tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19656787353582945612024-03-12T22:32:57.070-05:00The Elegant in the RoomThat pinch of pizazz, that dash of daring, that side of smashing. We all have it. Now let's address the elegant in the room.The Elegant in the Roomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17058656440633295706noreply@blogger.comBlogger37125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1965678735358294561.post-26431162940361971222020-04-06T02:59:00.002-05:002020-04-06T02:59:28.319-05:00Quarantired of Waiting<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Hello, my dear friends!<br />
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I have decided to revive this blog in the interest of reigniting my love of prose. (No better time to reflect and ruminate than while sheltering in place during an international pandemic, right?) Somewhere along the line, I allowed the joy of writing to slip from my grasp and nearly vanquish. I could blame this on the lack of personality in most legal papers or on my introduction to the "real" or "adult" world of working all day and striving to find purpose at night. You know, people say you shouldn't allow work to define you, but that's pretty tough when the first question strangers ask you at social gatherings is, "What do you do?"<br />
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Indeed, what do I do? Lately, outside of my profession, it is primarily slumping on the couch and rewatching <i>Parks and Rec</i>. Now that I am no longer in school, I seem to have less to look forward to. No more learning new subjects in an attempt to discover my passion and no more clinging to the hope that I will figure everything out by the time I graduate. I'm here, I've graduated, and I'm still lost.<br />
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It's never easy to feel completely at home with yourself, no matter how old you are or how much introspection you've practiced. Sometimes your own mind can feel like a foreign habitat. Every now and again, I still get glimpses of past loves, losses, successes, and struggles, and I wonder how this person I once knew so well could have changed so fast. </div>
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To be sure, my core self remains the same: shy but silly, intellectual but childish, anxious but cheerful. But the level of comfort I feel with those traits differs--and some of my more problematic qualities have become more pronounced. For example, my raging perfectionism urges me to make my reentrance into the blogging world spectacular and flawless. Perhaps that's why I haven't posted in four years--I've felt as though I've had nothing important to say for a long time. I've felt like a drone in the working world. In fact, I'm so used to billable hours that I find myself mentally calculating whether the time I've spent writing this post has been efficient.<br />
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I miss the innocent, curious Amanda from time immemorial. I miss my college friends who made me feel whole. I miss our philosophic discussions in the library stacks or random classrooms at midnight on Friday nights. I miss our human pyramids and our spur-of-the-moment fashion shows. I miss dressing up like a dude with my best friend and attending a student drag show. I miss discovering all of these crazy new things I enjoy.<br />
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Equally as satisfying as discovering new interests, however, can be rediscovering old ones. And if I'm writing this, right here, right now, I think I'm nearly back. Maybe I won't be composing twenty-page essays on all the ways COVID-19 has changed humanity for good anytime soon, but the important thing is I just wrote six paragraphs about my feelings--my raw, unabashed feelings. That's a pretty good start.<br />
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'Til the next six paragraphs,<br />
Amanda :)<br />
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Faux fur jacket: Michael Kors. Necklace, top, and boots: J. Crew. Pants: Ann Taylor.<br />
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All photos thanks to the incomparable Sean Su!The Elegant in the Roomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17058656440633295706noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1965678735358294561.post-25876104274797782422016-03-02T03:59:00.000-06:002016-04-10T21:49:21.780-05:00I Fought the Law, and I'm Still Here!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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My apologies for being in some kind of Twilight Zone <span style="font-size: xx-small;">TM</span> for the past six months. I started law school just after I wrote my last post, and I haven't really done much but law since. It's been a whirlwind journey filled with blood, sweat, and tears (the blood mostly from all the times I've slipped on the softball field playing those darned 2Ls). In the meantime, I feel as though I have lost part of myself, at least the part who truly appreciated who I am as a person. I'm hoping that at least a few others can relate. For that reason, I wanted to list some of the most important life lessons I've learned while undergoing the most academically rigorous period of my life:<br />
<br />
<b>1. There are some hobbies you've got to keep up to stay sane, no matter how busy you get.</b><br />
Yes, I am talking about exercising, writing, drawing, eating something other than cookies and Cheez-its for dinner, and making sure you clear a path to walk around your apartment despite all the piles of papers and clothes everywhere (the last two aren't really hobbies, but still). Amidst the endless recitation of issues, rules, analyses, and conclusions, I have forgotten to bathe on my best days and eat on my worst. You can't live a sustainable life doing those things, no matter how well you have mastered the art of finding clean underwear under mounds of cover letters. Start freeing your mind and your closet today. Trust me, you'll be happier when you can see your couch again.<br />
<br />
<b>2. Stay true to yourself.</b><br />
There is a specific type of person who tends to enter the legal profession: the outgoing, outdoing, outdebating, outshining gunner. People will tell you these traits are necessary in order to succeed in this tangled web we weave. Don't listen to them. Sure, there are some inevitable "fake it 'til you make it" aspects of law school, but what really matters at the end of the day is your commitment to your true self--your ideals, your philosophies, and your quirks. You are the only one who truly knows what works for you and what doesn't. St. Louis suburbanites can fit in with the California crowd too, ya know. :)<br />
<br />
<b>3. Do it! Whatever it is you really want to do, just do it!</b><br />
It's simple: just go for that thing you've always wanted to do but never had the confidence to do before. As our lives become increasingly monotonous, it's important for us to take even more risks and see what we can do. Just as you need to keep up with your favorite pastimes and remember what you like/find amusing about yourself (see 1 and 2 above), you need to keep growing, keep exploring, and keep questioning. Looks like it's time for a new adult coloring book!<br />
<br />
<b>4. Take everything in stride.</b><br />
You're going to receive a heaping bundle of pig slop from certain professors every once in a while. Or at least, that's what you'll think. If you're like me, you've never received so much criticism in your life. But THAT'S OKAY. It doesn't mean you're unprepared or not cut out for this profession. It simply means it will take you slightly longer to get used to certain things than the rest of your peers. And it will get easier, and you'll feel more confident, and you'll be freer to discuss your flaws openly. Gotta keep that ego in check.<br />
<br />
I'm not the girl I was six months ago, and I think that's for the better. Despite what I've been learning, I've realized (slowly) that life is more than just a study of law, a compilation of rules, or a lonely night in the library. You have the right to get everything you want out of life and put everything you want into it, and a legal remedy won't always suffice. Sometimes all you need is art and music and pure unadulterated joy. Laws can't explain all the crazy stuff we do, and they shouldn't. Only we can (try to) explain that. And our opinions matter.<br />
<br />
Law school may not always be super conducive to self-reflection, but it's good to remember every once in while that you're not just a soldier training for battle. You are a person living out your dreams.<br />
<br />
May the dreams be with you,<br />
Amanda<br />
<br />
More to follow...<br />
<br />
Dress: Cynthia Rowley. Shoes: J. Crew.<br />
Photos by Alex Zhu.<br />
<br />The Elegant in the Roomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17058656440633295706noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1965678735358294561.post-10149878240304572162015-08-11T15:20:00.002-05:002015-08-11T15:25:40.107-05:00In Defense of Horrid Penmanship<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’ve got a paper here I can’t
read.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Looks like it was written by a
guy…maybe Aaron or Adam…”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“That’s mine,” I would respond to
whichever teacher fell prey to my spell that day, snatching the sheet of lines
and squiggles from her judging hands.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Yes, it’s true—I have a
problem.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s called cacography: bad
handwriting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s been an issue ever
since I first picked up the mighty pen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>My mom, my friends, my teachers: everyone has commented on it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I used to be so embarrassed when other
students peered over at me scribbling not-so-sweet nothings.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Has anyone ever told you that your
handwriting is a bit illegible?,” my twelfth-grade English teacher asked me,
several months before the AP Language & Composition Exam.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“They’re not technically supposed to take
your handwriting into account, but it may factor into their subconscious.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Did she think she was my Psych teacher
all of a sudden?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">One day we anonymously exchanged in-class
essays to grade, and one loudmouth proclaimed to the whole group that she
couldn’t read what hers said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Did she not think the culprit was bound
to hear her in a class of fourteen?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">But the original shame came from my first
grade teacher: “Now everyone look at Trevor*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He’s holding his pencil just right—look at how he gently grips it instead
of wrapping his fingers over each other.” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sitting next to Trevor I could feel her eyes
darting my way, somehow implicating me as the token bad example.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It didn’t help that Trevor was my long-time
bully, a title he would smugly hold until he moved away in the seventh
grade.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now he’s playing football at Yale.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He’s about the last person who deserves to be
in that position, but that’s beside the point.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>In researching why society gets so
hung up on bad handwriting, I found a study, aptly titled, “Poor Handwriting: A
Major Cause of Underachievement,” by Linda Silverman, Ph.D.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her main finding is that a lot of “bright
underachievers” have “difficult births” and suffer from ear infections in the
first few years of life, leading to “sensory-motor integration
dysfunction.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Well, from what I’ve
heard, I didn’t experience any of these issues as a child, and many of my
fellow chicken scratchers didn’t either.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I had an ear infection or two in elementary school, but that’s past the initial
developmental period.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My birth was
pretty seamless, too; actually, it was my twin brother who tried to force his
way out feet first and ended up being pulled out with a suction cup.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was one time in second grade that my
teacher signed me up for special “Resource” classes because she thought I
couldn’t read, but it turns out I just didn’t want to talk.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Perhaps poor handwriting is correlated with
underachievement in some, but it certainly does not cause it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There’s a big difference between cacography
and dysgraphia, the latter being the “inability to write coherently, as a
symptom of brain disease or damage.” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Shyness,
not a sensory-motor delay, was my hang-up.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>My brother suffers from this same
“disorder,” arguably worse than I do, and he doesn’t compensate for it with a
little bit of sketching on the side (“Wow, your handwriting is so bad, but your
art is so good!,” said my ninth grade art teacher).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But Daniel’s not a girl, so society almost <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">expects</i> him to have bad handwriting, at
least at first.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It expects him to be in
the storied troublemaker phase, hoping he will grow out of it some day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It expects me, on the other hand, to be a
perfect little angel from the start, only growing more and more civil as I get
older.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Neither of us quite fits these
models.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Ever since I learned my penmanship
could never be remedied, I committed myself to breaking as many stereotypes as
I could.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I stopped taking dance lessons
in favor of field hockey scrimmages, I ate like a wild hog on a mission to
kill, I roughhoused with all of Daniel’s friends, and I watched endless basketball
games with my dad.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Today I mostly make
fun of women who still expect men to carry all their shopping bags for them, or
who fantasize about marrying strong men with broad shoulders, blue eyes, and a
faint-worthy smile.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I even convinced my
grandma to stop asking me to help bake her famous cinnamon rolls.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now she only asks Daniel, who would do
anything for a cinnamon roll.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">For all the times a TA has asked me to
type up my in-class midterm, I can take pride in the fact that they probably
thought I was a man when they first read it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>No, dear Teaching Assistant, it is I, Amanda Rose Miller, designated jar
opener and cliché averter of apartment 416.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>My handwriting also serves as a sort
of secret code, a special language of sorts, reserved for me and for anyone
else who dares decrypt it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can tell
you now that anyone who tries to read my diary won’t get anywhere; that stuff
is sealed in a ten-ton vault made of solid gold.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Come to think of it, I regret never
exchanging notes about crazy kid stuff with Daniel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then again—while we did share our own verbal
language as babies—even he can’t read my mishmash.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nonetheless, it’s entertaining to see what
comes out of my friends’ mouths as they attempt to sound it out.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“He…intervention for ranging and
cattle?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No, ‘The intersection of language
and culture.’”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Oh, wow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Have you ever thought about being a doctor?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>A deficit of manual dexterity has
taught me to exercise what little I have to its full capacity, so when I do
produce a drawing, or a field hockey goal, or a well written essay, I really
treasure it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Art, of course, comes in a
variety of packages, very few of which are contingent on Immaculate-Conception-Jesus-Christ-is-this-God’s-handwriting
penmanship.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We can’t say what perfect
handwriting looks like anyway; for all we know, God’s handwriting could look
exactly like mine—you don’t know.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I look back at my fourth-grade
projects, and if anything, my handwriting has gotten worse.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Years of copying down PowerPoint slides will
do that to a girl (or a guy, for sure).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>But in a lot of other ways, I’ve gotten better.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can’t attribute all of that to bad
handwriting, but I can say it has helped shape me into the cynical feminist
writer I am today.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve heard my fair
share of groans, gasps, sighs, and even psychological diagnoses in response to
my handwriting, but it never really got to me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I just kept on scribbling.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If nothing else, my bad handwriting gave me a
unique perspective and a voice, and that’s really all an aspiring writer wants.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even if some people can’t see it.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">More posts to come as I start law school next week! :D</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">Love,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">Amanda</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Top and Skirt: Paperdolls Boutique, St. Louis.<br />
<br />
All photos by Alex Zhu.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">*Name changed because I know all of you with your mighty powers of stalking would have looked up "Trevor" <a href="http://www.yalebulldogs.com/sports/m-footbl/2015-16/roster" target="_blank">here</a> or somewhere else. ;)</span></div>
The Elegant in the Roomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17058656440633295706noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1965678735358294561.post-46806786726866076252015-05-12T20:17:00.001-05:002015-05-12T21:13:56.582-05:00A Human is a Human, is a Human: Why this Essay Makes Sense<div class="MsoNormal">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjloqrr0nSEo_oxHRT-Q3Mh4Qb9tKG-g6XGwygCAlqPYT0ubOsnvTd-O6CMeZ6-PMbR8tJ1LtEM0ORYvjYD8vft4jxlYA2l1Ab3u8xa3bHdogJ77dTf8Jk1Mh3TfVjvNaKrKGedv_x7spNn/s1600/DSC_0184.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjloqrr0nSEo_oxHRT-Q3Mh4Qb9tKG-g6XGwygCAlqPYT0ubOsnvTd-O6CMeZ6-PMbR8tJ1LtEM0ORYvjYD8vft4jxlYA2l1Ab3u8xa3bHdogJ77dTf8Jk1Mh3TfVjvNaKrKGedv_x7spNn/s640/DSC_0184.jpg" width="424" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; line-height: 200%; text-align: center;">
<i>My brother, Daniel, and I in Rome.</i></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> Humans are quite distinct from
animals. The former write poetry and memorize
things like the Pythagorean Theorem and the U.S. presidents. The latter eat poop. Whether we deserve to be inside or outside of
bars, we generally know where to draw the line.
