and some uncontrollable urge forced me to write about them. Perhaps I subconsciously want to return the favour that he did for me by ratting on me to get me to play drums and do something new. Regardless, I feel inclined to tell his story.

Now, the introduction is over and the real story begins, so get ready!

This Tuesday we were talking as per usual. Under the most absolutely average of circumstances, this diabetic boy, who I shall call Sugars herein, mentioned a job. Just plainly, like every other teenager ever, Sugars told me that he has work on the weekend, or sometime soon.

Up until that moment, the two of us had been discussing our futures beyond high school. From very early into the year, Sugars had told me that he had no intention of going to university because school "wasn't for [him]". He had also structured his classes in such a way that entrance into university would be close to impossible. He was only taking 5 out of 8 classes, one of which was Planning 10 (a class that everyone took in grade 10, but that he had somehow managed to evade up until now). The rest of his classes consisted loosely of various courses that his counsellor had assured him would be easy. Sugars, in fact, had so little ambition that he complained about taking Geology 12. According to him, the counsellor had told him that the class would require little to no effort. The counsellor's words, however, seemed to have been proven false, since there was apparently some minimal workload in existence in the class. Other than Geology and the mandatory course of English 12, Sugars was taking classes like Soccer (a real class apparently), PE, and Art, or something like that.

He does like soccer! He considers Luis Suarez, a rotweiler in human form, to be the best player in the world right now. The man bites people quite regularly - am I the only one that sees something wrong with that? Attacking aside, I'm still quite certain that there are better players out there. I'm not qualified enough to put forth other players, or rather, I'm not knowledgable enough to, but I'm sure that some readers out there may have logical reasons for picking some other players over Suarez.

But I digress.

When the topic came back on this day, I asked what he planned on doing past high school if not university. He wanted to work. I wanted to know where. He expressed a desire to begin working with his mother or his father, so that he could get paid beyond minimum wage. He was hopeful that he could climb aboard his dad's ship as a set-designer. This would pay about 20$/hour. This was better than minimum wage. This all sounded very nice. Though unclear, it was the skeleton of a plan. It was whimsical and optimistic, of course, but I wouldn't expect any less from Sugars.

Here's another side-note: A little while ago, I was talking to a friend, who coincidentally happened to "Prompose" a week ago, I proposed the idea of not going to university to him. He took this as blasphemy. Then, after I nudged him slightly, he appeared to become more accepting of the idea, even though I think that he was faking his acceptance to please me. He claimed that anyone who didn't have an absolutely perfect plan for the future had to go to post-secondary education. Not doing so would qualify you as an idiot. This was my promposal-provider's theory. I didn't, and still don't, agree with it. Sugars only served to further reassure my convictions. I'm sure he'll be OK, even with his not-so-foolproof plan. Where's the fun in certainty anyways?

That's the end of my side-note.

After Sugars told me his plan, he asked what I was going to study in university. When I said "Arts", and he gave me a sort of thumbs up. It was a welcome change from what everyone else had been telling me. I know what you're thinking - "Nat! Please let me know what everyone else had been telling you! I can't figure it out myself!" Oh, well, OK, I guess I could do that for you. How benevolent I am.

So, let me sum that up for you in the form of one joke that my dear friend told me about Arts: "What's the difference between an Arts degree and a bench?"

Think.

"A bench can support a family."

Laugh. It's OK, I did.

Sugars didn't have that sentiment, and it was, to me, therapeutic to be finally in an environment where people were relaxed enough to not hassle me about my program decision. But Sugars did inquire if there was anything I would rather be doing, and I told him the truth. The dream is to open a café, which has a ceramics workshop in the back. I make all of the cups and plates that the coffee I make gets served on.

He smiled and actually supported my idea. Again, what a welcome alternative to the laughs that I generally get when I mention my dream. Sugars said that I should do that because it wouldn't even require too much money, and because he would come in for coffee every day, which would pay off the loans. It was wonderfully relieving. But then I turned the attention back to him. I asked him what his current minimum wage job was.

Guess. It should be your first guess regardless of where in the world you're reading this from.

McDonald's. The Golden Arches employed Sugars.

As soon as he said this, he started to tell me a story, but very quickly, he stopped himself and, with slight giggling said, "nah, never mind, you don't want to hear it anyways." But I insisted and so he continued.

He then proceeded to tell about his adventures, the first of which was to clean vomit from the sink in the bathroom. As I would soon find out, the majority of problems in McDonald's do regard the washroom. This, I guess, is perfectly logical. I would like to point out, however, that a large part of this is likely thanks to the clientele which frequent McDonald's. Let's all be real here: rich people from my part of town go to McDonald's rarely - they're rather preoccupied with finding new ways to incorporate kale into their diets. People looking for cheap and quick, those are the people that go to McDonald's. Likewise, they are likely the people that make the clean up in McDonald's bathrooms so unpleasant. I recognize that what I just said was completely hoity-toity, rich, west-side girl-speak. I recognize that I just put down the lower class, but I am still a decent person because I have dedicated this massive post, in its entirety to speaking up for them.

Back to barf:

Cleaning puke? More like inducing it. That's the only thought that could possibly simmer in my brain while he told me about that.

