Back in early December, I won a Spanish contest. The person who wrote the best composition in their level of Spanish class would win a prize. When my Spanish teacher told our class about the contest, I asked, “¿Qué es el premio?” The class laughed, as did I and Professor Vicente. Hey, I can’t always hide my driving determination! He just said that it was a Spanish book, or so that was the case in previous contests over the years. In each SPN 212 class, the teacher would assign a composition which we had to write in class. He or she would pick the top three out of twenty to enter into the contest, and there were three SPN 212 classes – that would be mean there would be nine possible candidates for winners. Out of those nine there would be one winner for the whole SPN 212 level, which comprise sixty plus students out of the three SPN 212 classes. My teacher chose me as one of the possible candidates. I can’t say he wasn’t affected by my asking about the prize, to be honest, although the class probably knew I was the only enthusiastic about it.
As it turned out, I won for the SPN 212 level. The prize? A substantial Spanish-English dictionary and a Borders gift card, worth twenty dollars. So what did I do with the Borders gift card? There was a book that I had in the back of my mind for a couple months now, actually since last summer. It was a book of short stories by Ray Bradburry entitled The Illustrated Man. But something else came up last summer. I started really getting into The Killers, and they just released a DVD/CD of their concert in Royal Albert Hall in London. Their drummer, Ronnie Vannucci, inspired me to finally buy a drum set and take up drumming seriously. No more using pillows, although it’s fun. No, I’ll still use pillows; I can’t betray roots.
Today, I went to Borders. Which did I decide? Sorry, Ray, your book is going to have to wait. I bought the DVD/CD. Now I’m not saying that I prefer watching TV and listening to music over reading. It’s just that I already have a lot of short story books from my English classes and music has really been the main vibe in my life since summer and always, really, when I come to think of it.
As I am speaking, or writing rather, though technically typing, I am listening to the live CD and I’m lovin’ it. I love buying new CD’s and locking myself in my room, going through the whole track. Although, that doesn’t happen often, since I now really listen to only three main musicians.
Back in the 1990’s, I went through the Nsync phase – dancing and all. But then they split up. The time they split up was also the time I stopped listening to the radio – Z100 and 106.1 BLI. Instead, I turned to 103.1, which was the oldies station. I won’t lie: I was influenced by my parents. I remember listening to The Temptations CD after Daddy, Steph and I went fishing. There was a time where I always had Phil Collins somewhere in the background. Then my mom revived Elvis. We went to a wedding in Canada during a summer vacation with The Beatles monopolizing the speakers of the min-van. Oh yeah, how can I forget the tango music before all of this, back when my parents were into ballroom dancing because of the FAMILII organization!
As the 1990’s slipped into the early 2000’s, I was still listening to whatever my parents wore on their ears as well as little tid-bits of what Ate Sherry and Steph were listening, however dim it was in the shadow of oldies songs. Songs of Keane were what really penetrated me. I borrowed Ate Sherry’s Keane CD, “Hopes and Fears” and never returned it. Then Ate Sherry thought she might as well give me their second CD as well, a couple months later. However, it was through “Hopes and Fears” that I learned basic drum beats.
I first heard of Jason Mraz when Ate Sherry and Steph were listening to him on youtube back in 2004. It was there that I heard him sing “I’m Yours” and “The Remedy.” Now, I’m not the type of person who listens to a song once and instantly remembers it when it pops up again months later. Unfortunately, I’m notorious for forgetting. Heck, I sometimes don’t remember family vacations unless I see pictures! Anyway, Jason Mraz was the exception. He capitalized my ipod when I was a freshman in Stony Brook University. And now, four years, two burned Jason Mraz CD’s, countless Jason Mraz playlists on youtube and two new musical hobbies (djembe drum and guitar) later, here I am reflecting on when it all started.
How did I start listening to The Killers? Whenever I talk about the Killers I have to talk about the drums. The Killers came in my ears the same time Rockband came out. I wanted to know what this whole Rockband was all about, so late one night, I looked it up on youtube and saw someone score a 100% on the drums expert level for “Mr. Brightside.” “Mr. Brightside” was the first song I heard from them and I loved it just as much as “I’m Yours”. The next day I asked Ate Sherry if she had any CD’s of the Killers because based on “Mr. Brightside,” I assumed they had really good drum sections. She did! “Hot Fuss.” My Killers crave lifted off from there. The next summer, I went to the Commack Branch library, and borrowed two other Killers CD and listened to them throughout the whole summer. Then just recently I went back to the library and borrowed the CD’s again and burned them. Ronnie Vannucci bangin’ on the drums, and then I started to do the same.
