October 7, 2013 • A POSITIVE PRESS PUBLICATION • VOL. 4, ISSUE 3
This is for you.
written by third-year, Taylor Tokarz
This is for the girls taught to brush off compliments and for the guys who don’t know what they’re doing wrong. This is for the homesick globetrotters, for the homeward bound taking pause, and for those just finding their way. This is for anyone using words as a coping mechanism.
This is for the kids picked last, now practicing in the backyard, for the bullies protecting their own hearts, for the churchgoers praying for faith, for acrophobes falling in love, for wallflowers with busy minds and nervous hands, and for the first one on the dance floor. This is for stargazers and sunset-watchers begging for answers, for scholars intent on knowing more, and for Poet Laureates stumbling over words. This is for the good people in bad situations. This is for the mathematician counting the days until he’s home, for the surgeon sewing ripped clothes, for the sous chef at the homeless shelter. |
This is for anyone who has tried and failed and failed and failed again, then tried once more. This is for writers writing new worlds, and for the readers believing in them. This is for the brokenhearted crying loudly, singing louder. This is for the moviegoers longing for a past age, for the sculptor speaking with a wheel, for the artists painting themselves more and more with every brush stroke. This is for the binge-watchers taking their slice of the day, and for night-owls burying secrets in dreams.
This is for any of these people, or all of them, but especially for you, wherever you are. Editor’s Note: This article was inspired by Anis Mojgani’s spoken word poem “Shake the Dust” |
A Whale of a Tale
written by third-year, Anna Wilson
I was on a boat. I could hear the water softly hit the sides, creating a small wake in the chilly Atlantic as we went onward into the ocean. It was a summer morning in Maine, but to a family from Georgia it felt much more like a chilly fall day. My windbreaker was not quite living up to its name, but I was more preoccupied with the ocean breeze that kept whipping my hair into my eyes, temporarily blinding my view of the vast, mesmerizing ocean. Everyone else on the boat had congregated on the deck, patiently waiting for the reason our paths crossed on this fine morning: recreational whale watching.
The entire day was set to be an exciting adventure for my family of moderate thrill seekers, and the activity of observing whales with no affiliation to Sea World was exhilarating. The early morning had started on an enthusiastic note. As we left the dock, everyone hyper-actively took in all the stimuli to make sure no whales were left unnoticed by our amateur, sleepy eyes. Soon we were no longer leisurely looking for a whale, but instead on a quest as our trip hit the three-hour mark of expected return, prompting Gilligan’s Island jokes and the briefest hints of laughter. It became apparent we were not to return back to land until we had |
seen a whale long enough to take a picture (or twenty). As this news circulated, employee-passenger relations intensified as we became quarantined to this boat. Soon a fellow passenger created a customer petition of people who would graciously forfeit rights to a refund in exchange for a prompt return. My mother signed over our refund rights as my father lay on a bench somewhere from seasickness.
The people of the boat waited and waited. As time wore on, people retreated to the warmth of the interior of the boat, myself included. The three-hour tour would end soon without our guaranteed whale spotting. Bonding with strangers ensued. Soon jokes spread, then a rumor that we would wait on the boat until we saw one. At this point we were all ready to pretend that the dolphin we saw in our initial excitement that morning was actually a whale. |
Another two hours passed and as we looked out into the whale-less water, defeated and ready to return, someone spotted something several yards away. Were we imagining this? Were whales even real? And then, a beautiful pod of whales slowly emerged from the water. It was as intense as the ending of Free Willy. It was dramatic, there were smiles; music should have been playing. There was jumping, and fist bumping; there were even a few tears. As cameras frantically captured every move the whales made, we cheered and watched the pod swim and jump through the ocean. Finally, we were able to head back to the stretch of land in the distant horizon, and perhaps, just maybe, the pod of whales were on their way home too.
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The Comforting Reality of Tests
written by by second-year, Nneka Ewulonu
Test day. I lift my head from the textbook on which I accidentally fell asleep, blearily rubbing ink stains off of my face. Surrounding me is a graveyard of Coke cans and coffee mugs. Through the window, I can tell it’s still night time, and I thank God I didn’t sleep through my exam. As I rejoin reality, my thoughts are just a stream of panic stricken expletives, worried about failure and my eventual inability to get to med school.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. Let’s go back a few days, to where my thoughts start out as encouragement, albeit anxiety-driven encouragement. “Oh my god. Oh my god. I have an exam. This is not a drill, man the battlegrounds, prepare yourself.” I dedicate myself to a study room, break out the books, and study as much as I can. Despite my preparation, the closer I get to exam day the more frenzied my thoughts become. “I’m gonna fail. I’m gonna fail and have to drop out of school and I’ll never get to med school oh my god.” I start thinking of backup life plans, such as growing a |
beard and joining a circus or giving in and living with my parents for forty more years.
