Endings That Last

Endings. Everything has one. Stories. Moments. Relationships. Lives. But what elements separate the endings that leave an impression from those of which leave us thinking, "Uhm, okay...?"

Endings are all around us. Sometimes, they're positive, such as relationships that end to transform into something bigger and better, like marriage. Other times, they're rather unfortunate, such as a lost life or a forgotten memory. Nonetheless, we don't remember every ending to everything we've seen or read or experienced; we remember those that last.

Playing more on endings I've seen or read, here's a list of some of the best endings I recall:

*****WARNING: SPOILER ALERTS AHEAD. READ AT OWN CAUTION.*****

Movies:

1. Inception: Cobb seemingly escapes the dream world and returns to his family in reality, but viewers are left on a thread as the film ends before the spinning top comes to a halt. Although it isn't specified, Cobb's totem is perceived as the spinning top, and viewers are forced to decide on whether or not he actually returned to reality. Leaving the audience with this element of surprise, making them think a little, ends the story with some mystery.
• SPOILER: Cobb actually managed to escape the dream world. His totem isn't the top; it's his wedding band. In reality, it's off; in his dreams, where he and Mal are still together, it's on. It's off at the end of the movie.

2. Titanic: Although she had lost the love of her life, Rose dies an old woman, warm in her bed, just as Jack promised she would before he died in the ocean, many years before, from hypothermia. Moments before she peacefully passed, she dropped the Heart of the Ocean into the sea over the wreck site of the Titanic. This ending leaves the audience at ease, as Rose was finally able to get closure over losing Jack.

3. 50 First Dates: Lucy wakes up and plays a tape Henry made for her, recalling her accident. Instead of ending in the loop she once lived, the tape ends with her and Henry's wedding, and she meets her husband and children on the deck. I liked this particular ending because it was one of those feel-good endings. Henry, formerly known as a promiscuous player, was able to get Lucy, the once confused amnesiac, to remember him and her love for him, as he fell madly and deeply in love with her.

Literature:

1. The Things They Carried: This book, "neither a novel nor a short-story collection," is one of my all-time favorites, and I must admit, the ending was a primary factor as to why. O'Brien ends his compilation of war stories with "The Lives of the Dead." He explains how back in Vietnam, the soldiers kept the dead alive by telling stories about them. And basically, he keeps his childhood love Linda alive by telling stories of her, as well as ruminates over how he's lived his entire life trying to save his childhood life.

• Last line:
• "I'm skimming across the surface of my own history, moving fast, riding the melt beneath the blades, doing loops and spins, and when I take a high leap into the dark and come down thirty years later, I realize it as Tim trying to save Timmy's life with a story."
2. The Great Gatsby: Another, somewhat overplayed, classic, this novel is another all-time favorite. The plot revolves around obsession, partying, narcissism, and accidents, and the ending statement is one of the most quoted lines by many English teachers I know. It captures everything that the preceding pages suggest: there can be no way for this book to end--end in the sense that time or a legacy cannot end. Shit happens, and we all learn to deal.
   
• Last line:
• "So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past."
3. The Perks of Being a Wallflower: I remember reading this story in tenth grade, thinking it was one of the greatest stories ever told. Still a favorite, this novel contained so many quotes I absolutely loved. This coming-of-age novel is about the misadventures and the memories of starting/being in high school. The ending itself is very nostalgic, and it reminds the reader to live in every moment. Because before you know it, it's gone. Just like that.
   
• Last line:
• "And in this moment, I swear, we are infinite."

Short Stories:

1. A Temporary Matter (from Interpreter of Maladies): Shoba and Shukumar, a trying couple, with high hopes of rekindling their flame, face their tragic fate.
• Last line:
• "They wept together, for the things they now knew."
2. The Trespasser: A girl fears becoming the trespasser of her own life.
• Last line:
• "The dream that scares her awake over and over is the dream of entering a stranger's bedroom--only it is her room--and encountering there her own body, waiting."
3. The Most Girl Part of You: After getting intimate with her best friend Big Guy, a girl realizes she's ready to grow up and start living.
• Last line:
• "I want him to know what it clearly seems to me: that if it's true your life flashes past your eyes before you die, then it is also the truth that your life rushes forth when you are ready to start to truly be alive."

In essence, the best endings are the longest-lasting ones. They're the ones we carry with ourselves everywhere we go. They can be nostalgic, reminding us of our former lives, or elusive, leaving us with a sense of mystery--a sense of magic. They are relatable, and they don't add anything out of the blue. They're realistic, ending in situations we could actually picture happening. I'm still debating on where I want my story to go, but I'm thinking about ending the story happily--however, not clichéd. I hope to leave readers feeling good and possibly a little nostalgic.

Looking Backwards at "Cheating Upwards"

This past summer, I was forced to read and write about an article titled "Cheating Upwards." When I first read it, I didn't think very much of it. All I really thought was, I get to read and write about cheating? Greeeeaaaaat. Frankly, and unsurprisingly, the Directed Self Placement (DSP) was the last thing I wanted to do during the summer before the start of my college career. And the fact that the DSP was on such a banal topic didn't help my interest. Plagiarism was something that my generation was constantly reminded of throughout our secondary education. It wasn't anything new to me--it was old news.

However, after rereading the article now, I realize there were many things I didn't notice my first read through. Due to my inattention, or more so my lack of interest, I hadn't realized Robert Kolker introduced his essay with a three-page story to lure his audience in. I mean, don't get me wrong; I wasn't oblivious to the presence of the story. I just didn't really process, nor had I really cared to know the purpose of the implementation of a story. Instead of conveying the scandal in the standard news report format, Kolker had managed to transform the news into a story, which allowed for readers to better visualize what exactly had happened.

