I'm A Big Girl Now... And Always Have Been.

 Another pile of clothes. Another bucket of stuffed animals. Another stack of photo albums. Sorting thorugh old “treasures” in my first house in the miniscule town of Hughes, Arkansas has proven to be monotonous and unsurprisingly nostalgic. My mom’s incessant nagging to stay focused on cleaning offered little motivation. My idea of cleaning consisted of sorting through trash, then seeing something from my childhood and getting distracted. Then again, my typical internal procrastination may be the culprit behind my refusal to clean today.

“Hey, Big Girl, are you almost done with your room?” my mom called from the hall. 

“Uh, yeah, it’s getting there!” I fibbed.

“Good. When you get done, come over here. I found something when you were little.”

The gargantuan hills of toys and books told me it might take a smidge more than a couple minutes. I filled a couple more trashbags before Curiosity and Impatience dragged me to my parents’ room.

“What do you want me to see? I asked hanging in the doorway.

“It’s your Clifford the Big Red Dog sweater! You used to wear this all the time…” She answered with a slight chuckle.

“Yeah. I remember the last time I wore it.” I said flatly.

“Oh, Marie. I’m sorry; I completely forgot. That day was such a blur, I barely remember anything about it, and your sweater was the last thing on my mind.” She said apologetically, making her way to the doorway to comfort me.

“It’s fine. I’m going to finish my room.” I shrugged her off. It was fine. And I did clean my room.

The sight of my grandma’s empty bed with my puffy-eyed mom at the edge brought a sense of uneasiness to my four-year-old stomach.

“Mommy? Where’s grandma?"

“She’s gone, Marie.” Mom answered wearily.

“When will she back?”

“She won’t. She’s passed, Big Girl.”

Reality set in, and tears started falling. Tears turned to sobs, the ugly, double-breath, desperate kind that only when happen when you find out something mind-numbingly, soul-crushingly awful. My Clifford sweater quickly transformed into a makeshift tissue. My mom came to the now damp doorway where my feet were glued to. She held me like her life depended on it, and I let her, because for me it did.

Whewwww! Whewwww!

I guess tornado sirens are my alarm clock today.

“Marie! Come down here! You’re going to sleep in between Mommy and Daddy until the storm passes.” my mom whispered urgently as thunder simultaneously boomed.

“What about Samantha?” I slurred sleepily, concerned about my snoozing sister.

“She’s not next to the windows like you are. It’s probably nothing major, but we don’t want you to get scared, Big Girl.”

I think we both knew who the scared one actually was. Contrary to popular belief, not all six-year-old girls are afraid of storms. Unlike my mother, I found them oddly soothing. Something about the steady pounding of the rain and the way the lightening lights up the sky both captivates and intrigues me. While my parents went off to Dreamland, I pondered the reason behind my nickname in my family, “Big Girl.” A physical description to them, a metaphorical description to me. My entire family is choatic and loud, so I felt the need at an early age to be the calm and sensible one. In essence, I had/have to be the “Big Girl” to save us from total destruction.

I’ve never been more jubilant to see a clean house. I feel my mom glance over at me with a smile of relief. We put our arms around each other and admired our masterpiece of categorized boxes and newly swept floors. This time, I glanced, smiling, at my mom. My mom. My safe haven. My source of insanity and sanity. I’m her rock, and she’s mine. That, I know, will never change. 

Confessions of a Bookaholic

My infatuation with books was instigated around the ripe age of four years old by the most qualified teachers available: my mom and Dr. Seuss. The first book I ever read on my own was "There's a Wocket in My Pocket!", and it's still a book I treasure. In the early years of school, kindergarten and first grade, most books were read to us. I didn't like their books, so instead, I frequently skimmed my sister's vast collection for a story that would catch my eye. After the story time era finally ended, second grade arrived and with it came new opportunities thanks to a plethora of books offered for Accelerated Reading(A.R.).

