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My heart aches, my hands shakes and sweats. Looking around regarding all the musicians immeasurable compared to me.

“Why am I doing this to myself?” I questioned.

Inhale and exhale, focused on my lungs expanding and filling up with air, then releasing.

“Don’t worry I’m gonna do great, I will do my best!” I lied to myself.

A room filled with violinist and one black grand piano sits in the middle of the stage, and chairs surrounding it, adding tension to the room. I sit in the front row with other violinists. My violin sitting against the right side of my body, all four strings creating a mark on my arm, the bow shaking in my right hand, on my left hand I feel the smooth cool paper becoming warm. I sit prepared with my music but feeling unsatisfied and not good enough. I sit with anxiety next to me only focusing on my doubts. I can feel it looking down at me like I am less.

“I can ignore it for now.” Lying to myself again.

I watch the fingers of each musician dance from one string to another and the bow cutting through the air. The anticipation is creeping over my shoulders, it’s almost my turn. I urge not to play in front of many pairs of eyes, and yet again I wait my turn. My music school principal arises to announce the next musician.

“Please don’t let it be me, please…” I said to myself desperately.

“Next up, Nasya Ie.”

My heart skipped a beat as soon as I heard my name. I stood up, my legs shaking and my heart speeding up.

“There’s no turning back now.”

I walked up to the stage with fear by my side, I inhaled and exhaled, leaving fear behind. Now it’s just me and music. I placed my music sheet on the stand, put myself in the courageous potion. I looked at the pianist, took a deep breath, and nod, indicating that I am ready. I read my music sheet, I’m not thinking, I’m doing, I let my fingers free and let them take control. Thinking will mess me up, so I just go. I see and feel my fingers dancing, and my bow cutting through the air. My frustration goes through my violin creating music that I made. I am one with my violin. Time was so heavy, working myself through time to get over this performance. All my hard work and dedication placed in front of everyone. A moment of peace, and there was a sigh of relief. The burden has lifted from my shoulders. I did it, and I will prepare myself for another coming.

That’s what controls me, anxiety and fear. It takes over my body leaving me stranded. I feel useless and never good enough. I have an expectation that I must reach, but that’s too much pressure, I know that this cannot be an excuse. I push myself to reach and reach, my anxiety pushing me to reach. Accepting that this is good, for my anxiety turns its back on me. More and more doubts from my anxiety telling me that I am wrong. Is it worth fighting for this goal, you might be doing something wrong, but if you don’t do it you’re just careless.

I ingest what it says to me, there’s nothing I can do, but to keep going. I’m attached with anxiety, it speaks into my ear giving me doubts, until I fall. It sits on me like a crown, a crown that keeps my head down and telling me I can’t and won’t get back up. This is life and all I can do is keep going. I will fight to reach my goal and try to leave my anxiety and fears behind me. But I know they will catch up to me and beat me down, every single time I get stronger. Anxiety will always be a part of me even though I don’t want it to. I can’t live without anxiety and anxiety can’t live without me. These are obstacles we have to go through to build ourselves to shape who we are today. It shows our strengths and weaknesses. Pushing yourself and fighting through the pain, proves it’s all worth it.

Wet Clouds

Blue skies were all that appeared to me. The bright, vibrant blue fills me with emotion. I’m happy. I’m sad. I’m excited. I’m mad.

“Hop away,” I tell myself.

With all of my might, I take a big jump onto something that has a polished limestone grey vibe. My feet are slowly being devoured by this thing.

“Help!”

The more I wiggle the fewer chances of me getting free. My whole body is in this thing. This awfully dull thing. I feel a slight sense of heat at the tip of my big toe. Where is this coming from? Faster and faster it heats up. First, it’s like I’m standing in an unairconditioned room. I feel my sweat glands opening up like how flowers open their leaves for sunlight. Then it’s like I’m standing in a 120-degree sauna. Slowly, I feel my skin starting to bake. I can feel it cracking open, resembling roots from a tree; a rigid, thick line. Lastly, it’s like I’m standing directly in front of the sun. My skin is starting to melt. I hear a noise loud in my ear. Oh god, what is that? I see that white light that people always talk about on tv shows. It’s getting brighter and brighter. Closer and closer. The noise is getting louder and louder.

