birthed from the cosmos

There are oftentimes I finish a book where I find myself in a literary limbo.
The characters I created such strong connections with dissipate into the atmosphere, yet the emotions I felt so greatly for them pulse throughout my veins.

The words have burned into my retinas, and the rawness of the story stained my fingertips as I traced the ink on the pages.

Her words sit in my throat and burn every time I swallow. I can feel my thoughts rumbling in my stomach as I sit here twisted up in knots. I cannot focus, and I cannot move. I feel permanently planted in this position, sitting and wondering, questioning and appreciating. I am angry, and I am sad. Her poignant words feel like blades digging into my body, carving me to a different person.

I am crying, and I am smiling. I feel caged and fortified, like someone is holding cement walls around my thoughts and prohibiting my expression from exploding in a frenzy of fireworks. And part of me wants to stay hidden, not yet ready to embark upon the noise of reality. Part of me wants to sit somberly against the hard, cold floor and wallow in my own thoughts, letting them entangle me in my inquisitions and drown me in my admiration. Yet somehow, I have never felt more liberated than I do at this moment. The moment that has lasted an eternity, the moment that stands still in time and lingers passively; the same moment that exists when you watch a raindrop glide down the car window or when you isolate your vision on one snowflake falling gently from the sky. I can feel the earth breathing through my skin, whispering for me to run, to pounce, to climb.

I want to fly, to ride the air like Milkman, and scream to the stars. I want to jump, to leap, and soar. We all fear for oblivion, for the disappearance of our lives, for the crumbling of our names. We all feel the drastic need to engrave our legacy into the stones left over by our ancestors, but Song of Solomon has changed my life.

I want to grow, like the stars in the sky, and I want explode, to collapse, in a nebulous web of chaos and utter beauty. I want my ashes sprinkled across the universe, in ever corner of the world. I want my hopes and aspirations to be reflected in every raindrop that falls from the clouds that hug mountains. I want my misery and agony to sting people in the eye like the sand of the desert. I want my insecurities and flaws to explore the depths of the planet like the dandelion seeds.

I no longer need to feel like I'm a part of nature because I am reminded of my humble beginnings. I was birthed from the cosmos, and I will carry that with my as the wind sweeps my from below.

It's a two-way street, not a fork in the road.

Social networking is powerful. Twitter, Tumblr, Facebook -- they're all platforms for people to voice their opinions with vigor. Albeit time-consuming, these websites are definitely precious for all groups of people. Within the past few months, Twitter has exploded in social issues. First, #YesAllWomen was trending in response to the school shooting in California. The gist of the situation revolved around a male student being rejected by a girl, leading him to promptly cause a school shooting (one of the 75+ school shootings that have happened since Sandy Hook, I might add). The tragedy sparked many feminists to harp over the inequality issue, as many people starting blaming the girl. "She should've given him a chance" and "Girls always friendzone the guys" became incredibly common sentences that stained the Internet. In response, feminists amplified the absurdity of that logic, explaining that women are not obligated to go out or date anyone they don't want to. Fighting the patriarchal ideologies that have become permanently ingrained into society, feminists made a strong case. However, men continued to plea their own case with their #NotAllMen hashtag, causing a major rift in women's plight for equality.

Before I continue, I would like to clarify something: the definition of feminism is the belief that men and women should have equal rights and opportunities. Feminism is not about degrading or vilifying men whatsoever, but people fail to realize that the whole reason there is a feminist movement is because women have been plagued with double standards, unjust and unfair economical statuses, and so much more as opposed to men. The feminist movement is NOT a way for women to victimize themselves. We are not trying to wiggle our way into some privilege; no, we're trying to fight for equality. Feminists aren't trying to bash on men, but we are the product of a patriarchal society; we've been built around a superiority for men. When men are assertive, they are seen as effective and efficient bosses. Women are seen as bitches and bossy. The phrase "to run like a girl" and to "throw like a girl" exist, downgrading girls' ability as equal counterparts. Humanity has grown around a notion that all women must settle down to a life of domesticity; too often, women are told to marry into money, inferring that they're incapable of being successful in life on their own. There are far too many statistics revealing the huge imbalance of women in politics, as bosses, as CEOs. Women are hypersexualized in ads. What does cleavage have to do with hamburgers? I understand that men are sexualized as well -- male models always fall under 8-pack abs, muscular, and a fine jaw line. However, just because men share a problem with women doesn't mean that society should justify it. Feminists rightfully support the removal of sexualization (of both men and women -- a fine example of equality) from advertising -- from society.

Now, recently, there has been a new hashtag trending on Twitter: #WomenAgainstFeminism. When I first heard of this hashtag, I was skeptical, but open-minded to hearing the arguments of others. I have accepted the fact that not everyone will agree with me. I never want to berate anyone for their own beliefs, but I have my limits. On feminism, there's a huge division between liberals and conservatives, understandably. I understand that, and I can even accept it without anger, but when uneducated citizens attack me, I can get extremely angry. First thing I noticed: there were a plethora of men posting with the hashtag #WomenAgainstFeminism. Do I need to explain the issue any further? Secondly, many people seem to lose the definition of feminism.

Now, everyone needs to understand that the Feminist Movement is composed of all sorts of people. There are some people very dedicated; others are bystanders but support the cause. There are Republicans who support feminism, as well as many Democrats. All people of all races are open to the idea of feminism, and there are plenty that have even spent their life spreading the importance of it. But, with any cause (i.e. Civil Rights, Gay Rights, Abortion, Gun Control, Taxes), there are extremists. A commonly heard term for the extreme feminists are "Feminazis", emphasizing their adamant stance on feminists. I, personally, do not identify as a Feminazi, but I am very involved in the movement itself. As with any issue, there will be defensive people who threaten those who oppose their ideas. There are numerous cases where feminists have told non-supporters to kill themselves or to go and die, to which countless conservatives are pinpointing the supposed cruelty of feminists. That's not fair. You cannot generalize a whole group of people. That's the equivalent of classifying all Republicans as slavery-endorsing racists. All groups are diverse; it would be impossible to call all single members by something some one person said.