I, personally, have never had to clean puke, and I don't think that I have ever even seen puke in a public place. I would imagine that every time I came close to dealing with some sort of bodily fluid, I avoided it at all costs. Even when I was to blame for the mess, I never had to deal with it. Once, I spat out an enormous amount of juice onto my hardwood floor. I didn't flinch because I knew that it wasn't my place to deal with it. My mother and grandmother very quickly began mopping up my mess, while I just sat back. In fact, the only request they put forth was for me lift my feet, so that they could get under them. So, can I sympathize with Sugars? No, but I can only theorize that the experience must have been putrid.

Have you ever heard the expression "It's a tough job, but someone's gotta do it"? Of course you have. But I would advocate that an extension be added onto that idiom, which would make it read "It's a tough job, but someone's gotta do it, and that's exactly why they should be paid a lot." I know that it doesn't have the same ring to it, but I do believe that it sounds a fair bit more rational and coherent.

Once Sugars had completed his vomit story, he started a new one - one about feces. Now, I'd like to explain to you that the manner in which Sugars told these stories made them sound as if they were perfectly common and acceptable in nature, which they obviously weren't in my socio-economic situation. He simply listed them off as if they were ingredients on a shopping list. He would say "One time, I had to..., and then another time, I had to..." I found it mesmerizing.

So yes, let me tell you about how someone smeared their poop all over a stall in the McDonald's bathroom, and left it to Sugars to clean. Wait, no, let me not tell you because it really is a graphic tale. Instead, let me tell you this: The rich corporate bureaucrats of McDonald's are surely uninterested and unenthusiastic at the prospect of cleaning shit, so why not pay more? Being the smarty I am, I'll answer the question I just posed: Because the proletariat is uneducated and doesn't bother creating uproar at the tasks they are being asked to complete. The worker, in this case sweet Sugars, speaks about his job as something completely reasonable to be doing for minimum wage. That's just how his circumstances have raised him. Ridiculous.

OK, so at one point, he does coyly and blushingly acknowledge that he performs these menial tasks for minimum wage, but it doesn't faze him. Alright, perhaps it does faze him, but he's learned to swallow his pride, and every other negative feeling that I imagine would be insinuated by cleaning vomit - and that is exactly what the big guys want.

If I was asked to clean turd off a wall, I would utilize my noodle-arms to knock a person out. I wouldn't take it. Imagine me as a McDonald's employee: what a failure that would be. Now imagine all the employees of McDonald's being like me: Well, that's the end of the golden arches.

But now turn your attention to the men with small penises in the big velvet chairs: ask them what the price for their manicured hands to be adequately submerged into their customers' bodily fluids is. I can guarantee you that if the answer isn't "priceless", it's a number pretty close to there. How strange is that?

Sugars gleams at the notion of making 20$/hour working as a manual labourer for the VSB, and I feel immense sadness and pity for him because I already make more than that as an English/debate/political tutor to the children of the elite. But what can I do? Nothing, my words fall on deaf ears, and bring no change. Because people don't like change.

See, if the status quo isn't seeing Sugars starving, then Sugars doesn't see a reason to rebel. In fact, I'd argue that, even if Sugars began to trudge through difficulties, he'd keep quiet, or coyly and blushingly speak. And that is meaningless. It's happened all throughout history - nobody rebels until they're on the brink.

But, it's different here: What has really happened is that the whole invisible system has made Sugars a-okay with hardship. For him, it's just a part of normal existence. Some willingness to rage against the machine has, inexplicably, been broken inside. Maybe it's due to the lack of education, maybe it's because of his allowances growing up, and maybe it's just because he doesn't feel bothered enough to revolt. I can't speak to that, but neither can he because he isn't sure himself.

His revolts are limited to smoking weed in some parks and going out late at night to do stupid things. For him, those stupid things are small doses of opium that make him feel as if he's made his voice heard - the graffiti, the weed, and everything in between. And they're all pointless. But that's the niche that society has asked Sugars to fulfill and he, as the predominantly obedient citizen he is, has performed his task. And maybe he has done so because society has punished him for the trivialities like his marijuana and graffiti and told him that, because he was naughty, he should pay by cleaning shit. And there's the painful double standard because when however few wolves of Wall Street destroyed the lives of however many regular people, they were rewarded with a bailout.

Something makes it hopeless here in Vancouver and I don't know what it is. You would think that, because we have so many hipsters, because we're right on the west coast, and because we're stereo-typed as "so progressive", we'd be immune to the class divide, but we aren't. In fact we're so far from it that, when I take the bus home from my music class, and exit the uneasy East and enter the cushy West, I pass a large neon sign that reads "Let's heal the divide". That horrid divide that makes some completely comfortable with cleaning shit, and others incapable of imagining shit. I don't think that the citizens of any other country in the world would tolerate having the poorest postal code in their country be bordered by the richest, as is the case here. Yet somehow, in some highly potent way, the wretchedly poor do not exit their postal code to disturb the rich, and they don't feel the need to say anything against the situation because they're accustomed to it.

It seems to me that, in the West (and this time I mean the developed nations of the world, not just the West-side of Vancouver), minimum wage jobs are the equivalents of mandatory military service. And, of course, only the lower class needs to serve in this system of living. I know, from stories, that, when my father was serving his military service in his country, he did have to do vomit-inducing jobs, like cleaning poo. But the difference lies in one subtlety: Sugars is cleaning poo for the benefit of the rich, my father was cleaning poo for the benefit of the entire nation - all classes included.

In summation, Sugars is a great kid, who I praised excessively because he deserved it. My music school is wonderful on so many levels. And most importantly, the proletariat in the West has become so heavily broken and burdened by the opulent beasts of capitalism that drastic measures are in line.