And now I have their DVD/CD, “Live from Royal Albert Hall.”
Saturday, January 23, 2010
Thursday, January 14, 2010
What started it all
One of my favorite teachers of all time was my twelfth grade English teacher, Ms. Cisek. It was her first time teaching at Commack High School and I was, and still am, glad that I was one of the first to have had her as a teacher, there. So why was she my one of my favorites?
There was something about her still being new to the school that made me curious to know more about her personality, her past. I had a pleasure of fulfilling this curiosity once when we walked out of the school together. Fortuitous, you know, how we bumped into each other after a hard day at school. She asked about which college I wanted to attend and as it turned out, she went to Stony Brook – the college I was planning to go to. I told her about how I had many cousins and siblings that attended Stony Brook. I don’t remember much about that innocuous incident but knowing that we share a bit of history (history for her, future for me, but we were both locked in the present) somewhat satisfied the curious cat inside of me.
There was another moment we shared, except this time, she got to look inside of me, a little bit. She had asked why I did not want to do 12IB English instead of 12R (regular) English because I was excelling well above others in my class, not to brag or anything (I am humbled by most other brilliant students in my English classes today, in college). What I told her ran around the lines of “I feel stable in Regular English.” I used the word stable. That was my honest answer. Unfortunately, I don’t remember how she reacted. I can only hope that she understood what I meant without any negative judgments of me.
So, still, why is she one of my favorite teachers? A teacher is supposed to help a student grow in certain academic aspects. Inspire, in a way. That is exactly what Ms. Cisek did to me. She wrote a plethora of encouraging comments on assignments I’ve handed in. I imagine that to be one of her favorite aspects of being a teacher; it certainly would be one of my favorite aspects when I become one. I like writing comments about other people’s works that I delve myself into – works that interest me, or occasionally, works that are forced upon me. I write at least one comment on youtube videos of people doing covers of songs, each day unconsciously, I think. The feeling of connecting with another person through writing stimulates my thinking and gives intrigue a place in my mind. Ms. Cisek’s comments on a portfolio of mine encouraged me to continue writing. And the high hope she placed on me through what she wrote in my yearbook makes me want to not fail her and in the process succeed in any goals I set for myself.
You might think that, given the high status I put on Ms. Cisek, that we had an open relationship. In high school, I was always the shy one. In fact I never worked up the courage to tell another teacher (he so happens to be another English teacher, Mr. Murphy) that he was also one of my favorite teachers, until he retired the next year and only came to visit. He told me, with teary eyes that I had made his day after my confession. No, problem, Mr. Murphy and no, thank you! So, I would say that my shyness only brought Ms. Cisek and me even more close, however implicitly. Either that or it was all in my head.
Thank you Ms. Cisek!
Also, from Ms. Cisek, I learned the power of freewriting, also known as stream of conscience. Freewriting is really fun. What you do is, you set yourself a time limit, in which you would write continuously. Write anything that comes in your mind or anything about a certain topic that is given to you. Say you had to write about your reflection to everything you did in the previous week. And you were given five minutes to write. Then, for five minutes, you just write about that, non-stop. Even when you run out of ideas, you should write that. The whole goal of freewriting is to give you a little informal brainstorming boost. Afterwards, you would look back at what you wrote and pick out information that you might use for formal writing. If you do not plan on writing anything formal, then freewriting is a way to relieve stress and keep your mind sharp. Freewriting is just meandering thoughts.
There was something about her still being new to the school that made me curious to know more about her personality, her past. I had a pleasure of fulfilling this curiosity once when we walked out of the school together. Fortuitous, you know, how we bumped into each other after a hard day at school. She asked about which college I wanted to attend and as it turned out, she went to Stony Brook – the college I was planning to go to. I told her about how I had many cousins and siblings that attended Stony Brook. I don’t remember much about that innocuous incident but knowing that we share a bit of history (history for her, future for me, but we were both locked in the present) somewhat satisfied the curious cat inside of me.