So why is it that we still can’t get it right for some of the most
oppressed people—Native Americans? As
time has passed, Americans have eliminated many forms of native-themed
paraphernalia, and Northwestern University has established a committee
redressing John Evans’s role in the Sand Creek Massacre. But the fight for basic human rights remains
paramount. And who’s a better mascot for
this cause than the Cleveland Indians, located, ironically, in Progressive
Field? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Sure, Willie Wampum isn’t dancing down the
fifty-yard line anymore, but the names and logos still in commission highlight
our nation’s shameful exploitation of an important race and culture. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> To be clear, I don’t allege any
Native American heritage, and my experiences can attest to that. A white friend and central Illinois native
once shared his family’s rite of passage: accompanying dad to watch Chief
Illiniwek parade across the field.
Notwithstanding this time-honored tradition, children witnessing such events
will blind themselves to the historical and contemporary struggles native
people face unless they actively challenge them—an approach the NFL and MLB
could uphold by retiring racist mascots.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> Most influential to my beliefs on
this matter are those of my own aunt and uncle, who defend constantly the
Chicago Blackhawks’ right to shape an underrepresented people’s history the way
they see fit. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">My brother told me of an argument he had with our aunt while he
was living in Chicago: “Well, what about Satanists? Aren’t they
offended by devil mascots?,” she remarked one day, playing devil’s
advocate. “Perhaps,” my brother said, “But Satan isn't a human being
deserving of <i>human rights, </i>namely the right not to be
portrayed as a violent savage." I later added in my own accounts
that Satanists might admire Satan precisely because of his ruthlessness,
whereas Native Americans probably wish every day that the rest of the world
could see them as they are: people with hearts and souls and complex
identities. The devil is not here to disprove his popular portrayal, but
Native Americans are, and we need to listen.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Arguments revolving around animal rights
and certain human roles or nationalities—such as the Cowboys or the Fighting
Irish—are less extreme but nonetheless question our use of <i>any</i> mascots. The fact of the
matter, however, is that animals are animals, cowpokery is an outdated job, and
the Irish have not experienced the American oppression that native peoples are
all too familiar with. There’s no
escaping that reality. While perhaps
none of these groups deserve to be defamed on a football field, our most
pressing issue is that of the people our forbearers persecuted.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">I don’t blame my aunt or my friend for
the relentless pride they take in their local teams. That’s the way they were raised, and it’s
hard to change long-imbued mindsets. But
it’s far from impossible. Over time,
sane Americans have released their hold on the institution of slavery, on the
Confederate States of America, and on barring women from higher education. We can find something other than native-themed
mascots to cling to—something that all humans can agree on. It’s a challenge, but a worthy one.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">The ubiquity, popularity, and sway of the
sports-media complex greatly desensitize us to larger inequalities. Most days we hear some version of: “The
Redskins whipped the Dolphins today, and look at those Raiders go! Yeah, demolish those Cardinals!” And most days we don’t even notice it. Implicating the media for many of our
problems isn’t a new technique, but our apathy toward the bubble in which we
live is getting old. Football will still
be the majestically violent sport it always has been when we drop the
associations with savagery and primordial instincts.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">All of this is not to say the plights of
other ethnic groups are invalid.
Implicit and explicit racism continues to line the doors to justice in
this country, especially as we consider consistent evidence of police
brutality, a lack of comprehensive immigration reform, and the stigma that
interracial couples still face. But all
of this seems to start and end with the media’s plain endorsement of inaccurate
and antiquated imagery, which reminds Native Americans everyday how twisted
their past has become. If we can nip
this in the bud before it spreads any further, we can prevent a lot of damage.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">By virtue of enduring colonialism, Americans
think they can lay claim to everyone and everything that came before us. Despite all the wrongs we have committed
against people of African descent, however, we have enough common sense not to name
a team the Tallahassee Tutsis. Even when
we have stooped so low, national and even local recognition of such mascots as
the “Chinks” has stopped altogether. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="line-height: 200%;">So what’s our obsession with Native
American culture? It’s powerful, it’s mighty,
it’s just the way it is? Since when is “the way it is” always the way it should be? However sexy the “noble savage” is to us
virgin white men, there is no reason other than fetishism, a quest for
domination, and/or conformity to </span><span style="line-height: 32px;">bigotry</span><span style="line-height: 200%;"> to explain our insistence on Native American mascots. And if these are our only reasons, we really
have no reason at all. Once we realize
this particular defect in our ancestor’s ambitions, society will raze the bumps
history has created and give way to a level playing field. All humans will have the opportunity to voice
their concerns, address evils, and portray the image they want to portray. Immutable human rights will be won for all. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> The last counterargument comes from
my dad, who for the heck of it, threw out the idea of “the Sante Fe Ethnic Cleansers.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Isn’t that a non-human ‘role’ just like
a cowboy or a Viking?,” he prodded, facetiously.
“Well, I guess it is,” I said, “but isn’t the whole point about being
sensitive to the mistreatment and misrepresentation of other cultures?” After everything we’ve been through and
everything we have at stake, let’s just see if that name takes off.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%;">
<!--EndFragment--></div>
</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<i>I write this in the hope that I can convince a few of you that no one has anything to gain from Native American mascots. More than anything, however, I share this with you to further my brother's petition on change.org, calling for the NHL and the Chicago Blackhawks to retire their racist mascot. Please take a moment and sign this petition <a href="https://www.change.org/p/nhl-chicago-blackhawks-retire-the-racist-chicago-blackhawks-logo?recruiter=16736195&utm_source=share_petition&utm_medium=facebook&utm_campaign=share_facebook_responsive&utm_term=des-lg-share_petition-no_msg&fb_ref=Default#petition-letter" target="_blank">here</a>. Thank you so much for reading.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<i>Amanda</i></div>
The Elegant in the Roomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17058656440633295706noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1965678735358294561.post-61385635888526193432015-03-31T20:25:00.000-05:002015-03-31T20:26:50.436-05:00Cyn<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<i style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">I wrote the following for a course entitled "Fabulous Fictions."</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">Long ears, pointy nose, wistful eyes,
like those of a man over the hill, parting ways with a long-lost high school
sweetheart.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">That was young Cynthia Swift
for you.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Cyn had an adult face, always did.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She looked just like her mom, and at six,
that wasn’t exactly a good thing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She
used to stare at herself in the mirror wondering who she was and what the deal
was with her pronounced features. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But
she never looked too long, for the mature curvature of her face frightened her
beyond anything else.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Cyn was stern.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Always stern.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Whether she was playing hopscotch or dashing the hopes of a pervy
preschooler, Cyn was always stern.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She
was also shy, unbelievably shy, so shy that she didn’t even talk to her
grandparents.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“How is school going, Cynthia?” her
grandma would ask.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She shrugged her shoulders and
gently smiled.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It’s safe to assume she never ever
talked to her kindergarten teacher, Ms. Schmidt—so much so that on days when
she had to go to the bathroom, she simply held it in until all hell broke loose
on her own toilet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One day she left a
huge butt-shaped imprint on the pavement from the pee she couldn’t quite
suppress.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Cyn thought a lot about morals, based if
nothing else on the sheer number of times a day she heard the words “sin,”
“sinny,” and “sinifred.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She at first thought
the odd iterations of her name were meant as a slight against her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Of course, she also knew kids would be kids.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Cyn’s friend Cassie was one of the worst
culprits.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Cassie further took the
liberty of speaking for her whenever Cyn wanted to ask the teacher a question
or air a grievance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Cyn didn’t mind this
interlocution; she just felt it came at a price.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Always a third wheel in whatever play
date Cassie devised, Cyn put up with a lot of offhand critiques of her shyness
and gangly features.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">After catching Cyn admire her crush for a
good two minutes, Cassie interrupted: “I don’t think Josh really likes tall
girls.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What would you even say to him
anyway?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Cyn wanted so hard to rebut all of that,
but it’s true, she wouldn’t know what to say.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It wasn’t that Cyn was mute; she just
didn’t have anything to say—well, she had stuff to say; she just didn’t want
to say it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“How are you?”, “How’s it going?”,
“What’s up?”—none of these questions merited verbal answers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She wasn’t rude or resentful; she was a lot
of other things.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Cyn had a habit of staring deeply
into other people’s eyes, parsing every black mark and greenish-blue tint in their
irises.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was fascinated with the
eye—so beautiful from a safe distance, but so disgusting up close.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The pink glob of nerves in the inner corners,
the red lightning bolts of fatigue, the crusty yellow build-up…she stayed far
enough away to avoid these things.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Ms. Schmidt’s eyes were the faintest
blue you could imagine; they’d look the same whether in color or black and
white.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was almost no texture to
them, like perfectly sculpted cuts of glass.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Cyn felt a funny sense of solidarity with her teacher, for every time Derrick
walked by and cut a big lock off of Cyn’s hair, she watched Ms. Schmidt
overcome a bit of hesitation to tell him that wasn’t right.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Cyn peered into Ms. Schmidt’s eyes and
waited.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Cyn
loses control of what would be her arms and legs and simply goes through the
motions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The vision is a bit blurred, but
manageable, especially once her glasses fit themselves neatly over her
eyes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She’d seen that pink mug on Ms.
Schmidt’s desk many times before, but in her new eyes it looks purplish.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Looking hard around the room, she notices
Cassie entertaining a bunch of other students, in awe of her sassy pants
charm.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Cyn’s new mouth begins to purse
and she suddenly finds herself telling Cassie to “quiet down,” two words she
never dared utter before.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Cassie looks
back with a glaring intent Cyn had never seen, and in a sense, she still
hadn’t.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She then turns to a young
Cynthia staring right at her.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Sinny, did you hear what I was
trying to say before Ms. S interrupted me?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It was important,” Cassie said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Cyn shook her head, turning her gaze
back to Cassie.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Okay, well I’m having a birthday
party tomorrow night, and I’m inviting you.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Cyn walked home from school,
wondering whether there was such a thing as a fourth wheel, or a fifth.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Mommy, is it okay if I go to
Cassie’s house tomorrow night for a birthday party?,” Cyn asked as she walked
into the kitchen.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Sure, dolly,” she said, “but I want
to make sure you’ll have a good time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
don’t want to see you cry again.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“This time it will be different,”
Cyn said, “There won’t be as many girls there, so I should get a chance to
spend more time with Cassie.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“If that’s what you want, honey.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Cyn’s mom walked to the other side
of the kitchen, fidgeting with the oven settings, then going to the fridge to
pull out some ground beef, recently defrosted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>As she unpacked the meat, Cyn couldn’t help but admire her deliberate
gait, her beautiful blond hair, her hybrid blue-green eyes as deep as the
ocean, dotted with specs of black and a halo of gold.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She couldn’t stop her gaze.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Her
eyes dart every which way, looking almost simultaneously at the stove, the
countertops, the floor, the window, and her own hands.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They shake if ever slightly, partly because
it is hereditary, partly because the situation seems to warrant it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Cyn knew she had a great mom, but she didn’t
know how much work it took.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Every second
is equally active and reflective, as if doing one at a time isn’t good
enough.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She looks back at herself, a
daughter, young but with a mind so much older.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The next day, Cyn took the bus home
with Cassie, as did seven other girls.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Who wants their nails painted?!”