When and if I live to see the revolution, I'd like to use this post as proof of my loyalty. Thanks.

A Shiny Apple

Well, here's the big news... again: I've been accepted to university! And, now this big news is accompanied by a big post!

I'll give you a few seconds to thank the lord for answering your prayers, and another few to applaud me adequately.

Have you applauded? Let me brag:

I had gone to Hawaii for my spring break.I was going to absorb the sun, salt and surf for 12 days without the slightest care. Everything was going to be perfect. I also was aware that I would be missing the first week of school; a notion which made my trip even more pleasurable! How lovely it would all be!

Aren't I a talented photographer?

The day of my flight, I began packing my summer clothes. A text message wishing me a safe flight inadvertently caused my mind to spiral brashly to the dark side. My "dark side", I mean serious matters. I recalled that, while on vacation, I would have one rather large cloud looming over top of me - the university cloud. This cloud had the potential to grow so big that it would block out the beautiful Hawaiian sun.That cloud, however, would only grow so big if I let it do so. I vowed to not think about it while on vacation. After all, the chances of me being accepted seemed so remarkably infinitesimal that wondering about and checking up on my application status seemed futile. 

I arrived in Hawaii. The first few days were hazy, yet the sun was still apparently dangerous. I learnt that lesson the hard way after being subject to a burn after falling asleep on the beach on the first day.

Laugh at me; laugh at my pathetic skin.

A few days passed in the fashion that I had hoped for them to: with no attention paid to university matters. Everything went well until the morning of the 26th of March, which saw my tired eyes waking up to the eye-blistering shine of the sun. (For the record, I don't, in the slightest, mind being awoken by bright sun. I see so little of it in Vancouver that it has become something of rare treat.)

As I woke up, something, presumably a higher force, prompted me to think about the dreaded subject. I was petrified and disappointed at the same time. Part of me was jolted and scared to know that the results had probably come out, and the other part was upset that I had allowed such vile things to make their filthy way into my mind. Of course, I wouldn't check the results. That would not only defy the terms of the treaty that I had made with myself, but bad news would also easily spoil my vacation.

I decided to take my mind off the evil, which had crept into my brain, by going to my email. Here, I was keeping in touch with some friends. I would read happier messages, and focus on the trivialities that we were all discussing. But it was inevitable. 

I logged on and saw a few unread messages. The first was attributed to Violetta, who was spending her spring in the motherland, Russia, and more precisely, Siberia. I clicked on the message and began formulating witty responses to her statements about the below zero temperatures. After I had written a sufficient amount of cleverness, I sent the message and returned to my inbox. I had two other messages from my peers. The thought hadn't even crossed my mind that the messages could have something to do about university. I was quite sure that they were going to be either updates on the weather back in Vancouver, or grievances about the lack of hot girls to date. Both of those subjects would have been perfectly satisfactory. In fact, any topic other than post-secondary would have been fulfilling. I would've been happy to read a detailed breakdown of my friend's fungal infection in his esophagus (does that even exist? I'm being hypothetical), if it meant that I didn't have to hear about university.

I clicked on the first message and it said "yo dudeeeee!!! check your ubc app stat... shit's been updated. i got in!!!!!" 

The terror! The horror! The gut-wrenching pain! There it was! Oh no. University updates were stalking me! I immediately pitied myself for being the object of God's fury. I was being coerced into checking the bad news, and watching my vacation disintegrate.

If I were to check the news, I'd surely have to share it with my parents and sister. They'd be tremendously saddened to know that I'd be bumming around next year. My sister would be devastated that I didn't manage to do something so important in her mind. She'd cry for the simple fact that I would be destined for certain failure. My parents would have the luxury of giving me a speech on how nothing can happen without hard work, and how now I'm going to have to work at McDonald's for the rest of my life. My parents would have the luxury of being right; how annoying! I just couldn't check it. I was now well aware that the rest of my vacation would be plagued by the knowledge that an admissions decision had been brought, but it was a sacrifice I had to make so that the rest of my family could enjoy their time. What's more? Imagine how painful and potentially embarrassing it would be to reply to my newly-admitted friend that I wasn't in the same boat as him. 

I wasn't going to check.

So, I returned to the inbox, disregarding my friend's message, and clicked on the final message.

At this point it was just a cruel joke. How was it possible that both of my friends had written the same email? OK, it wasn't the exact same. This friend just directed me to check the "app stat"; he didn't tell me whether or not he had been accepted. I felt like I was in one of those bad dreams, where you try to escape from something, but it just keeps finding you. I quickly closed my primary inbox. That action sent me to my "promotions" inbox. This inbox's purpose is to basically collect spam-like stuff. Now do you see how desperate I was? I was willing to read spam.

And then, a bright light!

In my promotions inbox, I saw a message from UBC. At first, I thought it was an email of rejection, but it didn't seem like it. I anxiously clicked it, and saw a message addressed to me. This is what it said: 

"Hello Natasa,

Are you considering your offer of admission to UBC Vancouver's Faculty of Arts? Are you already preparing for your first year on campus?"

My heart stopped. I reread the words and began scrambling. It felt like I had been accepted. (As I reflect now, I see how nervous I truly was since the message clearly indicates that I had been accepted.) I analyzed the words. "Offer of admission" and "preparing for your first year on campus" all sounded extremely promising. Could it be that, by the miraculous stroke of God, I was accepted?

