Find the shape and tell it!
All Students: Be sure to read the entries for this group --January writers). Everyone is required to comment on at least THREE different pieces of writing. You must submit comments
on Canvas (for each one, include the name of the author and the title
of their piece, and then your positive, specific comment ) by Friday, February 10 on Canvas.
There was an old farmer who only grew flowers. He never sold them, but he tended them everyday. He made sure they had enough sunlight, water, and weeded them thoroughly. No one around understood why the farmer gave so much care to these flowers.
Everyday he walked out with a watering can in hand and a belt that held his weeding tools. He went to each plot that held different kinds of colorful flowers and cared for every flower individually. He spent all day with his flowers and sometimes he didn’t go back to his home until it was dark and cold.
One day a passerby saw the old farmer tending to his field. The passerby waved to the farmer and asked, “How much for a bouquet? I would love to put some of your flowers in my home.”
The farmer recoiled slightly and responded, “I’m sorry but these flowers are not for sale.” The passerby looked perplexed and left dejected.
The next day, when the farmer came out of his home, a little boy was waiting at his fenceline. The boy looked eager to see him. “Good morning!” said the little boy.
“Good morning,” said the old farmer, “what brings you all the way out here?”
“I wanted to see your flowers,” said the boy.
“Well that’s nice son” replied the farmer.
“You know they call you the crazy flower farmer back in town?” blurted the boy. He gained an ashamed look on his face soon after.
The farmer asked, “well what makes them say that?”
The boy responded, “Well, they say anyone who spends as much time farming as you do ought to sell their crops. They say there’s no point in wasting your time like that.”
“Well maybe I am crazy then,” replied the old farmer, now looking at his flowers rather than the boy. The boy waited for a few minutes and then ran off back in the direction of the town.
Another day, a young farmer came to the old farmer's home. It was early in the morning but the old farmer was dressed and ready for his day of tending to the flowers. The young farmer said to him, “I have passed your farm every time I go to the town for years now. I want to buy your land and I have made enough money with my own farm to give you a generous offer.”
The farmer responded quickly and said, “I’m sorry sir but my land is not for sale.”
The young farmer didn’t seem to understand. “You know the talk around is that you never sell your flowers. A farmer that never sells his crops and won’t sell his land? You must be crazy old man.” The young farmer stepped off the old farmer’s porch before he could say a word.
The next day the farmer went out to his field, not with his usual watering can and weeding tools, but with a pair of small shears. He went to the first of his plots and cut two chrysanthemums. At the next plot he took a handful of daffodils. He went on to pick a dahlia, some daisies, and a few sprigs of lavender. He took his harvest into his home, wrapped their stems together with a length of twine, and tied it off neatly. He walked slowly to the edge of the outcrop of trees that surrounded his home and land. When he reached the edge of the trees he took off his hat, kneeled down, and moved a bushel of dried flowers that sat in front of a large stone. He took the new flowers that he was holding close to his chest and placed them where the old bushel sat. “I picked your favorites my dear.”
Cannabis doesn’t stain your walls.
Nicotine takes nearly the same amount of time to dissipate, and both are pervasive but because nicotine is usually mixed with tar the smoke leaves a layer of residue behind. So the stains on your walls are probably from nicotine, not cannabis, especially not when smoked in moderation.
Two summers ago, my friend Tehema invited me and some other friends to her apartment, which she shared with her boyfriend Laurie. Laurie was drunk on life, he was such an unproblematic person; polite, well-humored, and you could tell he was really loving whenever he was with Tehema. He had a really hard childhood but he embraced it, and the way things were going for him made him inspirational to all of us. In a way he seemed untouchable and I think that thinking was what messed me up.
When Tehema asked me to get him for dinner I finally found him outside sitting on a fence of breezeblocks. He was holding a blunt, and the whole thing looked like a fresco. I already knew he smoked but I never saw it first-hand. I almost didn’t want to interrupt, and when I did he had this guilty look on his face. But the rest of the night went on like normal, we watched Jaws and played monopoly. When everyone left and we were cleaning up, Laurie actually came up to me and apologized.
I thought it was excessive, I’d grown up with people around me smoking so a small blunt like that was nothing in my eyes for someone his age. I told him not to worry about it, I hadn’t inhaled any of it. He took it as an opportunity to go into detail on how the drug worked, how it played around with your dopamine, and that made Tehema laugh. She asked that if he knew so much about it and how bad it was, why was he still smoking?
