Broken Crayons

In first grade, everybody has crayons. You color and you talk and share and go to recess, and so does everybody else.

You color in second grade, too. Not as much, but, still.

By sixth grade, the crayons are almost gone. You'll break them out for the occasional art project, but other than that, you're expected to grow up, to act like the almost middle schoolers that you are, and that you have no idea how to be.

Middle school will be hard. The crayons are gone, as is the façade that you're a child anymore. Everything is about grades, about high school and college and everything after, and it's so overwhelming, and you'll probably find yourself wishing for your old pack of crayons and your juice box, because in first grade, there's nothing to stress about besides who you'll play with at recess.

(Maybe it isn't so different, after all, because I still find myself in high school, wondering who I'm going to lunch with).

By high school, the crayons are gone. The pictures that your mom hung up on the fridge were torn down years ago, replaced by report cards and ACT scores and college applications and expectations and stress and the future.

The crayons are broken. They've been snatched away, worn down to a stub, replaced with a number 2 pencil and a Chemistry test.

I want my crayons back. I want my childhood, the one that I didn't appreciate enough because all I wanted was to grow up and get out.

But, oh, what I wouldn't give to go back to naptime and snacks and juice boxes and a fresh box of crayons.

Draw Me a Rainbow

I always see you in grey. Grey and black, of course (because we rebel and wear black pants instead of grey.) It brings out the blue in your eyes, which is silly and cliché but completely true and I don't know how I feel about that. 

You make me feel grey, too. Because I always promised myself I'd never fall for somebody like you, somebody who's greatest ambition in life is everything I don't want, but then I met you, and suddenly it's all so endearing. How is that even possible? 

Grey is the color that overwhelms me when I'm in bed at night, looking forward to seeing you next week but knowing that next summer, everything's going to be different.

You make me feel grey.

But you also make me feel red, and yellow- bright and happy and like there's nothing to worry about.

When somebody insulted me, I saw the protective side of you, I saw your red. I saw the way you looked at her, and then you looked at me, and I felt red, too.

I saw you in blue once. Jeans and a sweatshirt, and I was wearing black, and did you know I got up early that morning because I knew I'd be seeing you?

Black has a bad rap. Black makes me feel like I can take on the world.

(It's funny, because that's what you'll be wearing for the next two years.)

And even though this seems like the cliché story, the one that I'll write a blog post about at the end of the year, it's not that black and white. Maybe it'll all happen the way I imagine it, where you'll take me out and break your rules and I'll be seeing red for days. 

Rainbows aren't all red, though.

Rainbows need blue, they need those days that I listen to Ed Sheeran and I get mad at myself for tearing down my walls so easily.

They also need purple- those late nights when we're about to go home but all I want is one more hour, one more day, forever. 

I want it all. I'll take the good days and the bad days, the headaches from laughing too hard and from crying until I throw up. I want the red and the blue and every color in between, because that's what you are. You're a rainbow.

Is that cliché?

I don't care.

Bucket List

• Make somebody smile every day.
• Remember that I'm here for a reason. 
• Eat well. 
• Travel.
• Write every day.
• Go to work with a good attitude.
• Go to school with a good attitude.
• Good attitude! 
• Live with as few regrets as possible. 
• Get motivated. 
• Work hard.
• Read good books.
• Don't worry about what other people think. 
• (Okay, maybe this is more of a to-do list. Oops. Enjoy).

Bricks I've Thrown

It's funny, because bricks have two purposes, which are completely opposite of each other.

To build, and to destroy.

Kind of like humans.

I've had bricks thrown at me, and I've thrown bricks at others, and it's all crap. Whether it's a compliment to build somebody up, or an insult to tear them down, it makes a lasting impression all the same. You can't patch up a broken window with duck tape and expect it to look the same.

The bricks that leave the biggest effect, though, are the ones that are used to break windows and hearts, the ones with a mean name and an insult added for good measure.

So, why say them at all?

I get it. When somebody calls you a douche bag, it would be the easiest thing in the world to turn around and call them every name in the book. But that's such a human urge, a primal instinct, to take an eye for an eye.

(That one's from personal experience.}

I'm going to cut this short because I'm tired, and I don't want this to turn too cliché or motivational. But.

We each have bricks. Build houses, don't break windows.

Until next time.

You Make Me Feel

You make me feel like smiling isn't so hard to do anymore. Like laughing is effortless, and you remind me that when I laugh too hard, I get headaches (but those are the best kind of headaches, and you'll sneak me some Tylenol if I need it.)

And even though I get hyper when I'm tired, that's okay because you do, too, and you'll just laugh with me. 

These things are how you make me feel.

You make me feel important. Like there's nobody you'd rather be with, like we aren't at work, like we're hanging out and we're best friends and you love spending your free time with me. 

But then you also break my heart when you tell me you're going on a date, and you're so excited. (You make me feel a little bit better when you tell me that she's the one who asked you out, not the other way around).

You make me feel young and funny and great, but also sad, because in only a few months, you'll be gone, in Tonga or wherever Jesus tells you to go. And when you're gone, who's going to help me with my math homework and tease me and make me excited to go to work?

And when will you take a hint that when we're talking about how we both love horror movies, that I want to watch them with you? 

These things are how you make me feel. 

And my friends tease me about you, say we're destined to end up together (or at least to go on a few dates and see what that leads to), and everybody else can see it, so why can't you? 