I told myself that it was obvious that I couldn't run away from the app stat any longer. I had to check. So I went to the login page. I typed in my username and password extremely cautiously; I naturally didn't want to be delayed in seeing my decision by mistyping my login information - that would kill me. I wrote everything, and my fingers shook with fear as I attempted to click the button that would lead me to see if I had effectively bought myself 4 extra years of slacking. The feeling within me was caustic. I felt my skin get paler despite being blackened by the sun. I felt myself getting colder despite being in 30 degree weather. And, I felt that awful feeling in my torso. As if my entire body was engulfing itself; as if I was inverting all 178cm of skin and bone into one singular morsel of flesh. Ineffably horrible, to say the least.

But I gathered up the nerve by telling myself that I was acting like a little bitch. I didn't like being called a pussy by anyone, especially myself. In that moment, I calmed myself. My own derogatory comments towards myself instilled peace into me. I felt tranquil. I told myself that, even if I didn't get into university, it was all going to be OK. After all, for the majority of my life, I have been telling myself that things are going to work themselves out and that everything is going to be OK. Some of my friends weren't going to university; there were other things that you could do. Everything was going to be just fine. With that momentary serenity, I clicked the button, and patiently looked through the flurry of words on the page. There were some stupid notices about sending documents to the school, and whatnot. After getting through those, I came to see the title "Choice #1 - Bachelor of Arts - Vancouver". I looked below it, and I saw the "Congratulations! You have been admitted!" And that's all I needed. 

I didn't bother reading whatever else it said below; I had what I my decision and it was glorious. Unfortunately, because I had become practically vegetative prior to clicking the button, I wasn't too excited. I wasn't jumping with joy or anything else of that sort to celebrate. I just faintly smiled to myself, and looked around the empty hotel room. I looked out the balcony and told myself to take in the view because this was a special day that I would likely want to reminisce on frequently in the future. After that, I thanked God. Though I'm not religious, I always feel inclined to thank the man upstairs when something good happens. I'm not sure why. It's as if I become religious in great moments, and likewise, in terrible moments. I question the universe when bad things are happening, and praise it when the scenario is opposite. 

I began thinking about what my next line of action should be. Who should I tell? Should I tell anyone? 

My mom and sister were out, my dad was sleeping, and everything was quiet. I contemplated not saying anything, waiting until we got back to Vancouver, and then treating everyone to a nice dinner, where I would make the announcement. But I probably couldn't retain such divine information for so long. I decided that my little sister, who had been enduring and protective of me, and who had been my only believer in this struggle against post-secondary, was the most deserving. I knew that the news would make her the happiest.

When my mom and sister arrived, they did something un-noteworthy. My mom left again. She had forgotten to buy something, I presume. My sister was on her bed, and she made her customary way to mine. She wanted to chat about her fun times with mom. After she finished, I decided to share the news. I clicked the screenshot album on my phone and set everything up to show her. I wasn't sure how or when I was going to break the news to my parents yet, so I said "Mila, I have secret." and she laughed. Since I said this smiling, and due to my inability to be serious, she automatically presumed I was setting up for a joke. She played along and said "OK." I said, still smiling, "No, I'm serious. You have to promise to not tell mom or dad because it's a big secret." She, being a good sport, played along even more and said "OK, I promise." So, I turned the phone to her, and watched her skin turn pale, as mine had. Contrary to me, she wasn't at peace. Her eyes scrambled frantically, more frantically than I had ever seen. She was completely frantic; her wits were not about her.

She had seen the title UBC, and knew that she was looking at an admissions decision, but she just couldn't locate it on the page because of the chaos that was enthralling her. So, I put her out of her misery and said "I got accepted! It's good!" And then the waterworks. She sobbed of joy and hugged me while saying "I knew you could do it! Mom and dad were so mean to you and they didn't think you could, but I knew you could!"

All true words. 

When we heard the door knob shaking, we knew that mom was in the vicinity. I quickly notified my sister and commanded her to stop crying so that mom wouldn't think anything was up. She did. When my mom walked in, she noticed the remnants of tears on my sister's face and inquired as to what was happening. Generally, my sister crying led to me getting scolded for being mean to her. I assured my mom that it was all good stuff. And then broke the news to her. She shook my hand and congratulated me.

It wasn't the way that I wanted to tell her, but hey, that's not the point. She then passed on the news to my dad when he woke up, while I wrote Violetta an email telling her to check her app stat. Smiles all around. 

I probably would've listened to Declan McKenna's song Brazil for a few hours, after midnight on the beach while watching the stars twinkle, had I not been admitted, but this wasn't necessary now. As a side note: I just realized that Declan McKenna is my age. Weird.

I went to the beach and recalled the start of the year when my counselor, a chronically annoyed and tired woman, indirectly told me that I had no chance of being admitted to a respectable institution, like UBC, and that I should resultantly have, and hope for, a "back-up plan". This back up plan that she suggested was to go to community college. I guess I don't blame her for saying that because my grades are shit. But, I remembered her telling me that and I felt very proud. I felt like I had proven everyone wrong. Most teachers probably felt the same way about me, but weren't brave enough to tell me. I really think my writing was what set me apart, and I blame the teachers for not recognizing that. Moreover, I blame the teachers for fostering the most sick environment in our school, and consistently telling all of us that getting into university was so tremendously difficult that it was rather pointless to dream of admission. They should've been more realistic and supportive. After all, our school is the best public school in the province; if we don't have a chance, no one does.