Kolker was careful to include several story elements when introducing his non-fiction. He began the story by describing the setting, vigilant to incorporate every specific detail. He noted the time and date, the environment and scenery--everything visible to the naked eye at the place and time of the start of the crime. Kolker then proceeded to further describe the main character, Nayeem Ashan, illustrating his appearance and background. "Like many teenage boys, he [seemed] to straddle two worlds: One moment you see a man, another a boy." After providing an adequate history of Nayeem, Kolker continued on by introducing the conflict at hand: cheating. The plot then begins to develop, moving the story along as well as noting the impact of the technological and collaborative culture kids these days are being raised in. Rising action builds as Nayeem grows bolder and bolder with his ethics, climaxing during his Spanish Regents exam--specifically when Stanley Teitel, the Stuyvesant High School principal at the time, enters his testing room.

While I was rereading this piece, I recalled most of the content. It definitely was something that stuck with me, as I recall being appalled and amazed that a bright and intelligent student actually had the audacity to cheat on not one, but three important examinations. I mean, it's not that I wasn't aware of students of all academic levels cheating; I just assumed that students as smart as Stuy kids would know better than to risk their academic career like that on something as major as an exam. Rereading about the Harvard case reiterated the importance of academic integrity and the severe consequences of plagiarism. I remember when I first read about the case, I viewed it as a scare tactic from UMich to alarm incoming freshmen of where cheating could get them.

I certainly saw this article differently my second read through. Maybe it's because I had to write this blog post, or maybe it's because I'm a more developed reader and writer as I once was, but I now notice the purpose of the usage of certain elements, such as anecdotes and rhetorical questions. I'm more aware of Kolker's transitions and overall writing style. After six months, after my first term of college, I've become a more attentive reader, questioning and interpreting the voices and the writing styles of every writer, as well as analyzing how each writer goes about conveying his/her purpose.

I don't remember how I wrote my essay, especially since my hard drive crashed last week and I didn't back it up, but if I were to write the DSP essay today, I would deviate from the standard five-paragraph essay I was taught to write in high school. I would develop my essay with an abundance of quotes, to better support my claim. Also, I would consider disregarding the prescribed writing rules my honors/AP English teachers taught me to adhere, such as eliminating rhetorical questions and beginning my sentences with conjunctions.

Blogging vs. Academic Writing

Blogging and academic writing are indubitably two different forms of writing. Consider them contradictories: unbounded vs. bounded, expressive vs. reflective, unstructured vs. structured, and so on and so forth. When it comes to school and writing composition classes, blogging isn't typically the first thing that comes to mind for most students. I never took any creative writing classes or participated in any clubs of the sort, so when I heard the word "writing," typically from a student's perspective, I always thought of the typical five-paragraph essays, mindless papers, and tedious lab reports. That is, until my first term in college (if you don't count the times I was dual-enrolled) in LHSP125.

After reading the article "Blogs vs. Term Papers" in the New York Times, I began to better understand the entire purpose of including this blog feature in this first-year writing course. I mean, our blogs are being counted for 20% of our final grade, so, of course, there had to be some sort of purpose.

With social media taking over today's generation, I think blogging assignments are a wise addition to college writing courses. As stated in the NYTimes article, "blog writing has become a basic requirement in everything from MBA to literature courses." Although the style typically is a bit more informal and the analysis, if any, is much less in-depth compared to academic writing, I've found that blogging allows writers to be more expressive. Sure, there may not be much, if any, structure in a blog post, but if it gets the writer's message across, then doesn't it fulfill the purpose of writing? Also, there's an immediate audience, as opposed to a single reader. Instead of having to wait around for one professor to sluggishly get around to reading and grading a piece of writing, a blog post makes the writing public, allowing anyone who stumbles upon the post to read and to comment. The immediacy of a viewer especially appeals students in this day and age, as growing up in a technologically-advanced generation has caused them to constantly want things instantaneously. Within the past two decades, communication has only grown faster, as snail mail and phone calls evolved into e-mails and text messages. It's a bit unfair to think of today's youth as impatient, needy individuals, since society and technology both primed them to become the way they currently are. But back to the point, having a universally larger audience means there's more than one person to keep in mind. You can be personal, but you also want to be relatable, otherwise no one will give a shit about what you say.

However, all of this doesn't necessarily mean I don't see the purpose of formal papers. For a while, academic writing was all I really knew. From five-paragraph essays to three-part theses, I learned how to structure my argument and emphasize that I really knew what I was talking about, even when I didn't. Although I've always aced every essay I've ever written, I felt like I didn't really know how to properly express myself in words. I constantly felt like I had so much to say, inside and outside of the classroom, but simply didn't know how to say it. Even though it didn't really help me be more concise, blog writing helped me better express understand myself.

I like to keep things in moderation. You never want to have too little of one thing and too much of another. Moderation helps you experience and learn from the best of both options. So, the best way to teach writing, in my opinion, is a combination of both blogging and academic writing.

I just want sleep.

I want to close my eyes and dream sweet things, simply resting eternally without death. I want to find myself in my sweet escape from reality, in a land of surreal serendipity.

Sleep is beautiful because when I dream, I have no worries. I don't want to die; I just want to float and ignore all of the solicitudes of everyday life. No thoughts of where the ones I needed most went or of what could steal my last breath. Just the calm and steady rise and fall of my chest.

Comfort, no stress. Resting. Dreaming. A good night's sleep.

Admiring Good Posts

What constitutes a good blog post? Is it the topic? Is it the visuals? Is it the way in which the blogger articulates themselves? I find it's actually a combination of several variables.

Now, I'm not saying there's a formula to creating a good blog post, nor am I implying that I think I'm a good blogger. I'm just saying there's a basis--a foundation--to writing one.

I'm drawn towards authenticity. Writers who can be genuine and open best captivate me. I'm the type of person who's curious about everything I come across and everyone I meet. I'm a dreamer, a questioner, a girl who likes to learn.