shouted Cassie’s au pair, Queen—a twenty-five-year-old Kenyan woman with a
shaved head and enormous hoop earrings—as they all walked into the living room.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Cyn was never much a fan of decorating girly
extremities, so she just watched while the others took part, slapping on layers
upon layers of “Teal We Meet Again” and “The Blonde.com,” forming a more
perfect union around Cassie.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Unlike the
Founding Fathers, however, Cassie did not create a set of guidelines to help
out her posterity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She made the rules as
she went.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Okay, now we’re going to play
teacher,” Cassie proclaimed to the whole group.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“I’ll be the teacher; the rest of you can be my students.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>After soundly passing the first
“test” consisting of ‘1+1’ and ‘draw a picture of a CAT’, Cyn thought she would
make for a good laugh by intentionally failing her ABC’s.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She made up a series of nonsense letters
designed to make her stand out among the sheep.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The bottom half of a capital L, the top two-thirds of an R, the bottom
right portion of a Q cut diagonally: all these letters were sure to incite
amusement in her best friend.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Cassie gave her an F—not the top
half of an F or the right side of an F, but a full F.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nothing seemed more final than that.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Cyn stared into Cassie’s eyes with
the same unbroken intensity with which Cassie stared into Ms. Schmidt’s.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The bulging, light brown, perfectly ambiguous
nature of her eyes made it all the more frustrating.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Standing
three inches shorter than Cyn, Cassie nonetheless sees the world as her oyster.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Each of her friends sits like an anxious heap
of ribbons and bows, waiting to be called upon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Cassie’s eyes twinkle with ego as she breathes a quiet but purposeful
“hmmph.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She walks in a slow, dignified
manner, taking in every bit of her surroundings calmly, yet never pausing to
look for any prolonged period of time at any one particular thing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Cynthia’s fiery stare is no exception.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The room is large, and Cyn is just a small
part of it.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Bloody Mary.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s it—that’s what we should play,” Cassie
said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Everyone find a partner, and you
can go in together.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Of course there was an odd number of
girls—nine including Cassie—so everyone paired up except Cyn.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One of the other girls snatched Cassie up
before Cyn could even get a chance scope out her surroundings.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Sorry, Cyn.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You know I always pick you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Besides, Sam asked me first.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Naturally, Cassie volunteered Cyn to
go first, as per her usual ventriloquism.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Cyn walked tentatively into the bathroom, lights switched to OFF, and
shut the door. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She looked into the
mirror and recited, as promised: “Bloody Mary.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Bloody Mary.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Bloody Mary.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She realized too late that as she was
waiting in fear for Bloody Mary to appear, she had been staring into her own
eyes, a shifting combination of green, blue, and grey, depending on the lighting,
the mood, and the eyes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Cyn
is now inside the mirror, looking through her own reflection.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Shards of silver reflect the Victorian-style
crown molding, the gold faucets, the marble bathroom tiles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But she is powerless to see or do anything else,
for her bodily movement is controlled by her actual body, which is entranced
watching her reflection.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The game, her
body, and the world have all stopped, but Cyn’s thoughts are still going.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her mind is all that she has.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is who she is.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">After
nearly five minutes, Cassie is convinced that Cyn has actually seen Bloody Mary
and walks into the bathroom, only to find Cyn in a static daze.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Cassie pushes her forward, and Cyn snaps out
of her trance, clutching the sink for support.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">“What happened?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Cassie asked, gripping Cyn by the shoulders,
“Did you see Bloody Mary?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Did she put
you under her spell?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Are you gonna cry
again?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Do you want me to call your mom?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Cassie wasn’t behaving at all out of
character, nor did she mean any harm by what she said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It wasn’t until this moment that Cyn
realized just how red and yellow—how frantic and insincere, if ever so
slightly, Cassie’s eyes looked up close.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She had never seen anything like it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It was almost as if Cassie was looking through her, as if Cyn was her reflection
on the wall.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Cassie,” Cyn said, “Shut up.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> Cyn had an adult face, always did.</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">It didn’t frighten her so much anymore.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<i style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<i style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">All clothing designed and made by the wonderful Sarah Worley. </i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<i style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">All photos by the fabulous Nicole Picchietti.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Nicole Picchietti</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
IG: @your_favorite_weapon</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<a href="http://www.loveandlightwriting.com/">www.loveandlightwriting.com</a></div>
The Elegant in the Roomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17058656440633295706noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1965678735358294561.post-16190327314629694672015-02-17T23:42:00.002-06:002018-09-11T00:30:47.100-05:00Why Do I Write?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
<br />
I listened to an NPR segment the other day that asked this exact question. Writing takes a great deal of effort and promises very little payoff at times, even if you devote your entire life to it. So why do I do it, even in small spurts? There are a number of reasons:<br />
<br />
1. <b>It helps me vent. </b> Now that I've reached the point in my life where writing is overwhelmingly more of a joy than a chore (at least when I'm not juggling three term papers with a 12 AM deadline), I consult it as I would a close friend. I put all my thoughts down on paper and let the appropriate tone and arrangement find their way to me as I go. Don't get me wrong; I still do that whole burrying-my-face-in-my-hands-until-I-can-think-of-the-perfect-word-and-the-perfect-feeling-and-the-perfect-meaning thing, but that's all part of the process of creating something heretofore invisible. Writing is my chance to turn raw, unadulterated stress, love, or fear into a compelling narrative.<br />
<br />
2. <b>It's in everyone's domain.</b> Writing does not discriminate. Period. Anyone can write because everyone has a voice. This isn't just me being optimistic or humanity-loving; it's fact. Anyone or anything with a mind has a say in how the world runs, and writing is the best way to capitalize on that. Reading someone else's work gives us a direct link to his/her soul, and that's beautiful.<br />
<br />
3. <b>It's not always kind...and that only motivates me more.</b> For the most part, my writing makes me feel good about myself because I take ample time to develop it. I put my heart in most everything I do, but other people don't always see that. And that frustrates me. So I write a reply...<br />
<br />
Today I had a somewhat unnerving workshop experience in which I received an overwhelming proportion of criticism over compliment. I wrote an attack against the use of Native American Mascots in U.S. sports, making clear that I do not claim Native American heritage, nor do I believe any oppressed group's harm to be more or less valid than any other's. Nonetheless, there were a few unrelenting critics who argued that I was writing from a "privileged position," being a white woman with no direct stake in the matter. They further argued that I was saying Native American mascots were worse than police brutality and murder.<br />
<br />
I admit, I could have phrased my stance on the issue better. In general, however, I think it was pretty clear that I was advocating for broad social justice initiatives on this particular issue and NOT barring remedies for any others. I mentioned police brutality in my essay not to downplay its gravity but to acknowledge its continual and harmful presence. I included the plights of other groups not to give them any sort of obligatory recognition, but to open the door to future essays discussing these topics. There is only so much I can cover in mine.<br />
<br />
I later anticipated a different counterargument, contending in my essay that while "The Fighting Irish" is a problematic name in its own right, people of Irish heritage have not faced the same sort of oppression in America that Native peoples continue to face. Here, those same students who said I was writing from a privileged position told me that I couldn't say the Irish haven't been oppressed. (Obviously they have, but not to the same extent or in the same way as Native Americans.) If you're going to play the "you're white and can't relate to oppression" card, at least be consistent with it. <br />
<br />
I don't often defend the white race (it's never been remotely high on my agenda), but I feel it is necessary with regard to those white people fighting for social reform. By pigeonholing all white people into the category of "elitist" or "snob," we discount the opinions of those who really give a damn, and that's a form of discrimination in itself (of course much less severe than most other types). It is white people themselves who are often most guilty of this view. I myself have questioned my license to address certain problems that members of my race caused in the first place. But silencing my own voice--just like silencing those of black, Hispanic, Asian, and Native American people--on issues I really care about would be an injustice indeed. <br />
<br />
No, I don't have a direct stake in the use of Native American mascots, but I do have many indirect ones. I have a right to argue for a fairer, more equal, open-minded, and empathetic country and world. Everyone does. I do not wish to take agency away from anyone else by permitting it in myself. The more voices we have, the closer we get to a consensus on what's right. If that's not important, I don't know what is.<br />
<br />
You have a right to believe whatever you want to; I would only suggest that you be respectful of others and constructive while believing it.<br />
<br />
Thank you for listening,<br />
Amanda<br />
<br />
Coat: Topshop. Tights: Express. Bag: Kate Spade. Shoes: Banana Republic.<br />
<br />
All photos thanks to Sean Su.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />The Elegant in the Roomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17058656440633295706noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1965678735358294561.post-23720835063552164012015-01-18T23:51:00.001-06:002015-01-19T01:18:37.052-06:00Pip and the Beanstalk<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">There was once a young woman named
Misandra whose mother pressured her incessantly to marry.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Disinclined to inherit any domestic work, she
held off for a couple years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She got her
PhD in psychology and became a university professor, advising her students to
put education and pride before men.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But
her mother’s probing grew worse and worse, and she could stand it no
longer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So Misandra decided to pursue
the only man she knew to be unspoken for: Ken Dryfus, the Medieval Studies
professor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Ken never cared much for the modern day,
but he did long for a woman, for every good Middle Aged man had one. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As Misandra took her best shot at flirting,
Ken jumped at the chance to live a life that Geoffrey Chaucer would have,
maybe, been proud of.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">After years of not paying much mind to each
other, Misandra and Ken eventually found it proper to have a child.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They didn’t have the most impressive genes,
but they weren’t bad.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Decades of
impertinence and antediluvian fantasies surely took their toll on them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Following twenty months of pregnancy,
Misandra gave birth to a baby ogre whom she called Pip.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Despite his tiny name, Pip Dryfus grew to
an imposing height of twelve feet high and five feet wide by the age of
ten.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But this wasn’t due to bountiful
nurturing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pip’s mother and father were
always too busy teaching and making political statements to look after their
little ogre.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So Pip quickly learned to
fend for himself and even took on a job stocking shelves at Poppers, the local
grocer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After months of being assigned
to Aisle 12, Pip found something out of place.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Betwixt the Lima and kidney beans, he felt an odd hybrid—somewhat like
himself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pip wondered what a velvet bag
of loose beans was doing next to the merchandise, but he figured some crazy kid
just threw them up there to tease his little brother.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He took them to the lost-and-found, hoping
the poor child would recover his strange possession.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">In the meantime, Pip was accepted to his
parents’ alma mater and started his own business, revolutionizing the way
grocery store aisles were organized, no velvety bags of beans to be found.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To accommodate the shorter people in his
life, he even designed a series of staggered ladders to reach every shelf of
every aisle, all the way up to the ceiling.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Pip became the CEO of Poppers, immediately rewarded by his inventiveness
and leadership.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Far removed from his stock boy days, a
twenty-two-year-old Pip decided to check out the old storage unit where he used
to spend many a day eating bologna sandwiches and cutting sheepskin parchment
for his dad’s latest manuscripts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pip
was astonished to find that the velvet bag of beans was the only item left in
the lost-and-found, sitting squarely in the middle of the box.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Seeing that it had been seven years since he
had put them there, he figured it was about time to claim them himself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Once Pip came home, he inspected the beans
and quickly found them impractical for typical use.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Too rough to eat, too hard to cook, and too
unsightly to put on display—again, much like Pip—the beans could potentially
serve one last purpose in the garden.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So
he planted two out of the five beans, not expecting a whole lot to come of it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Much to Pip’s surprise, the beans grew
into an incredible beanstalk by the next morning, reaching higher than the
clouds above.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not once encountering a
plant taller than him, Pip was curious to see how high it actually went, and
promptly climbed to the top.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Astonished
to be far above the clouds, Pip noticed an empty lot, filled with grass and
trees and various creatures.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Although
Pip wasn’t the deforesting sort, he felt that this land was prime for
development, and because it wasn’t on the ground, so to speak, he didn’t feel
too bad about it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">With the grand sums of money he made from
Poppers, Pip was able to start his own construction company, hiring some old
buddies from his shelf-stocking days.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In
a matter of weeks, Pip and his friends had built a road with four houses on
each side, Pip’s being the first one on the left.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now all he needed was a wife.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Because Pip had only brought men to his new
home, this task would have to be accomplished down below.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Before that, however, Pip thought it best
to settle into sky life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>None of his colleagues
stayed long, precisely because the prospects of finding a mate up there were so
low.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Poor Pip was so attached to his new
development that he couldn’t bare to let it waste away with no one tending to it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">So for a decade Pip stayed high above the
rest, breeding animals, building instruments, and counting his gold.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pip had become increasingly greedy in his
solitude, resolving to produce for his world only items that could make him
lots of money and save him lots of time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He soon uncovered enough magic soil to produce a hen that lays golden
eggs and a melodic talking harp.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">He had also grown increasingly
anti-social, talking only with his magical harp on occasion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pip no longer found it efficient to speak in
full sentences, so he reduced himself to short phrases, words, and vowels.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What’s more, his animals had become
overpopulated and subsequently started dying off.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pip craved forbidden meat.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">So accustomed to his utopia, Pip found it
hard to pry himself away for more food and a wife, at long last. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No neighbors for miles at his Earth home, Pip
