Why we create

The first time I opened my mouth on stage, the words tumbled out. I let the crumpled piece of paper fall out of my hands, which found themselves exploring new liberation and pulsing to the rhythm of my heartbeat. I spoke about violin, about the exhilaration of diving into a rich double stop or painful beauty of a minor chord. The faces of seniors, teachers, and parents faded away as I forgot about my anxiety of being the youngest person in the room, about my hot pink pants, about writing poetry. As I tried to convey my love of the music, I found myself lost in a new passion. A few minutes before, I had been about to take my name off the program of the open mic, feign illness or an emergency phone call. Yet fortunately for my future self, something held me locked to my seat. Everything I do now stems around writing, sharing, and performing. It is how I cope with life, how I express my craziest ideas and most heartfelt truths, how I connect with people. For the past three and a half years, writing and expression in general have been integral parts of me. Simply from choosing to perform my first ever poem, I released a now unrestrained part of me. As words flowed and my confidence grew, a pen became my best friend and the stage became my home.

    At that point in my life, there was nothing I needed more than a form of liberation. Family turmoil at home left me silenced and lost. My only defense was my outward appearance. I took risks with fashion, friends, older boys, but was a complete mess on the inside. There was little support around me. Just lots and lots of darkness. It was no surprise when I decided, as the only freshman, to get onstage and perform my first poem ever. Yet I didn’t realize the effect it would produce. Stepping on stage opened the gates to the flood of expression that ensued over the next few years. I found my true home with the Polytechnic Slam Team, but also maintained callused fingertips from the violin strings, dance bruises that constantly decorated my bare legs, and paint splatters that became common stains on my clothes. I quickly realized I felt at home performing. There was an escape in the lights onstage, a different world I could create for myself. I drew from my darkest hours and poured my heart into poetry and dance. Each limb I stretched on the dance floor I pushed to go an extra centimeter, daring myself to go further. The physical release of each leap, roll, or lift kept me mentally grounded and yet lifted me to new heights. Although at the time I might have just been distracting myself with extracurricular activities, I realized that these “escapes” actually lead right back to the root of my life. Writing is not an avenue to run away from your problems, but a road straight to your soul. Whatever is hiding comes out on the paper. Art simultaneously freed me of certain burdens while reminding me where I came from, good or bad. We create so that we can become something new, but our pasts are the material we use to form the new product.

A little bit about my creative project...

My creative project consists of two parts: Phase One and Phase Two. The distinction between the two phases is the contrast of the two world Poly students know. The first is stifling and depressing, whereas the second is vibrant and full of life.

In Phase One, I wanted to capture the stress that the Poly environment feeds on, both socially and academically.These pictures are meant to show the lack of meaning and individuality in a student’s life under the pressure they face.

However, there is a supposed breakthrough, and Phase Two represents the other side of life. The pictures show the girl venturing out; doing art (a very liberating activity) outside in the sunlight, or enjoying a beautiful view atop a mountain. The mountain pictures represent “the bigger picture”...aka the fact that there is a whole world outside of the Poly bubble. These images are meant to be the self-discovery and actively searching for the meaning of life instead of being stuck in the sad cycle of studying and loneliness.

Stop Labeling

It is human nature to crave discovery, to push limits, to ask questions. Scientists experiment, trying to find answers to complex questions; politicians debate, trying to come up with solutions to national problems; artists create, trying to put meaning to life. In this day and age, technology makes this so much easier. There is a quick fix for everything, a label, a pill. Yet we put so much effort into getting to the finish line that we don’t stop and enjoy the journey.

Even with all the modern medicine and internet sources that is so accessible to me, I do not feel like I am any more certain of who I am or where I belong. There is so much information that often I do not feel helped, but even more confused. Now that we have such a large breadth of knowledge, people can look for answers in more places and can usually get an accurate response. However, there is a disconnect: we might have the Psychology to explain, but we are still in doubt, because although we have mapped out every scientific possibility we cannot solve the mysteries of the heart and soul.

Is society constraining us with all these terms and labels and solutions? Does someone who is diagnosed with ADHD or Bipolar Disorder feel lesser than just because a doctor threw some words at them? Just like when you tell yourself that you’re sick and subsequently start feeling the symptoms more prominently, I worry that by labeling someone, they end up feeling stuck in a box or limited. One’s whole mentality changes! That being said, there is definitely validity to diagnosing a medical disorder. I’m just saying, let’s not limit people by calling them a certain name. It happens all the time in high school: the jocks, the nerds, the “cool kids”, etc. Arbitrary names that don’t actually describe someone’s full nature. Let them be free!

Barbie Doll Nightmares

Last night, I had a nightmare. Donald Trump was president, and had just dictated in his State of the Union address exactly how women of America should look. “We only want blondes here! And if you’re over size 4, we’re putting you on a federal diet! Hahaha! Welcome to the new America!” Now, this dream has a LOT wrong with it (Donald Trump, racism, misogyny, weightism, to name a few), but I woke up feeling like the pressure of being a Barbie doll--when I would rather be Eleanor Roosevelt--was stifling. Girls today have such high expectations placed on their shoulders--not academic or athletic, but about appearance. Magazines, movies, TV shows, where is the girl who looks like a REAL American? Plastic is not something to strive for, and I want the media to finally start recognizing that.

Now, I love a good girls’ night in: popcorn, Ben & Jerry’s Phish Food ice cream, and a Rom-Com movie. However, I started noticing that the majority of the movies I was mindlessly watching didn’t pass the Bechdel test, and the superficial portrayal of women actually indirectly took away my power as a woman. Why are there so few women in powerful roles? Why is this acceptable? For this phenomenon, I mainly blame the media. However, this question is not simply about answering a statement but finding solutions for my generation and those to come.