In order to be effective, a post must hook and reel. Titles and visuals are the bait: interesting elements hook the reader; bland components merely sink. From articles and news reports to novels and essays, there's a plethora of publications readily available to read. As a reader, titles help me determine whether or not I want to continue on with the reading. If I see a blog post titled, "Blog Post #__," I'm more inclined to overlook it. The more creative the title, the more interested I am in hearing what the writer has to say, as the title gives me a general idea of what the post is about and where the blogger intends on going with the topic. Also, the placement of visuals and videos plays an important factor. Is it placed properly? Does it aide your content? Or is it misleading and completely random? Conversely, the tone and writing style are what reels the reader in. Eloquent writers aren't afraid to deviate from traditional writing. A blog is a free space for expression. It is not an academic essay or a formal report, rather, it is a blank canvas for a writer to create. The way I see it, a blog is basically an online journal. And in our journals, we typically aren't bounded by prescribed grammar rules. We write as we go, writing as we please in an unconventional manner. For the post on making a character, for example, I found the ones that avoided explicitly stating "Phase 1" and "Phase 2" or "External" and "Internal" more potent. Instead, these bloggers got creative and incorporated an actual story, despite their brevities.

So basically, in order for a post to be effective, it must grab AND keep my attention. You might have an enthralling title, but I'll stop reading the second I lose interest in the conventionalism of your content. Or, you might have a strong message, but I most likely won't get to it if you title your post poorly.

The best posts are, in my opinion, the personal posts. Posts that give me a snippet of another person's life intrigue me. It is the memories, the thoughts, and the feelings that are invisible to the eye. For one to expose what goes on in his or her mind, presenting a state of vulnerability, is, to me, golden.

I have lost myself, only to be found within you.

          It's rush hour, and clumps of people come cluttering in. Despite the dim lighting and quiet ambience, everything suddenly appears... Perturbed.
          He stands there, at five feet and eleven inches, waiting. With his head held high and his eyes down low. Everything about him is dark. Short chestnut hair. Deep brown eyes. Slightly tanned skin. He seems like an enigma--like something countless of girls wasted much of their youth trying to figure out. He's wearing 50 shades of gray today, from his charcoal gray long sleeve and his faded gray jeans to his asphalt Nikes and his silver Movado watch. He glances at his phone, in efforts of making his impatience disappear.
          He seems like the entrepreneurial type. In fact, he's the epitome of today's young, elite businessman. He's the slick, suave sweet-talker who's constantly in a rush. He doesn't commit very easily, but when he does, he's committed like a ball and chain. By the age of 23, he knows exactly what he wants in life and doesn't stop at anything until he gets it.
          But today, his defined jawline appears unsharpened. He didn't choose to participate in No-Shave November; rather, his five o'clock shadow was forced upon him. Today is the first day he has been away from the office in thirty weeks.
          He pulls out his iPhone once again. Nothing.
          Physically, he takes one step forward, swiftly swaying with his step. Mentally, he takes twenty steps back. Although he eagerly anticipates ordering his large black cup of coffee and his garlic bagel, all he can seem to focus on is the life he had blindly left behind.
          Back in the city, his Wall Street career was sky-rocketing. On the verge on being promoted to head consultant of the conglomerate he had spent endless nights and weekends at, he cracked. At the work party, right before he was about to accept his big promotion, news that his girlfriend of two years had been unfaithful for more than half of their relationship finally reached him. Running off and away from his promising future, he took the subway north, eventually downing away his sorrows at a desolate bar in the Bronx until 8AM.
          Hopeless and hungover, he finds himself here, in Ann Arbor--back where he first began to find himself. Four years ago, he found hope. During his freshman year as an undergraduate, his mother lost her battle with breast cancer. Having been a complete Momma's Boy, he took her passing harder than anyone else impacted. But it was here, in the line of Bert's, where he met his college sweetheart and his one true love.
          Lily believed in karma. Stressed out from midterms, she always did a few random acts of kindness in preparation for her upcoming exams. A friendly face standing in line in front of him, she told the barista to charge her Chase debit card however much her order and the person behind her's order totaled.
          It was then, when a stranger took him by surprise, that he started seeing that there was still something in life worth living for. That there was still good in the world. That there was a bright future ahead of him.
          She inspired him. She pushed him to be the best man he could be. She loved him endlessly and put his broken pieces back together.
          It was Lily who helped him find his passions and his love for business.
          But, as the seasons begun to change, so, too, did his demeanor. After being accepted to the Ross School of Business, and after becoming whole once again, he gradually developed the stereotypical mindset of a sleazy executive.
          During their senior year, he mindlessly broke up with her. He thought he could "do better." He thought she wasn't worth it. He was going big places and she was going to little towns. He thought she wasn't worthy of him and what he had become.
          He finds himself wondering if he made the right decision.
          "Bobby."
          He scans the room in search of a once-familiar voice. Never has he felt so alone in a crowded room.
          After grabbing his first meal in 36 hours, he anxiously looks around. He's frantic, nervous, and unsure of what exactly he's looking for.
          He didn't know if she was still around. He didn't know what she's been up to. He broke her heart and shattered her into the very pieces she found him as. But he didn't know who to confide in. He didn't know if she'd ever want to see him again, as she screamed at him when he tore her into tiny pieces. He simply didn't know anything anymore.
          As what little hope remained began to evade, he began to make his way towards the door.
          "Over here."

Rain, Rain, Don't Go Away

There's something about the sound of a heavy rainfall that instills me with a feeling of hope. Maybe it's the way the shower sounds so strong, demonstrating that even what seems to be the tiniest sound can metamorphose into a melodic uproar. Or maybe it's the way the pitter patter of the raindrops is so persistent, providing me with the sense that no skill, no relationship, no idea--essentially nothing--becomes solid without consistency. Perhaps it's the way Mother Nature lets down her rigid walls and invites a forlorn drought to appreciate her tears. Whatever it is, it's soothing.

Sometimes, I want to be a raindrop. I want to travel the world, to see things others couldn't otherwise see. I want to visit different cities, to find myself in different sceneries. Maybe find myself in the light, morning rainfall in the countryside one day, and in the moderate, night shower in a busy city the next. I want to come crashing down one day and subtly drip the next. I want to find myself both high and low, enjoying the view wherever I go. I want to be able to take a look at things in different angles and perspectives. I want to meet different types of people, to greet the umbrellas of the grouchy rich, to embrace the palms of the happy poor. I want to create ripples, big and small. In a pond, in a lake, in someone's life. I want to be there for the heartbroken lovers, the newfound couples. I want to be present for the painful breakups and the endearing makeups. I want to know I can wash away someone's sorrows, or fill someone with joy.