I've scrolled through Twitter for quite some while tonight. The most common arguments against feminism revolve around three things:
1) "Because men are absolutely awesome, and women should appreciate them more" - GOPMommy
2) "I am not a victim. There is no war against [women]. I have & will continue to succeed in life, because I work for it, not used my gender as a "get out of jail free" card. & I love to be sexy for my man & cook for him ... in the kitchen!" - kravmagajessica
3) "I don't need feminism because 'feminism' is a predominately white middle-class movement created by and for white women...when these women wanted to work in the early 1930s - their argument was 'black women will take care of our children & make dinner' - When they wanted birth control, they advertised it as a ploy to stop 'black women from breeding'. Today, feminism is shaming women who love their men and want to have children. I am all for equal rights. *That makes me human.* Where is the poor-ist movement? Where is the black/men/women/people-ist movement?" - kravmagajessica

Here are my responses:
1) Please refer back to the definition of feminism. The essence of feminism is equality, which means that we thrive for a world in which all humans look at each other and think we're all equal. Many anti-feminists are for a "humanist" society, pleading for a day we can all live as humans without labels. That is feminism. That is literally what feminism is entitling. Men are awesome! Women are awesome as well! Men should appreciate women, just as women should appreciate men. It's a two way street, but with all the double standards and gender roles that have hit both genders, it's hard to find equality. So the feminist movement was formed to try and fix some of the gaps. Yes, there are feminists belittling others who don't agree with their views -- attacking women who want a life of domesticity and condemning those who want to cook and stay in the kitchen -- but you cannot label the whole movement as women who believe they're better than men. Yes, there are women who laugh at others who prefer to look nice for their men and want to shave to look nice, but at the same time, there are plenty of conservatives who believe that anyone who doesn't believe in Christ belongs in Hell. You cannot zoom in on one aspect of the movement and intensify what happened; feminism is much bigger than just one point. We're fighting both misogyny and misandry. It's a two-way street, not a fork in the road.

2) Without feminism, women wouldn't be able to vote, go to school, work, drive a car, or have any rights. We are not vicitimizing ourselves and assuming we'll gain whatever we want due to our gender; it's the opposite. Maya Angelou was a prominent feminists, and she worked so hard in her life, as a writer, dancer, actress, singer, speaker -- anything she put her mind to. Feminists have a work ethic. We work diligently so we are able to progress in society. If you want a life without feminism, fine, but I promise you, without feminism, you wouldn't be able to go on Twitter and voice your opinion. Feminists have worked hard to promote a place of equality. Feminists are literally fighting for every woman (even those against feminism, ironically).

3) Feminism, again, is for equality. Feminism includes everyone of all races, genders, social class, religious beliefs, ethnicities, nationalities, etc. It is a universally encompassing movement. It's not made for white women. In fact, I've found that most anti-feminists are made up of men and white-women (mostly white conservatives). Birth control was not made for black women to stop breeding (and keep in mind that most liberals support feminism and supported civil rights as well, so that argument doesn't seem to stand very well). Birth control is still necessary as a contraceptive to avoid unwanted pregnancies, and it is also used to treat many illnesses. You want a humanist movement? There is one, my uneducated friend. It's called the feminist movement. I know there are flaws. I, myself, am against many of the arguments of many feminists, but when it comes down to the principle of the matter, I am for equality, so I am for feminism.

Many people say there's no war against women, but you need to open your scope. The United States of America is not the only country there is a problem. Look all around the world. Sex slaves exist. Rape exists. Acid attacks exist. There is, indeed, a war on women.

Approximately half of the population in the whole world are women. You need to remember that just because you, as an anti-feminist woman, do not feel oppressed, does not mean that others don't.

Tripping down the rabbit hole and landing in North Carolina.

There's not much to do in suburbia in the summer, especially in the night. Although it's the eve of the nation's blessed Independence Day, and many people are out festively watching celebratory fireworks, I had a different idea in mind -- so a friend and I got into a car and drove around. We found a jogging trail and followed it until we reached the edge of a river. Tranquility at its finest, but the overbearing darkness didn't make for such a calm experience. My eyesight was gone, so the rest of my senses were tripled in power, and adrenaline was pumping throughout my body with vigor. Ultimately though, it was a nice half hour watching the moon's reflection dissipate in the ripples of the river. The chorus of crickets outside nicely complemented the flickering of the fireflies. It finally started feeling like summer tonight. After a while, we hopped back into the car and drove around a bit more. We blasted music and sang at the top of our lungs, and then decided to go home. However, as we reached the driveway of my house, we realized we weren't quite ready to retire for the night. It was 11:00 PM -- where to go? We took a quick drive around my neighborhood to brainstorm, and then we found ourselves happily at the swimming pool in my neighborhood. Was this allowed? Technically, no; the pool officially closes at 9 PM, but it's not like we were swimming or anything. We were quiet and serene, so I punched in the code to enter, flipped off my sandals and dipped my toes in the warm water.

Over the years I've lived in my current neighborhood, I've learned a trick or too. One thing I love about my swimming pool are the lights; once the sun sets and the darkness lurks in the sky, I can easily flip a switch and turn the pool a magnificent aquamarine color. The lights under the water, on the sides, lit up with an incredible flame, and I could feel the goosebumps climb up the crevices of my spine.

