What Is a Parent?

Parent: An organism that produces or generates offspring.

Presented before you is the definition (found on Dictionary.com) of the word "parent". For most of us, a parent is a father and a mother. Yet, in other cases a parent is only one father or mother, sometimes those parents are step-parents, or adoptive parents. Sometimes a parent could be your own sibling. 

The word parent does no longer connotate to the biological production of it's nature in our modern society. Although there will never be a break between the tie of those who gave birth to you and to yourself, the emotional bond that we form between people is everlasting. 

I myself am grateful to have two loving and happily married parents. Yet, this doesn't take away the value or emotional tie that another child could have with their parent, whom of which doesn't have the same situation as mine. 

A parent is a provider, a protector, and without a doubt loves you unconditionally. Upon analyzing the essays, "Arm Wrestling with my Father" and "Shooting Dad", I realize that a parent does not define their child but a mutual understanding is formed between those that care for you your entire life.
Despite traditional standards or even modernized perspectives of what a parent should or should not do matters not when regarding the unexplainable connection between parent and child.
Though in many cases teenagers will roar in states of rebellion against their parents as "oppressors" and power-hungry dictators, a parent understands you in ways no one else will.

There is something...ominous about the way that a parent guides you through life using only their biased experiences. It's scary for them more than you'd think. Parenting doesn't come with a guide book or a "How-to" video. In many cases, parents want to continue to do better. Seek other ways to train you and optimize your future careers. And yes, parents are usually wrong in what they do. But their decisions aren't made out of spite (usually), and often times it's a game of mystery. Other times, parents truly do know what's best for you.

A parent is a person who relates to you in a way that isn't direct or even measured, but the simple understandings that are unspoken, and the bonds of trust that cannot be broken shape the relationship between parent and child.

The Starry Night by Vincent van Gogh (Extra Credit Poem)

Silenced by the darkness of the night,
not a single soul stirs in the calm twilight.
And yet, as the sun dies down,
and the world comes still,
there is no threatening alarm in this quiet wake.
The cool air pleasantly burns the skin of those wandering the empty streets,
and the swirling winds send wafts of old rain and the lilies nearby.
It is quiet.
It is calm.
A shade of blue blurs across the land,
and everything becomes one.
You cannot see,
you may even think you are deaf,
but the tranquility the nighttime brings,
carries you the peace to lie in bed and mull over the day.
Here you may question,
here you may speak without moving your lips.
Here you may breathe from the business that life brings.
It is timeless here,
unlike there where the business of life doesn't let you stop.
But no.
This is safe.
This is fresh.
Your eyelids flutter closed,
and your heart rate begins to slow.
Drowsiness overtakes you,
and the dreams play a pattern of random in your mind.
Nothing disturbs you.
Not even the owl perched outside your bedroom window.
For, the night sky is dark,
and not a soul is stirring.
Here you are safe.
Here you are secure.

Alas dawn awakes the night sky,
the sun speaks hello and the neighbors prepare for their day.
The silence is replaced with deafening sound.
Oh! Do not fret,
for the cycle will repeat itself once again.

Happiness Takes Effort

Upon reflecting the negative aspects of some of the stories we've covered in class concerning corruption and society I've come to some discoveries of my own. When I hear people say, "I'll be happy when I get this job, or this boyfriend, or graduate, etc." it makes everyday life seem tedious and sells present time as short. Life becomes a marathon of force and patience, instead of a series of sprints toward discovery.  Yet, ironically we are the true "stop watchers" in ourselves and we are in control. We don't have to wait for something to happen or magically show up to make us happy--when you find beauty in the mundane you can find happiness in your simplicity.

Not everyone is going to live extravagant lives filled with the drama or glamour of movies, and there's nothing wrong with that.  Life will always be average and it will be hard; and yes you will have to work to get somewhere. And the point of life is not to get the "best" of whatever society views as ideal, but instead to find the beauty in average that everyone refuses to believe exists.

When good things happen in life they are usually going to happen because you earned them, and not because "Prince Charming" or some magical event happened to grant you your temporary shot of joy. Because when you directly associate happiness to materialism and standards of other people, you'll never fulfill them and never gain the happiness you deserve.