I don't mind falling. As long as I'm not alone. And raindrops are never alone.

The Blog Critic

Quite frankly, literary blogs aren't really my cup of tea. I don't see the point of reading other people's thoughts on various literary works. I mean, if I really wanted to find other people's opinions on a writing, that's what Google's for, right? Nonetheless, after perusing through the 15 blogs, I did find myself drawn towards a few of the listed blogs.

Time to sit back with a cup of tea.

I found myself reading more posts of the blogs that incorporated personal posts into their literary reviews. LiteraryMinded and The Elegant Variation both did a great job of varying their posts, however, I liked LiteraryMinded slightly more than The Elegant Variation. Personally, I liked the layout of the blog and the blogger's writing style better on LiteraryMinded. She included pictures in her posts to aide her writing, which was a great plus. Also, I personally related to her more than the blogger on The Elegant Variation, as she was a traveler and he was a professor. Dani Shapiro's blog also interested me, as she made each post personal, connecting various topics back to her life. I also liked Andrew Rickard's blog, as he set up his blog as a compilation of quotes and passages he found intriguing.

So, as you can see, I like personal blogs. I like going through posts and previewing a snippet of another person's life. But if I had to pick a favorite literary blog, I'd have to pick Andrew Rickard's blog.

According to his "About Me" page, Andrew Rickard is a McGill University alumni who graduated with language and literature honors. There, in Montreal, he studied French and German, which is something I hope to do (study multiple languages and expand my knowledge of languages). Post-undergraduate years, he went into the insurance and investment business, which, ironically enough, is something I'm hoping to do as well. He eventually gave up everything to pursue what he really wanted and become a translator.

What attracted me the most to his posts was the fact that he centered his blog in an unconventional manner. While most literary blogs consist of long, droning reviews and annoying advertisements (3 Quarks Daily, GalleyCat), Andrew Rickard's simply contained his favorite quotes. He made an effort include the citation, as well as a link to the literary work, of which he retrieved his quoted passages from. He was also careful to refrain from self-reflection and commentary on his blog posts, which, although sounds a little odd, works. His blog is concise and very straight to the point, which, along with the simplicity of his layout, makes it that much more readable. It's nice and doesn't appear intimidating or cluttered like other blogs (The Millions, Emerging Writers Network).

One thing I would possibly change is the appearance. Although simple, it isn't very appealing. It doesn't have many pictures; in fact, the entire blog is approximately 95% words. I'd also change the look of the blog. Personally, I like to read aesthetically designed blogs. If I'm going to be looking at something for a while, it might as well be appealing to the eyes. For example, Reluctant Habits has a very modern look to it and is abundant in pictures, but I just don't like how oversized the posts appear. I also don't like the fact that I have to click on each individual post to read more. Call me lazy, but it's true. Maybe that's why I didn't really find myself getting into blogs like The Mumpsimus or The Guardian Book Blog.

A picture's worth a thousand words.

Change is inevitable.

I don't know when I became so indiscreet.

Before college, I was often told that I resembled the girl who seemed to have it all. Good grades. Great friends. Impressive resume. I was the ambitious overachiever, the social butterfly everyone knew, the independent woman trapped in an adolescent's body. I was able to juggle AP/accelerated classes, community college courses, leadership positions in several extracurricular activities, three jobs, and a social life. I never really had to try too hard in school to get good grades--they sort of came naturally to me. I never had to study too much to do well on my exams. In fact, I rarely, if ever, studied for anything. If I did, I would simply reread the material the day prior to my exam. Call me crazy, but hey, if it works, it works. Halfway through high school, I thought I was already prepared to be a college student. But boy, was I wrong.

I never expected to struggle with keeping up with my schoolwork. Usually, when I fall behind, I pick myself back up and get right back on track, regardless of how much stuff is going on in my life outside of school and work. But I feel like it's as if I've dug myself too deep and there's no hope of digging myself out. Panhellenic rush handed me the shovel, but it was all of the extracurriculars I decided to partake in that got me to start digging. I've spread myself too thin--something I've done my entire life. Being a part of LHSP, UROP, SHEI, VSA, APO, DMUM, and BPA, on top of 16 credits, is fulfilling yet excessive and difficult to manage. It doesn't help that three of my four classes are reading based, assigning massive chunks of readings every night along with additional assignments. I know I should consider dropping a few clubs, but honestly, I just don't know how. It's simply in my nature to get involved with everything I'm interested in. And like they say, habits, good or bad, are hard to break and hard to form.

I've always been a busy bee; I absolutely hate being unproductive. That's why I never really cared for television shows or movies--I always had places to go and people to see. But being in college, constantly being surrounded by your peers is the difference between high school and college. In high school, I lived with my family, as the rest of us did. I drove everywhere, and I saw my friends when it was convenient for both parties. But here, we all live with one another. We walk everywhere, and we see each other 24/7, whether we like it or not. It's no wonder that I'm having such a difficult time keeping up with course materials.

To be frank, because of my time spent here at the University of Michigan, I feel like I've developed ADHD and learned to love dawdling. Okay, maybe not love, but learned to accept procrastinating far more often than I once did.

Am I where I would like to be in my life right now? Not quite. But I don't necessarily regret the way things turned out. It all happened for a reason. Maybe that reason is a reality check. A wake-up call to show me how, with just one decision, my life could either turn out to be really great or really awful. For now, I'm going to do the best I can to end the semester strong. I'm going to try to divert my attention away from the external influences and keep my eye on the prize. Next semester, I'm going to do all it takes to stay on track and narrow my interests to what truly matters.

As a friend once told me:

"Life changes every minute of every day. You lose and you gain friends. You realize your friend wasn't ever really your friend and that person you used to hate can make a really good friend. You look for love. You find and you lose love. You realize all along that you've been loved. You laugh, you cry. You laugh so hard that you cry. You do this, you do that. You really wish you hadn't done that. Your learn from that and are glad you did it. You have your ups and your downs. You see good movies. You see bad movies. You wonder if your life is just one big movie. You look at others and wish you were them. You then realize who they are and are glad that you're you. You love life. You hate life. In the end, you just find yourself happy to be living life, no matter what's thrown at you."