It was one of those moments you hear about in over-cliched teen romance movies. But it was real. It was one of those moments that you want to envelope into your pocket and save for a time of angst and melancholy sorrow. The wondrous rumble of the chlorine water paired perfectly with the frog croaks and cricket chirps. Even better, the sky was filled with constellations and galactic stars. I could see the patches of silver clouds peeking, seeping, through the blanket of stars, and I felt so real. Everything felt so real. For a while now, I've felt a bit lost -- I tripped down the rabbit hole. Only unlike Alice, I was alone and desperate for a way out. Lately, I've started to feel like, particle by particle, I've started to disappear into the atmosphere; I could feel the fibers of my soul starting to separate and dissipate into the universe, but tonight, everything changed. I felt myself solidify into my being, into my core, into my essence. I felt the memories rush inside me like the blood that keeps me alive. I felt nostalgia, euphoria, and a certain kind of sadness. But nothing quite mattered at that moment because I have never felt that alive.

Maybe there were just enough stars in the sky tonight. Maybe the color of the pool was just the right shade of blue. Maybe the crickets chirped at just the right frequency. Either way, the events pieced together to form a night of adolescent excellence. So I traced the surface of the water with my fingertips and shared my fingerprints with the bubbles waltzing throughout the water. I made more than a memory; I made a moment. It was surreal, and part of me doesn't want to go to sleep tonight in fear that I will wake up tomorrow thinking such a magical moment could only be logically categorized as a dream.

Being it the summer before senior year, there are plenty of events in store. There are college essay planning excel spreadsheets. There is summer homework. I have internships, online classes, prepping for big tests, and so forth. Recently, I've taken a break. I sat down with my family at dinner and discussed some events going on -- Tim Howard being the hallmark of America, the stomach-twisting story of the child left in the summer heated car, the (ridiculous) new power given to employees over contraception choices, and of course, Hurricane Arthur. The breeze has been really nice today, but my prayers go out to those in North Carolina that are in a state of emergency. They were given a week of calm weather only to be greeted by a torrential downpour.

I am North Carolina.
Senior year is Hurricane Arthur.
Tonight was my calm before the storm.

#selfie #yas #bae

I am a millennial. I am a part of Generation Y, and to some, I also classify to be categorized with Generation Z (a much worse generalization, supposedly). Time Magazine defines me as an adolescent grouped with the "me, me, me" generation, as it vilify and condemns us for our apparent narcissism and egomaniac attitude. In the ninth grade, one of my teachers warned my peers and I of the despicable deterioration of our generation; she felt compelled to pick apart our mannerisms, our fads, and our slang to tell us that we're self-centered and stupid. Why? Because our generation is immersed in a pool of technology? Because our generation feeds on Instagram, Snapchat, Facebook, Tumblr, and Twitter? Because our generation grew a culture of hashtags and filters, selfies and subtweets? I was offended then, and I am offended now.

I understand the rapid growth of technology and the sudden importance of media nowadays. In fact, I often find myself infuriated with the presence of media in society; I don't approve of how the news plaster criminal faces all day long and never once mention and honor the victims of a wretched crime. I absolutely loathe how tabloids and beauty magazines often label certain people as "plus-sized" models when they look healthy and normal. There are many faults with society nowadays, but it is hypocritical and utterly ludicrous to blame my generation. We may be the future rulers of the world, and we may be the ones coming into power, into responsibility quite soon, but we are not the only ones at fault. We were raised by a different generation; the generation before us were the ones that put us into the economic situation we're in.

Yes, there's a ridiculous growth in teen pregnancy rates recently. But you know what else has raised? Average annual debt of recently graduated students. It is said that the average amount of debt a millennial has approximates around $45,000. Unfortunately, average annual income only totals up to around $39,500, leaving it nearly impossible to clear the debts that are racking up. Tuition is now 2.3% more expensive for my generation that the previous one; 2.3 doesn't sound like a very large number, does it? Think of it like this: over the last 28 years, tuition expenses have increased 538%. The anxiety levels of my generation have peaked to parallel the anxiety levels of psychiatric patients in the 1950s. Almost 60% of the girls growing up now feel like they have an eating disorder. 16.3% of Generation Y are completely unemployed, and in every 10 millennials, there are only 6 that are actually employed; 3 of them are only partial employed. While these numbers may not speak volumes at such a small scale, let me put this into perspective for you: There are 86 million people a part of the millennial generation; that is a gaping 7% larger than the baby boomer population, which in turn means that there are just that many more people living without a job. Too often, I find a story of a man or woman, Bachelor's Degree at their disposal, but no job. With a lack of proper income flow, there are 21.6 million millennials that have lived with their parents after college. Even the safest of careers are crumbling at the weight of the economy. A law degree is drastically declining in importance. Terrifying. Truly.

We may be fluent in #selfie, #yas, #that'sbae, but we've never been given a chance to speak our voice. Time after time, we're shot down. Time after time, we're turned away -- told we're too inexperienced, told we lack the skill necessary to master a specific task, told we're too immature. How are we supposed to prove ourselves when we don't even get an opportunity?

I understand that there are plenty of wild children in the world. There are too many people that find themselves obsessing over the number of likes they got on their Instagram picture, and countless people update their Snapchat stories and Facebook statuses as if they're the next bestseller novel, but so what? Why does it matter so much to the baby boom generation that we're indulging in some guilty pleasures? These are the fads that come along with the technology boom. Every generation is constantly complaining about the next one; even now, my peers and I judge those children born in the 2000s for their degrading behavior and loss of innocence. All in all though, each generation will have its own flaws, and each generation will have its pros. We all just need a taste of perspective and open-mindedness.

Times are changing. America has its first black President. American states are finally starting to allow same-sex marriage. Marijuana is becoming legal in some states; we're progressing as a nation, but the blatant tension between baby boomers and millennials are creating an inevitable rift. Such a dichotomous division is dangerous, for society, for humanity. The baby boomers lived through war, started the fiscal downfall, and engrossed themselves in the Civil Rights Movement, the Women's Movement, everything -- us millennials are dealing with the aftermath, so cut us some slack. We're all living on the same planet; we're all a part of the same ultimate community, so why not act like one? We're too busy arguing over our differences that we don't realize we have similarities.