This question is important to me because the future of one little 6-year old girl seems to weigh heavily in my hands. Every Monday right after practice, I babysit. At first, it was just a job; I cook dinner and keep a kindergartner entertained until bedtime. However, as my bond deepened with Daniela, I realized she was following my lead, repeating what I say or sharing my opinions. As we read Dr. Seuss and Pinkalicious together, I realized the importance of showing her what it means to be a woman includes protecting her from the biases she would obliviously read about in the years to come. I had a pretty good role model; Daniela’s mom is one of the toughest single parents I knew. Yet because she has to work during the day and attends school during the night, I am occasionally left as the surrogate caretaker. So, I try to avoid using “bossy” as a negative word, and make sure Daniela knows that no one has the right to judge her intelligence, even if she wears frilly pink dresses. I don’t want Daniela to reach my age and have to restructure her thinking to become feminist; I want equality, confidence, and respect ingrained in her mind and vocabulary.

03.07.16

“You’re something out of a dream,” she said.  

“Let’s get you home,” he responded, hiding his smile. The rain started beating down and he slipped his jacket over her shoulders. Everything was hazy for the both of them. She began to dance, twirling and jumping like a drunk ballerina. She paused to look at his youthful face, and the world kept spinning.

Rain dripped down their faces like tears. “I’m not your baby, you know,” she added, somewhat tauntingly. “I’ll never be that girl.” Brushing her lips to his, she got into the car and left him standing in the rain. He just smiled, watching the car, and her face, and the lights, disappear into the darkness.

She woke up the next morning body aching and a craving for cool, sweet water. Missed calls on her phone, unread messages. Surreal images of his face and the rain floated through her mind. Was it a dream? Then, she saw the blue jacket lying on the chair. It was still damp. She hid her smile, for no one in particular.

Opening up her notebook, a quote was scribbled in the corner. “The trick to forgetting the big picture is to look at everything close-up.” She thought about the night before. The rain. Drip, drip. The small smile. Cracked lips. The car as it rolled down the street. Away from him. Every detail overanalyzed, every image separated from one another.

Music drifted in through the open window. An old Motown song she used to hear as a child, when now-forgotten memories were still vibrant and playgrounds were adventures. Suddenly, she got a whiff of rosemary and lavender, like the bushes in the front yard of her childhood home. She remembered burnt cinnamon raisin toast, crystals stashed in dusty corners, pencil drawings on bedroom walls. A lifetime of memories, released by a few faint measures of The Jackson 5. She always hated the way things could get brought up by one small trigger. It’s paralyzing, she thought in disgust. In this world, there’s no real forgetting.

She glanced at her phone. Its multitude of pictures--selfies, blurry ones with friends, candid ones, screenshots--was basically a diary in itself. While she added bursts of thought to the notes section in her phone, the yellow leather notebook lay forgotten on the desk. Once used constantly, it took second priority to the LED screen that held so much information. Nothing was ever lost in the Cloud, except maybe bits of one's humanity. No real forgetting.

Yawning, she rolled over, pulling the gray sheets over her shivering legs. Time to go back to dreaming.

Capturing Human Consciousness

I suppose the beginning of dissecting human consciousness would be to decide what it is. Is it a state of mind, something we tap into when on a higher level of understanding and at peace within ourselves? Is it a matter, a scientific quality that can be quantified and parceled up and shipped off to labs? Or is it simply the act of asking myself these questions, is it awareness? Being “conscious” is technically just the act of being awake. However, that is not the same as human consciousness, which requires much more effort. It is a unique quality, one that usually takes time and effort to find. The difference between human consciousness and subconscious is fine, but what makes it up is the aspect of awareness. Both concepts are built into the human mind, yet consciousness is much less immediate or attainable. It is something, almost like a skill, that must be mastered or controlled. When we’re lucky, we can recognize its presence. Then, we have peace of mind. But many times, it is disappears.

I often wonder where our consciousness goes. It escapes sometimes, so where does it end up? In this day and age, especially, does it leak into the LED screens of our cell phones and laptops and gadgets that continuously evolve at a faster rate than at which we can keep up? Or, is there a stream of universal consciousness that we must take the initiative with and tap into it by active volition? If so, this is more along the lines of shamanism and reiki, which I have personally disputed and debated about. Is the search for human consciousness somehow just another form of religion, trying to find meaning in our messy lives? Leaning towards the side of atheism, I used to find fault in theories like those. However, now I think that if we didn’t at least try to figure out where we stand and why, we lose a crucial sense of purpose in our lives.

Capturing human consciousness from the inside out requires one to self reflect. For me, it brought uncomfortable moments of realization that I am not at the level of inner peace that many strive for. Instead, the velocity of my thoughts races by, fueled by the desire to push forward or break through some unattainable level. Consciousness should exist in the present moments of one’s lifetime. Yet the awareness of now is lacking; past and future dominate my thoughts. In Mrs. Dalloway, Woolf constantly interjects memories or reflections on the past into the novel. By putting emphasis on the past, is Woolf saying that it is what drives us? Thus, our consciousness, and even being “present”, must somehow combine the elements of the past, present, and the infinite possibility of the future. This library of memories, instinct, and expectations becomes our complete, collective identity.

As humans, consciousness is a gift. We are lucky to have it, but many take the awareness for granted and never quite get actually attain it.