never had to worry about anyone discovering his secret place, but he didn’t
want to continue taking that chance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He
decided that after he met a woman, he would chop the beanstalk.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Missing for ten years, Pip realized that
his dad had put up posters all around town, offering a $10,000 reward for his
safe return.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even though Pip was in his
early thirties at this point, his father didn’t forget about him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">But Pip didn’t think about his parents at
all when he reached the ground—all he wanted was food and a wife.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He found both at Poppers, on the now-abandoned
Main Street.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Manning the deli counter at that time was
Gwendela, an extremely tall and lanky woman fit for a man of outlandish
proportions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She welcomed him kindly,
offering up the finest selection of ribs and sausages.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This sounded good, Pip thought, but not from
a cow or a pig like young Gwendela was suggesting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He then noticed the impressive bounty of
humans occupying the surrounding tables.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>At once, Pip grabbed all the people including Gwendela and brought them
up to his house, immediately cutting the beanstalk like an umbilical cord as he
reached the top.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Terrified out of their wits, the humans
had no choice but to accede to Pip’s wishes, climbing one at a time into the
oven to meet their doom.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Last in line,
Gwendela shook in her boots until Pip offered her a compromise: be his wife and
spare your life.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Gwendela regretfully agreed and spent the
next several years a slave to his wishes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Misandra was rolling over in her grave.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Living a life of contentment with his
wife and animals, Pip took comfort in the fact that no one whom he didn’t have
total control over could bother him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">But one day, out of nowhere, a young boy
named Jack came wandering down the street, instantly drawn to the only occupied
house, where Gwendela was standing out front.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Disenchanted with her husband’s brutish ways, Gwendela decided to help
the child, giving him food, until Pip walked in, smelling the human flesh he so
often desired.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With the help of
Gwendela, Jack was able to evade Pip by hiding in the oven.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Later that evening, Pip noticed that one of his
bags of gold was missing, though he knew his wife would never steal from him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">A few months later, Jack returned for
more food, and hopefully a prize.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Gwendela agreed to let Jack in again, but warned him it would be tough
to escape Pip a second time around.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Somehow Jack managed, taking Pip’s prized hen with him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just as the hen squawked, Pip woke up from
his nap and finally realized there really was a young human on the premises.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He wondered how this could be and finally
remembered that there were three magic beans left at his Earth house.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some peddler must have ransacked his place
and tried to sell them for money.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Taking great thrill in his stealing,
Jack came back one final time, his eye on Pip’s talking harp.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Jack realized that the couple was onto him,
so he snuck into the house without either one knowing, snatching the harp which
screamed, “Master!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Master!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>as he ran away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pip couldn’t stand the thought of losing his
last prized possession, so he ran and ran after Jack, almost catching him until
he tripped over a rock.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He then
recognized something all-too-familiar: a beanstalk.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pip slid down the stalk but then abruptly
broke his crown just as Jack cut the stalk, from the bottom this time.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Pip woke up after a few hours, no
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</span>There was no way to get back to his wife or the remainder of his
animals, but he accepted that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He thought
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about his father.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>When he walked to his parents’ house, a young woman answered the door with a surprise that quickly faded
away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pip asked about his father, but the
woman told him he had died several years prior.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p><i>All clothing designed and made by Sarah Worley. All photos courtesy of Nicole Picchietti. Look them up! :)</i></o:p></span></div>
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The Elegant in the Roomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17058656440633295706noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1965678735358294561.post-65715384788216238662015-01-12T23:39:00.001-06:002015-01-12T23:39:29.607-06:00Beside Myself<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<i>Below is a reflective essay I wrote over Winter Break, 2011-2012, during my Freshman year of college. I was going through a sort of quarter-life crisis at that time and was deeply unsure of what to do next. Nonetheless, I powered through with the philosophy that concludes this piece: "Life's a battle, but it can also be an empowering journey...[if you will it to be]." I never could have met so many awesome friends and my magnificent boyfriend (who think I'm funny!...see below) if I had not interpreted and revised my struggles the way I did. </i><i>I'm also happy to be practicing the descriptive writing "therapy" that I describe in what follows. :)</i></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Who
am I?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Neither a drug addict nor a
repressed child, I have nonetheless struggled with this question for
years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is no logical reason for
which I should feel this way, given my privileged upbringing, the unabashed love of both of my parents, my friendship
with my twin brother, the incessant enjoyment elicited by my perfectly feisty
dog, my apparent caliber of intelligence and athleticism, and my innately
cheery demeanor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Regardless, I have
never really felt one, or in sync with myself, almost as if there is a Socrates/Aristotle-coined
separation of my mind and my body.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My
numerous academic and frequent athletic achievements have evoked great pride
within myself, but only for a moment, after which time I continue my quest for
self-identification, asking myself, “What do those accomplishments say about
me?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Are they indicative of a difference
I have made in my community, whether of local, national, or international
society; of my immediate social or familial network; or of my psychological
infrastructure?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sometimes I wonder how
I even created said groupings of society, networks, and the self, and why the
need to “Make a Difference” is so important to me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">I
remember daydreaming about my philosophy on life and my existence and role
therein at the wee age of five.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Cumulus
clouds and blue skies encapsulated the air—the ceiling and the walls, while
nimbus clouds lined the floor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The dream
was not very long, but it was surprisingly profound in that it was woven by an
amalgamation of thoughts, which I afterwards gathered to amount to, “What is my
place on this Earth?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Is my mind
operating at higher level—whether mentally or physically, figuratively or
literally—than my body?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Is that why I
see all of these family members, friends, and acquaintances flying above my
head in a heaven-like place as if my mind is preoccupied at a supra-natural
level, governing and watching my head and my body from above?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sometimes, everything seems like an
out-of-body experience to me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>While my
body and mind may feel burdened by stress and anxiety, there is a small part of
my mind that nevertheless seems to float above, wondering why I feel this way
and why life is so hard.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The same can be
said of my most joyous experiences; I think, “Is this really me who is
experiencing this, or is it some vestigial offshoot of me?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Perhaps
I oftentimes do not feel “in-the-moment” because my successes and failures can
seem so polar that their concurrency in my life escapes my human understanding
and properly attributed sensations.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Likewise, I sometimes feel incompetent or “not quite with it,” despite
all of the ways through which I have appeared to have proven myself.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Sometimes
I even think, “Forget my philosophy on life; what is my philosophy on writing
essays?!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Do the best that you can?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Work your butt off?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Exceed yourself?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What?!!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I do not know how to handle college.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Perhaps no one does, but any feeling of being out of control or out of
the driver’s seat in the vehicle of my own life irks me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">There
are so many things my “friends” don’t know about me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My keen sense of humor is one.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">In
composing this abridged autobiography, I have realized my idiosyncratic, ideal
therapy: descriptive writing—specifically about my blessings and for what I’m
grateful—coupled with a dose of reality.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Despite
anything and everything that’s happened to me, and considering anything and
everything that’s happened to the numerous people who are less fortunate than
me in so many if not all ways, I have to realize that my life isn’t as bad as I
fashion it to be.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In fact, it’s really great.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Life’s a battle, of course, but it can also
be an empowering journey and a testament to the strengths you’ve cultivated in
your mind, replicated in your body, and engrained in your spirit.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<i>Love, </i></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<i>Amanda</i></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<i>Dress: J. Crew. Trench: Saks Fifth Avenue. Headband: Nordstrom. Shoes: J. Crew. Bag: Kate Spade. Necklace: J. Crew.</i></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<i><br /></i></div>
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<i>All photos by Sean Su.</i></div>
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<br /></div>
<br />
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<br /></div>
<br />The Elegant in the Roomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17058656440633295706noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1965678735358294561.post-13283638694741606682014-11-18T20:56:00.002-06:002014-11-18T21:04:29.334-06:00Take Me to the Ranch, I Want to Forget About Flying A While <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><i>What follows is my most recent essay for my Creative Writing Class--English 307: Reading and Writing Travel:</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> I don’t actually believe I can touch
the sky. I’m too levelheaded for
that. As much as I’d like to think that
maybe skydiving or paragliding could accomplish this, I know in my mind that it’s
just not possible. Besides the fact that
the sky is an intangible entity, incapable of being “touched” in a definite sense,
I can’t even imagine what it would feel like.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> This whole obsession with flying
began when I first watched “Space Jam” as a five-year-old. A favorite among Michael Jordan fanatics and
Looney Toon loonies alike, this movie inspired a lot of impossible dreams in me. Right as the screen pans down on a young
Michael chipping away at his basketball hoop, you can almost feel the
motivation in the night sky, through the palpitations of R. Kelly’s “I Believe
I Can Fly.” As you’re watching, nothing
seems more pressing than your desire to traverse hills, mountains, and
planets. A limit is nothing but that
math term you learned once but forgot immediately.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> I used to feel these things.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> Sometime shortly after or shortly
before I watched this film, I had my first existential dream. I actually remember it being a daydream. There was hardly any content to it; it was
really just a visual eruption of my theories on life, up to that point. Engulfed by clouds, and perfectly “sky blue”
skies, I floated in the air, wondering what it meant to be a human in a world filled
with so much that isn’t human.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> I mulled over this concept of
humanity a lot; I wondered if anyone else—human or not—thought about things the
same way I did. Maybe there was another
five-year-old out there just as pathetically prophetic as I was. No matter, I didn’t mind being alone in this
quest. Thinking about myself and my
relationship to the world around me naturally seemed a one-woman task. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> During the first several years of my
life, I spent a lot of time at home, pondering what it would be like to be
somewhere else. What if I were born to a
completely different family, to a completely different culture, or to a
completely different species? These were
the questions that toiled me as I sat in the back seat of our 1995 Toyota
Previa.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> At least once a month I would dream
about flying over some familiar place, like my neighborhood or school. Despite the fact that I was gradually growing
taller, my perspective wasn’t changing all that much. I suppose I just wanted a change of pace. I was cruising at 10 mph, but what I really
wanted was to break 200. What was it
about home that made me want to fly?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> When I was seven years old, I went
on my first real plane trip (that I could actually remember). Those were the days when you could miss a
week of school without playing catch-up the rest of the semester. The destination was Tuscon, Arizona. The occasion was my grandparents’ 50<sup>th</sup>
wedding anniversary. The point was to
have some fun and maybe deviate from my musings for a while.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> The plane ride was fast.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> I forget if that was my first time
riding a horse or not. What a way to
start, if it was. Gunpowder was his
name; coldly delaying the entire group was his game. The trainer briskly handed me a stick to
“motivate” my little horsie. I just decided
to use my legs. For all that he lacked
in motivation, however, Gunpowder certainly made up for in scaring the living
daylights out of me. Everything that
horse did and would ever do was for his own benefit. When he raced down a two-inch dirt road off
the side of a mountain, it was because he wanted to get it over with. When he jumped in the air, it was because he
wanted to shake off the horse that just bit him in the butt. He was sometimes about as useful as a keg of
gunpowder, but where besides Lazy K Bar Ranch could I call a horse my own for a
whole week? I couldn’t think of anywhere
else at that age. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> If I thought flying was risky, it
had to be because I hadn’t yet experienced a whole world of risk.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> I consider the night I almost lost
my socks in the swimming pool to be my first real daredevil adventure. We were all defying social norms when we
decided to break into Lazy K’s swimming pool and dive in, fully clothed. There’s nothing like a little physical
discomfort to make you appreciate what you’ve just done. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">I can say the same about the time I spent
chasing the elusive roadrunner down endless trails of cactus pricks and
tumbleweeds. One night I got so caught
up in the excitement that I spent all of dinner picking pricks out of my
side. I definitely didn’t fly that
night. If I had, I probably would have
been able to catch that little guy, and avoid the associated cactus pains.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">In an attempt to recoup my medical
expenses, I devised a lemonade recipe with my cousin. The ingredients: three parts whole lemon, two
parts water, no parts sugar until we realized the concoction tasted like a pure
alka-seltzer tablet. We eventually
stumbled upon an adequately gullible (sympathetic) lady who gave us a dollar
for our troubles. It was sometime after
this that I saw something I never noticed in my high-altitude dreams. Where
besides ground level could I ride a crazy horse, almost lose my socks in a
swimming pool, chase a roadrunner while getting pricked by a cactus, and make a
buck off of horrible lemonade? I can’t
think of anywhere else at this age.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Maybe childhood facilitated my
appreciation of my surroundings, no matter which perspective I took. Maybe something about that Dude Ranch
awakened me to Earthly sights long gone unrecognized. Maybe I was just in a good mood that entire
trip. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Every now and then I put on my
headphones, listen to some nostalgic Christmas classics, and try to remember
what kinds of wonder childhood held. Was
it really any different being a sentimental child than it is being a
sentimental adult? It’s not that I
couldn’t transport myself to these former fantasies if I really wanted to. The real problem is that being a grownup
doesn’t always allow me the time.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> I think people are mistaken when
they uphold the all-too-familiar trope that our magic gets lost somewhere in
adulthood. This seems more a way of
justifying mundane working-life activity than a way of describing any
fundamental reality. There’s nothing
inherently in us as twenty-, thirty-, or seventy-year-olds that deters our
creative brain function any more than it did when we were seven. It’s not that we “don’t believe;” it’s simply
that our lives are structured in such a way as to leave little time for real
dreaming. Whether this deterrence
mechanism is a product of times gone by or a more recent expression of what we
think adults should be doing, it’s highly misunderstood. I’m not saying it has to stop. That’s just the way it (currently) is.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> Sometimes I still dream about
flying, and it’s fun. I revisit ideas of
seeing the world from above, of escaping the little niche I’ve buried myself
in. I think I’ve spent too much time at
home lately. What is it about home that