Violetta replied to me later in the day, informing me that she had been accepted to UBC, but not the one in Vancouver. She got into her second choice program, which was UBC Arts in the Okanagan. She isn't interested in going to live in Kelowna, so chances are that she'll be staying in Vancouver, going to SFU, and that we'll be together for the next four years!

When I returned to Vancouver, university talk was hot. Everyone was discussing where everyone else was going. I was pleased to hear that most of my friends, who I had initially thought were going to leave for university, were actually staying at home! I still have one friend who I am trying to keep close by, so we'll see how that goes.

Things just kept getting better, honestly, and I feel like, too often, I use this blog as a medium for venting my dissatisfaction with the state of things. I think that it's only fair to also give praise where it's due. Things have been really grand, and I don't have too much to criticize - not that that's a bad thing. In fact, things become even rosier.

At school, I attended the awards assembly. I truly didn't expect an award, since I have never received one in my life. Lo and behold - Friday of my first week of school was my lucky day! As I sat through the grueling assembly where the same is repeated so many times, I made jokes to my friends about getting the awards myself. I joked that I had actually won every award presented, but that they didn't want to make the other kids feel bad, so they couldn't present them to me. My friends laughed.

As the teachers called up kid by kid, award by award, my name wasn't being called. I had rather tuned out because I was well aware that none of the information would be pertinent to me. The final award was announced - The Renaissance Award. I would like to tell you the exact definition of what this award embodies, but, like I said, I was tuned out, so I didn't hear what the principal defined it as. I'm sure you can figure it out, though. If a Renaissance Man is "a person with many talents or areas of knowledge.", then the Renaissance award is probably for that. By some strange fate, my name was called for the award. I was so tuned out that I wasn't sure if it was my name that I had heard. Then I noticed the principal making eye-contact with me, and I was elated. I turned to Violetta, with my eyes-wide and said "Oh my god!"

The other recipients of the previous awards hadn't been remotely as surprised, nor content, with their respective awards. They were all gracious. They calmly walked down the steps of the bleachers, calmly crossed the stage, and calmly shook hands with our principal. What can I say? I'm just not elegant.

I stumbled my way out of the bleachers, nearly breaking a boy's kneecaps in the process. I walked half-way down the stairs with the biggest grin on my face, and then I remembered something! This moment needed to be immortalized with a photo, so I turned back to Violetta and yelled "take a picture" while mimicking a camera with my hands. At this, the entire school laughed, and continued watching my triumphant march to the stage. Once I got to the stage, I decided to let all of my emotions pour out, so I jumped as high as I could, like this:

Thanks for the inspiration, Jo-Wilfried

Once I landed, I stuck my hand out to shake the principal's, but my principal had noticed that he had just stumbled upon someone who was especially happy with their award, and he knew that a handshake would not suffice. So, he spread his arms out as wide as he could, and offered me a hug which I gladly accepted. I almost pushed him over in my hug, but I was ecstatic and therefore unfazed by that. I took the award and the whole school cheered me on. I exclaimed "Wicked-Cool, man!" and kept smiling as I examined the award. One girl in the crowd said "look at her! She's so happy!" and I kept smiling. I really was over the moon. I stood there and posed for Violetta to take a picture. Once I was allowed to return to my seat, a friend in the front row of the bleachers extended his arm for me to high-five, many kids followed his initiative and stuck their own hands out as I made my joyous way back to my seat. There, many hands of friends went up and I high-fived everyone else. I was on top of the world. One of the boys that was offering me congratulations laughingly said "Congratulations, man! I'm so happy for you that I don't even notice the pain in my knees that you broke on your way down." I said "Oh! Haha! Sorry!" and he expressed that it was fine and that he was just kidding.

I called my mom right after the assembly to tell her the great news.

I'd like to make this noted: if I had not been admitted to university, and told my mom about receiving the award, its value would've been severely undermined, and ignored. But, since it came post-acceptance, it was greeted with open arms and happy smiles, which led me to be treated to a pleasant dinner at a cool local restaurant.

I'd like to think that I am unfazed by her and everyone else's disbelief with my acceptance, but it does naturally sting a little bit.

I do, however, really appreciate all the supportive people. How sweet of them!

There were two other really great things that happened to me recently. I'll tell you about them, and then I'll let you go. I understand that this has already gotten a little long.

At my dad's work, every few Fridays, one of his colleagues has to provide snacks for the team. This Friday happened to be my dad's turn. He asked me to make my Macarons, which I have already posted about. You can look at them here. So I gladly did. His team members loved them so much that they said "Opening a shop that serves these macarons would be equivalent to receiving a license to print money."

A license to print money. Let's let that reverberate. Oh I was so proud that they were so popular and so quickly devoured!

The second thing lies in a slightly different place - French class. In my French class, the student teacher decided to make language learning more interesting by creating a sort of "Amazing Race". We were asked to scavenge around the school and pick up clues. My partner and I got first place. Can I get a what-what?

I write about this all because I rarely have such good things like this happened! I don't know if it's just my perception that has changed, but I really hope the good times keep rolling here. So, thanks for lending an ear. It's been really wicked-cool, man.

Thus far, I only have two things I need to get sorted out. The first thing is my friend. I need to set her straight. She is still waiting to be accepted by UBC, because she has been "wait-listed". Whether or not she will get accepted, I don't know. All I know is that I already have been, and it was because I wrote a damn fine personal profile.