“What am I going to-”

Beep, beep beep, beep. My eyes open and I see my pale, white ceiling with a couple of baby blue paint marks on it. Ugh, it’s Monday.

“Get up and move,” I tell myself.

But my limbs just won’t move. I turn to look at my pink and black alarm clock, which is placed on my window sill directly to the left of my bed. I place my hand on the large, silver ‘Snooze’ button and let it sit there. Beep, beep beep, beep.

“Why won’t you turn off?!” I pick my hand up and slam it down on the button.

“There we go. Peace and quiet.” The time says 6:47 AM. I can feel my eyelids slowly falling down.

“No! This isn’t the time. You have to get up! Get up!”

BOOM!

“Huh, what’s that?”

I abruptly sit up and look around. Everything seems to be in place. My bed is somewhat made, with half of the black with white polka dots sheets on the mattress, my turquoise owl comforter is on the floor, and my clothes are symmetrically thrown on the floor. I hear my sister, Anasia, scrambling through her drawers, looking for something to wear. She’s disregarding my cat, Saturday, who’s impatiently waiting to be pet. Yup, that’s normal. I turn to look at my alarm clock again which is still placed on my window sill directly to the left of my bed. The time says 7:15?

“No, that can’t be right. I only closed my eyes for like 10 minutes.” I rub both of my eyes--first the left and then the right--with my right hand and look back at the alarm clock. 7:15 it says!

“How could this happen? How could you do this, AGAIN?”

I jump up and out of bed, not realizing my comforter is wrapped around my foot, causing me to trip and fall. Bang! This steamy, sizzling feeling is at the peak of my elbow.

“Great, now I have a rug burn.”

I get up, run to the bathroom, and turn on the shower. Everything seems normal. My black and white polka dotted shower curtain is still intact, my turquoise toothbrush container is where I left it, and my clothes are symmetrically thrown on the floor. I rush into the shower and look at the water trickling down. For every ounce of water coming down is another second I can’t get back. Time only goes forward, not backward. Fighting your inner self is a battle that many people don’t know how to fight. I look down at the tub’s floor and see the water going around in a circle--slowly trying not to meet its fate--and see all this time I’ve wasted since I’ve gotten out of bed. It's hard knowing how to separate your inner self from your outside duties. You get lost in yourself, which results in lost time.

No Need for Regret:

Do I really like this one? I mean, it's soft and comfortable. Do I even wear this color? What is everyone else going to say? These questions and statements race through my mind at rocket speed as I sit there, contemplating over this pink crop top.

“Will you even wear that?,” my mom asked.

Will I? But everyone else does? They look good in it so why wouldn't I?

As I walk to the cashier, with my pink top in hand, I see where they all lay. Where each one of my classmates got theirs. They check for their size and go. Why is it so hard for me to decide? My hand moved closer to the pink mountain. I should put it back, shouldn't I? Why is this so hard?

I continue to walk to the register with the shirt in one hand and peer pressure in the other. As I walk out of the store I think to myself, “That was $12.90 not well spent.”

Do I regret that purchase? Yes.

Do I wear it? No.

Does it sit in the back of my closet with the tag still on it? Yes

Why? Because maybe one day, I’ll have the guts to wear something so not me but so everyone else. I bought that shirt to please others, not to please myself. The image of others smiling faces as I walk down the hall and all the “oh that’s so cute!”’s are burned into my brain. If I please them, I feel at ease. It doesn’t matter how I feel. Their comments make me feel like maybe the $12.90 was worth it.

Maybe I’d wear that pink piece of cloth today. Why? It’s uncomfortable and totally not my color. Why force myself into something that is not me for someone else’s pleasure. It makes no sense. I should do me. I cared about everyone’s opinions on me physically then. Now I care what people think about me. How they think I am as a person. Summer camp is a great example of this.

“Oh my gosh! I can’t tell anyone! Why did I just do that? I’m such a shitty person,” I exclaimed one of the many nights on the parade field. Alone. Just him and I laying in a large bed of grass under the stars.

“Hey, hey, hey calm down,” he says as he leads me back to the bench with his hands on mine.