'Til Death Do Us Part

Someone you haven't even met yet is wondering what it'd be like to know someone like you.

The other day, I was talking to one of my best friends about the future. We wondered basic thoughts, such as where all of our friends would end up, what they'd be doing with their lives, and who they'd commit themselves to. With the real world slowly creeping along, getting ready to strike at any moment, we couldn't help but think of what will happen when everyone stops having time to see each other.

Being two young, hopelessly romantic girls, we mainly thought about who we'd spend the rest of our lives with. A few of our friends have already gotten engaged (most of my friends are several years older than me), and the thought of the moment when all of us are either engaged and married makes us anxious. We're young, we're reckless, we're alive. We don't completely know what we want for ourselves, and we don't want to make any disastrous mistakes, such as declaring the wrong major or marrying the one who isn't the one.

All of this talk about marriage got me thinking. Love comes from investment.

There is no such thing as "love at first sight." Sure, something about another person might effortlessly entice you to a level that "can't compare to the rest." But that's not love, that's infatuation. You don't know who their closest friends are or who their worst enemies are. You don't know their inner fears, their hidden desires, their favorite memories. Hell, you probably don't even know their name. You only know their physical attributes, and you're infatuated with whatever lured you in to "plunge so deep."

True love doesn't occur instantly.

It takes time.

Falling in love is a process--one that you have total control over. You meet someone you have a mutual interest in, you start talking, you begin seeing each other, you get to know one another, and so on and so forth. You didn't have to invest all of that time into that one person; you had the option to spend your time as you pleased. The time you invest in a particular person is what sets them apart from the rest.

Look at it this way: a day is a day until it becomes an anniversary. A flower is a flower until a special admirer sends one your way. A song is a song until it is attached to a newfound memory. A ring is a ring until a lover slides one on your finger. Sentiment transforms even the most simple things into something extraordinary.

Investing yourself in another person is what makes that person, and everything associated with them, that more special.

I guess what I'm getting at is I'm afraid of making the wrong decision. Afraid of devoting myself to the wrong guy. Afraid of letting the right one slip away. After all, time is something you can never get back, no matter how hard you try.

I promise you, this is definitely worth your time.

Great Stories

Greatness. How do we define such an ambiguous term? Oxford defines it as the quality of being great, distinguished, or eminent. Webster defines it as exceptionally high quality. Dictionary.com defines it as the quality of being unusual or considerable in degree, power, or intensity. In terms of screenplays and literature, I define it as having the ability to evoke emotions, to arouse passion--to move people.

I think about movies the same way I might think of the difference between a good book and a great book. After all, movies and books carry the same content: a story. Oftentimes, movies are inspired by the stories within books. Some examples include: The Great Gatsby, Harry Potter, The Perks of Being a Wallflower, Twilight, The Hunger Games, and sappy love stories by Nicholas Sparks.

The difference between a good story and a great one is simple: good implies entertaining and/or favorable, but great implies all of good and a little more. Great story lines aren't necessarily original; rather, they merely stimulate strong emotions within their audience. For instance, many of my favorite movies are comedies (including Bridesmaids, Anchorman, Step Brothers, The Hangover, Ted, and 21 Jump Street) and romantic comedies (She's the Man, Friends With Benefits, 50 First Dates, The Proposal, just to name a few). Yes, I would watch them again and again, however, that doesn't automatically mean I consider them "great" movies. The one movie genre I typically find great stories in are dramas (i.e. The Help, Slumdog Millionaire, and A Beautiful Mind). They contain some realistic situation, entailing the joys and the struggles strung along on the adversity inside.

As recited by Duke Orsino in "She's the Man," William Shakespeare once said, "Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them."

As We Lay Dying

It was senior year of high school and many of things we've waited our entire secondary education for seemed to be quickly approaching. Senior spring break. Prom. Graduation. College. With spring break arriving in less than two weeks, the last thing any of us wanted to do was read, what initially seemed to be, a bland novel by the American author William Faulkner. When my AP English Literature teacher told us we were going to read As I Lay Dying, we all groaned as senioritis had already gotten the best of most, if not all, of us.

When we first began the book, I absolutely despised Faulkner's writing. I hated everything about it: the style, the tone, the setting--everything. He wrote the book in alternating perspectives. So, instead of just one consistent narrator, he voiced the story from fifteen different viewpoints. Mind you, I didn't start reading the novel with a narrow perspective, one with hatred and disgust; I actually kept an open mind. However, it was more so the tone that sparked my disinterest--these Southern narrators were extremely ungrammatical, to the point where it became difficult for me to learn to appreciate his new writing tactic. I've been told, more than often, that I can be a bit of a Grammar Nazi, so you could only imagine how long it took me to correct every page. I would mentally correct it to the point where it wasn't perfectly grammatical, but to the point where it was, at least, understandable to the modern reader.

As we delved further in the book, however, I slowly began to appreciate the novel, bit by bit. I began to admire the differing standpoints, as they added complexity to the novel. Having more than one narrator was something atypical in the world of writing: it broke the stream of consciousness, and instead, dived into multiple streams. The Southern grammar slowly, but surely, grew on me, as I realized, someone, somewhere, actually spoke the way in which he wrote. Next thing you know, I stopped trying to correct the writing and took it the way it was presented. Even though some of the characters' stupidity really did piss me off, I ended up somewhat liking the book. It aroused strong senses of emotion, which, in my opinion, is what every great story does.

The Purple Hibiscus: What Now?

When I finished reading The Purple Hibiscus, I was plopped on one of the cushioned armchairs, with my feet kicked up on the small black table in front of me, in the first floor of the UGLi. Closing the book, I sat up, placing my feet on the ground, feeling a bit disappointed. Even with all of the chatter of other students surrounding my head, it was one of those moments where my thoughts grew loud and my heart grew quiet. I thought to myself, Wow. That's all?