He said in his defense that it’d been his first blunt of the whole year, that he was working on quitting and even then it was okay because it was his ‘only wrong’ in life.
We enjoyed the rest of the evening together, moving the party outdoors. The three of us made good conversation, and before I left we promised we’d watch Napoleon Dynamite next time.
That was two summers ago.
It wasn't until that night that I really analyzed Laurie's relationship with smoking. I didn’t like that he did it but it wasn’t something I really thought about. I wasn't disappointed or upset about it, if anything it was humbling. It broke the image I had of him, not because I thought it made him lesser but because I realized he still had troubles he didn’t know how to confront. His words didn't feel assuring and since that night I never really stopped worrying about it. I paid closer attention to him, trying to figure out if he was doing better or worse, but never actually asking outright. I don't know why I didn't.
Then I got a call early April from a mutual friend of ours. I was annoyed, I don't like taking calls and he knew that, but since it was really late at night finding privacy wouldn't be an issue. When I picked up the phone, he told me that Laurie had died in a car-wreck out of state and that Tehama was devastated. They were leaving for the airport to confirm the body.
I don’t remember sleeping that night, only waking up. I didn’t go to school the next day. I didn’t go to the funeral days later. I didn’t tell anyone about it, I didn’t have anyone to tell. I exchanged words with Tehema and then tried forgetting about it. School and exams kept me busy and then they didn’t.
So when I finally visited again this summer, I didn’t believe it. I had hoped to find the apartment as I had left it, with him perched on the fence of breezeblocks. But the house looked all wrong, Tehema had switched to another unit and everything was now barren. The wallpaper had been stripped so you could see the surface behind and it was stained.
But cannabis doesn’t stain.
And if his 'only wrong' didn’t even leave a stain then was all that worry even worth anything?
. . ...I think about my own death often, I feel close to it in a way that I don’t understand. I wouldn’t call myself suicidal but I would say with confidence I'm impatient, to finish living. And I finally think that when I do die, young or old, I’d like it to be quiet; without fuss of any kind, so that when the people in my life come looking for a trace of me, they don’t find any stains. And that pain I leave them in, I I want that to be my only wrong, because then it'll mean I meant something to them. And I don’t feel guilty for wanting this because I believe that, even if people are troubling, loving another person can never be a waste.
The declaration of independence asserts, “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal.” However, our nation has not yet risen up and lived out the true meaning of its creed. Discrimination is defined as prejudiced, or prejudicial outlook, action, or treatment. We’ve made great progress since the days of slavery, but discrimination still shackles society.
Even in education, where students are supposed to feel safe and supported, I have faced discrimination. In fifth grade, I had a teacher who would openly discriminate against the only four students who were not caucasian in the class, my brother and me, and two other siblings in the class. We were exemplary students, having demonstrated to be the best students in the class, yet she still went out of her way to make passive aggressive comments towards us and make sure we knew our place. Discrimination is not something that is always noticed. Back then, I didn’t realize that there was something wrong with the way she was treating me, but looking back on it, I now realize that she went out of her way to make school difficult for me and my brother. She would do little things to single us out from the rest of the class, such as announcing to the whole class that education wasn’t cheap and that we would have to pay for everything in school right after I had told her that I wasn’t able to buy one of the fifth grade class shirts. She made it public to the class whenever my brother and I, and the other twins weren’t able to pay for something.
My family has encountered this discrimination in all facets of our life, including public places such as stores. A few years ago, I went to a Target near LAX to buy snacks while I waited for my dad’s plane to arrive. It had been around 5 minutes when the security began following us around the store making sure that we weren’t stealing. Despite the fact that we had done nothing wrong, and were simply looking through the snack aisle, they followed us throughout the store until we had left as if we were criminals being escorted out of the store.
Even though I have faced discrimination throughout my life, I have not been discriminated against as much as my mom. People always assume that my mom is an illegal immigrant, and that she does not speak English. Even when she speaks to them in English, they judge her by the way she looks and only speak to her in Spanish, assuming that she knows the language because of the way she looks. She isn’t given respect because they just assume that she won’t say anything about what they are doing. In fact, one day when she was speaking Spanish, an older caucasian lady yelled out to her that she shouldn’t be speaking Spanish and that she should go back to her country even though my mom is a U.S. citizen.