makes me want to fly?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> But all of a sudden, when I travel
to a new place, whether it be the Outback or the backwoods, the sky doesn’t
seem so heavy anymore. Touching that
“sky blue” no longer seems so pressing.
The real worry is that I will stop valuing the ground I walk on, not for
any grand metaphorical reason, but only because it’s someone’s home, if not my
own. And the people who live there
probably dream about flying too.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> There is a lot in this world that
isn’t human, but dreaming isn’t one of those things. Neither is changing your perspective,
mentally or physically. It’s part of
growing up—and that’s something we all can make time for.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> I still don’t believe I can touch
the sky. It’s not because I’m too
levelheaded for it though. I’m still a
dreamer in my own right. R. Kelly’s song
still gets to me every time I hear it.
And I still watch “Space Jam” hoping I, too, can defy gravity some day. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">I still feel these things.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">What I really fear is a day when I’m
forced to skydive or paraglide in order to feel alive, to remember everything
that was never really forgotten: my dreams.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Even if we can’t touch the sky we can
take solace in the fact that we are grounded.
Being human isn’t about breaking light or sound barriers everyday. In fact, being human is more about not
knowing what it is to be human. At home,
we think about flying, and when we’re away, we find new appreciation for our
home. When it comes to being human, it’s a risk, but
it’s a risk you can be sure to appreciate in adulthood.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<!--EndFragment--></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<i style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><br /></i>
<i style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Tops, Shorts, and Shoes: J. Crew. Necklace: Alexis Bittar.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><i>All photos by Alex Zhu, taken in Bern, Switzerland.</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /></span></div>
</div>
The Elegant in the Roomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17058656440633295706noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1965678735358294561.post-20222584162339573572014-10-15T22:59:00.000-05:002014-10-15T23:51:59.706-05:00The Road Not Forsaken<br />
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There are many ways in which my life feels like a bridge collapsing behind me...only in the best way possible, of course. It's just that, as soon as a new goal materializes in the horizon, my present circumstances seem to become hogwash, intended solely for completing some requisite task at hand. The problem is that I'm pushing for something to happen when that something simply needs to enfold on its own.<br />
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This first month of senior year has been rough for me, not in any traditional sense, but in the sense that I don't feel like I belong here anymore. After a long summer of preparing for law school, I've realized just how much I've grown out of that naïve 18-year-old that stepped into her first (and only) college dorm. I've heard freshman upon freshman rehash the latest frat party, inquire about Dance Marathon, and over-enthusiastically recite Chaucerian Middle English, all of which have led me to somehow appreciate the remainder of college less and less.<br />
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This isn't to say I no longer value the experiences I've had. Though it's true that I wish I had more "Kodak moment" memories, I've still had at least my fair share, along with a bounty of lessons to teach the grandkids some day. Nonetheless, I can't help but feel as though spending hours finishing up this undergraduate linguistics degree isn't going to mean much beyond, well, semantics.<br />
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So what's the solution? For this, we must look to that presumably ancient proverb that encourages us to be as present as we can in everything that we do. Sure, you might be waiting for that all-important LSAT score to come in so you can submit your law school applications and solidify your future, or you might be in the process of applying for jobs in order to advance into the real world. But college is right here, and it's something we're lucky to finish, to engage in, and to reflect upon.<br />
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I think back to elementary school and the much clearer meaning everything had. It seemed that almost every trip to the bathroom was a milestone, and when something was especially important, you laminated it--a sure sign that you accomplished a feat worth remembering! I cherished those tokens for what they were, and for the exercises in self-worth they would always be.<br />
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What can we really do beyond making the most out of every experience we're given (or, even better, every experience we seek)? And who's to say there aren't multiple unpredictable ways by which we can laminate our experiences? Only you can answer these questions, and while the results might not always please you, they will certainly ease you into a path most suitable--one that grows infinitely, but in a way that always seems to work itself out.<br />
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Findeth feith, myn brethren. :)<br />
<br />
Amanda<br />
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Dress and Shoes: J. Crew.<br />
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All photos thanks to Alex Zhu, and all animals thanks to his sister, Julia, in Switzerland!<br />
<br />The Elegant in the Roomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17058656440633295706noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1965678735358294561.post-26055315931467015412014-08-26T22:29:00.001-05:002014-08-26T22:42:36.468-05:00A Parallel in the Universe<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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In the wake of a special and utterly timeless man's passing a few weeks ago, I know it is my turn to speak, not only for my own processing, but in the service of apprising a society that so often shrugs off discussions of mental health. Robin Williams was a man of many eccentricities, and yes, anxiety was one of them. His toils, his strains, his pulls, and his stresses made him into the sensitive, exuberant, and completely empathetic man we had the pleasure to know...a man who has surmounted endless discomfort, accomplished so much, and brought joy to so many people. Just try to tell me <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I9I_QvEXDv0#t=10" target="_blank">this man</a> (with his pal Koko) is a coward who took "the easy way out."<br />
<br />
I don't claim to be an expert on Robin Williams, his work, or his stressors, but I have encountered many degrees of perturbation in my life. Living on a university campus alone qualifies me as a frequent observer of mental exhaustion and overproduction. And while many have suffered more mental anguish than I, I'm certainly no stranger to overthinking, over-worrying, and overloading. While these activities may sound harmless at first, their repercussions are countless. The slope into potentially disastrous measures is often slippery indeed.<br />
<br />
My intention in writing this post is not to prescribe a mode of thought or action to anyone, be it a man who too often contemplates such struggles or one who never devotes a single morsel of thought to them. Rather, I wish to express to everyone that mental distress exists and that no one is immune to it. Because we are high-functioning humans with brains and emotions capable of rocking the universe, it's no wonder many of our psychological states share a term with that of disruptions in the galaxy around us. Take "perturbation" for one. My handy MacBook dictionary lists as one definition: "a minor deviation in the course of a celestial body, caused by the gravitational attraction of a neighboring body." In other words, one body--man--becomes inundated with "attractive" insecurity and/or frustration, leading this body to stray from his desired course of action. Unlike in the galactic sense, however, perturbation in the human sense does not always stop at the minor, but often crosses over into the injurious. But maybe the structure of our universe can shed some literal light on the subject.<br />
<br />
What at last prompted me to complete this post was a brief yet undeniably poignant <a href="http://www.nydailynews.com/entertainment/tv/robin-williams-honored-emotional-emmy-tribute-article-1.1916760" target="_blank">tribute to Robin Williams made by Billy Crystal at the Emmy's last night</a>. A key component of Crystal's speech, time is an element we often associate with the universe, a foundation constantly moving forward yet preserving its history arrantly intact. Crystal notes about Robin that "It's very hard to talk about him in the past because he was so present in all of our lives." He goes on to compare him to "the brightest star," in "the comedy galaxy," no less. More important, he extends the analogy to a "celestial body," long cooled, but whose "beautiful light will continue to shine on us forever." "Robin Williams [and a legacy trickling with every bit of light we have all produced], what a concept" indeed. Darkness doesn't stand a chance.<br />
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If the universe is any indication, it's not remorse or aggravation that we ultimately contribute to our surroundings. It's all the joy and magnificence that precedes, coincides with, and follows it. Take a cue from the stars and let darkness recede into smaller and smaller portions, slowly but surely. Relax and reward yourself, because whether you feel you're in a good place or not, you've already given so much light to the universe, light that is unique to you and to the strength you carry in being human. This strength can empower and it can hamper, but as a source of energy, it cannot be created by anyone else, nor can it be destroyed. The galaxy is in this sense the quintessential win-win situation: your worries pass with time and become negligible darkness, but your triumphs transform into the light you see before you. I'm no physicist, and this is just a theory, but I think we can all see who the natural victor is here.<br />
<br />
Plunging your head in the clouds--or the stars--is not necessarily the frivolous practice your parents warned you about...<br />
<br />
Take a shot at it,<br />
Amanda :)<br />
<br />
Trench: Saks Fifth Avenue. Jean jacket: <a href="https://www.jcrew.com/womens_category/denim/moredenimfavorites/PRD~A1433/A1433.jsp?N=17&Nbrd=J&Nloc=en_US&Nrpp=48&Npge=1&Ntrm=jean+jacket&isSaleItem=true&color_name=LIGHT%20BLUE&isFromSearch=true&isNewSearch=true&hash=row0" target="_blank">J. Crew</a>. Necklace: J. Crew. Shoes: <a href="https://www.jcrew.com/womens_category/shoes/Lillian/PRD~A4956/A4956.jsp?N=17&Nbrd=J&Nloc=en_US&Nrpp=48&Npge=2&Ntrm=black+shoes&isSaleItem=true&color_name=BLACK&isFromSearch=true&isNewSearch=true&hash=row2" target="_blank">J. Crew</a>.<br />
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All photos by Sean Su.<br />
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The Elegant in the Roomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17058656440633295706noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1965678735358294561.post-44809082713908292132014-08-02T22:53:00.000-05:002014-08-27T19:46:38.830-05:00The Soul Proprietor <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
Quite a while ago I read a quote inside Humans of New York that took me aback more than any anything had for a long time. Having stored these words in my ETR (The Elegant in the Room) vault, I recently (meaning just this minute) tracked down these three lines:<br />
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"Of course it's absurd to talk about fairness in the universe." "Why is that absurd?" "Because there's no such thing as karma. I mean, when you're a good person, people can sense it and they'll reciprocate that goodness. But the universe isn't keeping some balance by guaranteeing you a reward."<br />
<br />
Beyond the complex metaphysical question tackled, what I find most enchanting about this quote is its frankness. Sure, my neighborhood pundits spouting steadfast ideologies miff me as much as the next gal, but when it comes to necessary issues of the soul and ethics, most people seem hesitant to take a stance at all. Their heart, their experience, or their fear prevents them from first, sincerely contemplating, and second, consolidating all their contemplations into a meaningful set of values. Such a working game plan, attuned to both your instincts and ambitions, may sway and alter, but it will always be the whole, accessible philosophy that you alone created.<br />
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Granted, the quote starts out somewhat disheartening, suggesting that no aspect of our world is truly fair. But once you read further, you notice that what the author really means is that the universe itself isn't goodness, but, rather, that we are the goodness; that is, if we choose to be. In other words, <a href="http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/182194" target="_blank">"I am the master of my fate; I am the captain of my soul"</a>: when external remedies appear bleak, we can always rely on ourselves and the thought we have put into the road ahead.<br />
<br />
And this quote coming from an everyday woman walking the street, someone who gains no advantage by being smarter or more successful than the rest of us. A rare intelligence and communication shines through nonetheless, and the quote turns out to be one of the most optimistic I've ever read. Little is more empowering than the realization that we have full capacity to reward others and ourselves for our biggest feats and smallest niceties. What's more, the acceptance of this capacity better equips us to approach head-on and and feet-down the very real challenges we face everyday, challenges that can't often be mitigated by an elusive worldly power.<br />
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To be sure, I do not mean to criticize faith, religion, or anything of that nature in this post, for a discussion of values and beliefs is insufficient without them. On the contrary, I wish to provide a human and realistic perspective on the forces that have the most immediate sway in our universe, namely, our minds and our actions. While a higher power may control some of the more principal aspects of life and death, we have ultimate license to control what's in front of us and what's to come as we take infinitely more steps toward a plan of our own.<br />
<br />
With goals so methodical and feats so distinct, it must be ourselves with which our journeys are linked.<br />
<br />
We come even closer with each and every blink. ;)<br />
Amanda<br />
<br />
Dress: Anthropologie (old). Necklace: J. Crew (old). Flowers: Dierberg's Florist.<br />
<br />
All photos (and french braid) by Amber Schlomer, owner of <a href="http://www.naturalimages.us.com/" target="_blank">Natural Images Photography</a>. :)The Elegant in the Roomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17058656440633295706noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1965678735358294561.post-26908901892780347502014-06-02T09:03:00.003-05:002014-06-04T19:39:48.143-05:00The Pique of Excellence<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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The urgency which we impose on our ourselves dictates some of the most consequential moments of our lives. That is what I have boiled my anxiety down to: an urgency to achieve, to feel, and to resolve.<br />
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When a friend rests in a perpetual state of hesitancy or lacks faith, I christen myself the mental martyr who will emotionally exaggerate my buddy's qualms in order to grant him sympathy. Whether my friend needs or desires this sympathy is a question of viewpoints, vices, and virtues. <br />
<br />
More than an altruistic inclination to improve the lives of loved ones, this habit of prematurely settling debacles stems directly from the unrest I personally accrue from immobility. If I encounter even the slightest hint of suspended progression, I will do everything in my power to tug it back to life. Simply put, I cannot bear the fruitlessness of a layover.<br />
<br />
I do not detail this internal monologue to color myself in any shade purer or nobler than the norm. By contrast, I wish to reveal the multifarious upshots of forcing onto life a strict linear as opposed to a circular narrative.<br />
<br />
Not only in friends, but in myself I often notice a halted drive to better myself, a state of mind we all experience but, I believe, would never wish upon anybody. And why would we? It's not as if uncertainty or writer's block damages one's quality of life to a perilous or often even noteworthy extent. Nonetheless, it's these little dangers to creativity and liberation that really get to me. The thought of myself, a friend, or any human wasting a substantial portion of his life to no avail irks me to the end of time. To be clear, I don't consider frequent spouts of fun-loving recreation to be a waste of one's life, nor do I dismiss any acts held in high esteem by the actor, no matter how controversial. What I do consider a waste is a departure from one's goals or intentions, whether big or small.<br />
<br />
Of course, such a life of incessant striving and repairing is unsustainable. I know this, but I still go through with it. I continue to view my own lapses as existential crises, threatening my worth and potential. Why do I do this? Part of it is innate psychology, another is ambitious plan-of-action, and yet another is hopeful deliverance. <br />
<br />
I don't claim to be the most selfless sort of humanitarian. In fact, I reflect upon my own life and compare it to those of others probably more often than I should. This lifestyle will occasionally hurt my psyche and pride to extremes that almost convince me that ceaseless struggle toward fulfillment is not the way to go. And for a lot of people, it isn't. But why does it work for me? Despite how many times it has induced a headache and endangered my confidence in myself and in humanity, it has afforded me some of my most momentous and empowering insights and accomplishments. Yes, I think too much about the meta and too little about the simple pleasures of life, but that mindset has gotten me where I am today and given me the knowledge and initiative I need to distribute empowerment to others. I've got a long way to go before I discover a comprehensive and rewarding antidote to humanity's strains, but the process of getting there is something to write home about, if only in the metaphorical sense.<br />
<br />
Be proud of your life's endeavor. And on a more literal note, remember to write and thank your first-ever inspirations: your parents!<br />
<br />
Happy June!<br />
Amanda :)<br />
<br />
Dress: Express. Shoes: Express. Bracelets: Prada and Ann Taylor.<br />
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Photos by Alex Zhu (top two) and Sean Su.The Elegant in the Roomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17058656440633295706noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1965678735358294561.post-89447123795029574972014-05-01T12:44:00.002-05:002014-05-01T20:09:59.131-05:00I Think, Therefore I Can<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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It doesn't take a perfect vision to create a convincing composition. All the artist must do is set aside the large part of her compulsions and cater to what she knows the customer wants to see, wants to feel, wants to believe. In other words, she's a smart businesswoman, doing all she can to ensure the customer comes back. But this also means she's a poor psychotherapist, sailing down a circular trench rather than taking her chances with the raging waters. Where in the world do we submerge our little flippers?</div>
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In short, it's easy to put on a happy face for those you wish to impress, appease, or simply avoid. What is it about the human condition that allows us to so seamlessly slip into a persona we don't recognize in a few years time? Likewise, how is it our internal vibes can so starkly contradict our external state? The irrevocably shy child, the isolated college freshman, the downtrodden love-seeking teenager--why don't I identify with these people anymore, and why do I pity them so?</div>