Although it was expected from her, I wasn't too thrilled to discover that Beatrice grew distant from everyone, becoming apathetic to her physical appearance and towards those once close to her. I was disappointed to find a stoic Jaja, one who let his jail time alter the defiant, lighthearted teenager he once was. I guess it's a part of growing up. Gone are the days where you had not a single care in the world. The days in which you were curious about everything. The days where you could run freely and truly live in the moment. Three years in the slammer and your happiness slowly slips away from the teeny cell you're locked up in, finding another, more enjoyable, environment to occupy.

I was, however, pleased with Kambili's final state. As I reached the end, I noticed how even though she matured into the girl she could only dream of being, she still stayed true to herself. She stayed true to herself in the sense that she still possessed qualities of an introvert. She still wonders, she still hopes, she still observes the world through a microscopic viewpoint. She notices the little things, often noting the scenery around her during every event, particularly the nature and the type of silence that dwells. Although I would've liked to see Kambili with Father Amadi, I'm accepting of the fact that the two could never get married and start a family. That's the thing with first loves. They show you that you're capable of doing things you never imagined possible, proving to you you're more than you think you're worth. They show you how to look at things in a whole new light. They teach you how to accept yourself for your flaws and your traits and to accept others for the individuals they are. They teach you how to love. You'll always carry a part of them wherever you go, but you know in your heart, you two simply just can't be.

Adichie concludes the novel with, "Above, clouds like dyed cotton wool hang low, so low I feel I can reach out and squeeze the moisture from them. The new rains will come down soon." Despite the fact that I was a little let down, I think she ended the novel perfectly. Kambili finally realizes that although she has no control of what happens in life, she can, in fact, control her attitude and how she reacts. The last sentence embodies what Kambili had waited all her life for: a metamorphosis.

*Side note: I'm not gonna lie, when I read the last sentence, I immediately thought of the Hilary Duff song, "Come Clean." Yes, I was a big Hilary Duff fan back in the day. Judge me.

Potential Second Essay Topics

1. Safe: Comparing the two different families would be the safest option I'm considering. Although they are siblings from the same family, Eugene and Aunty Ifeoma lead polar opposite lives. The Achikes live an affluent lifestyle, never having to worry about having food on the table. They have their own personal driver, Kevin, as well as their own maid, Sisi. They are so wealthy that Eugene often shares the wealth with the Abba community, giving away nairas to those less fortunate. Aunty Ifeoma's family, on the other hand, comes from a rather impoverished life. They struggle to find food to put on their table, and they also struggle to cook the food with a lack of kerosene. Every meal, Aunty Ifeoma's entire family combined typically eats about one-third the size of an Achike's plate. They aren't able to drive around whenever, as fuel is far too costly for them to afford on the daily, and the entire family must contribute in the house chores. What interests me most about this topic is the differences in family happiness. Although Eugene and his family are basically set for life, none of them, if not only Eugene, are truly happy, where, on the contrary, Aunty Ifeoma and her children are the happiest people Kambili has ever encountered.
   
2. Likely: The topic I would most likely write about is Kambili's development. I would compare the person she is in the beginning of the novel to who she matures to at the end. In the beginning, Kambili is perceived as this reserved "backyard snob" who has everything in life handed to her. Deep down, she actually leads a tormented life, constantly living in fear. Afraid of slipping up, she is hyperaware of her father's reactions to every event she witnesses. As the story progresses, and as Kambili develops, she learns to question authority when necessary through Aunty Ifeoma's liberal outlook. Although many of the characters and many of the relationships in The Purple Hibiscus develop throughout the novel, Kambili's growth struck me most. She made a complete 180, becoming the girl she could only dream of ever becoming.
   
3. Risky: This may be a bit of a stretch, but a risky topic I have been considering is comparing Kambili from Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie's novel, The Purple Hibiscus, to Oliver Harris from Charles Baxter's short story, "A Relative Stranger." Though they do so in different manners, both characters possess reserved dispositions, constantly wondering and worrying about the world around them. Kambili views the world from a bystander's perspective, often beating herself up mentally about her inactions. She compares herself to others, comparing their qualities to her flaws. In addition, she secretly desires a close relationship, and her desire isn't blatantly revealed until she begins to have feelings for Father Amadi. Harris views the world in a similar standpoint, however, he is more aggressive--aggressive in the sense that he has his guard up. In essence, he longs for the world, yet bottles it up. Put up for adoption, he seeks a meaningful relationship, as he felt he lacked that intimate connection with another individual.
   