We all have our own stories, so maybe the best solution is to listen to each other and aim for reform rather than retaliation.

Don't walk towards the murderer, you idiot. Call the police already!

I don't spend days upon days marathon watching Netflix shows because I have nothing better to do. I don't mindlessly watch season after season because I'm bored. I watch television because it amplifies my emotions. It's my form of soul-searching, and I have no shame whatsoever.

The best television shows skillfully craft together protagonists and antagonists with such subtly that you don't even realize the contrasts that exist between them. They can magically pair together people that automatically sync together in their actions. The most talented ones can rip my heart out and leave me sobbing at 3 AM with one little plot twist. Now, I'm not saying I enjoy the pain that comes from killing off my favourite characters or the agony that occurs from the falling out between two characters, but it evokes emotion. And boy, am I an emotional person.

I definitely have a problem with getting emotionally attached to the characters in television shows, but can you blame me? How do you not feel some love for the people you've been with for seven seasons? You've learned their quirks, their mannerisms, their sayings. I've even found myself familiar with their slang. It's inevitable. I always get really invested in the lives of television characters, and while they are fictional and not at all like real life, I indulge in my little guilty pleasure. I live vicariously through them. I've slept with the President. I've traveled through time, saving the world from ferocious and conniving aliens. I've killed demons, gotten kicked out of Stanford only to become an international spy, and worked for the Santa Barbara Police Department as their prime psychic detective. Through the characters' passions, interests, and life experiences, I've discovered myself. Living in the suburbs doesn't give me much opportunity to pursue my own life experiences; I've scoured the Internet reading about adolescents that have climbed mountains and para-sailed over volcanoes, but at the same time, I've come to accept that my life just isn't all that interesting. It has interesting moments, that's for sure. I've gone to amazing concerts, spent a whole summer with the most brilliant people I've yet to meet, and I've traveled all around the historically significant villages of China. I've definitely cashed in quite a lot of money at the bank of memories, but I don't live a life of adrenaline and hype. Luckily for me, I have the privilege of watching television (on the computer... that counts, right?). I've spent endless nights watching Netflix til 3 AM, to which I promptly tell myself I need to sleep. I never listen to my own advice though.

However, through my self-rebellion, I've learned more and more about myself. I've realized that I am, despite what I tell myself every day, that I am a hopeless romantic. I'd be a sucker if I found myself a fiance like Evan R. Lawson on Royal Pains. I've realized that I oftentimes feel like I'm different from other girls, like Robin on How I Met Your Mother. Yet, at the same time, I've realized that I'm a kid at heart, like John Dorian from Scrubs. I've realized that it's okay to not fall into peer pressure, like Poussey from Orange Is the New Black, and I love that I've realized that feminism is necessary and of grave importance thanks to Oliva Pope from Scandal. I've realized that I do indeed have major problems with my family. Television has broken the wall that I have built around my vulnerabilities and delved straight into the war with my insecurities and fears. It has dug the repressed memories and neglected problems I've buried under piles and piles of concrete.

I know Hollywood is far from accurately depicting real life; there's always a happy ending, and the high schoolers in TV shows are all, in actuality, 20+ years old. That's okay; that's capitalism and marketing at its finest -- hazard of the trade. But television does the same wondrous and magical thing that books do; it teaches you. From the mistakes made on shows, you learn how to apply them to your life. Even in horror movies, you learn to never go towards the creaky noises and to always call the police immediately.

As I keep watching TV shows, I find myself seeing myself in all the characters, good or bad, and that's because I'm not a product of directors and writers. I make mistakes, and I screw up more times than I'd like to admit. In TV shows, there's usually an obviously "good" character and a notoriously known "bad/evil" character. In life, it's not always that easy, so sometimes it's easier to watch someone else go through the runs of their, albeit made-up, life. And through their story and perspectives, you start to see yourself reacting the same way they would. You begin to understand the mindset and ideologies of the villain. Most importantly, I've begun to really grasp the fact that I am human, which means that I am far from perfect. And that's okay.

Being an adolescent is tough; there are nights when a blanket of angst and aggravation veils upon the atmosphere. There are times when I am devoured by my over thinking. There are way too many days when I feel hopeless, lost without any motivation or determination. The littlest of things seem like Mt. Everest to overcome. Television has broadened my perspective. Do I owe my maturity to Netflix? Maybe, maybe so. But that's beside the point; the point is that everyone feels a little different when they're growing up. Everyone feels a bit like an outcast, and that's perfectly acceptable. Ironic, though. Ironic that we are all somehow united in our feelings of difference. So, sometimes it's nice to use fictional characters as a safety net. It's okay to bond with made up stories and relate to their made up adversity.

Now onto my third year of having Netflix, I've come to predict many events in shows. So far, I've been able to accurately call ever major event in Bates Motel. Even when I was little and had "family movie night", I was able to figure out all the plot twists before their big unveiling. Directors can't seem to fool me. But that doesn't mean all the joy is sucked out of them. I still anticipate the big shock, and it's very obvious that plot twists are common in every television show -- some more cliche than others. Directors, writers, and anyone and everyone that works with the production of a show have power. You do too. We all do. We are the directors of our own show. We get paid in life experience. We have season finales too. We have dramatic buildups. We have tragedy. We have bliss. So watch some television. Learn from the characters; learn what you like and what you don't. Learn what kinds of people you'd envision a future with. Learn what types of people to avoid at all costs. Learn what kind of scenery makes you wake up in a good mood every day. Learn all about yourself, and explore the sea of your personality, and produce one hell of a show.