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When I think back upon these past three years of college, I realize just how much I've changed for the better. Every year brought a new life lesson to be cherished. Freshman year was adjusting to the elevated academic pool and a newfound life of independence. Sophomore year was learning to get over myself and hone my passions for the legal profession. Junior year was trusting myself and finding who my true friends are. Senior year will hopefully be relaxing and focusing on law school and the career ahead of me. </div>
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Such an amalgamation of competing interests and agendas from year to year can make a girl quite the anxious specimen. And reflecting upon these changes one to three years later can reawaken the same old anxiety, and understandably so. As I look back at old Facebook posts or Instagram photos, a sudden surge of both annoyance and fear often overwhelms me--annoyance that I ever acted so childishly, and fear that I will act that same way again. This mounting perturbation leads me to loop my mind along old memories and emotions, producing the self-fulfilling prophecy that there's nothing I can do and that I can't maintain my feats of pride.</div>
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Well, that mindset is bogus for hundreds of reasons, namely four: 1. I, meaning my conscious mind and not my anxieties or memories, am in control of my life, and 2. Nothing, not even myself, has the power to undervalue my worth and achievements, past or present, 3. My slip-ups have led me to the greatest realizations and accomplishments I can imagine, without fail, and 4. I have friends to help me out. :)</div>
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Given my natural tendency to ruminate on irrelevant memories and to accommodate others and not always myself, I often feel as though I'm losing my own essence and my principle philosophy as the hours tick by. So, a couple days ago, I took the liberty of enumerating the primary values that have and always will define me and carry me through life. With these in mind, I can always remain in my own center of respect, jubilation, and pride, and no one can take that from me.</div>
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1. <b>Working hard</b>. In contrast to the "natural intelligence" other kids too often relied on to make a name for themselves, I muscled my way through AP classes and am still muscling my way through college. This is not to say I have no natural ability or have not utilized it frequently; rather, I am making the point that I always interpret my own successes and my admiration for others in the lens of pure work ethic and not on privilege or political prowess. Nothing on this page could be closer to the truth.</div>
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2. <b>Empathizing with and boosting up others</b>. Whether through my blog posts, my public words, or my actions, I always hope to inspire others through my story and reflections to become the best, healthiest, most fulfilled people they can be, just as I'm trying to do for myself. While it's important to put my own priorities first, I never hold back compassion or camaraderie at times when I know it is merited.</div>
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3. <b>Remaining strong and driven, always channeling my passions</b>. Without some sort of long- and hard-sought goal in mind, hard work may be futile or unsatisfying in the end. Likewise, what's in a goal that you don't value or advocate for yourself? No matter how or why I falter, I will always hold my head high and own my passions to the utmost. With the fight that I bring to my objectives necessarily comes an undying esteem for those objectives and more importantly for myself in so chasing them.</div>
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Friends may exalt, and brothers may cheer, but be not a friend to yourself, and your spirit may veer.</div>
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Feel free to post your own values on Facebook or in the comments, here!</div>
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Always with love,</div>
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Amanda :)</div>
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P.S. Sean took me by great surprise in asking to snap these photos. I had just come out of the shower, and the last thing I expected was to jump into photo shoot mode within a few minutes. But now I see how perfect the pureness and ordinariness of these shots are to my message of acceptance and stability in values above. :)</div>
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P.P.S. I have no idea who that guy in the last photo is. Sean wanted to include him lolol.</div>
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Top: Phantom of the Opera T-Shirt. Scarf: J. Crew. Pants: Ann Taylor. Shoes: J. Crew. Glasses: Chanel.</div>
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All photos by Sean Su.</div>
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<br />The Elegant in the Roomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17058656440633295706noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1965678735358294561.post-32447687823814342872014-04-14T23:53:00.000-05:002014-04-15T00:31:40.053-05:00Nearest and Dearest<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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It's hard to imagine an existence where the one object, aim, or intention we hold nearest and dearest suddenly becomes sand in our slippery palms. One moment we're nobly struggling to give life to our ambition, and the next, that ambition becomes an impossible relic of "good tries" past. Such blanket consolations like "Nice try," "Good game," or "It was worth a shot" only work in sports or adolescent courtships. When it comes to losing the long-sought prize around which we center our life, we'll need a lot more than a hardy slap on the back.</div>
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But what led to such a rousing upset in the first place? Well, when you choose to predicate your life's worth on one (not-so) imminent accomplishment, it's reasonable to expect a bit of a backslide when that plan falters. The savior is not a diminution of high expectations, as that would only lead to a road of insufficient or absent meaning in individuals so naturally aspiring. Rather, the savior is coupling high expectations with a grounded sense of reality, keeping your feet on the ground even when your mind flirts with the clouds.</div>
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This whole conversation begins about a year ago, at the time I was accepted into the Legal Studies Program at Northwestern and first began pondering my obligatory thesis for the major. Perhaps I was on a legal high, so to speak, having been admitted to the Legal Studies major and to the pre-law fraternity, Phi Alpha Delta, right after an incredibly inspiring and rewarding winter quarter with two amazing legal studies adjunct professors. Maybe I thought acceptance to the program necessitated an eventual thesis of distinction, even though this special honor implies not all in the program will receive it. More likely, I was simply holding myself to the same lofty standards I always do.</div>
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One of the aforementioned professors above taught a class called "Human Rights and U.S. Refugee Law," a crash course in asylum law and adjudication, at the end of which I felt not only more confident in briefing asylum cases, but in synthesizing cogent arguments and presenting them publicly in a mock trial setting. Needless to say, this course drove me to take on a very ambitious thesis topic, comparing asylum procedures and outcomes for women in the U.S. and Canada (see <a href="http://the-elegant-in-the-room.blogspot.com/2013/10/fall-awakening-welcome-everyone-to-my.html" target="_blank">The Pilot Post</a> for my original mention of this thesis). What I did give myself credit for was my forward-looking attitude and desire to exert influence on the transnational realm of asylum law. What I didn't give myself credit for was my perseverance in doing so while signs gradually pointed to increased criticism of my project.</div>
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Certainly, a smaller-scale analysis may have accrued better grades and recognition, but was that really the primary goal? Did I not want to enlighten peers and legal scholars alike to the fairness and efficiency of both asylum systems in the hope of revealing an international model for gender asylum? Was this grand goal meant for a more extensive law review article post-graduation? Probably, but that doesn't mean initiating this work and mindset was not the most consequently gratifying thing to do.</div>
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My constructed world fell to pieces when I finally realized it would not be possible to receive honors for my thesis and therefore for the major. The broadness of my topic, the limited time frame, the huge student-to-advisor ratio, and other classroom political factors which cannot be controlled ultimately precluded such a result. Because an honors thesis was by far the brightest dot on my radar--indeed, sometimes the only dot on my radar--I was devastated when my eventual grade seemed not to reflect all the work and thought I put into my end product.</div>
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Now, I'm not saying I necessarily deserved honors, as nascent experience on how to write a thesis has taught me that I didn't go about it entirely the right way or delimit my time accordingly. Nonetheless, there is something to say for the heart and purpose I brought into my work. Of course, your work is nil if left unrecorded, but I did justify my thesis choice with all the language and background I could muster in a reduced time frame, thereby completing my practical duties. What often goes unnoticed and/or unmentioned in seemingly cookie-cutter academic papers is the author's personal reason for enacting the research and her genuine goal for herself and for her successors. Literature reviews, data, and well versed conclusions proving your novelty and significance in your field are fine and dandy, but where is the evidence that you intend to use this research to aid the world order, rather than simply to write an award-winning paper?</div>
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Some may contest that I would not hold these same ardent beliefs if my thesis had been distinguished. But I respond that it's quite possible that the scope and content of my project had no way of being eventually recognized, even in its blueprint stages. The seeming shift toward pure scholarly precision and away from legal discourse for lawyers' and humanity's sake is a distressing but perhaps irreconcilable side effect of academia. Maybe my qualms are unwarranted given the task at hand, but I just hope that I can demonstrate my overarching morals and effect cross-cutting change as a lawyer, if not as a legal scholar.</div>
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Friends may flock to whatever you say, but what about those whose languages stray? How will you show them a fine will is a way?</div>
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Act and proceed where your words may betray,</div>
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Amanda</div>
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Dress: Paperdolls Boutique (St. Louis). Scarf: J. Crew (old). Necklace: J. Crew (old). Flower Crown: Self-made via Whole Foods Florist.</div>
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All photos by Sean Su.</div>
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<br />The Elegant in the Roomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17058656440633295706noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1965678735358294561.post-74819625880895167952014-04-02T00:51:00.000-05:002014-04-15T00:30:39.931-05:00To Bee or To Be Free?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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What is doubt, and why does it belabor its victims with extraneous buzz? Such describes the intersection of Release Street and Dwell Drive, a point whose inconsistent signals have swarmed my hive for quite some time. While dwelling on my reservations inevitably leads me to lower my wings to a mental standstill, releasing my qualms can result in fortuitous bouts of sweet, sweet honey. But there's a stinger...</div>
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Absurd analogies aside (not sure how those came to bee...), an inclination towards various risks (or honey) does not presuppose a doubtless mentality. Indeed, why would we call such ventures "risks" if a certain level of skepticism did not precede them? I wouldn't deem myself a risk taker in the traditional sense, but I have certainly reserved a quark of energy for pursuing my passions, many of which I realize have only a 50% success rate. Beginning with academic and athletic goals, I later extended my realm of risk to include social and extracurricular undertakings. Part of this transition lay in increased independence; part of it lay in decreased doubt. But none of it stemmed from depleted doubt altogether.</div>
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Doubt, here, is not intended to euphemize anxiety; that is a much broader concept that interweaves my deepest proclivities. Quite the contrary, doubts are the electrons to our anxiety-ridden nucleus: the former surrounds and skims, yet also complements the latter. Also like electrons, doubts are much lighter in gravitas and more numerous than core anxieties. Where the analogy fails (and my AP Chemistry retention ends) is in transferability. Whereas Sodium can impose an electron on Chloride willy nilly, human brains cannot partake of the same luxury. We can rub off a little static or tension onto our neighbors, but our doubts are uniquely our problem and can only be abolished through internal means. </div>
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But are doubts really our "problem"? Do they not serve as relatively gentle reminders of our priorities and brief windows into our value systems? By this, I mean we would never know what truly irks us, bores us, and fulfills us if we didn't, first, experience and, second, register the degree of doubt paired with any given situation. In short, we can never really be certain of anything, including our own philosophy, without intermittent spurts of uncertainty.</div>
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As we grow up and learn more about what constitutes a personally fulfilling life, we learn that not all of our doubts--past, present, and future--are merited. We learn to knock down certain assumptions--whether our own or those we inherited--in order to achieve satisfaction. That's where risk and reward come in. But most importantly, we learn that many of our doubts cannot be helped, and that's exactly as it should be.</div>
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You're a snowflake, you're a flower, you're a bird, you're a bee. Whatever your moniker, just remember you're free.</div>
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Buzz off, indignity,</div>
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Amanda :)</div>
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Blazer: Urban Outfitters. Tees: <a href="https://www.jcrew.com/womens_category/knitstees/shortsleevetees/PRD~24500/24500.jsp?Nbrd=J&Nloc=en_US&Nrpp=48&Npge=1&Ntrm=vintage+tee&isFromSearch=true&isSaleItem=false&isNewSearch=true" target="_blank">J. Crew</a>. Flowers: Whole Foods Florist.</div>
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All photos by Sean Su.</div>
<br />The Elegant in the Roomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17058656440633295706noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1965678735358294561.post-60206736423867835372014-02-19T23:58:00.000-06:002014-02-22T23:34:41.710-06:00A Well-Toiled Machine<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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What do we, as <a href="http://www.humansofnewyork.com/" target="_blank">Humans of New York</a>, have in common with our brethren Machines of New Torque? It would seem nothing but a forced rhyme on the surface. Nonetheless, recent events have led me to liken certain human mindsets to the dispassionate vibe of the robot.<br />
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Contrary to popular belief, there's a reason we don't go "bee-boop" and prance around in titanium stockings. It's because we advantage creativity and nuance in a world we could so easily charge with banality and blind compliance. Most of us have the soundness of mind to regard the Earth as neither the pinnacle of immutable social deviance nor as a self-serving bastion catered to our individual desires. Instead, we operate under a belief of shared burden of our human wrongs, and therefore, shared gratification of our human rights. <br />
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And most importantly, we take necessary time to breathe and relax, two verbs that robots can never truly effectuate no matter how comprehensive their programming. The problem arises when we start to treat ourselves (whether consciously or not) as less than worthy of simple human rewards--of simple human healing, for that matter. We severely limit our unique capabilities as unpredictable, beautifully fallible, downright revolutionary beings when we downgrade our refueling methods to those of a robot, which basically consist of powering off for indefinite periods, until a superior being recharges us. Despite what our sixth grade math teachers told us, my friends, we are the superior beings. <br />
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This week has been a particularly tumultuous one for me, what with three oral presentations and a Teach for America application deadline to boot. (And, yes, I realize it's only Wednesday.) My procrastination reached a point of seemingly no return, as I traded in sleep and mental stability for good grades and an unholy alliance with red Gatorade. <br />
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Now, I would be remiss if I said this decision wasn't at least partially worth it. In light of the high priority I place on full satisfaction with my work, I am positive a disregard for my academic duties in favor of behavioral normativity would have left me in a far worse position. That doesn't mean, however, that the stigma we place on all nighters is completely unfounded either. Some routine and scheduling is good for the soul in that it offsets our sporadic thoughts and wavering emotions. I more than anyone I know value the peace and elevated functioning that can spring from pure organization. But I also know how much of my uniquely erratic, passionate, whole-hearted aspirations result from exactly the type of imperfection that my humanity allows me, and I wouldn't sacrifice that for all the x-ray vision and flashy buttons in the world.<br />
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Live long and finish strong,<br />
Amanda :)<br />
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Jacket: Mango (old). Jeans: Gap (old). Shoes: Banana Republic.<br />
<br />
All photos by Alex Zhu.</div>
The Elegant in the Roomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17058656440633295706noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1965678735358294561.post-21092248414313700212014-02-04T02:10:00.000-06:002014-02-20T00:42:39.530-06:00Bent on Ascent<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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While attempting to devote a day of my life to Russellian concepts of proper names in the south towers of the Main Library--as is always the case--I happened to look over at the books lining my desk. I've always noticed the extensive collection of Descartes, Freud, or what have you settled deep within these tiny niches, but I had always assumed these books to be outside my realm of interest, without even giving them a second look. </div>
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A few days ago, I gave one book that second look and haven't stopped thinking about it ever since. </div>