For the First Time

          I looked at him and then away. I wondered if Amaka would ever paint him, would ever capture the clay-smooth skin, the straight eyebrows, which were slightly raised as he watched me. "I played volleyball in class one," I said. "But I stopped playing because I . . . I was not that good and nobody liked to pick me." I kept my eyes focused on the bleak, unpainted spectator stands, abandoned for so long that tiny plants had started to push their green heads through the cracks in the cement.
          "Do you love Jesus?" Father Amadi asked, standing up.
          I was startled. "Yes. Yes, I love Jesus."
          "Then show me. Try and catch me, show me you love Jesus."
          He had hardly finished speaking before he dashed off and I saw the blue flash of his tank top. I did not stop to think; I stood up and ran after him. The wind blew in my face, into my eyes, across my ears. Father Amadi was like blue wind, elusive. I did not catch up until he stopped near the football goal post. "So you don't love Jesus," he teased.
          "You run too fast," I said, panting.
          "I will let you rest, and then you can have another chance to show me you love the Lord."
          We ran four more times. I did not catch him. We flopped down on the grass, finally, and he pushed a water bottle into my hand. "You have good legs for running. You should practice more," he said.
          I looked away. I had never heard anything like that before. It seemed too close, too intimate, to have his eyes on my legs, on any part of me.
          "Don't you know how to smile?" he asked.
          "What?"
          He reached across, tugged lightly at the sides of my lips. "Smile."
          I wanted to smile, but I could not. My lips and cheeks were frozen, unthawed by the sweat running down the sides of my nose. I was too aware that he was watching me.
          "What is that reddish stain on your hand?" he asked.
          I looked down at my hand, at the smudge of the hastily wiped lipstick that still clung to the sweaty back of my hands. I had not realized how much I had put on. "It's . . . a stain," I said, feeling stupid.
          "Lipstick?"
          I nodded.
          "Do you wear lipstick? Have you ever worn lipstick?"
          "No," I said. Then I felt the smile start to creep over my face, stretching my lips and cheeks, an embarrassed and amused smile. He knew I had tried to wear lipstick for the first time today. I smiled. I smiled again.
          "Good evening, Father!" echoed all around, and eight boys descended on us. They were all about my age, with shorts that had holes in them and shirts washed so often I didn't know what color they had originally been and similar crusty spots from insect bites on their legs. Father Amadi took his tank top off and dropped it on my lap before joining the boys on the football field. With his upper body bare, his shoulders were a broad square. I did not look down at his tank top on my lap as I inched my hand ever so slowly toward it. My eyes were on the football field, on Father Amadi's running legs, on the flying white-and-black football, on the many legs of the boys, which all looked like one leg. My hand finally touched the top on my lap, moving over it tentatively as though it could breathe, as though it were a part of Father Amadi, when he blew a whistle for a water break. He brought peeled oranges and water wrapped into tight cone shapes in plastic bags from his car. They all settled down on the grass to eat the oranges, and I watch Father Amadi laugh loudly with his head thrown back, leaning to rest his elbows on the grass. I wondered if the boys felt the same way I did with him, that they were all he could see.
          I held on to his tank top while I watched the rest of the play. A cool wind had started to blow, chilling the sweat on my body, when Father Amadi blew the final whistle, three times with the last time drawn out. Then the boys clustered around him, heads bowed, while he prayed. "Good-bye, Father!" echoed around as he made his way toward me. There was something confident about his gait, like a rooster in charge of all the neighborhood hens.
          In the car, he played a tape. It was a choir singing Igbo worship songs. I knew the first song: Mama sang it sometimes when Jaja and I brought our report cards home. Father Amadi sang along. His voice was smoother than the lead singer's on the tape. When the first song ended, he lowered the volume and asked, "Did you enjoy the game?"
          "Yes."
          "I see Christ in their faces, in the boys' faces."
          I looked at him. I could not reconcile the blond Christ hanging on the burnished cross in St. Agnes and the sting-scarred legs of those boys.
          "They live in Ugwu Oba. Most of them don't go to school anymore because their families can't afford it. Ekwueme--remember him, in the red shirt?"
          I nodded, although I could not remember. All the shirts had seemed similar and colorless.
          "His father was a driver here in the university. But they retrenched him, and Ekwueme had to drop out of Nsukka High School. He is working as a bus conductor now, and he is doing very well. They inspire me, those boys." Father Amadi stopped talking to join in the chorus. "I na-asi m esona ya! I na-asi m esona ya!"
          I nodded in time to the chorus. We really did not need the music, though, because his voice was melody enough. I felt that I was at home, that I was where I had meant to be for a long time. Father Amadi sang for a while; then he lowered the volume to a whisper again. "You haven't asked me a single question," he said.
          "I don't know what to ask."
          "You should have learned the art of questioning from Amaka. Why does the tree's shoot go up and the root down? Why is there a sky? What is life? Just why?"
          I laughed. It sounded stranger, as if I were listening to the recorded laughter of a stranger being played back. I was not sure I had ever heard myself laugh.
          "Why did you become a priest?" I blurted out, then wished I had not asked, that the bubbles in my throat had not let that through. Of course he had gotten the call, the same call that all the Reverend Sisters in school talked about when they asked us to always listen for the call when we prayed. Sometimes I imagined God calling my name, his rumbling voice British-accented. He would not say my name right; like Father Benedict, he would place the emphasis on the second syllable rather than the first.
          "I wanted to be a doctor at first. Then I went to church once and heard this priest speak and I was changed forever," Father Amadi said.
          "Oh."
          "I was joking," Father Amadi glanced at me. He looked surprised I did not realize that it was a joke. "It's a lot more complicated than that, Kambili. I had many questions, growing up. The priesthood came closest to answering them."
          I wondered what questions they were and if Father Benedict, too, had those questions. Then I though, with a fierce, unreasonable sadness, how Father Amadi's smooth skin would not be passed on to a child, how his square shoulders would not balance the legs of his toddle son who wanted to touch the ceiling fan.
          "Ewo, I am late for a chaplaincy council meeting," he said, looking at the clock. "I'll drop you off and leave right away."
          "I'm sorry."
          "Why? I've spent an enjoyable afternoon with you. You must come with me to the stadium again. I will tie your hands and legs up and carry you if I have to." He laughed.
          I stared at the dashboard, at the blue-and-gold Legion of Mary sticker on it. Didn't he know that I did not want him to leave, ever? That I did not need to be persuaded to go to the stadium, or anywhere, with him? The afternoon played across my mind as I got out of the car in front of the flat. I had smiled, run, laughed. My chest was filled with something like bath foam. Light. The lightness was so sweet I tasted it on my tongue, the sweetness of an overripe bright yellow cashew fruit. (pp. 176-180)

I selected this, rather lengthy, passage because it not only seemed significant, but it also seemed pivotal in Kambili's development. For the first time, Kambili feels something other than curious fear. Throughout the novel, she is constantly worrying about her actions and inactions and wondering about the motives and dispositions of others. Although she remains observantly quiet during most situations, much is running through her mind--too much that she never has the time to simply "stop and smell the roses." She overthinks everything and always compares herself to others, often belittling herself with the perception that she is incompetent. Spending an afternoon with Father Amadi opened her eyes to a world she did not suspect she was capable of experiencing: a world full of happiness, a world full of life. For the first time, she smiles. For the first time, she runs for fun. For the first time, she laughs. For the first time, she experiences intimacy. For the first time, she feels happy.