I can’t tell anyone I thought. Who won’t judge me? Everyone will. I have to keep it to myself. Let it eat away at me. I don’t regret what I did. I did it again and again. His lips on mine in the moment didn’t seem wrong. When I left, I didn’t regret it. But the moment I thought about someone else’s opinion of me changing, I lost it.

I arrive back at my cabin. They were waiting for me. My friends who I’ve known for years or had just met a couple weeks before. They ask what we did. I told them we talked. They believed it I guess. I sure hope they did.

I care way too much about what they think of me. What anyone thinks about me but especially at camp. We are all so close. Almost no secrets are secrets. Everyone knows eventually. Whether it’s years later or the moment it happens. But I can’t tell anyone what happened between him and I. In the eyes of everyone else, my lips were never on his. We were just talking. My brain started to think about others opinions of me. I felt like they all knew even though they didn’t. I don’t know if hiding what I did made me feel worse or the thoughts. Everyone questioned why I was sad but it was easy to make an excuse that people wouldn’t judge me for.

1. My friend is leaving the U.S.

2. I’m sad that camp is almost over.

3. I’m just tired.

I might not care too much physically what people think about me. I can brush that off. When they are able to see through my lies, into my mess of a head, that’s when I’m scared. That’s when I care. But why should I? If I feel comfortable and don’t regret it, what is the problem? The opinions of others should not change my being. I should not have to hide my experiences or my emotions to make others see me as me. I don’t have to wear something that isn’t me just to impress others and get a reaction that I truly don’t care about. I care too much about what others have to say about me. But I shouldn’t. I am flawed and I mess up but I shouldn’t feel the need to hide that.

I didn’t know you. You didn’t know me. We had just met, we weren’t destined to be friends forever or even remember each others names. We were strung together by the same desire to make others happy, at this point you only wanted to make one girl happy, and I was making sure you were good enough for her.

It’s midnight in Wildwood, the ocean breeze whirls and curls outside our window. The three room condo is illuminated by the moon shining in from the cracks in the blinds. You were in one bedroom, my mom in the other, and me and her in the third. Everyone else was asleep but you needed someone. You got up and creeped over to me, careful not to make a sound, and asked,

“Do you want to go for a walk?”

I peeled my eyes open and nodded. Together we tip toed out of the condo. The air was brisk outside, but not too cold to make me want to leave. I forgot my shoes, and so did you. We stood on the white concrete floor, little bits of left over sand and sweat seeping into our cold skin. We stood there for a moment, not entirely sure what to say or do. Eventually I took a step down to the stairs, and whispered to you,

“Come on.”

We grasped the railing as we walked down the three flights of gaping stairs. In between each step we could see the pool water below us. Swishing, and swirling, softly with the wind. It glistened under the stars.

We walked to the beach in silence, looking up at the beautiful sky. Trudging along to where the ocean met the land. Where sand got stuck under our toenails, and the salty wind swept our hair. There was no one around, it felt like the beach was ours. We climbed onto the lifeguard stand and looked out to the sea. We breathed in the stiff air, tasting the entire ocean floor. No words were spoken. I was safe in our silence. The sounds of the beach becoming our conversation. Every once in awhile the waves we crash along the shore and spit suds at our feet, but I didn’t care, I was too busy sharing this little moment with someone I would never see again.

And I never did see him again. Only in passing, or through a friend of a friend. But that was okay. We changed as people and went on to lead different lives. Some might feel sad about moving on and forgetting people from their past, but the past doesn’t have to be bittersweet. Growing up is a given, you’re friends and interests will cycle and change again and again, but change can be good. When I reflect on my past memories, I don’t feel sad knowing my life's different now, I’m happy that it happened. Many people struggle with this concept of living in the past. And I used to do it too, I would daydream about what could have been, but it got me nowhere. I became addicted to wishing to change the past that I didn’t live in the present. When I first started high school, I absolutely hated it. I shut myself off and I rejected everything new. I didn’t want to accept that this was my new reality. I would sit in class, my hands on the tan, tables, my feet tapping the dirty tiles and my mind stuck in my old life. I was trapped, I would only hang out with my old friends and brush off opportunities to make new ones. And in this time in my life, I was unhappy. High School is supposed to be a chance to start over, but I was clinging to a life I no longer had.