The second thing is the blog quote. As some of you desktop users will know, I have a quote right under my header. I change the quote infrequently. Right now, the quote is a line from Augustines song "Chapel Song" . It reads "I'm a bowl of bruised fruit/ Inside a chapel of shiny apples."

When I posted the quote, I felt bad about my chances of being accepted. I figured that everybody else at my school would be admitted, and I'd be the odd one out. Well, I can now quite proudly say that I am not the bowl of bruised fruit - I'm a shiny apple.

Look at me gleam!

I know, it's strange. Everyone at school sees me as a hippy. They thought, as did I, that my admissions decision would be completely irrelevant to me. But I think that I was just thinking that way because I was trying to comfort my notion of not being accepted. I didn't know how much it would mean to have something as simple as a piece of paper that says "Congratulations!" It's really fabulous. And, if I ever have kids like me, who think that they are careless hippies who couldn't care less about anything, I'm going to direct them to this post. Those bitches don't even know what they're in for. That being said, I do have a few friends who aren't going to university and I solidly believe that they're going to do spectacular. Of course university isn't the only path. I'm probably going to hate prolonging school for myself; maybe work would've been the right course for me. But, at least I now have the chance to test it out. University's purpose, as per the ancient Greeks, was to achieve a higher learning, not necessarily to become employable afterwards. I want a higher education, and the experience - employ-ability would be a nice bonus, though.

Hollerado may have been right when they sang about having to lose love to find it, and I had always believed that I would have to lose school to find it, if that makes sense. What I mean is that I always thought that I wouldn't be accepted at first, and then I'd have to go back, retrace my steps, find the wrong turn and correct it. But, I don't. Because, well, as much as I trust Hollerado, going to school isn't the same as finding love. ;) I know you're probably a little tired-out by all of the hipster music references, but I'm going to keep going because I'm a winner!

My last few years have played out somewhat like the chord progression in the song "Hearts Like Ours" by The Naked and Famous. Everything starts out with the makings of a sad song, but then it grows and it builds into something grand quite unexpectedly and it makes you feel triumphant. And that's the word: Triumphant! I slayed the beast of university. Yeah, man, I did. Take that! It's definitely not as big a deal as I'm making it sound out to be, but then again, it's all a matter of perception. To someone with stellar work-habits, UBC may seem like a natural next step, but to someone like me, well, gosh, it's pretty dandy.

Like my mom said, this miracle is just a second chance. I spent 13 years of high school slacking. I now have 4 more offered to me, let's all hope I slack significantly less.

And let's clear one more thing. This is important... actually. If you read my blog religiously, as I suspect most of you do, you will recall this post I wrote at the start of the year. It's all about the hopelessness I feel with regard to university admission, and how difficult it is to get accepted. It's pretty depressing. I talk about how a person is just a number to a university admissions committee, and how that basically dooms fellows in my generation to failure. I guess I lied. Why? Because UBC saw something in me, and I can guarantee that it wasn't a number.

So, it's been just wonderful. Apart from today, that is. Today I ordered oysters at The Fish Shack in Vancouver, and I got food poisoned. It's terrible. It's so bad that it's difficult to hold back the vomit from spilling onto the keyboard while I type this. Yeah, pretty gross. But I won't dwell on that, instead I'll give you another pretty picture to look at:

I know there's a lot of rock.

So yeah, I guess it's fair to say that my break was better than yours. I had a great time. It happened to be a great time filled with great news. It's like a cannelloni where the filling and the shell are yummy. Or, like a girl that is pretty and also interesting to talk to. The spring break that I feared more than any other proved to be the one that I adore the most. It was amazing.

And it came with amazing scenery too!

By the end of the vacation, my back had morphed from a terrifying shade of red to a tastefully beautiful shade of bronzey-brown. I had re-built some of the muscles I had lost since I stopped swimming. My family wasn't in shambles. And, I had been admitted to university. "Paris, je t'aime!"? I don't think so. Try "Hawai'i, aloha au la 'oe!" That's music to my ears.

Fuck Disneyland. Hawaii is the Happiest Place on Earth!

Hey, Hey!

I got into university. Haha.

More elaboration to come soon. I would've posted sooner, but I wrote my post onto paper, so it's going to take a while to type it out. :) :) :)

Why I Dislike the New Curriculum

Here's something else to keep you occupied over this fabulous Spring break. This is about the new curriculum, which will be implemented after I graduate high school. It's an article I wrote for the school newspaper. If you want to read more from our school newspaper, take a look here: https://uhillhawkseyeblog.wordpress.com/

My school journey has been special. It has been a jumbled pile of programs, schools, teachers and curricula. Based on this, and the following accounts, I intend to demonstrate that I am quite qualified to speak on the effectiveness of the new curriculum; at least, more so than some ministry bureaucrats that last attended school 30 years ago.

After finding class overly easy in grade 4, I was volunteered, by my school, to take an IQ test. I scored highly enough that the compilation of enigmatic determiners of my future decided to deport me from traditional learning at my comfortable downtown school, to the contemporary and whimsical learning at the MACC program, located on the other side of the city. Oh, the MACC program – what a fantastical flop of education that was. The MACC theory: you get 30 kids, in grades 4 through 7, who score over 130 on their IQ tests, or are deemed to have incredible artistic abilities, and you put them in a room together – you see magic happen.

Assuming that you’re a logical reader, the question you’re presently asking yourself is the ever-important “how?” I’ll give you the laughable answer that the idealistic organizers thought of – “let their minds run free!” This is where MACC, an idea with potential, becomes a farce. To take 10-13-year-olds, no matter how big their brains, and expect them to have a distinguishable passion and enough insatiable desire and motive to innovate upon that passion is absurd – and I say that nicely.

