There's Something I Have To Tell You

Dear Best Friend,

I know I can be a tad tedious. You endure my whining about every little thing, my irrational tears and you’re not afraid of me despite having seen me in my borderline insane phases. I tell you every little thing, even if you couldn’t care less about it and occasionally practice my foreign language skills on you, even though you have no clue what I’m saying. Honestly, if I were you I probably would’ve run for my sanity forever ago. But for some reason you’ve stuck around and for that I am extremely grateful because the thing is, I waited for you.

I was messed up in so many ways when I met you freshman year. Think of the all those “I don’t have my life together” memes and you basically have an idea of who I was then. I pestered you for help on math homework so many times I was convinced you thought I was stupid. Except you didn’t. Instead you talked to me. We exchanged everything from favorite animals to our vision on how the world should be governed. You told me I was your best friend.

But, I had a best friend. Granted, she lived two thousand miles away from me in California, but I still thought of her as such. Part of me knew that it was inevitable that we would grow apart, yet still I clung to the hope that distance would not affect our friendship. It felt wrong that she could be replaced by someone else, like I was somehow cheating on her by befriending new people. And so, best friend, I waited. I hung out with you at school and occasionally texted you at night with the rationalization that I was receiving help on homework, but you were still just a friend.

I think I knew long before I wanted to admit it to myself that you were more than just another friendly face at school. You became my go-to person. When I had a bad day you could make me laugh. When I felt alone you kept me company. And you knew how to put the pieces back together when I fell and shattered into a hundred tiny pieces. It was my cowardice more than anything else that held me back. I was a guarded person with a treasure chest full of secrets securely locked and safely tucked away where no one could access them.

Still, you somehow found the key I hadn’t even known existed. You opened the treasure chest and rather than being repelled by what you found within, you helped me organize it. The miscellaneous items that no longer belonged were discarded, while other items that had previously been sitting in a haphazard pile were reorganized neatly. And that was when I realized that I was wrong. I was not afraid of losing something. No, I was afraid of what would happen if I let you see what was in my treasure chest. But now that you had, I realized the fear had faded, leaving only two words: “best friend”.

Love,

Angie Shaw

*Sorry if this piece was kind of cringe-worthy. I didn't like it too much. Open to suggestions on how to fix it though >-<

Please Ask Me Again

Is failing to acknowledge part of the truth the same as lying? If I don’t say anything when asked if I did something wrong, does that make me just as bad as someone who blatantly said they didn’t do it? If so, then I’d bet start hoping the gods have some mercy on me.

I try not to straight up lie, I really do. If I took the cookie on your plate and you asked me if I’d taken it, I’m not going to say “no”. However, if the question does not require such a straightforward answer, I will, more likely than not, casually avoid directly answering the inquiry. For instance, if you had asked who took your cookie, I may not necessarily respond, leaving you to ponder the identity of the cookie thief. Does that mean I lied? And what if you found out the truth from me anyway?

I have a terrible poker face. Whenever I play card games I need to literally hide my face underneath another object to avoid revealing any information. This means that even if I don’t answer your question, you may be able to figure out the answer pretty easily just by the expressions on my face. So I lied but my face didn’t?

It’s so easy for me to say “someone is only lying if they blatantly tell something other than the truth” in order to put my conscience to rest, however, in reality I don’t think that’s necessarily the case. One instance in particular comes to mind from elementary school when one day a bunch of people were called into a meeting with a few teachers to discuss a kid who was being bullied. The teachers asked us if any of us knew anything about it or had witnessed it happening. I, like everyone else in the room, stayed silent. For a long time after that I felt guilty for what I had done, or rather, what I had not done. I knew that by saying nothing I had lied to everyone in that room including my bullied classmate.

However, what about those questions that are just unanswerable? The “what’s wrong” when there are about a zillion things that seem to be going wrong at the time tends to be a difficult one for me. It’s not that I don’t know per say, it’s just that there’s just so much gosh darn stuff you DON’T want to hear about. And even if I do want to tell you I often have no clue how to actually filter those complaints into coherent sentences.

In those cases, I often just respond with a simple “I don’t know” or ever better, the classic shrug and look preoccupied. It’s not because I want to hurt you or that I’m shutting you out, but sometimes leaving out the truth is easier than trying to sort through it. So I suppose ultimately it comes down to whether or not I think it’s worth it to keep part of the truth from you and that answer can vary depending on what the truth is.

If the truth will clearly do more good than bad, I’ll probably have a thorough argument with myself for a while and arrive at the conclusion that I should talk about it. On the other hand, if it will do more harm than good, then I struggle endlessly with myself. It gets to the point where sometimes I could swear I have little devil and angel versions of myself sitting on my shoulders, whispering in my ears. In the end, I more often than not go with the easier route. I don’t talk.