People continue to unjustly prejudge others based on their ethnicity, regardless of the morals that our nation was founded upon. We have come a long way, but we have a long road to pave towards equality for all, and we must strive to bring about change for others, and we do this by educating our children to focus on character rather than skin color.
It was August 19th, 2016. I was celebrating my birthday in the hospital with my grandma. She was in a hospital bed with stage 4 pulmonary fibrosis, a deadly cancer which leads to eventual lung failure. We cut the cake, sang and said our goodbyes while my parents stayed the night. That would be the very last time I saw my grandma as she passed exactly 11 days later on August 30th. I had watched a discussion a while back in which two people were talking about what it means to grow. One of the speakers said “Many think that the development of maturity begins with getting a job or your driver’s license. That’s wrong. Maturity starts when you have someone who you care for and think about, someone who is dependent on you helping them carry on with their daily lives.”
The passing of my grandmother marked this moment for me. I felt immense grief and sadness which is very difficult to put in words for me. I do not believe myself to be an adult or carry the burden of being one, but as I undertook a large task, I felt as if this was the start of building my maturity. Within weeks of her passing, I found myself with an array of new tasks and concerns which had never plagued my mind before. I was now the main caretaker of my younger sister and my elderly grandpa at 11 years old. All of a sudden I had to wonder, ‘What am I going to cook for lunch when I get home for my sister and myself?”, or ‘I need to be home in time to walk my sister home from school.” My grandfather due to age did not have the greatest motor skills and would need help doing simple things like getting a glass of water, putting his dinner plate in the sink or cleaning up his own spill. After my grandmother died, my grandfather launched into depression as well. For this reason, I always tried to be available and in his presence. As months went by, he made a good recovery and it was good to see him back to his normal self.
It was during this time I learned how to cook, clean and look after more than just myself. Although it was very unfortunate, the skills I quickly learned will be a lifelong help to me. Two years after this occurrence, my uncle and his family from India got their immigration approved and stayed with us until they could get on their feet. I had two younger cousins who came under my care as well, as their parents were working often to build up some money to start anew here. So now not only did I care for 3 younger siblings but also my grandpa. Sometimes I felt like another parent in the household.
The youngest sibling at the time was 6 years old in the first grade. I did everything from cook meals to help with homework. I was with them everywhere, whether it was to play basketball or when I walked back home from their school with them. At the time of this, life did not feel like a blessing but I have realized that the lessons I learned were plenty enough to call it a blessing. These experiences all greatly heightened my levels of patience and understanding. I most definitely learned why disciplining was necessary and gained the ability to teach. The skill of teaching was very important as I became a tutor online and for some of my teachers. It was almost the beginning of 2019 when they were able to find their own home and now they’re more like family than cousin to me.
All of these accumulated experiences and skills aided heavily in caring more for my grandfather who got diagnosed with skin cancer last year. I had to blend his meals up because he was only capable of drinking liquids and helped him walk up the stairs and more. The most simple capabilities of the human body were ruined and I learned that health is often taken for granted as it was by me. These small tasks piled up very quickly. It could be giving him water and protein shakes, making breakfast and lunch, helping him get to the restroom and bedroom, or even just dealing with his very hopeless outlook. But with the combined effort of my family and myself, he has made a full recovery and is thriving again.
I think the way my life has unfolded represents the meaning of the butterfly effect. If any one of these events did not occur, I feel that I would not be half the person I am today. These events have been absolutely crucial in my growth and development as a person. With college now on the horizon, I believe I am truly ready to be alone and carry myself as an
Breakfast has been my favorite meal of the day since I was a child. The various food options were also a happy place for me, but my favorite breakfast dish is cinnamon pancakes. My mother and aunt would always prepare them for me, whether during the week or on the weekends. Of course, the weekend is my favorite because I can spend more time enjoying them. With a hint of cinnamon, the sweetness of the syrup complements the slightly savory butter perfectly. Because I've loved pancakes since I was a child, I try to eat them every weekend when I get the chance. Pancakes for breakfast may seem like a typical breakfast to some, but it's something special from my childhood that I'd like to share with you so you can enjoy them as well!
It should take you a maximum of 5 minutes of prep time with an additional 12 minutes to cook them with a total of 6 ingredients.