There was another moment we shared, except this time, she got to look inside of me, a little bit. She had asked why I did not want to do 12IB English instead of 12R (regular) English because I was excelling well above others in my class, not to brag or anything (I am humbled by most other brilliant students in my English classes today, in college). What I told her ran around the lines of “I feel stable in Regular English.” I used the word stable. That was my honest answer. Unfortunately, I don’t remember how she reacted. I can only hope that she understood what I meant without any negative judgments of me.
So, still, why is she one of my favorite teachers? A teacher is supposed to help a student grow in certain academic aspects. Inspire, in a way. That is exactly what Ms. Cisek did to me. She wrote a plethora of encouraging comments on assignments I’ve handed in. I imagine that to be one of her favorite aspects of being a teacher; it certainly would be one of my favorite aspects when I become one. I like writing comments about other people’s works that I delve myself into – works that interest me, or occasionally, works that are forced upon me. I write at least one comment on youtube videos of people doing covers of songs, each day unconsciously, I think. The feeling of connecting with another person through writing stimulates my thinking and gives intrigue a place in my mind. Ms. Cisek’s comments on a portfolio of mine encouraged me to continue writing. And the high hope she placed on me through what she wrote in my yearbook makes me want to not fail her and in the process succeed in any goals I set for myself.
You might think that, given the high status I put on Ms. Cisek, that we had an open relationship. In high school, I was always the shy one. In fact I never worked up the courage to tell another teacher (he so happens to be another English teacher, Mr. Murphy) that he was also one of my favorite teachers, until he retired the next year and only came to visit. He told me, with teary eyes that I had made his day after my confession. No, problem, Mr. Murphy and no, thank you! So, I would say that my shyness only brought Ms. Cisek and me even more close, however implicitly. Either that or it was all in my head.
Thank you Ms. Cisek!
Also, from Ms. Cisek, I learned the power of freewriting, also known as stream of conscience. Freewriting is really fun. What you do is, you set yourself a time limit, in which you would write continuously. Write anything that comes in your mind or anything about a certain topic that is given to you. Say you had to write about your reflection to everything you did in the previous week. And you were given five minutes to write. Then, for five minutes, you just write about that, non-stop. Even when you run out of ideas, you should write that. The whole goal of freewriting is to give you a little informal brainstorming boost. Afterwards, you would look back at what you wrote and pick out information that you might use for formal writing. If you do not plan on writing anything formal, then freewriting is a way to relieve stress and keep your mind sharp. Freewriting is just meandering thoughts.
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
short story: "The Marker"
"The Marker"
by Bernadette Tinio
Once there was a man who lived in a cardboard box. All he wanted for Christmas were tape to patch up his makeshift home, and a marker to draw on the walls of his box. His life was by no means a drags to riches story – nor a riches to drags one – for in fact, he was born in the very cardboard box he lived in his whole life. Rather, his life was centered around himself, a complicated man. His name, as his mother wanted and told his brother, Jim, a month before he was born, was Alcott. She remembered that name from an old folk bedtime story that her parents used to read to her – back when she had a life full of luxury and innocent hope. Unfortunately her life was a riches to drags one.
When his mother gave birth to him, she died. The cardboard material muffled her screams and her death was no different in its penetration on his brother’s life. Jim’s life just got quieter and his mind became numb.
Jim was seven years older than Alcott was. When their mother died, Jim buried her in an open yard with scarce grass. They lived off an unseen small dirt road – a road meant to be a dead end. No houses around. No people to see them. Jim remained determined to take care of his Alcott. That meant scavenging through dumpsters and the trash cans behind restaurants for food and clothing.
Then when Alcott was five, Jim never woke up. Alcott buried him next to their mother. For a five year old, Alcott was extremely mature. Even Jim was. Death and pestilence made Alcott grow faster and hardened his whole body. He had no tears, especially in his teenage years. He thought that if he cried, he would loose water from his body. Crying was not a form of coping; rather, it was a weakening mechanism used only for the rich who could spare water and did just that when they watched sad movies for the very purpose of crying.