But how is clinging to the past different from being afraid of the future? We reminisce in old friends and memories from our childhood because we think it makes us remember a happier time. But does this make us happy?, or do we just want to recede back to a time when we had no worries. When our only responsibility was to be a kid. To a time where everything was done for us and the future was only in make believe. We don’t connect back to the past for fun - but for comfort. When we experience change our immediate response is to reject it and fall back to when we were comfortable. Whether that comfort comes from family or from a toxic environment, we crave familiarity no matter how harmful it is to us. And I was just like this too. I covered myself up, and pretended to be someone I wasn’t, as I simmered in the fear of my new environment.

We are all scared. Scared for the future, scared for the present, scared of ourselves. We hide away from change when we should embrace the unknown. You don’t know how long you’re going to be afraid, so if instead of pushing it away, you enjoyed the moment and enjoyed the chance to try something new - maybe we could all feel safe in the silence.

The goal of my essay is to educate people on how they are contributing to discriminatory culture without even knowing it, and to show them that their complacency can be violent. I want my reader to notice how nothing stopped a young me from buying completely into the normalization of heterosexuality, even when I wasn't part of that majority. I am proud of how my paper flows nicely from my descriptive scenes to my analysis. I am also proud of how I engaged the senses in my first scene as well. In the future, I would like incorporate more dialogue into my descriptive scenes and stop using passive language in them. I also want to become more concise in my writing without losing any of my description.

Advanced Essay- Queerness Counteracting Culture

When I was 5 years old, I wanted to marry my best friend Lola. Now I know what you’re thinking- no, I didn’t know I was gay. I just thought gay people were really really good friends who happened to live together. No one had told me otherwise. The years passed and I eventually rectified that ridiculous childhood story, but something always kept me from ever thinking queerness could ever fit into my life. One day in the fourth grade, my classmates and I were playing 4 square in the recess yard. The giant oak trees that towered over us were full of dark, shiny green leaves. Through the gate, we could hear cars whooshing past, and the air smelled like the steaming asphalt beneath our feet. I let my mind wander as I stood in line for the game. I stared at my friend, her long black ponytail shining in the sun. I watched it swing, hypnotized, as she ran to get the ball when it went out of bounds. Then, I thought a thought. “

I really don’t like when she talks to other girls. Does that make me a lesbian?”

I had never even considered this before. My heart started pounding in my ears until it was even louder than the sound of the 4 square ball bouncing against the blacktop. I brushed the thought off. People just around me just weren’t gay. So I wasn’t. Settled. In a world where the only story ever told to me was a straight one, being gay wasn’t an option. Even though I didn’t recognize this yet, my young mind craved some sort of validation- to know that who I was was right and real. Perhaps for the first time, I was experiencing not being the default.

By the time I was in middle school, I had come up with a list of excuses. I’ve had crushes on boys before. I don’t want to cut my hair. I don’t like any of my girl friends. I would sit in bed, staring at my dark ceiling, running my list over in my head until I fell asleep. And even when I finally gave into the fact that I was queer, I couldn’t fathom telling my parents. One night, after hours of stewing in my bed, I wrote my parents a letter in green pen. Hands shaking, I folded it over and wrote their names on the front. I pulled back my blankets and walked cautiously down the hall to my parent’s room. I opened the door slowly and placed the little paper in between their sleeping bodies, my heart skipping beats. The next morning, I was a ball of nervous energy, but my parents didn’t even mention the note. I went into their room and found it unopened on the side of their bed; they never saw it. I lost my courage and tore it up.

My parents never told me they hated gay people, but they didn’t need to. They didn’t say anything, and that was enough for me to hate myself for who I was. The culture around me that only normalized heterosexuality had left deep grooves in my psyche that couldn’t just be flattened out by me finding out I was queer. You can’t put a bandaid on a wound that’s more than skin deep, and it wasn’t enough for the people around me to not be homophobic. My parents never sat me down when I was a kid and told me that if I was gay, it was alright with them. Maybe if they did, it would’ve made my wounds easier to heal.