I wish I could say I’m not lying when I don’t answer questions with the entire truth but in reality, whether the truth hurts or not, it’s still the truth. So the next time you ask me a question and I simply shrug in dismissal, ask again. I promise you, the truth is hiding in me somewhere, it just doesn’t necessarily want to come out.

Recharging

I am an introvert. No, that doesn’t mean I’m anti-social and never talk except to my cat at late hours of the night. It doesn’t mean that I don’t like you either. It just means that every once in awhile I need some time to be alone to recharge my energy. Just as having assignment after assignment due at school can be exhausting, I find the continuous presence of others to be a tad draining.

One of my friends and I have a running joke that my favorite hobby is to “go home and lie on the floor and contemplate the meaning of life”. Admittedly, that’s not too far from the truth. There’s something so utterly calming about being left alone to do nothing. Part of that has to do with the fact that amid our chaotic high school lives, those moments are hard to come by. I, for one, am well aware of the challenge in finding my alone time, which often leads to late nights of lying in bed contemplating one abstract concept or another.

The problem with this, of course, is that it’s an ugly cycle of attempting to solve exhaustion with even more sleep deprivation. Ultimately it comes down to whether or not I think it would be worth it to get that extra bit of sleep. Increasingly, I tend to allow common sense to take over and I manage to lull myself to sleep at relatively reasonable hours of the night. Still, there are nights after particularly rough days when I can’t help but allow myself some time to stay up a little longer to listen to my Yiruma Pandora station and wonder the fantastical “what if’s”.

I suppose I could find another time during the day to get my “recharge time”. It would definitely be beneficial to my health seeing as I’m reasonably certain my lack of sleep has already taken off several years of my life. However, our regular school days allow for very little to no chance to find that time. During my freshman year, when I was still considered the “new kid”, I spent the majority of my lunch periods in the South Attic of our school. Sometimes a few other people would be up there practicing, but they rarely paid me any attention. However as I have become more engrossed in student life, it became increasingly more difficult for me to sneak away.

At this point I have essentially resolved to compromising with myself. I do my best not to hide away during the school days. I talk to friends, attend thespian meetings during lunch, and even sit in the hallways, rather than in some hidden corner, to do my homework. The trade off, of course, is that I continue to use my “secret survival strategy” because ultimately that alone time doing nothing is what keeps me going.

If I Were To Die Today

The way I see it, we have no choice but to make our individual lives count. I mean, we already waste a pretty substantial portion of time waiting in lines, watching useless Youtube videos or staring blankly at black boards containing information many of us will never need again. So take away all that time and really, our lives are pretty short.

On top of that, we only get one shot. One chance to make our lives mean something because ultimately we’re all going to disappear into oblivion. Billions of people lived on this planet prior to our existence and, assuming we don’t continue to screw up our world, billions of people will come after us. Most of those people have been long forgotten as will the majority of us. Perhaps a few of us will become prominent figures in politics or make some grand discovery but for the most part, the only people whom our lives will truly matter to is ourselves.

Admittedly this is often my consolation after undoubtedly rough math exams. However, it has also resonated with me since the idea of the inevitable demise of this planet occurred and then suck in with me. It wasn’t a grand discovery or anything. Just a product of far too many empty hours of the night in which I was left to contemplate the meaning of life.

Of course, learning to live with the intention of leading a meaningful life begs the question, what makes each life matter? If it hasn’t already, this is where everything gets really complex because we live in a society in which we are perpetually preparing for the future, so often the present fails to lack meaning. Think about it, when we’re children we go to school. Why? To prepare ourselves for our jobs. And then why do we work? Well, partially to feed ourselves and families but also to save money for retirement.

I once listened to a talk in which the speaker asked the audience to consider, what if we all dropped dead at that very second? Would we be satisfied with the life we had led or would we have wished we had done more? I went home that day mulling the question over and came across that conclusion that in fact, I would have wished for a different life. That was when it became clear to me that something needed to change. I wanted to lead a life in which on any given day I could look back on it and be content.

It started with small adjustments. I stopped putting on a show for others. I began distancing myself from people who made me uncomfortable rather than putting on a faux gregarious aura around them. I chose to participate in various activities because they genuinely made me happy, not because my friends were all involved in it. It was liberating. And the more I learned not to mind the scrutiny of my peers, the stronger I felt.

I joined cross country that year. It didn’t matter to me that I wasn’t one of the varsity runners. I ran because, despite all the odd looks I received from people when I explained to them that I do indeed enjoy running several miles a day, I genuinely enjoyed it. Even during the really rough portions of the season when I was  running (literally) on only a few hours of sleep a night and desperately missing my friends involved in other activities I never regretted joining the team.