As Alcott grew older, he learned how to live the life placed on him; playing his part grew easier as his years started adding up. He camouflaged himself very well from society and his chief proficiency was his stealthy quality. He learned to block all emotion because if he had emotions, he realized, his predisposition to depression and other “nonsense” as he would call it, would get the better of him. Life turned him into a sneaky robot and he did not mind that, because his mind was hardened, unlike his cardboard box, which he “inherited” when both his brother and mother died and which swayed wildly whenever the wind blew.
Once, when he was thirty-five years old, in an alley, he was hiding behind a trash can, from which he was going to pilfer wasted Italian food. He was waiting for an irritated worker to finish his smoke at the back of the restaurant, where the trash cans were, when a woman passed by. Brunette, five-four, tanned skinned and winsome a smile. He told himself to focus more on the worker, to find his cue as to when he should pursue his dinner. Emotions were supposed to shut down; but, he had slipped from his disciplinarian self, that day. He blamed the worker, who looked rather repulsive compared to the woman. In any case, he knew he was not supposed to feel any preference judgments – he trained himself to be emotionally withdrawn. Intuition ranked high in his mind for some reason, though.
She was standing outside the restaurant looking at the menu on the window. Even with his emotions telling him that he liked her, he read her body and her expressions. Middle class. Went to public schools and got into a good college. Well brought up. These perceptions came naturally to him – like a hunter. If only he could talk with her and feel her wealthy warmth. If only she could see past his past and his present state. However, a young man showed up. He perceived the young man to be her boyfriend and definitively decided to focus again on the worker. Darn his perceptions. The young man could have been her brother or cousin. As a hunter, he was only killing himself, but he decided to live a life free of emotions in order to survive. There was no compromise; he was determined to live a polarized life and chose the dry end.
The worker went back in the restaurant and Alcott scavenged his dinner and went back to his cardboard box.
Despite his living conditions, Alcott was a smart man. He always found a way to obtain a newspaper, from which he learned ways of talking as well as what was going on outside his cardboard box. Through stories of mournings and celebrations and polls, from newspapers, Alcott learned how other people react to certain events. He would have none of those – no opinions, no reactions, nothing.
One time, Alcott woke up to a sunny morning. A little girl was playing with a hula-hoop down the street. Four feet tall, Caucasian, middle class. Brown hair, brown eyes. Alcott did not care for her; he only observed her. She spun the hula-hoop around her waist and smiled like the woman he saw near the Italian restaurant. She was like the child version of the first woman. Her playing changed: instead of spinning it around herself, she would shoot the hula-hoop out of her small hands so that the hula-hoop would spin back to her hands – like a boomerang. Like many things in life, it would come back again. She did this over and over again, each time more precarious than the last: she tried to extend the distance over which the hula-hoop had to spin back to her. The last time she did it, the hula hoop shot from her hands too far and ended up flat on the street. Alcott watched from his nearby cardboard box as she ran to the middle of the road to retrieve her hula-hoop. A car ran a red light. Alcott only watched as he heard his mother’s last cry, no longer muffled.
The next day was Christmas. The little girl’s parents put flowers and a cross on the corner where she died. They had put a sign that read “Rest in peace and happiness, Emily” and left the blue marker under it. Alcott took the marker and returned to his cardboard box. Crouching in his box, Alcott took off the cap of the marker and drew a picture of flowers and a meadow with the sun perpetually shining. After he finished he looked at his masterpiece and smiled for the first time.
After all, Emily was his second chance.
by Bernadette Tinio
Once there was a man who lived in a cardboard box. All he wanted for Christmas were tape to patch up his makeshift home, and a marker to draw on the walls of his box. His life was by no means a drags to riches story – nor a riches to drags one – for in fact, he was born in the very cardboard box he lived in his whole life. Rather, his life was centered around himself, a complicated man. His name, as his mother wanted and told his brother, Jim, a month before he was born, was Alcott. She remembered that name from an old folk bedtime story that her parents used to read to her – back when she had a life full of luxury and innocent hope. Unfortunately her life was a riches to drags one.
When his mother gave birth to him, she died. The cardboard material muffled her screams and her death was no different in its penetration on his brother’s life. Jim’s life just got quieter and his mind became numb.