Everyday is not going to be perfect. Most of the people you meet won't actually give a damn (excuse my profanity) about you, and most of the things you encounter in everyday life will be...well just plain average. But when you only focus on the average or the mundane, you won't see the beauty or happiness right in front of you. The thing about positive "energy" or perspective is that it feeds off of itself and spreads outward. Just like hard work, if you do something often times you'll gain what you worked for.

Stop waiting and go out and find something. If you live your life in fear of failure, you will forget to live. Who cares what other people think. One person's definition of smart or successful does not always correlate with someone else's. And even so, only your own connotation matters.
Find beauty in the mundane.

"Perhaps I want them to wince"

Upon reflecting over Nancy Maris' piece, I have succumbed to the conclusion that labeling is not a limitation but instead another form of identification. As though our own acceptance or rejection of who we are stifles the perspective of society.

Throughout our earlier readings characters such as Jay Gatsby, Dexter Green, and even Alexie Sherman have all attempted to assimilate themselves into an already rejecting society; and thus ultimately resulting into a cycle of failure. And yet, Mairs demonstrates the positive aspect of rejecting her community and forming her own--in which only her opinion and perspective matters.

There's something magical about starting your own life; making your own choices. Something most of us lack, a courage to seek what we've lost or not yet found.

Perhaps we all wish to start over, and begin anew. Perhaps "I want them to wince".

Where is my voice?

Upon reflecting of my past essays, I have realized that despite this stressful road of assignments and due dates, my writing has improved greatly. Looking back, my writing was chaotic and just plain confusing. Majority of my sentences contained fragments, and don't even get me started on my incorrect usage of the semi-colon. Although even now, I understand that I have an even bigger journey ahead of me. 

Now my writing overall is not terrible, in fact throughout my middle school and early high school years, my teachers praised my essays; I was the star student. This was back when we had a freedom of writing. Typically, I prefer to write in a poetic voice; an outlining depiction of Edgar Allan Poe or Mark Twain. I enjoy using extensive vocabulary that allow my sentences to flow. It's almost as though I can picture the words floating off the page into a sea of stories; which eventually evaporates into the clouds and the cycle only continues to spread  But I quickly learned that my style of writing wasn't fit for AP courses. It was "too fluffy", not direct to the point, and often times the teachers I had simply hated imagination or style in essays. Needless to say, my 8th grade teacher killed my entire dream of wanting to be an author. I didn't care about getting marked down for "fragments" or grammar mistakes; I am a writer and writing is my control--I didn't understand why I should conform myself to a grading scale and limit my voice. And as a result, I lost my passion--which was my talent. In which case, my writing progressively diminished in quality. Now not to say that I was a perfect writer back then, I made several mistakes, but if I hadn't given up on my style a few years ago, I know I'd enjoy writing more than I do now. 

Though, I have come to the conclusion that I like how far I have in my academic journey of writing; it has most significantly improved. Although, I still need to work on in-class writing anxiety; often I will blank out during an essay and my writing turns into absolute garbage. But I have slowly improved on this skill. 
My main goal is to improve my essays to a 9 average marking, though I wouldn't mind getting back my dream of being an author again. 

Who Am I?

A white chick. That is the assumption by which others define me.
Who am I? Even when I ask myself, I do not know.

 

Upon further analyzing the piece, How it Feels to be Colored Me by Zora Neale Hurston, I reflect upon my own standing in society.

Race is defined by the color a person’s skin. Whether it is black or white, or the so called “yellow” or “brown”; we as individuals are classified under a majority. And by doing so, we become blurred faces in a coward of strangers. The “superior white man” is never expected to mix with the minorities such as the African American groups. Or so, society defined it as such before the Civil Rights Movements (unless you go to the South, then this is a different discussion entirely). And why would the intelligent Asian speak to the dim-witted White majority?
When did we allow the color of our skin to define us?

Even thoughout this majority of color, there lies separation. From the religious to cultural dividers of the Europeans, to those in Asia, we find ways to create barriers between ourselves, our own people and form hatred for something we do not even understand.

Now I shall share something personal. A part of my identity that I cannot control. When my parents got married, their parents were not pleased. My mother is Armenian and Jewish, while my father is Tatar and Muslim (both my parents are also Russian, but now is not the time to dwell into my family tree). It is expected of them to marry them same individuals, the same culture, and carry that into a new stream of generations. My father broke that tradition by marrying my mother. The issue? My grandfather never once agreed to meet my mother. He died without ever meeting the girl his son married. Now, my father’s side of the family loves us and our families get along very well, but my mother will never be accepted by them—for reasons no one understands or is truly part of.
I understand my family’s need to preserve family and culture, it is their identity and their love; but why do we take this and form hatred?