Gradually those sentiments spread to my other passions. To this day, I continue to lead a my life in a direction in which I can look back and smile and know that I’m pleased with the path I chose to take. So yes, some day in the future I will be forgotten and will cease to exist but at least I know that I’ll have lived the life I always wanted.

The Acceptance Letter

My life was settling down. I was making friends in my new school and not getting lost anymore when biking around town. It finally seemed as though I had my life mostly figured out for the next couple years. And then life threw me a curveball.

When I applied to Uni in seventh grade I wanted it so badly. I took multiple SSAT tests and carefully crafted out my application, revising and then editing multiple times. On the day we were expecting the letters to arrive I called my mom as soon as school let out. Less than fifteen minutes later I was starting track practice with tears streaming down my face.

When I was encouraged by my parents to apply again the following year, I was reluctant. I figured there was such a small chance I would get in. And even if I did, I wasn’t sure it would be worth it. After all, what was wrong with the other schools in the area? Nonetheless, I agreed to give it a shot, if only so I wouldn’t be called a quitter.

So I went through with the whole shabang. My mom and I drove the hour to San Francisco so I could take the SSAT. I mustered up some courage and went up to my teachers, smiling face and hopeful eyes, asking for teacher recommendations. I even went an extra step and talked to my creative writing teacher at the time, hoping for advice on writing my application. Still, I did these things doubting whether I’d even want to attend on the slim chance that I made it into the school.

That made the application all the more difficult to write. One of the questions was, “what would you contribute to the Uni community?” I wondered whether I had enough to offer or if I would be happy doing the things that made me unique at Uni. I was confused. My mom had been playing up Urbana High, the school I would attend if I was denied once more, telling me about how many great classes it offered. It all sounded so appealing. But then I thought about how badly I had wanted to get in the year before. What had changed? Maybe it was just my attitude.

Perhaps the only reason I was doubting myself was because I was afraid of being turned down a second time. And so I wrote my applications. But I didn’t write them like I had the year before, trying to play myself up and make sure every sentence was grammatically correct as I wrote. No, this time I just wanted it to be me. I wanted the person who read that application to know me and if they didn’t think I should be at Uni then maybe I just didn’t belong. So I pressed “Ctrl + p”, slid the pristine printed paper into an envelope, and sealed it.

In the months that followed, the application was a constant nagging in the back of my mind. I came home eagerly everyday from school after Uni sent out their responses, anticipating the long awaited letter. When at last it arrived, my parents saw it first and handed it to me. The moment I saw the envelope my heart stopped. Large and white, different from that of last year.

A mixture of what must have been disbelief, shock and ecstasy beyond words flooded over my senses as I cautiously tore open the envelope. I read the first words on the top page. I did it. I really did it. I was afraid to close my eyes, afraid I’d awake from a dream. Everything I had done not just this year but the year before as well came to mind as I thought about my disappointment a year ago. But I had come a long way from then and this letter proved that. And as I finished reading the acceptance letter in my hands, I started a new chapter of my life.

A Kind of Mix

We’ve all seen all those tv shows with the melodramatic family members and their problems that seem a little too ridiculous to be real. Well sometimes I think my family could very well be in one of those shows. Between my mother, father, sister and me, there’s plenty of drama and irrational problems to go around. Firstly there the rational one, my mother. Think the character who’s always kind of banging her head on the table because of what the people around her are up to. Then there’s my father - classic Asian parent with the whole “always get A’s” and “I’m the head of the household” mentality. This, of course, doesn’t usually play well with the rebellious one in the house, my sister, Tiffany. If the family wants spaghetti for dinner you can be sure she’s going to demand Subway instead. And then there’s me - kind of a mix of all of these people.

This fact is particularly obvious in simple everyday issues. See, Tiffany complains that I act like mom sometimes. I try to be the voice of reason when my sister presents me with her “I absolutely NEED a boyfriend” complaints (she just started her freshman year of high school so I guess the boys got cuter). When I try to convince her that she’s a strong independant woman and doesn’t need a man and all those things that basically all Disney princess movies except Frozen go against, I feel like I’m emulating my mother. She would often tell me the same thing growing up, about learning to be independent as an individual. Those teachings have somewhat embedded themselves into my ideology now, making my mother very much a part of who I am.