But then I get there. And I look at the test. And it’s the easiest test I’ve ever taken. A bonobo with a pencil could have aced it. And yet I’d spent the entire weekend before psyching myself out. My mind had envisioned some sort of gruesome evil rather than what it really was: a test. Just a test. I had let my thoughts get the best of me and distract me from the goal of just doing the best I can. The more exams I’ve taken, the better I’ve become at staying realistic. I remind myself: it will not be as bad as you think. Say it with me, kids. It will not be as bad as you think. Even if it’s your hardest class, I can promise you that it’ll be okay. Don’t let the thought of a looming exam get the better of you and distract you from applying yourself. When you look back, whether it be a few minutes or a few years after the exam, you’ll realise just how not-scary it truly was. |
Now here’s a fun fact: you will fail something at some point in your life. It’s gonna suck. But you’ll do better the next time, and the time after that, and you’ll be able to accurately gauge how you think you’ll do. College is hard, I'm not denying that. But adding a dash of realism to your thoughts will make your four years a much smoother, happier ride.
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Efficiency – An Avenue to Success
written third-year, Maya Basu
Since I was a wobbling toddler, I have loved collecting small moments of truth from different art mediums. During creative performances, I am always given a jolt of happiness and find myself holding my breath with intrigue and wonder when I stumble across something that strikes me as resoundingly true, or reflective of truth. I found such an instance of truth reflected in the 2006 movie The Pursuit of Happyness.
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I made the deepest connection with a simple yet poignant moment near the end of the film. In this scene, protagonist Chris Gardner has just finished his unpaid internship at an investment firm, at the end of which one intern will be given a permanent job. After months of grueling effort, Chris stands in a bathroom washing his hands before the big meeting which will affect his entire family’s future. After washing his hands, he takes a single paper towel from the dispenser to wipe his hands– not the bundled two to three that most people average. After thoroughly drying his hands, he collectedly and confidently walks out of the bathroom, toward his meeting, and into his bright future.
In this one action, I gained an appreciation for Chris Gardner’s character. Even in wiping his hands, he was extremely mindful of his resources and executed the small task efficiently. This moment was so inspirational to me that since then, everytime I go to the |
bathroom, I challenge myself to use a single sheet of paper towel when drying my hands (only, of course, when the more eco-friendly hand dryers are not available). One truth that I’ve experienced in life is that the mark of a person truly skilled in a craft is his ability to utilize the least amount of resources to execute a task. In many ways, this adjustment, adaptation, and efficiency is a part of every activity that we pursue, with the amount of success we find in our pursuits reflective of our abilities to make the most of what we’ve been given. In fact, efficiency and economics are intimate friends, as evidenced by the very definition of economics accepted by many textbooks as “the efficient allocation of resources.” Chris Gardner’s economical approach to life, one that I’ve witnessed in many of my role models and seen to be true in many life experiences, is truly something admirable that I strive for every day.
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Beauty Undefined
written by third-year, Melanie Kent
According to my psychology textbook, beauty is a product of symmetry. This is because a symmetrical face is more recognizable and familiar. The more pictures merged into a single face, the more beautiful that face appears to us.
This would be the classic idea of beauty. But beauty is more than proportions. Idiosyncrasies draw us in with their authenticity. Broken symmetry captivates us in its distinctiveness. Unconventional beauty is some of the most powerful. I decided to test these definitions, and headed to the MLC to people-watch. I settled into the cushion, back to a corner, with air blowing down and people flowing past. For the moment, the space seemed dead. Set faces and drooping eyelids populated the technology-laden study spaces. People seemed like homogenous blurs or distant statues. |
Then my neighbor, staring dully at her computer, lit up at a friend's greeting. The anxious-looking kid found an answer and relaxed into chill cuteness. A professor confidently strode past, charming with nothing to prove. An awkward girl laughed away that limited perception of her, the dazzling and impassioned presenter replaced the gangly guy, and the nondescript took on personalities. These people were beautiful.
But mixed in, then, I began to notice the ones who didn't want to be noticed: slumping, tensing, avoiding, blending. They shuffled past, turning away to look at nothing. So many radiated the caption, "I have no defenses, don't look at me." I recognized it because I do it too - assuming the judgment of everyone I walk past, I avoid their eyes and make that judgment my reality. Unconsciously, I began to imagine each person greeting a friend who valued them, or |
talking about something that mattered deeply to them, or being a friend to me. And their imperfections became irrelevant, their bad hair days or lack of makeup became a disguise for vitality. I saw, despite the struggling, the classic and distinctive beauty, and all the attractives in between.
I had assumed I would be examining physical characteristics, but I discovered people instead. |
Passion to Play
written by second-year, Allison Cape
By definition, Andrew Huang is a third year graphic design student who plays guitar and has some really cool tattoos running up his arm. Upon closer look, he is much more – a driven and incredibly talented individual. His interests don’t simply stop at music and art; they soar into creation. Huang constantly draws for his classes, joking about “just doing a little homework.”