So, when I hear that the new curriculum is meant to provide more free-reign to students, my post traumatic stresses from MACC become resurrected, and I shudder. After 3 years of MACC, and after a year of “Hamber Academy”, a program similarly developed off the principle of Google’s “20% Time”, I can assuredly say that the proposed programs are not in the students’ best interests.

Am I advocating for something so ultra-traditional that it mimics the educational system that my parents were trudged through in Socialist Yugoslavia? Not at all, I’m merely encouraging school to provide its most essential service to its -and society’s- most valuable consumers – children. I mean, looking at the children who have come here from traditional-style schools in, say, China, what we see is kids who are staggeringly better at both exams and at innovation. Why? Because innovation is impossible without a solid base of traditional-learning.

School’s purpose is to expose children to as many activities as possible, so as to allow for children to discover a talent or passion, which they would then continue on later in life. Generally, children cannot find a passion themselves, not only because humans are innately lazy creatures, but because they don’t have a breadth of resources and activities on their doorstep. If this dangerous transition in school’s role, and in students’ lives, takes place, it poses a threat to a plethora of sectors: pro-traditional-learning parents, namely immigrants, like mine, will be enraged with the lack of concrete work. This has already happened at Norma Rose. The importance of teachers will diminish, as they will begin to be seen as supervisors instead of educators. After all, my MACC teacher was easily replaceable. And, most critically, we will see an increase in unprepared students graduating; students who may have viewed their “inspiring” learning-hub as an excellent excuse for wasting-away. And no one would notice, because, obviously, the marking system would have to be changed as well, and would likely move to one more akin to the MACC one, where each student grades themselves. Kids need direction and they need adults. Let’s ease-up on them gradually, but equip them with a traditional-learning-base first – they can’t be creative without one.

I turned out an ambition-less, depressed and lazy child. I had potential, but it disintegrated without guidance. Transitioning to U Hill was difficult, and I cannot accustom myself to it still, but I definitely have learned something in this system. No number -no IQ- will ever change that. I was not an aberration. Out of my MACC class, I know of two kids who had already discerned their passions at 12, worked on them, and flourished in a way that would not have been possible in a regular school environment. That’s 2 out of 30 – I may be failing math, but even I know that those aren’t very good odds, especially when applied to all children, not just the “gifted” ones. MACC was a failure – a lot of us emerged less smart; a lot of us exploited the freedom, but who could blame us? We were just being kids. The same will happen with the new curriculum.

Why You Should Elect Me Valedictorian Speech

I'm running for valedictorian at my school, so a lot of my writing time has become devoted to that. Since I've left this blog fairly bare in the last little bit, I've decided to post this speech here for why I think I should be the valedictorian. Enjoy!

Purpose. Purpose is a word that, in high school, practically loses it's meaning. We hear it repeated so many times that it becomes diluted and foggy in our minds. High school is viewed as time in which, unless you want to endure a mid-life crisis at 50, you should discover your ever-important purpose. Frankly, it goes in through one ear, and straight out the other. But let's get back to it from a different context. What is the purpose of valedictorian? I believe that it lies, quite simply, in harnessing the scattered thoughts of the graduating class and vocalizing them. In a good valedictorian speech, you should hear my diction, my voice, but underneath it, all you should hear is a reflection of your message, and your tone. Now, it is a difficult task to harness 100 voices, but it is one that I am very ready to take part in, and frankly, one that I have already been taking part in for 4 years now. Furthermore, it is a task that I, as per my resume, am most qualified to take on as well. Let's delve into that.

Perhaps it's because I am white, but it seems to me that I am well-known throughout the school. In fact, in some way, I am recognized as the loud, talkative and perhaps occasionally irritating student. If you've ever sat in an English or Socials or anything else for that matter class, you likely witnessed my oration of a rant. You've probably been annoyed by my unwillingness to stop talking. So, since most of us can attest to that, is it not fair then to assume that the giving of a speech will come most naturally to me? But wait, there's more:

Unlike my opponents, I have been debating for 7 years now. Last year, I introduced debate to Norma Rose and sent two of their debaters to provincials, this year, I became president of our school club. I have won countless competitions in debate, which in and of itself should demonstrate that I can talk about anything pretty well. Right? I know what you're thinking though: debate is political, valedictorian is a completely different subject matter altogether. But here's the kicker: I have already wrote a winning valedictorian speech. A year ago, the VSB contacted me to help two teachers teach a gifted workshop to students on public speaking. After doing so, I was contacted by certain parents and asked to tutor their children in speech-writing and debate. I took on the job. Most notably, I tutored one girl from York House, a private school. Anyways, she had a speech competition at her school where she needed to write and recite a valedictorian speech for the chance to advance to the Provincial speech competition. I wrote it for her, and I spent hours painstakingly helping her recital seem natural. I didn't know anything at all about the girls at York House, but I managed to write such a speech that that girl won her school competition and advanced to Provincials. This year, her younger sister had the same task. This year, I again wrote a brand new valedictorian speech for her sister to recite to the girls at York House. This year, her younger sister had the same outcome.