My father’s ideology, on the other hand, has been translated to me in another way. For as long as I can remember he has always drilled into me that anything I want, I have to work hard for. That means diving head first into whatever I’ve set my sights on and not stopping until I have it within my grasp. As gruelling as it is sometimes, admittedly this frame of mind has helped me to achieve many of my personal goals that I don’t think I would otherwise have achieved. One of such cases was in third and fourth grade when I had to take these timed multiplication math tests every week. It wasn’t long before my father caught wind of the fact that I was struggling and intervened. We made a giant poster board covered in the entire times table with brightly colored post-its sticking everywhere, and for weeks that I practiced with it. By the end of the year I had made a class record for the fastest person to have done 60 questions (my one and only math related accomplishment).

And then there’s my beloved sister. Anyone who knows us both can pretty much vouch for the fact that we’re essentially opposites. She’s pretty outgoing and plays volleyball. I, on the other hand, prefer to stick to a close pod of people and have zero eye-hand coordination whatsoever.  All this means that there isn’t a whole lot of stuff I can do with her anymore, since playing with stuffed animals and barbies isn’t really on either of our agendas anymore. However, on the rare occasions that we decide we would like to congregate peacefully I realize that I can see parts of myself in her as well. She often voices frustration and anger about subjects that matter to her in a manner similar to my wild internal rants to myself. Though I’m more reserved about how I express my opinions, it’s hard to deny that we do have similar opinions on issues such as crazed internet commentators, dad’s cooking, and of course, the struggles of mathematics.

There’s a saying, that goes something like “we’re all a product of our environment”. I am no exception to that. I’m the middle man, the bit of everything, the kind of mix of everyone in my family and that makes my role in the family all the more unique.
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I apologize for the strange spacing. Still trying to fix that!

A Little Different

When I was a kid I was convinced that I would grow up to be a veterinarian. See, unlike most five-year olds, when I wanted to succumb to my obsession of animals I wouldn’t go watch Clifford or Wonder Pets on PBS Kids. Instead I spent hours studying encyclopedias of dog breeds and watching videos about how to raise kittens. During some weekends I would beg my mom to take me to the local humane society so I could update a journal I kept with drawings and information about all my favorite dogs and cats there. Back then, it was perfectly normal to be obsessed with dogs. We were young and our exposure to much more fascinating subjects was limited. Fast forward ten years and people around me are laughing about the popular tv shows they watched or how they used to design clothes for their dolls. I can’t very well chime in, “I researched how to toilet train puppies!” without getting weird looks and undoubtedly facing judgement so instead I try to give people the impression I was interested in similar things they were when they were younger. Ultimately it saves me from hearing the incredulous tone in people’s voices as they try to come up with an appropriate response.

A part of my embarrassment by my childhood interest comes from the fact that it still has not completely faded. Most high schoolers have long since abandoned their childhood activities in favor of most “age appropriate” ones. The freckle-faced boy who used to build giant habitats for bugs is now into computer programming; the girl who could name every planet within an a zillion light-year radius spends her free time studying journalism now. And then there’s me. To recuperate from a long day at school I often come home to train my cat a new trick. Now, there are many things wrong with that, starting with the fact that who on earth even trains their cats? Besides me, I know no one because it’s just a useless thing to be doing with my time in terms of productivity. Additionally, there’s the fact that most people would go home and read a book or watch tv to wind down and in this society, being completely out of the ordinary isn’t always a great thing.

On top of that is the fact that I can’t actually explain my love for animals to people. There is literally no explanation I can really give as to why training a cat how to stand up on his hind legs is something people should spend their free time doing. And while I can say that animals make me happy and help me relax similar to how video games may make someone feel, that never seems to satisfy people. There’s always going to be that one person who questions me because I would choose to play fetch with a dog over watching Psych on Netflix. And I can’t explain how much my cat means to me because to do so would be to cause even more critique. I would get comments like “he’s too spoiled” or “you’re going to become a crazy cat lady” when in reality it’s not just a petty obsession. My family originally chose to adopt him to serve as an unofficial therapy cat for my sister after our family moved. Unfortunately for her, that didn’t work out as we had intended. Instead, Max became my close companion as I struggled to adjust to a new school as a transfer student and sit through long nights of family conflict. It got to the point where even my mom was telling me that I needed two legged friends (yes, I realize I could’ve gone looking for a chicken). But the thing was, at the time, spending time with Max was one of my only reassurances that something good had come out of moving. He helped ground me while everything around me was changing and was always there to greet me at the door after school even as people I used to know disappeared from my life.

So yes, I’m embarrassed about my childhood obsession with animals and even my current love for them, because it’s so different and hard to justify to people. On occasions it feels ridiculous, even to me, but it also makes me incredibly happy. I know that in my love for animals, I have found something comforting that has changed my life for the better and frankly, that’s always going to outweigh the embarrassment of being a being interested in something a little different.