1, 2, 3... Action!

Glass slippers and snowmen? Snowmen in glass slippers? Glass slippers on snowmen?

I've learned more about my family history in the past month than I have in my entire lifetime. While sixteen years may not be that long in perspective, I've come to terms with the fact that, growing up, I was ignorant of my roots. I'll be honest -- I never wondered about my background. I knew the facts: I'm a second generation Chinese girl growing up in America. My mother grew up in Suzhou, and my father, Chengdu. I'm also very lucky, as my family has never had to grieve any deaths (in relation to my grandparents). I've had my grandparents on my mother and father's side visit multiple times for one year/six-month time spans. I'm not sure why, but it never crossed my mind to ask anyone about what life was like before iPhones and Netflix.

Very recently, I've been experiencing what I'd like to creatively identify as the anti-existential crisis. As with any adolescent growing up, I've finally reached another rite of passage: my Holden Caulfield phase. Decorated with a fine cynicism and subtle skepticism, I've found my own healthy (or not so healthy) way to deal with the "phonies" in my life. All in all, I have all the tell-tale signs prefacing an existential crisis. I've had the religious talk with a lot of friends; I've embraced a sort of dark humor (and desensitized sarcasm) outlook on life, and my tolerance for stupidity is at an all time low. However, these past two weeks have revolved around my fascination at the fact that I am alive. I am breathing, and I growing every day. The tips of my hair used to be at my scalp, and my fingernails have lived a long and colorfully-nail polish filled life.

I think it all really hit me when I was sending my little brother, six years of age, to bed. Me sending him to bed was rather rare considering he's so used to my mother tucking him in, and I'm always drowning in my swarm of homework and studying. So, when I get the chance, I take it. Now usually I read a book of his choice to him; that'd been the norm for the past six years, but this time, it was like someone took a hold of the axis my world was built on and spun it around like the wheel of a kaleidoscope.

He read to me.

He picked up the rather extensive Toad and Frog chapter book and started slowly piecing the words together. Albeit slow and broken sometimes, his ability to read was awe-inducing. Maybe it was an out of body experience, or maybe it was my maternally-motivated sibling love kicking in, but I felt so dizzy. My whole world was spinning like the pointer of a Twister game -- and my perspectives were entangling with one another like the limbs of the people playing said Twister game.

And so with slow yet inevitable acceptance of my brother's growth, my thoughts began to sprout like the ivy that colonizes the hearty dirt in my backyard, and something embarrassingly obvious finally hit me. My parents had lives before they were my parents. Yes, obvious, but sometimes the most simple things are the most overlooked. Before my father became the 6 foot man that he is (I rounded up, shh...), he was as small as my six year old brother. Before my mother became the wondrous woman that she is, she had breakdowns about finals and worried about what her hair looked like in some lighting. They had their struggles, their talents, and their memories, but the most interesting part of it all? They've lived a life of contrasts. They went from Chinese culture to American society. They went from a time with no TVs to a media-influenced community. So, tonight when I asked my father about his family history, I didn't know why I didn't expect something grand.

To recap, my mother's side of the family comes from a long line of intellectuals. My great grandfather was dubbed the Great Educator of China during the Qing Dynasty, and he was prominent not only in the government, but in poetry, literature, and the humanities. Previous generations lived a generally affluent life, and they valued quality of life. Good natured people and all, they're rather kind as well. On the other hand, my father's side of the family parallels the chaotic pandemonium that is contemporary Chinese history. My (other) great grandfather was very involved in the military. He even studied in France for almost a decade, working with army men to strategically formulate the best weapons and attack plans. With the prominence of warlords in China, he was summoned to work as the head general of the tank units -- the first tank units to ever reach China. He was honored and diligent in his efforts, fighting Communism (and the Japanese). Unfortunately, he was killed in action in the Battle of Shanghai, and my great grandmother remarried to someone of a much lower social status, and that's when everything changed. With the Cultural Revolution and all the political uproar in China during the time, my great grandparents basically had to go into hiding and move the country side. One day, nobility and quasi-royalty; the next day, plebs and peasants. Simply, homely farmers. And then from there, I had relatives that had mental issues, relatives that became zealously religious (yes, cults were involved), and relatives that spoke their opinion. Essentially, my whole family was blacklisted at one point due to the anti-Communist force. My father grew up in a broken home, and slowly but surely, everything interconnected to leave me here: sitting in my bed at 2 AM, blogging about something beyond my control.

If my great grandfather wasn't killed in action, my family would've been extremely well off, riches and luxury a small price to pay. I could've been a princess, an heiress, anything, but instead, with one action, the history of my family was altered. The cruel twist of fate was cursedly made so my family history would follow that of Chinese history, and as proud of my culture I am, I must admit, China went through quite the roller coaster.

When all was said and done though, I realized how fragile life really is. Fate, whether it exists or not, is an aspect to consider because ultimately, we are all alive. We are living and breathing, and our brains are churning away to make sure it stays that way. We have lives and memories, and one day, we'll be thirty years older and reminiscing on the "good 'ol days". But in the big picture, one small decision, one seemingly tiny choice may change the chain of events for anything. Maybe in the future I'll take two steps to the left and end up in a mansion in the Hamptons. Or maybe I'll take a total flip and head in the opposite direction, leaving me in a tiny, yet cozy apartment in New York.

I'll never be able to control every single factor that happens in my life. I'll never be able to map out my future like the stars do with constellations. I'll never be able to check of a list: How To Be Financially Stable and Emotionally Happy: a List of Impossible Tasks. Life can change its course within a matter of seconds, yet we never seem to value the importance of our decisions. We spend our whole lives pushing the negative charge of a future that isn't meant to be with another negative charge of passion, and we still wonder when they don't attract. Like the glass slipper, life is fragile. It won't fit everyone. It won't fit just anyone. It'll break if I try and push something that doesn't belong, and it'll shatter if I act to recklessly with it; however, if I go the way the wind blows me, I'll be able to tell my grandchildren from my mansion/condo/suite/floating home (your pick, your pick) of how they came from both intellectuals and physical warriors. I'll be able to pass on the legacy that only exists today because of the path life decided to take.