Dry Ingredients
● 1 ½ cups all-purpose flour
● 1 tablespoon baking powder
● 1 tablespoon sugar
● 1 tablespoon cinnamon
● 1 teaspoon salt(optional)
Wet Ingredients
● 1 ¼ cups milk
● 1 egg
● 3 tablespoons butter, melted
● 1 teaspoon vanilla extract
Supplies:
● Measuring cups
● 1 bowl (if you need another then do so)
● Spoon or whisk to mix ingredients
● Butter/oil for the pan or griddle
● Spatula to flip pancakes
● Plate to place the pancakes
Step 1: add all dry ingredients into the bowl and then mix well
Step 2: add the wet ingredients - mix well and make sure there are no lumps until the batter is smooth.
Step 3: Melt some butter or oil in a large griddle/pan over medium heat. Pour in 1/4 cup of batter, and when it begins to bubble, flip and cook for another minute on the other side.
Step 4: Cook the remaining pancake batter and serve with butter and regular syrup, or cinnamon syrup if desired. After you have made the perfect cinnamon pancakes you can now enjoy them for yourself!
I saw him there. Every time I glimpsed at that reflective silvery surface, I saw him. He was my height, my same complexion, very similar in build and stature, even had a scar on his cheek, like mine. But it was not me. It couldn't possibly be me. I am me. But this, this was not me. I felt close to the person in there though, like a friend I knew long ago. I felt maybe I could reach out and touch them, give them a hug, ask them "how's life" like friends do.
Maybe I could touch them. If I could build up the courage to reach out and touch that cold, baren surface. I was afraid. I-I couldn't do it. He had piercing eyes that I couldn't concentrate on. But whenever I dropped my gaze to my hands, so did he. His movements replicated mine down to the most strange detail-details that if someone were watching me they wouldn't be able to imitate. The reconstruction of my movements was surreal: it’s not possible that a person could reproduce the EXACT movement I was doing. Unless it was me. I had no other explanation. It wasn’t me.
I couldn’t take it any more. I rummaged through the things in my room for something…sharp. I located the scissors from my desk and stepped back to the mirror. I half carved, half shattered the mirror until the phrase “Can you see me” appeared on the glass in a crooked, off-centered way. No change. He just stood there, waiting for my reaction, as I did his.
“Stalemate” I thought. I guess that was it. It was me in there, not someone else at all.
I tracked down one of my dress shoes, still sitting next to the bed where I left it. “What am I supposed to do? I can’t stay like this.” I said aloud to myself. I approached the mirror again, raised the heel of the shoe, and prepared to strike the already damaged face. I swung-there was a knock at the door. I didn’t order room service, who could it be? I speed anxiously, impatiently around the bed, away from the mirror, and towards the door. “Yes” I say before the door is fully open. An empty space greets me at the door. Curious. I could’ve swore-”Wait a minute” I whipped around and stormed towards the mirror. “Was that you?” I asked the reflection, still charging that unfriendly image on the wall. What happened next is a blur, and I’m unsure as to when I came to, but I was lying on the cold floor, next to the bed and…the mirror. Except it appeared in a different way compared to the last time I saw it. The glass was shattered badly, the entire center missing, to the point that I couldn’t see my face in it any longer. Wait, who’s face? I glanced in the shards that lay on the floor below where the mirror had been, and the reflection smiled.
Delirious and stumbling towards the first structure he laid eyes on, he made no notice of the figure crouched in the corner. Distantly, he registered the sounds of gunfire and crunching rubble- the soundtrack of his life for the past three months. The crumbling, destitute building in front of him seemed like Elysium, a blessed refuge from the oncoming snowstorm.
The man lowered himself down gingerly and rested his head against the concrete wall with a weighted sigh, receiving his first moment of reprieve in days. With his eyes starting to close and his entire body going limp from exhaustion, the soldier resolved to give up his fight for survival. He never was made for a life of violence, fear, and inhumanity after all.
A rustle of cloth several meters away jerked him out of his stupor, kicking his senses into high alert. His head whipped to the side and he caught sight of another man. A man with a green armband. An enemy. What a ludicrous but timely response to his vow. Two seconds of swearing off violence and he faces just that at the price of his own life. He gave a short bitter laugh.
“Do I intimidate you that much?” he scoffed sardonically, sitting up and facing his new company.
“Not particularly. I have no regard for my life; I can’t bother to be intimidated.”
The enemy soldier looked at him quizzically, eyebrows drawn together. “You want to die?”
“No,” he said hesitantly. “This is hardly living, though, is it?”
“Some would argue it is,” the man responded haughtily.
“What do you argue?”
As if reading from a script, he puffed up and recited, “That fighting gives me purpose. A cause to defend.”