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No, this isn't going to turn into some deranged love story between me and a pile of tree shavings. Nor is this going to become a book review (at least under the typical assumption: that the reviewer has read the book). On the contrary, this is simply a story about "Human Happiness." </div>
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Such was the title of that fateful book, written by a man of the name Blaise Pascal. Why was I so drawn to this particular book? Well, it's not because I'm a Pascal enthusiast (I'd never even heard of the man before this) or because I'm attracted to clean white book covers. Little substantial ever derives from such unchecked zeal or manifest eye candy...if you want to call it that. What I've found is that most of life's persisting rewards arise from the little things you could have easily forgotten--that friend who moved away, that event you attended on a whim, that book you almost didn't open, that momentary reflection you thought purely distracting or irrelevant.<br />
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While I did not take this twist of fate so seriously as to drop Russell and his proper names in favor of an engrossing day or even hour with Pascal, the first page alone sparked a bolt of indefatigable lightning in my mind.<br />
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A few excerpts from that page:<br />
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1. "If we are too young our judgment is impaired, just as it is if we are too old."<br />
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2. "Thinking too little about things or thinking too much both make us obstinate and fanatical."<br />
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3. "Knowledge of physical science will not console me for ignorance of morality in time of affliction, but knowledge of morality will always console me for ignorance of physical science."<br />
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Overall, Pascal encloses "Man's Condition" in three simple yet telling words: "Inconstancy, boredom, anxiety."<br />
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I include these snippets not to insist that our visions are hopelessly lacking as 20-somethings or to knock hard core physicists who spend not a morsel of time contemplating the meta. Instead, I reference these tidbits to shed light for all my readers on what constantly taunts my conscious and therefore motivates the majority of my self-improvement measures.<br />
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Understanding number 2 is of particularly appeal to me, as my happiness seems to hinge on my careful mitigation of a constant overabundance of thought. Simply put, my sanity rests on not thinking too much.<br />
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Perhaps this tendency to overbook my head flows from exactly what Blaise proposes: overarching human caprice, dissatisfaction, and apprehension. Or maybe I think excessively simply because I'm young and have everything in the world to worry about, quite literally. The truth of the matter is Pascal wasn't right about everything, at least when I consider my own personal experience. True, boredom too often wreaks havoc on my continually under-stimulated mind, leading to superfluous musings, and inevitably anxiety, lest those musings materialize. But I wouldn't say this mental earthquake ever results from inconstancy, in other words, a habit of being fickle. Quite the opposite, my rumination often results entirely from a proclivity to dwell on intellectual fodder well past its expiration date.<br />
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So how does my philosophical fanaticism relate back to Pascal and Human Happiness? Many would argue the connection lies in a contrived connection between happiness and blissful ignorance. Indeed, it seems on first impression that the turmoil and illness plaguing the world would be much more bearable if we were incapable of noticing it. But would such negligence really make us happier? Not in the way I define it.<br />
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How refreshing can the simple pleasures in life be when we've had no exposure to incredible hardship? How rewarding ring our triumphs when we've never felt failure? These are the questions that haunt me yet also move me toward ascent.<br />
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Certainty is nothing without doubt, and pleasure is nothing without pain. It's not the other way around, and it's not one or the other.<br />
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I've asked myself more often than not whether the people whose "privilege" has precluded everything but a paper cut or whether those who accept reality for what it is rather than what it might be are truly happier than me. What I've come to find is that true happiness is a process and a solution, whereas artificial happiness is just the solution. Satisfaction comes not from knowing all the answers, but from finding some of the answers, if only a handful. There's something beautiful about putting yourself out there, unafraid of failure, yet aware that if you do fail, you'll be this much closer to realizing what true contentment looks like.<br />
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As Pascal so duly noted, the happiest are those who know not how to make diamonds out of graphite, but how to make mountains out of mole hills. And there's something so moral and resilient about that. <br />
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Think about it. ;)<br />
Amanda<br />
<br />
Dress: <span style="color: red;">Now 50% at </span><a href="http://shop.nordstrom.com/S/topshop-metallic-skater-dress/3641860?origin=category-personalizedsort&contextualcategoryid=0&fashionColor=&resultback=8389&cm_sp=personalizedsort-_-browseresults-_-1_24_A" target="_blank">Topshop via Nordstrom</a>. Bow Tie (worn in hair): ASOS (old; similar <a href="http://us.asos.com/ASOS-Bow-Tie-In-Velvet/zu2us/?iid=2807737&SearchQuery=bow%20tie&sh=0&pge=0&pgesize=36&sort=-1&clr=Black&mporgp=L0FTT1MvQVNPUy1Cb3ctVGllLUluLVZlbHZldC9Qcm9kLw.." target="_blank">here</a>). Tights: <span style="color: red;">Buy 1 Get 1 50% Off at </span><a href="http://www.express.com/clothing/body+shaping+full+tights/pro/1199082/cat320003" target="_blank">Express</a>. Shoes: Banana Republic.<br />
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All photos by Sean Su.<br />
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The Elegant in the Roomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17058656440633295706noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1965678735358294561.post-92193870585563791132014-01-23T23:21:00.002-06:002014-01-24T01:15:20.604-06:00Above the Sway<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Amidst an incessant quest for likes, retweets, favorites, and hypes, it's easy to imagine a modern world in which we all take ourselves and each other a bit too seriously. But is it easy to justify this lifestyle?</div>
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I'm as guilty of this practice as anyone. If Facebook and Twitter have taught us anything, it's that there's at least one person out there who will find your most recent paper cut a cute and charming anecdote rather than a frivolous and pitiful demonstration of delicacy, a label to which my grandparents would most likely cling.<br />
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While most of us don't go so far as to document every hair on our chinny chin chins, we do often treat something as minuscule as last night's ravioli as if it's a masterpiece worthy of universal reverence. Now, this is not to say such amusement is completely unwarranted or reprehensible in the least. The problem in my mind lies in society's blind acceptance of an unnecessary reality.<br />
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How, you might ask, can I critique the web so harshly when the mere existence of my *blog* would be impossible without the very platform on which all social media rests? Well, I'm not going to argue that the internet doesn't possess a host of unprecedented networking and sharing opportunities. What I will maintain is that humanity has fallen, if subconsciously and/or half-heartedly, into a trap of inundation rather than of flotation. What I mean by this is, we should not feel as though we have to post duck faces or blatant expressions of inadequacy every day in order to feel beautiful and wanted. On the contrary, we should open up social media as we would a mailbox--something of occasional pleasure or benefit--rather than as we would a refrigerator--something that feeds our survival.<br />
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If you truly enjoy creating tiny microcosm upon microcosm of your life on the web, then by all means, do so. The materials are right there at your disposal. But please, realize that moderation and disassociation are entirely in your power if you so choose. <br />
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Even a rock can sink, but only the most buoyant of mind can float.<br />
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Rise above,<br />
Amanda :)<br />
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Collar: Ann Taylor (out of stock; similar style <span style="color: red;">ON SALE</span> <a href="http://www.anntaylor.com/faux-fur-trim-crystal-collar/325747?colorExplode=false&skuId=15229625&catid=cata000025&productPageType=search&defaultColor=6600" target="_blank">here</a>). Top: <span style="color: red;">ON SALE</span> at <a href="http://bananarepublic.gap.com/browse/product.do?vid=1&pid=686275002" target="_blank">Banana Republic</a>. Pants: <span style="color: red;">ON SALE</span> at <a href="http://bananarepublic.gap.com/browse/product.do?vid=1&pid=686096002" target="_blank">Banana Republic</a>. Shoes: H&M (old).<br />
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All photos by Eric Pan.</div>
The Elegant in the Roomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17058656440633295706noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1965678735358294561.post-50150306763739722942014-01-14T18:34:00.002-06:002014-01-14T19:41:44.308-06:00Tell Me About Myself<br />
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We're all bent on getting our own answers in a world fraught with questions and the remedies others impose on us. To be certain, we are hungry for answers both about our own psychology and about the individual thoughts and ideas that underly it. </div>
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At the same time, while most of our questions certainly trace back to our own brains alone, we tend to seek solutions primarily from other sources, such as family, friends, journals, or daytime TV. One long-trusted window into our inner workings is the beloved Personality Test.</div>
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Perhaps a product of an underlying feeling that personal intuitions about ourselves must be false or that a better psychological expert exists, our desire to grab at others' explanations of our unique behavior appears somewhat fishy.</div>
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This is not to say that partaking of external psychological help or insight of any kind is fruitless. On the contrary, my personality reading of ISFJ (Introvert, Sensing, Feeling, Judging) was pretty nearly right on, especially considering there were <a href="http://www.16personalities.com/" target="_blank">16 available options</a>.</div>
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It's true, I am "very supportive," "loyal and hardworking," "imaginative and observant." And I can let my perhaps excessive altruism and tendency to overload myself get the best of me sometimes. But what isn't true is that I define myself solely by these and like characteristics. </div>
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I would never describe myself as a "sentinel," constantly keeping watch on the sidelines of the doers and winners in life. While I may be more cautious and hesitant in forming my words and entering a new environment relative to others, I am most definitely a go-getter in my own right, most notably at times when I approach a friend who needs a hand or take the initiative in the oft-terrifying internship search. :) Particularly devoid of any sort of standard measure for comparison as to "how comfortable you are at the center of attention" or "how flexible you are," this and most other tests of inner soul are inherently flawed.</div>
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As much as I enjoy quantifying and structuring abstractions to the best of my ability, personality is not a stable measure, but a dynamic phenomenon that we can never fully measure at all.</div>
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So next time anyone tells you, "You'll never make it as a lawyer because you're too sensitive" or "You'll never understand my feelings because you're too analytical," go ahead and tell them the only label you're espousing is that of an open mind, a forgiving heart, and venturing spirit. It's survival of the fittest, baby, so while you're over there counting your problems, I'll be here deleting mine.</div>
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Stay humble and warm out there, everyone!</div>
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Amanda :)</div>
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Fur pullover: <span style="color: red;">ON SALE</span> at <a href="http://bananarepublic.gap.com/browse/product.do?vid=1&pid=686477002" target="_blank">Banana Republic</a>. Pants: <span style="color: red;">Currently 40% off with Code ENJOY</span> at <a href="http://www.anntaylor.com/modern-knit-slim-pants/313682" target="_blank">Ann Taylor</a>. :) Bag: Michael Kors (old). Shoes: H&M (old).</div>
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All photos by Eric Pan.</div>
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The Elegant in the Roomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17058656440633295706noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1965678735358294561.post-26166980448481682822014-01-06T00:15:00.000-06:002014-01-09T22:27:01.033-06:00Strike Accord<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMepgDLdUEHKOxBW71HfZJfYCqdwmYlyDbPeitsudRW1optvwEcwmM3aoHoraHcP_TrzHreqaTnJTQLFDa0Hp9mFejcuqfBqle0P_mZ0pKfrVW4dnAel-INdMikfjy8h03foC0fUuovFSV/s1600/8fzezKg6otuPC08aJlrLebRP3mUIEa_uIcobCfJIWSs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMepgDLdUEHKOxBW71HfZJfYCqdwmYlyDbPeitsudRW1optvwEcwmM3aoHoraHcP_TrzHreqaTnJTQLFDa0Hp9mFejcuqfBqle0P_mZ0pKfrVW4dnAel-INdMikfjy8h03foC0fUuovFSV/s1600/8fzezKg6otuPC08aJlrLebRP3mUIEa_uIcobCfJIWSs.jpg" height="426" width="640" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDqLyWeJ6VfNygQ1jX3p9dornpkyZX8PKYM8DcvhLBA4E20qZcz3v2e_FlrRsmrTRzAn5wdUDH3EpvL0yqtuwHhDw3jpNGS54r_sFZT1PXlN6yHQ2ezN7ve3CQXcyAehxvVjtOelryHFzO/s1600/CiiR85ph0_Koll7OatI1Mwtf5bZ5TSHw1yH_uCOBi18.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDqLyWeJ6VfNygQ1jX3p9dornpkyZX8PKYM8DcvhLBA4E20qZcz3v2e_FlrRsmrTRzAn5wdUDH3EpvL0yqtuwHhDw3jpNGS54r_sFZT1PXlN6yHQ2ezN7ve3CQXcyAehxvVjtOelryHFzO/s1600/CiiR85ph0_Koll7OatI1Mwtf5bZ5TSHw1yH_uCOBi18.jpg" height="640" width="426" /></a></div>
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<img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji6DTAfKxcxWnuXEtJgHGsbnbvz8EvGLEiVjgPPZqAyOoJ5rnxQA7OhIOlOfaXuNXdDWI1Jdf-H0fLUk71K4JOPoO2_7l7kmwQqL-t44fh1Wf3qZ8xxEp9HeU-DYS_rbub6c6zImE_w1F_/s1600/RjBzupDaTDyTNAaiyb7aLlT_Qx8sSIgR2GTznV0KuVM.jpg" height="640" style="cursor: move;" width="426" /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgso-GSITYRulej0o8dvUIZbuYxbrd1zIpbhtog4hxKiZ5x6jpw5GfMcslhmXdNQJ2Kq7clluQYx_QY6tTloz4NOx4i82MQt3Pwo4XutoLIpTdhWuASiWXBF-mi7WbtaS9NpSVfn8imRu9m/s1600/mRcBHEJ6AYoVg3zrzq9nIsJ5UgqfPE2DtsxRl9f_FeY.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgso-GSITYRulej0o8dvUIZbuYxbrd1zIpbhtog4hxKiZ5x6jpw5GfMcslhmXdNQJ2Kq7clluQYx_QY6tTloz4NOx4i82MQt3Pwo4XutoLIpTdhWuASiWXBF-mi7WbtaS9NpSVfn8imRu9m/s1600/mRcBHEJ6AYoVg3zrzq9nIsJ5UgqfPE2DtsxRl9f_FeY.jpg" height="426" width="640" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwVYc8tFKSCJLqX4kyL886XuSzTt8Ah8H4yvAhNPWX7ULBjjmmqJjhsDPWllAyGMcKJs0CD321pm8dAtxfSpO61cnposdJt9N5klNDHie4ryJwiSJtVLECKJAdYgPfxqsoz533gTgXSkfu/s1600/dYrCnnao8SkkSI-W7K28-vjqlAJ6mS9KyFhRB-Nv_HI.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwVYc8tFKSCJLqX4kyL886XuSzTt8Ah8H4yvAhNPWX7ULBjjmmqJjhsDPWllAyGMcKJs0CD321pm8dAtxfSpO61cnposdJt9N5klNDHie4ryJwiSJtVLECKJAdYgPfxqsoz533gTgXSkfu/s1600/dYrCnnao8SkkSI-W7K28-vjqlAJ6mS9KyFhRB-Nv_HI.jpg" height="426" width="640" /></a>My tendency to wholly submerge myself in another's captivating story while momentarily brushing aside all other musings is both a blessing and a bane in my life.</div>
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A couple days ago I redefined choking up (no, not in the baseball sense--I see all you sports fanatics religiously following this fashion blog ;) ) in none other than the magic and momentum that is the new Disney classic, "Saving Mr. Banks." I know; I sound like a pretty decent sap right now, but there is much more to the tale of the whimsical Mary Poppins than meets the eye. The true story as told by P.L. Travers herself revolves around the father--indeed, the very archetype of the man who hopelessly advocates for impossible dreams among his posterity while tragically losing himself in the realities of the working world. <br />
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Without giving away any pivotal plot twists, I will say that film's depiction of the thin barrier we all straddle between lofty hope and looming truth really hit home with me. I realized just how little import my social status and seemingly grand material possessions bore. Seriously, what is our generation doing obsessing over "likes" when the aforementioned author of Mary Poppins (Mrs. Travers) obsessed merely over her family's emotional wellbeing? <br />
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While many sociologists argue that such shifts in priorities are a product of an inevitably fast new culture, I contend that the immediacy- and excitement-driven patterns of our youth should not preclude adherence to the lessons our parents and our nursery rhymes taught us--namely, that "slow and steady wins the race." Sure, I support mild YOLO and light experimentation in the short lives we lead, but what does a bucket list mean to that man making a living with nothing but a street corner and a cardboard sign? How can a dive off a cliff (with or without a bungee cord) connect you with your fellow man?<br />
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Yes, acceptance of peaceful solitude is a virtue we should all strive to possess, but what's the point of silent reflection if all it does is keep you right where you are, in a guarded bedroom by yourself. I am aware that not everyone dreams of international solidarity on the same daily basis that I do, but I do know that few would prefer to spend retirement in the back shack than in the caddy shack...<br />
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Although we have every right to relish in our individuality, you wouldn't be reading this post via social media if you weren't somehow moved by the lifestyles of others, right? As much as I personally like to pride myself on my own achievements, I would not have reached any of these goals without the influences of my parents, my teachers, my friends, my enemies, and various passersby. Furthermore, I would not even know these doings were "achievements" without a knowledge of human efforts, good and bad, for comparison. In the words of a sassy diner poster I once read, "You're unique, just like everybody else."<br />
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You know why it feels better to give than receive? Because we've already been given the gift of life and freedom, and nothing can possibly top that.<br />
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So give something to someone today--a ticket to the movies is always a great start. :)<br />
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Thank you, and Happy New Year!<br />
Amanda :)<br />
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Coat: Paperdolls Boutique (St. Louis). Top: <a href="http://www.jcrew.com/womens_category/knitstees/basicteesandtanks/PRDOVR~24500/ENE~1+2+3+22+4294967294+20+225~~~0~15~all~mode+matchallany~~~~~vintage%20tee/24500.jsp?isSaleItem=false&isFromSearch=true" target="_blank">J. Crew</a>. Necklace: <a href="http://www.jcrew.com/womens_category/jewelry/necklaces/PRDOVR~A0110/99103257446/ENE~1+2+3+22+4294967294+20+225~~~17+4294964867~15~all~mode+matchallany~~~~~necklace/A0110.jsp?isSaleItem=true&isFromSearch=true" target="_blank">J. Crew</a>. Skirt: J. Crew (old). Boots: <a href="http://www.stuartweitzman.com/products/5050/" target="_blank">Stuart Weitzman </a>(black suede).<br />