As I typed out and reread the passage, I noticed several things as a writer about Adichie's writing. Her prose flowed seamlessly from Kambili's thoughts to the real world and back to Kambili's thoughts, depicting the interplay between the two. She incorporates much more euphonious diction, as opposed to other sections of the novel, including words such as smooth, elusive, lightly, settled, cool, gait, inspire, melody, bubbles, balance, chaplaincy, enjoyable, foam, lightness, and sweetness. Adichie's word choice for this passage demonstrates the peace and ease Kambili feels for the first time, from spending one-on-one time with Father Amadi.

Daddy, stay strong.

I want you to see me cross the stage and receive my degree at my college graduation. I want you to be able to stop worrying about mine and Adam's futures when we get real careers. I want you to celebrate with me my big promotion. I want you to give me away to my future husband. I want you to be at the hospital for the birth of your grandchildren. I want you to be there at all of life’s events--both big and small.

It kills me inside to see you become so weak and exhausted. You’re not only drained of energy, but it seems as if you’re slowly becoming drained of life.

My adorable parents at a wedding.

The love you have for your family inspires me. You’ve taught me to value family over everything. You’ve showed me that although diamonds and pearls are dandy and pleasant, one has absolutely nothing of true value if s/he doesn’t have his/her family. The fact that you’re always willing to literally drop whatever you’re doing in order to help out Mom, or anyone you care about for the matter, warms my heart.

My father with my little cousin, Raymond.

You’re the kindest man around. Everyone always tells me how they’ve never seen you anything but happy. I’m constantly reminded of how nice you are and how you always have a huge smile on your face when they see you.

You are the reason I work my ass off in everything that I do. I thrive for success in hopes of eventually proving to you that the adversity our family has faced and continues to face will someday pay off--that you and Mom have succeeded in providing a better life for your kids than the two of you could ever dream of acquiring. As a second-generation Asian American and a first-generation college student, my life goal is to simply make you and Mom proud--to be able to take care of the both of you as you both have taken care of me.

You have frequently told me that you’re "not smart." Even though you never went to college or received proper schooling, you’re one of the brightest people I know. Being able to speak, read, and write in three different languages fluently is a difficult, yet extraordinary, task to master.

When I was younger, Mom was the parent I was closer to. But as I got older, and when you were first diagnosed with cancer, we started to become closer, as you officially became disabled and Mom began to face the struggles of being the only breadwinner of our household. Although your cancer stirred up nothing but turmoil in our lives, I'm grateful for it in the sense that our relationship, as a result, became stronger than ever. You were the one who attended all of my banquets and recognition dinners with me. You were the one who comforted me when I found my first lump back when I was sixteen. You were the one who convinced me not to worry about having breast cancer, even though Mommy and Aunt Van have had it. You were the one who took me to my first surgery when I had to get five lumps removed. You were always the one who drove me to and from the airport when I went on trips by myself. You were the one who helped move me out of our home and into my dorm. You’ve said to me a few times that you’re “not number one.” But to me, you are.

Note to self: get Adam to upload/share family pictures. Also, take more pictures with family.

You are my hero. You’re the most incredible dad and I am truly blessed that you are my father.

Thank you for always being there, whether I need you or not. Thank you for letting me do the things I enjoy and accepting me the way I am, as well as the mistakes I make. Thank you for being the best dad ever. Thank you for everything.

I love you. And although I’m growing up, I’ll always be your little girl.

Here is a little something to remind all of us to better appreciate our parents exactly as they are:

Kambili Achike

Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie's novel, Purple Hibiscus, offers a diverse group of bewildering characters. Adichie introduces characters of all sorts of dispositions: timid (Kambili), defiant (Jaja), influential (Papa Eugene), reserved (Mama Beatrice), outspoken (Auntie Ifeoma), traditional (Papa-Nnukwu), and several more.

When I first began reading this novel, I started to take a peculiar interest in Auntie Ifeoma, as her forthright mannerisms and her unbounded happiness most intrigued me--she was anything but ordinary from all of the other characters. However, as I progressed further into the book, I noticed my attention slowly shifted away from Auntie Ifeoma and towards Kambili.

Kambili Achike, the narrator and main character of Purple Hibiscus. is a diffident, apprehensive, fifteen-year-old girl. Coming from a family of four, Kambili's family consists of a loving mother named Beatrice, an intimidating father named Eugene, and a protective brother named Jaja. The Achikes' lifestyle is considerably luxurious compared to the majority of Nigerians, as Eugene's prominence and multiple occupations contributes to their affluence.

Eugene's eminence is so pervasive, that it not only prevails in the community, but it also dominates in his home. He expects perfection from his family that whenever they do not meet his standards, a good ol' beating from theirs truly is rewarded. Due to this, his family constantly lives in fear.

Kambili has an odd desire to live under her father's ways. She often thinks about the consequences her father would dish out in response to various actions, whether or not the actions actually occur. She constantly "wonders" about how others are feeling and about what others are thinking, primarily about Jaja and Amaka. Kambili also constantly "wishes" to have been the one to say something first, as well as for certain events not to take place.

At school, Kambili is a social outcast. Due to her family's affluence, many of her classmates view her as a "backyard snob." They all believe she sees herself as their superior, however, she actually views herself in a degrading manner. Kambili often speaks in a low tone, one that is difficult to hear and almost resembles that of a whisper. She doesn't make an effort to talk with her classmates, as she is forced to run to her car as soon as the school day is over. If not, her father will punish her for arriving late.

My curiosity shifted from Auntie Ifeoma to Kambili due to her increasingly observant ways and bizarre thoughts. As the story progressed, I noticed her observational descriptions and haunting thoughts became more and more prevalent. She explains her surroundings in explicit details, for the most part, as she narrates the story. She also includes such strange thinking, such as always wanting to apologize to Amaka for doing nothing and continually comparing her not-so-pleasant luxurious lifestyle to her cousins' tolerable poverty.

As I started to understand more of Kambili, I couldn't help but relate her to the daughter from Bonnie Jo Campbell's short story, The Trespasser. Kambili's classmates and cousins perceive her as this arrogant girl with a perfect life of luxury, while the trespasser, from reading her diary, believes the daughter leads this ideal life free from pain and despair. In addition, both Kambili and the daughter are, in different ways, neglected by their fathers.