So instead, I'll wear the glass slippers like Cinderella but build snowmen like Elsa. Who knows what my decision will do to the ever-lasting fragility of my life?

I am clean.

It's been forty minutes. I've spent the past forty minutes attempting to honor Maya Angelou, but the truth is, I cannot. I cannot fathom the words to describe her literary influence, her social justice activism, her all-around talent. I cannot weave together the right sentences to form a post to do her justice. 

As a ten year old, I was not yet introduced to an attitude of cynicism and skepticism. I was innocent and youthful, not yet aware of all the issues within society. My biggest problem was my broken crayons, and the worst drama I was involved in revolved around a Girl Scout Cookie scandal. I read chapter books from the "big kid section" in bookstores, and I was obviously a grown woman with my double-digit age. My goal was to eat the most slices of pizza and draw the prettiest picture with chalk. I did my homework and practiced my piano. My childhood was lovely -- it was filled with things the stereotypical American-Chinese daughter is known to do, and it had a wonderful balance between fun and work. 

I was ten years old when I first read one of Maya Angelou's poems. It told a story of a caged bird -- one that had its wings clipped and feet tied. It told the story of a bird, singing for freedom and standing on the grave of dreams. When I was ten years old, I told myself that we are all caged birds; we all dream of the day when the bars of rage melt into the open sky as we leap into the wind. I was ten years old when I was introduced into a whole new world. 

I am sixteen years old, and I am now rereading the story of the caged bird. Heart pounding and goosebumps forming, I look back onto the past six years of my life. I don't think I've had an exceptionally exciting or unique life; if anything, my life measures pretty average and mediocre, but it'd be a lie to say I haven't had some memorable experiences. But all in all, these past six years are a blur. I have been the caged bird, dreaming of the breeze and the sighing trees. There have been times when I hear my fearful trill, longing for a better tomorrow. I have felt isolated, in captivity, but today, my cage has dissipated into the atmosphere, and I am a free bird. 

Maya Angelou is one of the most influential people in my life, and her passing has affected me in ways I don't quite understand. I'm overcome with a feeling of inevitable sadness, but most of all, I feel clean. Not that I don't shower every day and wash my hands as much as possible, but my soul has been stained by anxiety and angst. My bones have become tangled by the barbed wire of anger, and my blood has formed waves of ferocity, but today, everything is different. I am clean.

"And when great souls die,
after a period peace blooms,
slowly and always
irregularly. Spaces fill
with a kind of
soothing electric vibration.
Our sense, restored, never
to be the same, whisper to us.
They existed. They existed.
We can be. Be and be
better. For they existed." - Maya Angelou

I can be better. I can do more. I can be more. 

"I created myself," she once said. "I have taught myself so much". 

Maya Angelou, you have done so much more than just teach yourself. You have be the guidance of millions as they struggle through their lives. You have been the watering hole for those fainting under the heat of prejudice. You have created yourself, but you have also created a more conscious future. You have taught me to create myself. 

As I read the multitude of articles that spread throughout social networking sites, I am reminded of all the exceptional things Maya Angelou accomplished. On top of her literary achievements, she was also a professor, a singer, a dancer, an activist, and an actress. She was whoever she wanted to be, and I find solace in knowing that. She spent her life overcoming her obstacles, staring adversity in the face and standing her ground. She fought for women's rights, for Civil Rights, for human rights. She worked to make the world a better place, and even after today, her actions have been ingrained into humanity. She taught me to be proud of who I am. She taught me to teach others to believe the same thing. She spread a blanket of unification and purity throughout the world, and her legacy will pulse for generations to come. 

As the tears are streaming down my face, I can feel myself wearily smiling. Maya Angelou is truly one of the most amazing people to grace this world, and she will most definitely be remembered. There's no possible way I can do her justice through a mere blog post, but I will honor her through my life. I will do good everywhere and anywhere. I will embrace myself, my friends, my family. I will live passionately. I will adjust myself accordingly. I will live a life strung together by my experiences. I will open the cages of those trapped. 

Rest in peace. 

Moving around furniture has never felt so sentimental.

It's the first official day of summer, and that marks the annual reorganization of my room. I give myself twenty four hours to completely revamp my haven of paradise into whatever I desire. Interestingly enough, each year, my style seems to take a complete 180 turn. Within the past few years, my room has been decorated from  magazine posters of the Jonas Brothers and High School Musical to doodles probably overcompensated for in its so-called brilliance and artistry. My walls have been kissed by the millions of hipster-chic pictures that made up Seventeen and Teen Vogue, but sometime last year, I decided, on a whim, to paint my room. Before painting, I relied on the color of the magazines and posters to bless my room with pops of the rainbow, but afterwards, I felt like a woman. No more cutouts and stickers to cloud up the spaces of my walls; I wanted something sophisticated and classy -- something that would truly define me as the grown-up I was: a high school upperclassmen. So I stripped my walls and rid it of any remnants of tape, nails, and glue. When I was done, I thought for sure that I'd be satisfied with the designs. I was right for the most part. I'm quite content with my furniture and basic accessories, but when I woke up on the faithful first day of summer 2014, I knew something was off. Turns out I have a lot more growing to do before I can accurately brand myself as a woman.

Of course though, summer wouldn't be complete without the initiative Netflix marathon and binge watching. I decided to honor the blessed feeling of sleeping in and comfortably wading in my comforters by enjoying the most recent season of Psych. But after hours of watching a quasi-psychic detective solve countless murders, I knew I could conjure enough energy to be more productive than a burrito, so I got to work. Four comforter sets later, I felt hopeless. I couldn't even decide on a bed set, so how was I supposed to completely redecorate my bedroom?