Upon speculation, I am the white girl in AP classes. I am expected to do average or to fail. To care more about my appearance than my grades. And to be quiet and polite, but never stand out.

Even at THS, people segregate themselves. The Asians form GROUPS of only Asians. It’s intimidating at times, and sometimes I feel as though I cannot speak to my own friends because of it. Most of them who I do not know, assume I am an idiot in the first place simply because I am white. Now on the other hand, those same Asian groups bond together because most of the time they are the only people they find similarities to, in terms of culture and interest. Not to mention, there are plenty of white majorities which target these Asian groups and even bully. But this goes for all groups, and all people. We do not to mean to segregate, but as humans we look for what relates to us.
And when you are like me who doesn’t fit into your own culture—you’re just an unidentifiable white person.

I do not know my own identity. When Ms. Valentino asked us to write in our comp. books “How We Identify Ourselves”, I left mine blank. I could not fathom a single statement that represented me.
All I know for certain is the person I wish to become. Since the age of 7, I knew I wanted to go to Harvard; that I would graduate with a Ph.D. and live the rest of my life striving for knowledge and one day winning a Nobel Prize in science. But lately it is as though I’ve lost a part of myself. I do know my strengths or weaknesses anymore; it’s as though the stress of junior year has numbed it all away. It is as though the 4.0 honor student, with determination and perseverance has been clouded and reduced to this confused and tired coward.
My identity is still somewhere within me. And the determination has not yet left me, and I shall not allow it to.

So my point is, your identity is not always your choice, but you know who you are. Only you know YOU. Even in times when you lose yourself, keep working for the person you are.
Sometimes you have to fall, to get back up.

What is a Great Gatsby?

Throughout the fallacious and intimidating tale of the Great Gatsby, F. Scott Fitzgerald captivates his audience by revealing the harsh reality and fault-lines within the "American Dream".
For many, The Great Gatsby is a tragic love story--depicting the lost love of Gatsby and Daisy. Obliviously, this is a completely mislead perception of the novel.

For most of us, the message of the novel is lost. While we do gain the intended perspective toward alcoholism and greed, we forget the true purpose. It is as though the main topic of this week has shifted from The Great Gatsby into "Ms. Valentino why don't we read happy books?!"--now to be fair a part of me would enjoy some more optimistic novels but we gained positive aspects from our time with the transcendentalists. Regardless, this further proves the point many people fail to see the reasoning of Fitzgerald. It is not a tale depicting the ultimate failure or success of the individual, but instead the individual's weakness and strength; which either leads to their rise or demise. Fitzgerald is not telling us we are incapable of being successful and happy in life--but instead that our actions may deter us from the road toward achievement. Instead, he warns us that greed, suppressed emotions, lying, cowardly silence, and illegal activities--all bad actions, will lead to serve consequences. The inability to accept yourself, intertwines into the branches of others--forming tangled webs and broken twigs for bonds (relationships). The purpose of the American Dream is to provide opportunity for everyone; that the common man is the successor just as greatly as the man who came from wealth. And just like the Great Gatsby, it inspires the strive toward success. Fitzgerald is not telling the reader that he shall ultimately fail, whether born inherently wealthy as Tom, become wealthy as Gatsby, or live middle class as Nick; but instead that everyone is equal. No matter their social representation, all of the characters ended up unhappy and unfulfilled in their lives. By satirizing the West Egg vs. East Egg, and the charming appearance of each character, Fitzgerald reveals that happiness is not gained through materialism, but instead through the individual themselves. Everyone is capable of becoming wealthy--it is simply the road each person takes that leads them into difference directions.

The true message of the Great Gatsby is that life is not always a fairy-tale ending, and it never will end up unflawed. Fitzgerald warns his audience the dangers of greed and materialism, along with his own experiences with alcoholism and affairs. By satirizing the era through his own life experiences, Fitzgerald is revealing to the reader not to make the same mistakes he did; and instead to live life as though in a moving car--always going forward and striving for the higher road.
Enjoy the ride of life, wherever it takes you.