When A.R. was first introduced to us, most of my fellow classmates moaned and groaned until the cows came home. I pretended to hate it because everyone else did, but I was secretly ecstatic that independent reading was mandatory. Rather than seeing it as a satanic program that unjustly tried to force me to read, I saw it as a blessing in disguise. The elementary years were filled with Lemony Snicket, Judy Blume, Roald Dahl, J.K. Rowling, and Laura Ingalls Wilder. It was during these years that my inner bookworm flourished. I thrived on the feeling of becoming completely engrossed in a book, escaping reality and being thrown into an unknown universe full of words and bewilderment. That feeling dictated what books I chose to read; if I didn't get that feeling within the first 15 pages, I would put it back on the shelf. I still choose books that way. To put it simply, A.R. played a monumental role in my love of books. A.R. carried on for several more glorious, nerdy years with a copious amount of novels thrown in there. It finally came to an end in 7th grade.

In junior high, my reading taste evolved and matured. I began indulging myself in young adult literature such as Looking For Alaska by John Green, one of my absolute favorite books. My best friend, also a huge book nerd, started introducing me to wonderful, emotionally draining books such as the one previously mentioned. For that, I am eternally grateful. I discovered a newfound interest in books that made you think about your life completely differently by the end of it. I think that's what makes a great novel. In my opinion, if you are left speechless, lost in thought, and reevaluating your life, you've just read a quality piece of work. Maybe that's just me.

I have just started high school, so my taste and sophistication in literature hasn't really changed. Through the years, I think every experience with books has influenced my view on reading. There isn't one single thing that determined why I have such an appreciation and adoration for books, but rather several events that played an equally important role.  If my mom hadn't've taught me to read prior to school, I may not have the same attitude toward books. If A.R. wasn't a requirement in school, I may not have become as big of a bookworm as I am or read as many books as I have. If my best friend had never recommended books written in that twisted, mind boggling way, I probably would not have the same taste in books. Like all things in life, all of my past experiences impacted the way I think about reading now.

Who am I?

I am a hungry, indecisive girl.

I wonder if I make milkshakes, will all the boys come to my yard?

I hear Hawaii calling, no, screaming my name.

I see Busch Stadium and the Gateway Arch waving me over to join them.

I am a hungry, indecisive girl.

I pretend I don't care about the numbers

I feel like highschoolers need naptime and snack time more than kindergarteners.

I touch a pencil, a paint brush, and a blank canvas

I worry that time will continually speed up and eventually and inevitably race off without me

I cry at mankind

I am a hungry, indecisive girl.

I don't understand, nor do I want to

I say be nice.

I dream of traveling and trying food everywhere on God's green earth.

I try to be consistent but rarely succeed

I hope my children appreciate good music as much as I do.

I am a hungry, indecisive girl.

Simply Sinful.

Practically every story in some form or fashion is based on things we see happen everyday. “A Very Old Man With Enormous Wings” is no different. You can pretty easily infer from the title that the story includes an angel. This guy with larger-than-life wings basically crash-landed into a village that recognized the creature to be an angel, yet they didn’t appreciate this miraculous encounter. Instead, they locked him in a cage in the chicken coop “as if it weren’t a super natural creature but a circus animal.” The worst, most disturbing part is that this reflects exactly what our society does. We take blessings for granted and treat most anything ”strange” or  out of our comfort zone as a freak.

Another deadly sin we are all guilty of is greed. The family who housed the heavenly creature made a hefty sum of money by charging people to witness and ridicule it. Did they even consider how the poor angel felt? Trapped, poked and prodded, treated no better if not worse than an animal? I guess they also overlooked the “coincidence” that their feverish child suddenly became well when the angel arrived. We as humans naturally tend to be driven by selfish greed, to veer away from anything we consider out of the ordinary, and to be completely oblivious to miracles around us. This story is right on the money. We should think about how those “freaks” feel a little more often and think about ourselves a little less.