9 hours later, I have a semi-new bedroom, and a fleeting feeling of utter jubilance, but out of those nine hours, it's safe to say that at least 3 of them were spent cleaning out the drawers in my desk, the papers in my binders, and the pile of papers I hoarded. Through those, I found myself feeling nostalgic, vengeful, melancholy, and blissful. I ventured upon old assignments from seventh grade, letters written to me out of spite from ex-friends-current-enemies, cute little awards from middle school, and journal entries outlined in pure happiness. Every single paper, plastic trophy, and assignment took me back to whatever time it was dated. I could feel myself reminiscing that time I got an 80 on a history quiz, or that time I submitted my essay in for a competition, or even that time I got so angry, I ripped the papers I was venting on. And looking back, I know I'm not a woman -- not even close; I'm simply a high school student on my way to experiencing all that life has to offer, but I'm definitely not a child. I'm in the process of finding out who I am, of defining myself, of configuring all the little kinks that will work and piece together to truly form my identity.

So after a few hours of nostalgia and seventy-five gasps and "Oh my god!"'s later, I threw out the old chemistry and literature papers, changed my bed sheets, painted my dresser, and proudly stood at my doorway -- hair (barely) in bun, and dust on shorts -- admiring all that my room had become yet again this year. I felt a scent of growth and development engross my room and seep through my carpet. And then I decided to play some relaxing music and just lie on my floor, and I closed my eyes and felt my smile dominate my body. I knew I wasn't at the finish line; I still have plenty ahead of my time. As a whole generation, my peers and I still have college, grad school, a career, our first wild night, our first (or twenty-third) mental breakdown, our first car accident, our first random make out, and even our first encounter with our future husband or wife. We have so many firsts to come that it'd be so overwhelming to think that we are grown-up, but we aren't children. We're past the days of no homework and nap time at school. We've outgrown being able to dive into the 3 feet part of the pool and ask if anyone actually has cooties. We're no longer the blank canvas that coincides with childhood. We've been handed the paintbrush of experience and emotions, friendships and relationships. We've splattered paint on corners and delicately brushed up on the textures of backgrounds. We've slowly started to master the piece that will become our identity -- our maturity, our manhood or womanhood.

We've emptied out past drawers of emotional and psychological baggage, and we've reorganized and redecorated ourselves. We grow every year, and every year we think back on our innocence the year before. We are today's youth, and we are on our way to being the next moms and dads, employers, and politicians of the world, but for now, we're still wrestling with adolescence and naivety. When we're sixteen and almost seniors, we're growing. When we're twenty-three and lurking at a party, we're growing. When we're fifty-seven and waiting to babysit our grandchildren, we're growing. Every year, we'll redecorate the chambers of our hearts and the veins of our personalities because every year, we grow.

Sadly, I don't have any goggles.

It almost reached 80 degrees today. Now, that doesn't seem so historic, especially for Georgia, a state that fluctuates between Arctic and Sahara temperatures, but lately we've regressed back to autumn weather. Luckily enough though, we were blessed with some refreshing sunshine and some magnificent breezes today. Because of the way the certain chain of events lined up, my brother decided he wanted to go swimming, and for some odd reason, my mother agreed. I came down just in time to see them leave, and I got dragged into it all. No complaints from me, but the timing was oddly coincidental.

So a swimsuit change and a short car ride later, we arrive at the pool, and the first thing my brother does? Jump in, of course. I, on the other hand, decided to take a more tactical approach and slowly waddle my way into the freezing abyss of ice. While my brother was fooling around accidentally swallowing chlorine pool water and having water fights with himself, I was conjuring up the courage to stick my head underwater. Thirty minutes later, the deed was done.

The moment I jolted my head under the water, it was as if my stress melted away -- like my anxiety-coated exterior was penetrated by the piercing bubbles to a layer of carefree euphoria. And soon after, I began floating around on my back, letting the sun devour the worries that lay in my skin, and truly living in the moment. I've lived my life for the past three years in constant worry for the future: how hard is the test going to be next year? What is the final going to be like? How's my GPA compared to hers? Do colleges accept that as AP credit? What am I going to write for my college essays? I've spent so many hours incessantly and neurotically researching colleges and figuring out ways to maneuver my way around my lack of a good SAT score that I forget that life is going on at the moment. I forget that there is a present -- that there is a day and time to enjoy before I lose it. I fear that one day I will reminisce over my youth and realize that there is a gap from my naive childhood to my experienced adulthood. I feel the wrath of a giant black hole swallowing any semblance of an adolescence because so far, it has been plagued by nerves and paranoia, stress and anxiety, hardheartedness and solemn denials. It's safe to say that I have a few too many coping mechanisms saved in my mental bank in case I don't get into one of my top colleges. But it's things like that which ignite a flame of concern in me -- students these days are trying so desperately to shape their future into a stable one that they don't realize their future is still determined by present time.

It's all about the five year, ten year, fifteen year plan. It's about what rank and percent you graduate in from high school. It's about the college you attend, the graduate school you enroll in, and the job opportunities and networking chances you're lucky enough to find. It's about who you meet and when you meet them, and it's about where you are in life. Somehow, life has become a picture that each individual has cut into tiny little pieces. And it's like the puzzle pieces have gotten so torn, ripped, and dirty through the first few years of high school that they're almost impossible to piece back together. So what now? What happens to the plan that we all worked on so diligently?