He laughed exasperatedly in reply, his head once again falling back onto the firm wall. What a twisted fate that brought him into the company of the most patriotic and brusque person in this desolate town.
Within minutes of a tense quiet being established, the enemy piped up with the threat, “I could kill you, you know.”
His unwelcome guest grumbled something unintelligible with the audacity to sound bored. Although his dismissive nature aggravated the other, they said nothing more. Silence settled over them, the only sounds coming from the abused trees fighting to stay standing against the harsh winds. The wind’s whistling rose in pitch, shaking the fragile building as a chill crept toward the crouched bodies on the floor.
“Alright, I found this hovel first,” the enemy cut in. He rose from the corner with an audible effort and swept the dirt from his pants. His companion’s head swiveled, straining to look up at him from the new angle from the floor.
“I’m not chancing waking up to a barrel staring me down.” He grabbed his gun and strode over, boots thunking dully against the floor. Without much care, he jabbed him in the shoulder with the butt of the gun. The man stared down with a hard face, snapping “Out” repeatedly, each time with increasing aggression.
Not having moved and at this point quite annoyed, the man on the floor released an exasperated groan. “Can’t we just-” he broke off with a sigh. “Can’t we stay here and not threaten each other? I don’t know… be nice?” He pinched the bridge of his nose as if nursing an excruciating headache. “I just want one goddamn second of rest.”
At their proximity, the soldier’s heavy breathing became audible. His hands tightened on his rifle; nostrils flaring, he spat out, “Kindness doesn’t exactly suit this line of work.”
“Maybe. But it could suit you. Give me a break.” He rolled his eyes as the man in front of him continued to look dissatisfied. “At least until the storm passes, yeah?”
The man debated his options, trying to deduce if he was overthinking or if he was being tricked. A frown still weighed down his face.
“I’ve already told you, I’m not looking for a fight. Cheer up and sit your ass back down,” he drawled impatiently.
Hesitantly, and with his eyes never leaving the other man, the soldier sat down, nearly shoulder to shoulder with his companion.
Without the threat of violence hanging in the balance and a mutually unspoken promise to show the good in both of them for the night, the tension dissipated. With the wills of just two men, the war was put on hold. Their fragile trust held up an armistice.
For one moment, the inevitability of what lay ahead didn’t feel so crushing. They wished to stay here, the confines of the world limited to the shuddering glass windows, the long-dead garden turned graveyard, and the warmth of their partner’s presence.
As night fell and both men’s exhaustion reached its breaking point, the enemy soldier slid his armband off and whispered into the darkness.
“Alright. Until the storm passes"
For now, they trusted.
For now, they lived.
Warm aromas linger in my memories, and those tender thoughts of being raised by my abuelos(grandparents), allowed for the realization that being raised by them wasn’t a conventional upbringing; it was an experience and a lesson.
From birth, I was raised with my abuelos in a home filled with loud contagious laughter, and air filled with potent smells from traditional Mexican dishes filling up the little air space in a tiny home already filled with too many Tias to count. It was this home that laid the foundation for how I would speak, behave, and perceive others. Needless to say, the time I spent with my grandparents shaped my perception of the world around me - every story they told me formed some sort of new idea, and each idea sparked curiosity, and most importantly taught told me to cook, cook, and cook some more, because good food feeds and creates a healthy heart and soul.
Seeing my abuelitos more than my parents wasn’t because they abandoned me; it resulted from my first-generation parents working hard to provide the American dream for my brother and I. For a brief second, I recall being embarrassed by my abuelos pulling up to pick me up from first school in Victorville. I recall feeling uncomfortable and lonely as everyone else had their parents drive up in nice cars, and I would walk alone to my grandpa parked around the corner. But that embarrassment never lasted for more than a minute as my abuelo taught me the freedom of “choice.” - so I could’ve chosen to be embarrassed by how I was raised, or I could choose to relish that I am a product of their tender love and care. Plus, at least my grandpa always had a kid's container for me, filled with either hot chocolate, or coffee to welcome me to the car everyday.
Back at my abuelos casa after school, my grandma resided. She no longer drove anymore because a police officer had scared her; he yelled at her for being Mexican, and took away her license for no specific reason - and with that went her confidence and created her to be fearful and protective of me because of the brutal world stereotyping people for their race. Fortunately, well not necessary in a good way, you’ll see later why I wouldn’t ever face the same issue.