He has also written 30 original songs. “Art and music are all in the same vein. They’re both a means to a greater end,” he says. “Specifically, music is an avenue for me to express something without talking to people. Music is its own thing and speaks so uniquely.” Huang plays guitar and piano and continues his passion by leading worship at the Wesley Foundation’s freshman ministry and also through the formation of his new band, Follow Follow. Huang admits, however, that his favorite place to play is not a stage. “I’ve come to enjoy just playing in my room. It’s more real that way, like songwriting. It’s all about being vulnerable,” he says, “and that comes with a high risk but also a high reward.” His passion for songwriting drives the way he lives his life: “Songwriting has taught me that with anything in life, it doesn’t actually matter how |
good you are – it’s more about who you are. If you can be passionate about something and have your heart in it,” he says, “there is so much possibility. It’s not about how much you have, it’s about how you can use the little you have.”
He acknowledges that he has felt stretched thin at times, even as recently as two weeks ago when he wanted to quit school, Wesley, and “everything.” However, he was able to find beauty in the chaos of it all. “I thought quitting would give me satisfaction but I learned that it’s all about perspective. You choose your own story, you write your own history. And yes you may be stretched thin,” he says, “but at least be stretched thin over stuff you love.” And for Huang, that “stuff” is making music. He says his two favorite songs he has written so far are “Hiding Places” and “Tomorrow,” both attesting to the hope and trust found in the truth of “it will be fine tomorrow.” These songs, and others, sum up the focus of his life. “Basically just do what makes you happy, no matter what anyone tells you,” he says. |
Just Don’t Ever Mess-Up. Easy!
written by third-year, Cecilia Moore
My parents are extremely athletic. My dad is a 6’4” man who was kick-ass in football and basketball growing up, and my mom is an incredible golfer who includes power lifts and squats among her daily activities.
My sister and I, well, we don’t really care. We aren’t competitive and we’re more into the artsy side of life. My sister can see a piece of designer clothing and tell you the brand, season, and year it went down the runway. And I prefer museums to sports arenas. My mother has cried out many times in exasperation, “How did your father and I create you two? How did you come from my loins?!” Though my parents are often exhausted by their children’s lack of any “love of the game”, my mom hasn’t completely given up on us. Once she even tried to teach me how to play golf, her one true passion in life. Her love and dedication is astounding. |
“Okay honey, use this four-iron to hit the ball over the pond.”
“You want me to do what?” We were at our local golf course, and I was following along with my mom. She had just walked up to the edge of the pond in front of the green on the 6th hole, and had placed a ball five feet from the edge of the water. “This is me teaching you how to play golf. You get one shot, just hit it over the pond and onto the green.” “Mom, this doesn’t count as you teaching me how to play golf, this is ridiculous!” “Cecilia, man up. Be a good girl and hit the ball over the pond.” Seriously? When I realized that she wasn’t joking, I squared up to the ball and gathered all of the knowledge I had learned |
from my freshman year summer golf P.E. course, which was my effort to meet her halfway, and I whacked the tar out of the ball. My “whacking the tar out of it,” a great phrase from my mother, amounted to the ball and a huge chunk of earth flying ten feet up in the air and then landing – PLOP – in the middle of the pond.
“Well, grab the clubs, hon.” We continued through the course, my head down and the clubs on my back, my mom with a club in her hand. While I accepted my fate on that day, months later I asked her what I was supposed to have gleaned from her “teaching lesson.” Please mom, give me some insightful parenting tips. She replied, “Do everything perfect the first time.” I’ve been her caddy ever since. |
Steering Straight
written by second-year, Eric Wien
At 4:00 am, “Can’t Hold Us” by Macklemore travels at 55 mph out the open window. One arm extended easily steers the vehicle around the winding road while the other arm rests on the gear shift, not for any reason other than comfort. I turn up the music with no particular emotion and stare at the empty road ahead. How many times have I made this drive before? It must be hundreds or even a thousand times. I’ll drive around two bends and then the Kroger shopping center will come up on my left, Fagan’s Biscuit Barn on my right. Farther down I’ll pass the Super Target then the Five Guys, then the Publix, a series of fast food restaurants, another Kroger, take a left and pass half-empty business buildings, the Pre-K I went to, two neighborhoods on the left, two on the right, and then mine.
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I could make this drive with my eyes closed, but I don’t. I keep them open, watching every street light and tree alike that blurs by my windshield. It feels so distant, like I’m watching a 1990s angsty-teen movie car scene. If I turn my head out the open window, it feels real again, conscious of my life and all its weight. Uncomfortable, I look ahead and the anxiety disappears. I feel so in control, able to go where I please with any change of heart. I can’t tell if it’s the cause of the late hour, the feeling of observing the world through my windshield, or how I feel when I drive alone. No matter the reason, I wonder how much better my life would be if the feeling of control could translate into the rest of my life. So confident in every thought, I know I would be able to move over all the speed bumps and around the sharp turns in my life with more ease. There can’t always be a windshield in front of my face and a rearview mirror to remind me where I’ve been, but if I can keep that same sense of direction, I will go places a car could never take me.
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