When I get the work schedule every month, do you know that I get excited when I see we're scheduled together?

On the days that we're working together, do you know that I spend extra time getting ready, even if you don't notice?

You make me feel like maybe, being a teenager isn't so bad after all. 

But then again, maybe it is. Because when we fall, we fall hard and I have no idea how I'm going to handle it when you leave. 

These things are how you make me feel. 

I'm Not Going to Write You a Love (Post)

There are some songs in this world that almost everybody knows. Justin Bieber's 'Baby' would be one, as would 'Thriller' or the Macarena or almost any commonly sung tune. And I'd say that 'Love Song', by Sara Bareilles, makes that list. Even if that doesn't sound familiar to you, you've probably heard it. 

But have you heard the background? The story behind it? 

I'm not gonna write you a love song
'Cause you ask for it
'Cause you need one, you see

I'm not gonna write you a love song
'Cause you tell me it's make or break in this
If you're on your way

Most people, including me, assume it's about a relationship gone sour. But who knew about the real story? About how Sara Bareilles was told she needed to write a love song if she wanted to become famous, if she wanted to make the charts? And so she sat down, and she penned out 'Love Song' and it hit the charts and played on my car radio last Tuesday.

This song is literally a 'screw you' to her management, and maybe that's why I like it so much.

Because what if I don't wan to write a post about love?

What if I've never been in love?

What if I've had crushes, one after another, but never anything serious? Never a relationship?

I'm not qualified to write about love, and I'm not even going to try.

But, then again, who said it had to be romantic love?

I love music, and San Francisco, and chocolate covered pretzels, but I won't bore you with a post about those. (not right now, at least.)

Because I might not know what being in love, truly, is like, but I do know what love is. I love a lot of things, writing included, and that's why I'm making this post in the first place, isn't it?

Hats?

To be honest, I'm not quite sure what to say. 

I don't wear hats. 

I don't like the way they make me look, the way they frame my face, the way they mess up my hair. 

But I do have different personalities, and to me, that's the most prominent analogy for hats.

It was amazing, how different I felt, putting on baseball caps and beanies and everything in between, as if my personality and my appearance changed with each hat I put on and discarded. It reminded me of myself, of the personality I show when I'm at school, versus when I'm at home, versus when I'm at work or church or anywhere else. 

Because in every single one of these places, I'm different. I act different, people perceive me differently, and I'm not sure if I like that or not. 

But, yeah. Hats. It's a good analogy, Nelson, so. Thank you. 

Even if it did mess my hair up. 

I Need to Rant

Pleasing people- it's so overrated. 

You'll never be able to please everybody, so why do I still try? Why do I care so much about my appearance, about saying the right things, about keeping up my facade, when nobody cares? 

But it's not only about me. 

I was in math class earlier this week, and we got onto the topic of awards. Why don't the creative teachers, the exciting teachers, the teachers who care about the students, win the Teacher of the Year award? Why do the teachers that give us 'homework buddies' and strict rules and limited hall passes get the prestigious awards? My teacher had an interesting answer. (I'm paraphrasing, in his words).

"Because we care more about pleasing the students than the administrators. I've won student-nominated awards before, but never an award from the bosses." 

For some reason, that stuck with me.

What's the point of school? I was under the impression that everybody's here for us, for the students, but for some teachers, it's all about impressing the higher-ups and doing a good teaching job, if only to prove that they have what it takes, not to actually help the students learn and grow and understand.

Pardon my French, but, what the hell?

The teachers that should actually be winning the Teacher of the Year award are the ones getting written up and suspended and threatened because telling stories in class isn't going to help the students pass their end of year tests, you know. Because if every single minute of class time isn't used to teach us how to solve radical equations, we've effectively wasted the time. If the teachers that actually help students grow as people don't help those students ace the end of year tests, then what's the point?

I absolutely can't stand it.

In classes like Creative Writing, and math (surprising, I know), we learn more than simply writing words on a page, or drawing graphs. 

We learn about the real world, about dating and heartbreak and loss and happiness and the world, and everything in between. And, to me, that's so much more important than whether we can pass the tests at the end of the year, the ones that exist for the sole purpose of showing the administrators which teachers are doing their job 'correctly'. 

It isn't about the awards. It's not even about the teachers, really. It's about the fact that we live in such a stifled society, that if a math teacher speaks one word that isn't directly related to math, he'll be written up. It's about the fact that the teachers, the ones who care about their students more than their reputations, they're the ones who are scrutinized. It's about the fact that if even a moment of school is devoted to helping students with their actual problems rather than math problems, that's a definite no-no. And for those of you who know the math teacher I'm referring to, you'll understand what I mean. 

That's the problem with our society- no, that's the problem with our world in general. People have an image, a model, a stereotype, and if you don't fit exactly into that, you're wrong. You're written up. You need to be put back into line. 

I don't even know what I'm trying to say here, tbh.

Be different. Be happy that you're different, and if you're bending over backwards to try to please everybody, stop. It'll never happen.

Be the kind of person that cares more about the people they help than the people who look down on them. My teacher likes to tell us that he's a counselor disguised as a math teacher, because who actually goes to their counselor when they need to talk? Teenagers don't like being told who they should talk to, who they should go to. And I love that.

Be you.

Until next time.