Even through all my abuelas hardships, my grandma still has a giving and nurturing soul, but is also a “Big Chillona” (crybaby or emotional person). Yet, at 4’8 in height, she is the most sassy woman you’ll meet. Which to me is funny, as my mom is not as empathetic or sassy, but very stubborn and hardheaded, and weary of the world. I think it was her Army life that made her an adamant person. It was unquestionably my grandma's empathy and my mother’s patriotic persona that taught me at an early age the importance of serving others and how to love and care for people. Later, this lesson sparked me to start a grassroots movement to establish a nonprofit to help the veterans in my community - but that's a different story-a novel of its own.
On the other hand, my abuelo was a past hippie and a war hero in Mexico - with long, luscious red hair, a fierce attitude, and a determined wild spirit, I’m often compared to him. He taught me the meaning of freedom, which has remained in my soul, tying me back to my appreciation for those who have fought for our freedom. My Grandpa would often point at all the scars on my belly from all my surgeries, and point at his own and say, “twins,” and then continue….“the battles we have fought can either define us or make us stronger.”
Although this experience seems humbling, it also caused a struggle of not fitting in- in being Mexican enough, or American enough. My abuelos struggled with English, and I with Spanish, so “Spanglish” was the native language in our home. As a result, I was judged by my closest peers for looking and speaking like a “gringa” (caucasian), teased and shamed for my red hair, freckles, and light complexion, and assumed I was adopted.
As a young girl, I never understood why they saw me different, and outcasted me - maybe it was because I didn't “look”like them or speak more than one tongue like them. I moved schools 7 times because of my dad's work, and each school had the same story - I was a “white” Mexican. Looking back now, I would have never been able to be where I am now without these little hiccups. My freshman year at Etiwanda, I felt like I was finally in a culturally diverse high school/environment, and I was now able to, and talk to those who don't fit in a “category” of race because they are 2nd gen that don't get the funds/time/or efforts because now we are deemed “American enough” because our family somehow made it in the US then had us, or even relate to those who are mixed races and aren’t accepted by either side. We all related in that way that we don't always look like who we ethically are, but most of the time we still hold those values and are the same as our family non the less.
Even now, my closest friends will joke that I am “too white looking” to be Hispanic of any sort, and I just laugh - laughing not to be rude, but because I know that my family in Mexicali & Guadalajara, are blonde, blue eyed, and lighter than me, and that in reality race shouldn’t have a stereotypical “look”. I am affirmed in my identity and who I am based on the fact that I eat Abongias, Chile de Renos, Mole, spending my weekends trying to remember all 50 of my Tias name, and dancing my heart out in parties that have no reason to held, rather than to just a celebration of family.
Knowing now my roots, AND being engrossed in a massive Mexican family, affirms that I am Hispanic, and my “look” doesn’t dictate my culture. My abuelos shaped this identity in me by never leading me astray from my culture, even when the world tried to take it away from me.
I believe that there are plenty of times growing up that little by little your naivety to the real world diminishes. I mean after all, only through experiences do you grow and mature. Whether that growth happens through a harsh awakening doesn’t matter. For me, one of these moments happened when I was 10 years old…on a family trip to Puerto Rico.
It was during March of 2016 and I was traveling to Puerto Rico with my family which consisted of my grandparents from my dad’s side, my grandma from my mom’s side, my parents, my little sister, and my little brother Garrison. One important detail to note here is that my brother had ADHD and severe Autism- this will be important context for the rest of the story.
Continuing, the journey to get onto the plane was like a game of Candy Land. We were at the starting point and instead of reaching Candy Castle at the end, we were all racing to reach the plane to our vacation destination.
Traveling with three elders and my brother was difficult, to say the least. My grandparents all complained about the walking involved in our adventure, and they struggled to handle all of the bags they had brought for the week away. One of my grandmas has a hard time walking for prolonged distances and we would need to constantly find a safe haven for her feet…any bench or flat surface she could sit on. Along with the trek across the airport, she would say in Cambodian, “I’m tired. Let me rest.” As we all traveled as a group, we all would just wait until she was ready to continue the path to “Candy Castle” - our plane.
On the other hand, for my younger brother, getting on the plane was a difficult time because of the unfamiliarity of being at the airport. For Garrison, having a routine is very important. Since being at the airport was out of his daily schedule, he was noticeably struggling with the newness of it all.