In this period in time, it is very easy for people to trot out all the reasons why they are ‘not bigoted’. They constantly bring up the fact that they view all humans as equals. But phrases that mirror this mentality such as “I don’t see race” are actually perpetuating bigotry in a unique way. By saying that we are all equal, they are implying that we are all treated equally; that since women now have to right the vote, or since that gay marriage has been legalized, or since slavery is ‘over’, these groups don’t experience deep systemic discrimination, and damaging mindsets stemming from that oppression that are hard to shake. So people don’t do anything. They sit, comfortable with the fact that in their eyes, they’re not bigots. But in this culture, it isn’t enough just to not hate. You have to take action; you have to educate children about identities they might have not even allowed themselves to try on. You have to actively work against the ideas that have been put in people’s heads from when they were children.  So that little girls know it’s ok to want to marry their best friends, in a ‘gay way’.

Spending time with my family was always most important. Especially having my father by my side, but that would be like  a dream. Sometimes relationships can grow distant between a child and a parent. Particularly if the child and mother or father are miles apart. It’s hard  being really close with someone then suddenly drifting apart. I’ll always love my dad but I know my relationship with him won’t be the same. Family matters so much to me and having my dad and mom together was awesome.

One of my favorite memories of my dad was on my sweet 16. I walked into flashing lights. It was the most amazing night ever. Everyone smiling and cheering as I entered the room. I had been waiting for this night for many months. It was finally here and I couldn’t be happier. My father stands by my side. I  was full of joy and happiness. All of my friends and family gathered to celebrate the night.

Most importantly my father there with me. The birthday girl was dressed in a purple and gold dress. I was smiling at every moment for every picture.  My cousin sung happy birthday to me while I silently cry. My tears were happy tears, tears of joy. Everything was perfect until the end of the party. I enjoyed everything and let loose for one whole night. Then I realized it was time to go back to reality.

The night was ending and it was time for him to go. My father had to leave to catch his flight in the morning. Goodbye was always bittersweet with him. I knew he had to go but why now? Knowing I wouldn’t see him for a long time brought me to tears. It was hard to have him here with me one moment, then gone the next. This type of pain is understandable for anyone whose separated from a parent, family member, etc.

It’s always difficult when a child and a parent are separated. When my dad left, I was disappointed and hurt. I knew our relationship would never be the same. However, seeing him in person always makes me happy. The first time I saw him after he moved away was when I was 10. It was a while before I ever saw my dad again.

In the month of June I was going to see my dad for the first time since he left my sweet 16. I had a mixture of emotions. Some of those emotions were nervous, happy, upset, and anxious. Part of me was happy to see him. Another part kept wondering, ¨Why did he leave me?”  That question played repeatedly in my head.

Everyone was anxious and nervous to board the plane. I was excited to see my dad and scared to ride an airplane. We admired the view above the clouds. The plane took off “Whoosh,” I said while gripping the handle seats. I held onto those seats for dear life. We were all so eager to our dad .

Lots of cars honking as they jump out the car. They run up to him with their arms wide open open wide. “ Dad! “ they screamed with excitement. He was smiling from ear to ear. It was the happiest day ever. We were seeing our dad after such a long time. He lives in San Antonio and we were finally visiting.

My stepmom waited for us at the airport. When we saw her she says, “Hey,” while smiling very hard. I gasped when I saw her stomach. I leaned over to my dad and asked, “Is that baby weight?“ He burst out laughing saying, “No, she’s pregnant again.” In that moment I was shocked. I told her, “Congratulations,” and she said, “Thank you.” On the other hand, I was upset because my dad didn’t tell me himself, especially after the many conversations we had and he never said anything.

My relationship with my dad changed the moment he left. Nowadays, I barely hear from him. There are moments I wish things could go back to the way they were. My number one guy left. I started to notice my dad becoming a different person. People change and sometimes it can be good or bad.  

Relationships between anyone can always change. What’s important is if that relationship can be put back together. It is never easy to drift away from someone you love. There is a constant pain that comes and goes in the relationship. Sometimes it’s easy to repair a relationship. Other times it may not be worth it to fix.