As a youth so ingrained in a society focused on the future, we need to learn how to embrace spontaneity and cut around the edges a bit. If our puzzle pieces don't fit together all the way, then we can shave off the sides, or add a little structure to the edges. We don't have to follow an outline, a rubric, or a syllabus. We have the capability of letting loose, of being a teenager, of dunking your head underwater and blowing bubbles in the pool. We are too busy putting on sunscreen and making sure we have enough towels for everyone that we never have time to cannonball into the water and chase each other around. I'm not saying to dive straight in, head first because we all know the ramifications for that. I have plenty of bruises to vote against that idea, but as one of the most competitive and stressed out generations in history, we need to learn to accept that it's okay to let loose and feel the crashing water collide against your face and sync our heartbeats with the pace of our kicks.

Sadly, I don't have any goggles. So it won't be the clearest of times, and there won't be a visible destination always, but life moves along just as swimmingly.

But I am just a mere high school student.

There are some nights where I wallow in self-pity and self-loathe via Netflix binge watching and stress eating. Tonight is not one of those nights.

The past weekend has been emotionally exhausting. Everything that could have happened, happened, and everything seemed to break down at once. However, this weekend, I discovered one of the most alluring quotes.

"For a star to be born, there is one thing that must happen: a gaseous nebula must collapse. So collapse. Crumble. This is not your destruction. This is your birth."

I have repeated it to myself probably over fifty times now, and I have spread it on social networking sites, texted it to my friends, and even made a cute little virtual poster of it. Something about that quote really resonates with me, and I cannot shake the idea that I am a star. I don't mean I am the undiscovered actress Hollywood has been waiting for, and I definitely don't mean that I'm the little gold sticker that I would've walked on hot coals for in first grade. Rather that, but I have grown accustomed to a hollow feeling in my chest. I stand and walk and prance and trip and yet, I feel empty inside. Sometimes, I even feel weeds growing around my rib cage. Sometimes, I'm convinced that if someone picks me up and shakes me around, they'll hear the remnants of petals and thorns rattle around my vacant heart. I am a star because I am made of millions of interconnected little particles, floating and radiating in a chamber of gas. I am a star because I am one of billions in one galaxy. I am a star because while I may feel like I am bright, shining, and captivating creation, I know I will burn out one day, and then I will be darkness.

There have been plenty of times in life where I've felt like I've made a difference. I've held the hands of countless individuals as they faced dauntless tasks. I've volunteered for hundred of hours at community service projects. I've educated peers and friends on politics and social justice topics. I've donated money for natural disaster projects, and I've sent funds to children without the opportunity to pursue a formal education, yet I am not satisfied. I am overwhelmingly irrelevant and disgustingly insignificant.

Everyday, I feel as if I come upon another corrupt institution in society. As a high school student, I am surrounded by the depravity that correlates with the American education system. I can see the essence of learning turn to regurgitation and memorization, all for the sake of standardized testing. I can see the arts wilting away at the power and spectre of STEM careers, and I can feel the passion of gaining knowledge draining to reveal an empty well of pure apathy. As a product of the dichotomous partisan politics platform, I can see the ignorance that coincides with identifying with a party; I can feel the tension that exists with introductions of Republican, Democrat, Socialist, anything-different-than-what-you-believe-in parties. I can see the next generation falsifying facts and statistics because the youth is uneducated yet unashamed. I can see the patriarchal society hardening its grips around a more socially aware female population. I can see the cult of domesticity deteriorating in seriousness and morphing around comedy and mockery. I can see the ghastly faces of men as women all around the world are climbing economic ladders and making names for themselves; I can see the uselessness of such awe because women were always capable of such ordeals.

And that's just the beginning. I consider myself involved in the social justice plight. Although I am rather liberal in my beliefs, I want to avoid political connotations with my beliefs because they are just that: my beliefs. I had long formed them before I became involved in politics. I had long determined that I would not mind if two guys or two girls decided to get married. I had long determined that a woman has authority and power over her own body. I had long determined that society has created an atmosphere where women must live in constant fear and paranoia. I had long determined that guns would never be exiled in America, but stricter gun control should never be out of the picture. And I am still determining many, many things. And that's okay because I am just a mere high school student. Maybe it's a crutch or an excuse or reasoning to hide behind, but I cannot possibly make a difference as a high school student. I have begun to recognize the corruption that bleeds into the nation -- education, government, religion, culture, social class, economy, everything, yet I can't do anything to steadily make a palpable difference because I don't have any authority or power. Because everything is "too" corrupted already, whatever the hell that means.

But because of my status as a peon of a human, I am not capable of making a difference on a global, an international level. I am not capable of instigating a revolution, as gloriously brilliant as it may be. I seem to only be capable of indulging in a constant state of frustration and irritation. Several epiphanies later, I cannot seem to fathom all my thoughts, all my musings, all my criticisms. But there is one thing that is clear to me: the youth of today is the future of tomorrow, yet we are not given power nor control over anything. As the youth, I am a part of a revolution in and of itself. I am a part of Generation Y, of the "Me" Generation, of the technology era; however, I am only given a plastic toy sword and told to swing as fiercely and boldly as possible. How does that impact anyone? I am part of the youth, and I want to be the glue that fixes society. I want to be the band aid that mends the wounds of the feminist party, the partisan platforms, the wealth gap, the educational gap. I want to be the vaccination that prevents any further outbreak of misery. But I am just a mere high school student, and I've been unknowingly thrown into the alcohol that keeps the fire burning. I am a part of the educational system I am so blatantly against. I am easily identified as one specific partisan party. I am so black and white on topics, and I am subtly brainwashed into believing so many ideologies. So how can I find the solution when I'm a part of the problem?

Rebel, reform, reconstruct? I do not know yet. I do not know many things because the unknown is frightening and terrifying, but I do know one thing: I am just a mere high school student, and while I may not be able to rally millions behind a common goal, I will write and write until my ink becomes the fire that so gallantly fights against the hands of oppression and corruption.