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All photos courtesy of Eric Pan.<br />
Hair styling courtesy of Bonnie Trunfio Boze.</div>
The Elegant in the Roomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17058656440633295706noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1965678735358294561.post-29291525557108062562013-12-31T19:28:00.001-06:002014-04-06T23:38:39.786-05:00High Resolution<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I'm not saying I'm superstitious in even the least bit...but I will use the Chinese Zodiac to my advantage wherever I can. Well, in a fortuitous twist of fate, it just so happens that 2014 is the year of the stately vigor that is the Horse, as opposed to the malicious slime that is the Snake of 2013. Why not accept this as a sign of promise and resilience in the shadow of any doubt and regret? :)</div>
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This past year has probably been one of the most exciting and anxiety-provoking of my life, two qualities which often go hand-in-hand in my experience. My hope for the new year is that I will release the lingering tension that has accumulated in my psyche and that I will reach a new, unobstructed high--a place where I can accomplish my every goal in a manner I feel good about, regardless of how anyone else may feel. This year is about my professional and emotional development, not about a desire to appease others or to satisfy some truly illogical level of perfectionism. In an unprecedented feat of organization, I write below my resolutions for 2014.</div>
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1. Become more organized (surprise, surprise).</div>
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While my intuition often tells me to delay the cleaning and systematizing until I finish that last page or that looming essay, my reason instructs me to prevent the unnecessary hunting and sifting through data and sanity by organizing my obligations in addition to my recreational activities in a timely and perhaps formulaic way. This habit will also guarantee decreased tardiness in response and arrival time. </div>
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2. Continue to foster communication instead of passive aggression with my compatriots. :)</div>
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Misunderstandings can easily manifest into contempt. Save yourself the lifelong scorn and welcome open dialogue from the get-go.</div>
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3. Contrast outside compulsion with genuine drive to achieve a certain end.</div>
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Don't confuse someone else's intentions for you with your own--for yourself and for the world. Do it your way with your say on your day.</div>
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4. Learn to appreciate moments more than memories.</div>
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5. Spend less time on social media (except when absolutely necessary, as when I need to post blog updates :) ).</div>
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6. Maintain high expectations of myself, but lower those of others.</div>
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7. Respect myself more, and never think for a second that I don't deserve the best for myself.</div>
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8. Take more time to be cognizant of and admire the favorable and shaping characteristics of those most close to me--proximity- and genetics-wise.</div>
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9. Publish a meaningful and consequential Legal Studies Thesis in March.</div>
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10. Study hard, and ace the LSAT in October!</div>
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And so proclaimed the New Years pledge, to build my strength and diminish the edge. </div>
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Best wishes for an enlightening, an industrious, and most importantly a happy New Year!</div>
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Love,</div>
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Amanda :)</div>
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Top: J. Crew (old, similar <a href="http://www.jcrew.com/womens_category/sweaters/jcrewcashmere/PRDOVR~08189/ENE~1+2+3+22+4294967294+20+225~~~17~15~all~mode+matchallany~~~~~collar+sweater/08189.jsp?isSaleItem=true&isFromSearch=true" target="_blank">here</a>.) Scarf: Express (old). Pants: <a href="http://www.anntaylor.com/modern-knit-slim-pants/313682" target="_blank">Ann Taylor</a>. Headband: Saks Fifth Avenue (old). Coat: North Face. Shoes: Nordstrom (old).</div>
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All photos courtesy of Sean Su.</div>
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The Elegant in the Roomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17058656440633295706noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1965678735358294561.post-25465435822595100182013-12-27T21:35:00.002-06:002014-03-31T22:06:41.207-05:00FOMO* No More<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-sjxI3Df-ZGqOa4gHgAT_RxDm1R0x5zefPHAXBr_Y-Rk5om2M732p-ZguTp15suYp_xB_DYuqIrIELtRKAbrZMnACKZlw7HXrnBLcc7UMZrW_r1k1UzHQ0gxKZ4RcIegmUReDNhBrRrC3/s1600/iW021-QNVi8ztnEaX0seroyoSSLnvO-rgkEIIrgczQw.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-sjxI3Df-ZGqOa4gHgAT_RxDm1R0x5zefPHAXBr_Y-Rk5om2M732p-ZguTp15suYp_xB_DYuqIrIELtRKAbrZMnACKZlw7HXrnBLcc7UMZrW_r1k1UzHQ0gxKZ4RcIegmUReDNhBrRrC3/s640/iW021-QNVi8ztnEaX0seroyoSSLnvO-rgkEIIrgczQw.jpg" height="424" width="640" /></a></div>
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She cradled connection as a child would a bear,</div>
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Afraid to be alone inside her little lair.</div>
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Reliant on the action, the fuss, and the buzz,</div>
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She yearned daily for attachment if only just because.</div>
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More disposed to day dream than to chase dream in independent feat,</div>
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She sacrificed some strength and dignity for a profile and a seat.</div>
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In newfound awareness of the petty mores she'd lately entertained,</div>
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She forged ahead of her own accord, a go-getter re-ordained.</div>
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Without a bias or undue ties to sway her every thought,</div>
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She arrested distraction in its tracks and go back she did not.</div>
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So while the world documented each idle stance for the sake of exhibition,</div>
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She carped the diem out of life, owing to nothing but intuition.</div>
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Make a move and reinvent fruition,</div>
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Amanda :)</div>
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Top: Topshop (old, but seen on sale rack in store ;) ). Necklace: Topshop (old). Bracelet: J. Crew (old). Official Tumblebum Dog: <a href="http://jellycat.com/usa/" target="_blank">Jellycat</a>. :)</div>
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Photos by Sean Su.</div>
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*FOMO = Fear of Missing Out</div>
<br />The Elegant in the Roomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17058656440633295706noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1965678735358294561.post-90408613347544013262013-12-20T22:49:00.001-06:002014-02-06T16:36:13.727-06:00It's Time<div style="text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJ9rQZFmQzi8bev0lf15JAa9S4WqVgIbnnfKxRV7n53EUXHWckci03qTjcU4kH4iv7YVUQ1IYjL09sUI1N5Ub1alXvKSsc5b_y5DU_qgaTgY56eTutf5fnR78qJeAHOZ_ZtsxkTSwkkU_r/s1600/B7rnkYTB3QTqv1zcU03O5TE2Gc6yBErTrdX1aXTlqJI.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJ9rQZFmQzi8bev0lf15JAa9S4WqVgIbnnfKxRV7n53EUXHWckci03qTjcU4kH4iv7YVUQ1IYjL09sUI1N5Ub1alXvKSsc5b_y5DU_qgaTgY56eTutf5fnR78qJeAHOZ_ZtsxkTSwkkU_r/s640/B7rnkYTB3QTqv1zcU03O5TE2Gc6yBErTrdX1aXTlqJI.jpg" height="640" width="426" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHX7IFtpFDw8Mg9n2Y4WgPFn_-UyoLbfuboxu-9_ocmcazfraCzVEh1-w3fG_ZXvcaxEXfn4oU8nzlAqm2mQezNIJLG1RwIk037LOKACfBsJtJOg0TPFiKrqbSDIF2eQbvzARtLnAulLEM/s1600/T6maHTt4teVO6TmGgDmPBwVK91SxR4en_DYriY22CKA.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHX7IFtpFDw8Mg9n2Y4WgPFn_-UyoLbfuboxu-9_ocmcazfraCzVEh1-w3fG_ZXvcaxEXfn4oU8nzlAqm2mQezNIJLG1RwIk037LOKACfBsJtJOg0TPFiKrqbSDIF2eQbvzARtLnAulLEM/s640/T6maHTt4teVO6TmGgDmPBwVK91SxR4en_DYriY22CKA.jpg" height="640" width="426" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDrpoWt9keIsG91m38-INHPnCBlWDPBUY2W26oSaL5vfjEJtwboQCb5ynO0oVrNkuy9fuJSGgN6VcErg6h_AvYDos1htja9SqoO48aVm98LNc6MyQRawxdWV4KFjZRA0CikCTl9VBdEmG0/s1600/iciA73-DyHyL_T5ATtrhR68FCGFVzPXbvxCMD1yHSwc.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDrpoWt9keIsG91m38-INHPnCBlWDPBUY2W26oSaL5vfjEJtwboQCb5ynO0oVrNkuy9fuJSGgN6VcErg6h_AvYDos1htja9SqoO48aVm98LNc6MyQRawxdWV4KFjZRA0CikCTl9VBdEmG0/s640/iciA73-DyHyL_T5ATtrhR68FCGFVzPXbvxCMD1yHSwc.jpg" height="426" width="640" /></a></div>
Sometimes the lack of basic human compassion in our fellow man truly infuriates me. Why, for example, do corporate bureaucrats get so caught up in materialistic ephemeralities while assigning no effort to what should be our greater collective cause: making life better--or at least tolerable--for all humanity. That objective starts by treating every single one of those around us with at least the minimal respect and honesty they merit as human beings, and further, with the recognition they have earned in their individual pursuits.</div>
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Just a couple days ago I was discussing some of the perils of moral deficiency with a friend when we switched topics, and I made the comment offhand that "I've got nothing but time." Not expecting such a seemingly innocuous statement to stir subsequent philosophical discussion, I continued to ponder the notion of time as one's only possession for the remainder of the day. As usual, I induced quite a headache while engaging in this episode of reflective solitude.</div>
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Nonetheless, the resulting metaphysical discoveries were game-changing. What can we really claim to own other than the dimension which measures and extends our lives? Neither our clothing, our house, our car, nor even our pets can we consider ours. These transient objects have laced criticisms of the materialistic lifestyle for a while, but few have gone further to question whether time or anything else is really in our possession.</div>
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Almost needless to say, we can't take our money or knickknacks with us to the afterlife, but who's to say we can even retain our bodies, our experiences, our personalities, our relationships, or our memories? We likely maintain some manifestation of a mind in any sort of life after Earth, but is this preservation a product of ownership or of pure essence? In other words, do we own our minds or ARE we our minds? Science and intuition suggest the latter.</div>
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Status and connections may appear inextricable components of our thought process, but how can we argue for a perfect Heaven consisting of the caste systems and power trips that mar the Earth? It seems as though at least certain components of our mortal identities dissipate upon entrance into limbo. Regardless of how much we accomplish or how many lives we touch on Earth, if we can't retain our positions of hierarchy, we can't retain those of honor or admiration either, right?</div>
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Suppose all of these dreadful suspicions turn out to be true. Suppose the altruism we bestow upon this Earth does not extend into Heaven. Suppose all of our achievements, our awards, and our accolades are not even a distant memory. Does this mean a positive, lasting impression on this Earth is unworthy of our time and energy?</div>
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While some pronounce faith in ever-lasting life, others believe the time we have on Earth precludes any subsequent life ever after. Given this marked disparity in opinions of human life expectancy, it seems the only logical way to reconcile the differences is to treat this life--that which we all know and feel we have--as if it is our only one. That's not to say you can't believe in God or Heaven because I, for one, am a Lutheran who most certainly does. All this means is that you should respect the beliefs of others in granting them the most rewarding, meaningful lives you can in whatever way you can. Furthermore, this means you should respect your own life--the one we are living here and now--by uniting in the flawed yet spirited collective human effort to create a forgiving, fulfilling, healing world that God himself would smile upon.</div>
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So you tell me, is time really all we've got?</div>
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Sincerely and dearly,</div>
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Amanda :)</div>
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Jumpsuit: <a href="http://us.topshop.com/en/tsus/product/clothing-70483/rompers-and-jumpsuits-2281954/high-neck-lux-playsuit-2366114?refinements=Color%7b1%7d~%5bgreen%5d&bi=1&ps=20">Topshop</a>. Necklace: J. Crew (old). Shoes: H&M (old). Leggings: Paperdolls Boutique (St. Louis).</div>
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All photos by Eric Pan.<br />
Hair courtesy of Bonnie Trunfio Boze.</div>
The Elegant in the Roomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17058656440633295706noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1965678735358294561.post-40458804769032680292013-12-12T01:00:00.004-06:002013-12-12T14:43:03.127-06:00The Fruits of Our Labor<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZVjePAanPci3FJ-30CSfJdbQ-Ge4WNfGxSoatyi4L1UClZxpMg8Ubghr10jJY3YZugEseoiY7WEBbk5oKUCVUyk4NgsMXfHQsswbYvACke45zxJe_rLcNGAhAQh50JJt0kK-zaziKbk91/s1600/IMG_6551.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZVjePAanPci3FJ-30CSfJdbQ-Ge4WNfGxSoatyi4L1UClZxpMg8Ubghr10jJY3YZugEseoiY7WEBbk5oKUCVUyk4NgsMXfHQsswbYvACke45zxJe_rLcNGAhAQh50JJt0kK-zaziKbk91/s640/IMG_6551.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 12.0pt;">As I ring in the Holiday Season and the
denouement of a long-fraught finals week with family (woe is me), I can't help
but reflect upon the influences laid upon me by none other than my parents.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 12.0pt;">Sure, the phrases, "Amanda, calm
down!" and "You know, you won't be able to eat like this your whole
life..." have been thrown around here and there, maybe on more than
several occasions..., but all in all it's been a very pleasant and seamless
transition back into familial living. :) Speaking of such enchanting word play,
I now turn to the feature of tonight's blog, the author of these sweet nothings
herself: my mommy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 12.0pt;">Jokes aside, life hasn't been a cake walk
for my mom. For one thing, she has a relentless train of eccentricity for
a daughter (ok, maybe not ALL jokes aside), and she's the only girl in a family
with two older brothers. If the fruits of her labor are any indication
(and I, as one of them, like to think they are), it's pretty clear that my mom
mastered courage, resolve, and grit in the face of oddity and uprising almost
immediately from the get-go.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 12.0pt;">Picture this: I'm riding along in my
automobile, my baby beside me at the wheel, I stole a kiss at the turn of a
mile, my curiosity running wild (duh duh duh duh duh duh duh duh duh)!
Just kidding...ALL RIGHTS RESERVED TO CHUCK BERRY, "NO PARTICULAR
PLACE TO GO," </span><span style="background: white; color: #444444; font-family: STIXGeneral; font-size: 12.0pt;">Ⓒ</span><span style="background: white; color: #444444; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12.0pt;">1964.</span><span style="color: black; font-size: 12.0pt;"> :)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 12.0pt;">Okay, but seriously, I was driving along
in my automobile, my mommy beside me at the while, I popped a tire at the turn
of a mile, my trepidation running wild (duh duh duh duh duh duh duh duh duh).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 12.0pt;">Turns out I did have a particular place to
go: The Missouri Botanical Gardens, with my mom...and my 80-something
grandparents in town for the week. Having never chauffeured the lovely
couple before, I realize in hindsight that a split tire probably wasn't the
best first driving experience I could have bestowed upon them. Whoopsies.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 12.0pt;">Regardless, my mom took control of the
wheel, so to speak, and offered to call AAA and wait in the parking lot of the
Botanical Gardens while my grandparents and I enjoyed ourselves inside.
What a dynamite gal indeed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 12.0pt;">As soon as we entered the gardens, my
grandpa made a point of telling me that my mom is one great woman, and he
wished there were more women like her, in his words. As sexist as this
admittedly seems on the surface, the core of his sentiment is nothing short of
heartfelt and true!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 12.0pt;">My mom has always been a strong,
passionate, intelligent, attentive, engaging, beautiful, empathetic, loving
role model, and as much as I may annoy her at times, I hope she knows, deep
down, that she and my dad are my absolute greatest inspirations in life, not
just because they are my parents, but because the<span style="background: white;">y are integrity-driven individuals in a world seemingly predicated on conceit and avarice, at least at times. My mom in particular is the most unwaveringly spirited, affectionate, altruistic person I know, and I can do nothing more than to hope I will someday embody those qualities to half the extent she does.</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="background: white; color: black; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br />
"</span><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-size: 12.0pt;">There's
nothing like a mother's love. She's not a ghost or fleeting dove. Regardless of
how deep my burn, she heals me up and helps me learn. Because of her, I'm
empowered to soar, to rise above and strive for more. I couldn't ask for a
kinder soul, to care for me and make me whole. Your expectations, I may not
always meet. My approach to life may resemble retreat. But despite the way you
viscerally feel, I want you to remember that our love is real. I will forever
respect and admire you truly, especially when tides turn and life seems unruly.
No matter who or what comes into my sphere, you will always be my role model,
and I will allay all of your fears."</span><span style="color: black; font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br />
This poem I wrote at a delicate time, but the words still ring true and unite
in sweet rhyme. After many a month of heightened progress, I promise you honor, and to this I attest.</span><span style="color: black; font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br />
With love and laughs and all of my best,</span><span style="color: black; font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-size: 12.0pt;">Amanda :)</span><span style="color: black; font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 12.0pt;">P.S. That IS INDEED my adorable dog SOPHIE
(i.e. my mom's second and just-as-grateful daughter) in the third picture. :)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 12.0pt;">Top: Urban Outfitters (old). Skirt:
Urban Outfitters (old). Shoes: Dillard's (old). Flower appliqué:
Self-made via Dierberg's Florist. ;)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 12.0pt;">All photos courtesy of my mom (besides the
top shameless selfie). :)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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The Elegant in the Roomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17058656440633295706noreply@blogger.com3