The fact is this: I have dedicated a large portion of my existence to writing and giving speeches, and there is nothing more that I would like to than give a speech to everyone here at grad. I'm pretty good at it. In grade 10 planning, after my vitamin presentation, Ms. Silvers herself actually stopped and told the class to take note of my presentation skills. I have for the past 4 years had a blog dedicated completely to speeches and essays. One of those was published alongside Maclean's Magazine.

But hey, maybe all those qualifications just can't trump the importance of voting for your friend who is standing up here. My 7 years of debating, my 4 years of blogging, may be meaningless to you. And I'm here to tell you today that they shouldn't. Why? Because valedictorian is no popularity contest. No, that's prom king and queen. Valedictorian should be the position for the best and most qualified speaker, and I'll leave that decision up to you. Just don't let the purpose of valedictorian become skewed. I promise you this: I will not run for prom queen (if that is a thing you run for), this is all I want. And thus, you, you can elect your friends for other things and hear your friends talk whenever you want and you can elect them prom kings and queens, and elect them to prom queens and kings.

U Hill has always been a fair school. I remember coming here from Hamber in grade 9. In Hamber, when you peer-marked anything, everyone in the class got 100%. Not because they deserved it, or because it was fair, but just because. At U Hill, people are much more fair. When we peer-mark, you get the mark you deserve. Make the same apply to valeditorian.

There is one more thing that I'd like to bring up: most of you likely know me as the blabbering girl, but some of you may know me as a social chameleon, one that is able to adapt to any social situation. That's me! Do you know that then, I will be most adequate in taking in each and every person's input into creating my speech? You want humor, you got it! You want somberness? You got it. You want turtles? You got it. After all, it isn't MY speech, it is yours, I'm just the one that needs to say it out loud and in front of 100 people.

Turtles are actually a good analogy for what we're going through in the graduation of high school. I used to spend lots of time in Hawaii surfing. One time, on the Big Island, on one of those gorgeous black sand beaches, I saw something that, to my 5 year old eyes, was spectacular. I saw a little cluster of white specs. I, being stupid like any five year old is, asked my dad if they were those fabled pearls. He told me that pearl came from the goofy mouths of oysters and that those instead had little baby turtles living inside them. I was in complete awe. I asked him, with eyes wide, when they would begin looking like real turtles, and he agreed to indulge my youthful curiosity by camping on the beach. We stayed there for two nights, while my mom and sister stayed in their hotel confused, and on the second night, my dad woke me up to tell me that the white specs were turning into green turtles.

I rubbed my eyes and immediately I was mesmerized. These little white specs had surely undergone a tremendous transformation, and they were now, racing with all their tiny might into the great big ocean instinctively. They didn't know why they were racing, they just were. My dad and I tried to clear the way for them to protect them from the nasty seagulls. My dad told me that the seagulls might try to eat them, and I passionately expressed my hatred for seagulls by saying that I would eat the seagulls first if they tried that. The seagulls did attack, one pooped on my head. I threw sand at him. But in the end, I did see one little straggler being picked up. I furiously yelled at my dad to save him, and my dad, with his impeccable aim, threw a rock at the flying gull, which knocked it down, and saved the turtle. Please don't call PETA on us.

That night, all the turtles made it. Just like we will. We're not all the same, most of us will follow the guarded path into the wide ocean. Some of us will get caught behind, but we'll all make it into the ocean eventually. And that's the green light. Personally, I'm no good at the sciences – humanities is all I do. Right now, in my running for valediction, I am like that turtle in the gull's ugly beak. My fate is uncertain – nothing is to say that I will surely be valedictorian. But your vote is like that rock that my dad so raggedly launched at that nasty vermin. You have the power to free me. I just need you to throw that rock, and by rock, I mean ballot in my favor, at that gull, and by gull I mean ballot box.

I've never ran for anything before. Not for school president, not for SoCo, nothing. Do you know what means? That I really want this. I desperately do. I have failed math because I have been too busy blogging to study logarithms. Please don't let that failure be in vain. Please don't let the gull take me away.

Despite my passion for writing, I persevered through an abhorrent struggle to write this short, but extremely meaningful piece. Excluding my blog, this is one of the few things that I am going to look back on in 50 years, so naturally I want it to be good. But what will make it good? I contemplated what to write for this highly significant work, knowing that the diction, tone and message would be immortalized. Should it be philosophical? Profound? Charming? Funny? What about the wording? Elaborate and complex, or plain and simple? That will be for you to decide if you elect me. But I think that now, what's in order is to get a taste of your potential valedictorian speech, if I win.

Want something deep, yet hopeful? Here's a flavor:

We're 18, but we are still green. Yet, somehow, society expects us to move on with our lives and willingly take our first steps into the gaping unknown. They expect us to make the abrupt transition from dependance to self-sufficiency. Absurd. Not only are a few of us likely incapable of such a move, we're also highly unwilling to take part in one. The conclusion? Life will continue regardless of how we feel. Time knows not of our fears, mounting responsibilities, or stresses - it's cruel that way. My elaborate and wordy point is that we've managed 18 years, and we'll manage 88 more. Our lives will not end spiritually due to some numbers called age. If anything, they'll enlighten and thrive. We, regardless of how we do financially, familially or _____, will be fine -and potentially even good- as long as we perceive it that way. As whimsical and hippie as it sounds, its true.

Want something humorous, yet still profoundly meaningful?

Don't worry, there are plenty more stories like the turtle one.

I'd just like to end this by, once again, begging you to vote for me – I want this more than anything right now, and I really hope that I have managed to prove that.

The point is this: I don't always run, but when I do, I prefer valedictorian.