The airport was very busy as we went to LAX on a Saturday. Thus, there were the loud beeping sounds of the metal detectors showing that they worked, the footsteps of thousands of people pitter-pattering on multiple floor levels, and the intercom speeches echoing to announce flights and say the names of people missing from a plane about to take off.
All of these sounds must have seemed like a cacophony of discord to my brother (who was six at the time). The hustle of the airport and all of the unknown people around must have been frightening to him as he expressed his overwhelming concern through crying throughout the airport.
There were momentary outbursts of wailings and tears. My mom, in an attempt to soothe him, carried him while humming a Cambodian lullaby as we walked through the airport terminal. Freeing up her arms by giving the carry-on luggage to me, Garrison became slowly acclimated to the airport environment and we arrived at our gate for boarding.
However, after successfully getting on the plane with all eight of us accounted for, the journey after finally reaching “Candy Castle” became the hardest one yet. The plane ride to Puerto Rico was like another level of Candy Land, where all the progress you had made thus far was erased and you had to start again.
As we entered the Southwest plane, we moved towards the back as seats upon entry were taken. We broke into three groups for the flight. Group 1 was my three grandparents. Group 2 was my Dad and my younger sister, Savanna. Finally, Group 3 was my mom, Garrison, and me. In my seating arrangement, Garrison was at the window, my mom was in the middle, and I was at the end. As we sat and waited for the rest of the plane to board, for all of the luggage to be shoved into any space that could be found in the overhead bins, and the typical safety announcement, another challenge of our travels happened.
Garrison started to cry due to the new environment of the plane. The wailings would come in small sections, sometimes louder than the previous time. Other times, he would just silently cry and look out the window, seemingly searching for a way out. Additionally, the new medicine he was prescribed a few weeks ago made him have no desire to eat or to sleep. He did not even want his favorite drink, Sprite, because he was so anxious about the new experience.
Despite our efforts as his family, we couldn’t calm him for about an hour. While we didn’t want him to disturb any of the other passengers, there was nothing we could do. Of course we were aware that other people expressed unsaid annoyance at the flight situation Garrison caused, but the flight attendants were helpful and kind to Garrison and my mom who was trying her best to comfort him.
When we arrived at the airport terminal in Puerto Rico, I immediately felt the new climate of the place where we would be staying for a week. The humidity of the environment outside had turned the clear glass of the bridge foggy. However, the brightness of the sun was welcoming and my whole family had smiles on their faces as we had finally arrived at the place that had been no easy feat to reach. Once we reached the inside of the airport, my whole family, besides my father, waited at the gate (my dad had left something on the plane and went back to retrieve it).
We sat down on the black, faux leather chairs at the gate with all of our carry-on bags surrounding our feet. I was playing with toys with my younger sister, my grandparents were stretching (each helping one another), and my mom was sitting beside my younger brother playing a lullaby on her iPhone 6. In a matter of a few seconds, the peaceful atmosphere of my family was suddenly disrupted.
Soon, a tall, slender caucasian man in his mid-twenties walked out into the gate area. He was wearing cargo shorts of a tannish brown color, weaved sandals, and a long-sleeved hoodie with black and purple stripes running down the front and back. He had scruffy facial hair and his dirty blonde hair reached his shoulders. Little did I know that one of my rude awakenings into the “real world” came in the form of this man.
He approached my mom and asked, “Is this your son?”, pointing at Garrison.
In response, my mom replied, “Yes”.
What exited his mouth next is something that none of my family or I expected. He followed his question with “Well, your son’s an a**hole. You shouldn’t be traveling with him.”
Sitting in shock with my sister, we halted our playtime to see what our mom would do next. My grandparents were more so curious about the man’s presence because they didn’t understand the verbal exchange that had just happened.
I still remember the feeling of shock and anger that filled my body right at that moment. I could not understand why a stranger would say something so condescending about my brother.
“How could he say something so rude? Why did he feel that it was necessary to insult my brother and mom?”
I was so angry because he didn't know how hard it was to even get on the plane, nor did he know how big of an obstacle flying was for Garrison. Given, he did cry and cause a disturbance during the flight, but did that justify this man’s audacity?
I was hoping that my mom would cuss out the man and express the immense amount of anger that I was feeling inside. In my head, that’s what I would have done if I was old enough to be taken seriously.
However, she didn’t do this. Instead, she said some of the wisest words that have stuck with me ever since.
She replied, “Well he is my son and I hope that you have a child like him so you can understand why he is with us.”