Jim was seven years older than Alcott was. When their mother died, Jim buried her in an open yard with scarce grass. They lived off an unseen small dirt road – a road meant to be a dead end. No houses around. No people to see them. Jim remained determined to take care of his Alcott. That meant scavenging through dumpsters and the trash cans behind restaurants for food and clothing.
Then when Alcott was five, Jim never woke up. Alcott buried him next to their mother. For a five year old, Alcott was extremely mature. Even Jim was. Death and pestilence made Alcott grow faster and hardened his whole body. He had no tears, especially in his teenage years. He thought that if he cried, he would loose water from his body. Crying was not a form of coping; rather, it was a weakening mechanism used only for the rich who could spare water and did just that when they watched sad movies for the very purpose of crying.
As Alcott grew older, he learned how to live the life placed on him; playing his part grew easier as his years started adding up. He camouflaged himself very well from society and his chief proficiency was his stealthy quality. He learned to block all emotion because if he had emotions, he realized, his predisposition to depression and other “nonsense” as he would call it, would get the better of him. Life turned him into a sneaky robot and he did not mind that, because his mind was hardened, unlike his cardboard box, which he “inherited” when both his brother and mother died and which swayed wildly whenever the wind blew.
Once, when he was thirty-five years old, in an alley, he was hiding behind a trash can, from which he was going to pilfer wasted Italian food. He was waiting for an irritated worker to finish his smoke at the back of the restaurant, where the trash cans were, when a woman passed by. Brunette, five-four, tanned skinned and winsome a smile. He told himself to focus more on the worker, to find his cue as to when he should pursue his dinner. Emotions were supposed to shut down; but, he had slipped from his disciplinarian self, that day. He blamed the worker, who looked rather repulsive compared to the woman. In any case, he knew he was not supposed to feel any preference judgments – he trained himself to be emotionally withdrawn. Intuition ranked high in his mind for some reason, though.
She was standing outside the restaurant looking at the menu on the window. Even with his emotions telling him that he liked her, he read her body and her expressions. Middle class. Went to public schools and got into a good college. Well brought up. These perceptions came naturally to him – like a hunter. If only he could talk with her and feel her wealthy warmth. If only she could see past his past and his present state. However, a young man showed up. He perceived the young man to be her boyfriend and definitively decided to focus again on the worker. Darn his perceptions. The young man could have been her brother or cousin. As a hunter, he was only killing himself, but he decided to live a life free of emotions in order to survive. There was no compromise; he was determined to live a polarized life and chose the dry end.
The worker went back in the restaurant and Alcott scavenged his dinner and went back to his cardboard box.
Despite his living conditions, Alcott was a smart man. He always found a way to obtain a newspaper, from which he learned ways of talking as well as what was going on outside his cardboard box. Through stories of mournings and celebrations and polls, from newspapers, Alcott learned how other people react to certain events. He would have none of those – no opinions, no reactions, nothing.
One time, Alcott woke up to a sunny morning. A little girl was playing with a hula-hoop down the street. Four feet tall, Caucasian, middle class. Brown hair, brown eyes. Alcott did not care for her; he only observed her. She spun the hula-hoop around her waist and smiled like the woman he saw near the Italian restaurant. She was like the child version of the first woman. Her playing changed: instead of spinning it around herself, she would shoot the hula-hoop out of her small hands so that the hula-hoop would spin back to her hands – like a boomerang. Like many things in life, it would come back again. She did this over and over again, each time more precarious than the last: she tried to extend the distance over which the hula-hoop had to spin back to her. The last time she did it, the hula hoop shot from her hands too far and ended up flat on the street. Alcott watched from his nearby cardboard box as she ran to the middle of the road to retrieve her hula-hoop. A car ran a red light. Alcott only watched as he heard his mother’s last cry, no longer muffled.
The next day was Christmas. The little girl’s parents put flowers and a cross on the corner where she died. They had put a sign that read “Rest in peace and happiness, Emily” and left the blue marker under it. Alcott took the marker and returned to his cardboard box. Crouching in his box, Alcott took off the cap of the marker and drew a picture of flowers and a meadow with the sun perpetually shining. After he finished he looked at his masterpiece and smiled for the first time.
After all, Emily was his second chance.
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