In response, the man walked away and never looked back. A few minutes afterward, my dad had come out into the gate and my mom told him what had just happened a few moments earlier.
Though this moment was quite shocking, the interaction taught me two lessons: the importance of having empathy in life and sometimes, people can be cruel. I realized that the man felt the need to ridicule my brother only because he didn’t have the heart to understand Garrison’s situation or my family’s. If he had the empathy to understand the situation instead of turning to anger, he wouldn’t have felt the need to call out my brother. Due to his lack of empathy and his inability to have the basic decency to not disrespect a stranger’s family, he saw the confrontation as necessary.
I mean, there were multiple people on the flight besides ourselves and the stranger, so why didn’t they say something to us? Empathy and respect were the aspects separating the stranger from those who had continued on with their lives, without confronting my family.
Due to this interaction, I vouched to practice having empathy for others and to understand situations before acting rashly. Even if I could not possibly live through all of the experiences of another person, I can learn to find motivations behind certain actions and respect the differing backgrounds of other people.
My mom handled the confrontation so gracefully and maturely because she knew that the man’s ignorance wouldn't be changed by some harsh words from the swear dictionary. Unlike him, my mom understood what type of person he was and had enough respect for herself not to let him get the best of her or her family.
I don’t know what happened to the man after he walked away from the interaction with my mom, but I hope he learned some tough lessons to lead him to empathy.
While I would like to say that he was the last person who ever treated Garrison as anything less than a person, there have been many instances since. However, the trip to Puerto Rico taught me not to express anger towards these people, but to pity them for how narrow their view of the world must be.
With the learned importance of empathy, I have made sure to always take time to understand people’s motivations, true emotions, and treat them with kindness. And while the family vacation to Puerto Rico may have not been the most pleasant way to learn empathy, I am grateful for it.
A question I ask myself constantly, as a musical contributor to the genre, is what is “Nu Jazz”. Nu Jazz has been defined by many including spotify which calls it “Jazztronica” and one definition that pretty much sums them all up comes from “Cherwell”, one of oxford's oldest student newspapers. It says that Nu Jazz is, “a musical genre that incorporates aspects of various genres to create an innovative and refreshing approach to jazz, thus blurring the staunch conceptual lines of musical genre.” For me this is a huge generalization or umbrella term to put what this music is under because it gives listeners such a wide variety of options. Two artists who I could consider Nu jazz are Anomalie and my personal favorite, Kiefer, and these two artists have two completely different styles of music. Anomalie is much more electronic with funky west coast synths and ideas (despite being from Canada) and Kiefer has a more chill and nostalgic, yet groovy sound that it is hard to describe in words and is uniquely his own. So from the consumer or listeners perspective it’s this huge genre that covers many things. But from my perspective of playing and making music I think it’s much deeper than this. I believe that the Nu Jazz genre is one that we can’t truly define yet not because it’s so broad but because it’s definition changes depending on who it is you’re listening to. A perfect way I can show an example of this is if we look at kendrick lamar’s past two albums “Damn” and “Mr Morale and The Big Steppers” and contrast them with Kiefer’s last two albums, “When there’s love around,” and “Between Days”. In Kenderick Lamar’s previous two albums we can easily tell they’re hip hop. Through the beats and the fact that there’s a rapper present in the music, but even if we take away the rapper’s voice the production quality and style still screams hip hop. If we compared the beats from those albums to the beats Dj Premier made in the 90’s we can confidently say both are hip hop. Now we look at kiefer’s previous albums. “Between days”, is a beat tape that utilizes live instruments and synthesizers to create unique grooves for every single song that seem to have a hip hop influence but then we look at the album prior to that “When There’s Love Around”. This album is completely different from “Between Days” It’s recorded with a live band and sounds almost like jazz however it isn’t any type of traditional jazz. These are songs with jazz influence and hip hop influence occasionally but with something that we can only hear kiefer do in his style of music that I say is uniquely him and defines his sound or version of “Nu Jazz”. If I tried comparing any of Kiefer’s albums to any other “Nu Jazz” artist’s albums such as Rob Arouja, Anomalie, Elijah Fox, Cisco Swank, and many many more, it becomes very hard for us to say that any of these people compared to one another are in the same genre. They all sound completely different but can be found in sometimes the same “Nu Jazz” or “Jazztonica” playlist. This truly shows that the Nu Jazz definition is a big generalization to something we can’t define due to the fact that its meaning changes with the artist.
