It seems the trend of this midterm election for the youth is more about not voting and not knowing, and not caring.
If anyone from my demographic group (I mean 18-20-something year olds) does vote, they'll only do it to support the ideas of their voting elders or simply to enact their rights as citizens, choosing the candidates of the political parties they usually side with.
But by and large, most of my school peers don't really even understand the concept of the midterm elections. To them it seems a random event that won't really impact them. Also, it's somewhat uncool.
To vote for town elections is a “townie” thing, which means you spend most of your energy being a busy body of your town, volunteering at elections and going to PTA meetings.
To vote for state elections is also seen as a waste of time but it seems to hold this stigma about it: Old people, who are usually more informed politically and the intellectual and politically activate but younger residents vote in these.
People my age seem to not realize that they will be affected as far as the elections go. And this will not become evident until something changes and by then it's usually too late.
I think a lot of the youth is overwhelmed with issues dealing way back, before the internet, to the Nixon administration. This idea of too much knowledge is holding our power to assess information about people, to really listen to what they're saying and not saying and how they're saying it. We want to exchange facts for entertainment, with the most important facts. This misinformed mass is not exactly doing America a disservice in not voting.
I prefer that my peers vote for no one, be misrepresented, than be represented by someone who looks nice or has better ads, etc.
Although I am somewhat convinced that the youth voted for Obama in 2008 on two accounts:
1- a very shallow reason, to vote for the first African American president;
2- because they remembered how much Bush messed up their lives and wanted change, killing their brothers and sisters in the military, letting America's value and reputation go to shit in the international eyes, even down to the very elementary level with No Child Left Behind. And resistance from the right was stronger than ever seeing that the Left was succeeding for once, having a strong candidate who motivates even the Right to change for the better.
But coming back to this 2010 election. "Small-time" (I say this as a comparison for the presidential election) politics seem to be more about who has a more clean record, and literally who is less crazy.
Can we really make a choice based on these advertisements, whether it takes a positive stance on a candidate or whether it borderline slanders opposing candidates, it's all relative, it's all subjective. It seems more about the personalities than the issues. The youth is not interested.
They seem to think Obama or any president has all the power. So, why should they vote? Why should they care?
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Friday, November 5, 2010
Job Application Reply Letter
Dear Mr. SoAnd So,
We regret to inform you
that the position
is no longer available.
You were our Favorite candidate
even though you did not have
the type of experience we were looking for.
You seemed to possess a kind of
confidence in the subject matter
just by being yourself.
You seemed to be a perfect candidate
until we found out that you applied
at our enemy company.
The position is going to be given
to someone who walks in here
with the inevitable smile on his bright face,
a witty retort escaping his cheek,
with good credit, and an honest, open heart,
a sympathetic ear, and an apology every time
he becomes human and I call him out on it.
He will never make me feel like there's
someone better. And I will not live in a fairytale.
He will simply be in the future.
But he is not you.
Because I am not a job.
I am a vacation.
We wish you luck with your future endeavours.
And hope that our criticism has been most constructive.
We know that it will be. (And, that, is not a good thing.)
Sincerely,
Diana
We regret to inform you
that the position
is no longer available.
You were our Favorite candidate
even though you did not have
the type of experience we were looking for.
You seemed to possess a kind of
confidence in the subject matter
just by being yourself.
You seemed to be a perfect candidate
until we found out that you applied
at our enemy company.
The position is going to be given
to someone who walks in here
with the inevitable smile on his bright face,
a witty retort escaping his cheek,
with good credit, and an honest, open heart,
a sympathetic ear, and an apology every time
he becomes human and I call him out on it.
He will never make me feel like there's
someone better. And I will not live in a fairytale.
He will simply be in the future.
But he is not you.
Because I am not a job.
I am a vacation.
We wish you luck with your future endeavours.
And hope that our criticism has been most constructive.
We know that it will be. (And, that, is not a good thing.)
Sincerely,
Diana
Leave the drama for your mama
Here it goes. My dirty laundry.
Tonight, for the millionth time I found out something that:
A- made me instantly nauseous
B- I was not supposed to find
C- made me flush with anger
D- I was not supposed to be looking for
E- made my eyes feel dry, wishing they could not see
F- made me question my relationship...again
Being the completely jealous and kind of psycho girlfriend that I become once I sniff something is...off, over the past year or so I have found a shit ton of evidence that I should not be in the relationship I am in.
This has happenned so many times before w/ other ppl. But never has it broken my heart so many times, over and over again. Making me slowly despise parts of him. But affecting me like a venom serum of the conscience, making me completely loathe myself for putting up w/ this again.
Man after man, add in an ex husband and a boyfriend who cheated on me over 20 times. Now add, My Favorite. Add to the mix the one I believe to be my soulmate, for every breath acounted for together (keyword, together) in my mind has been a harmonious step in the direction we were meant to live, in the right direction.
I learned the detective routine from my mother. When I was about 5-6 my mother took my brother and I on a road trip to hell. Her personal hell. She had found out the address of this week's mistress and we went. To break in to her house. I think she was looking for him. But found no one.
I stayed in the car. But my brother being 10-11 participated because he was smart enough to keep a lookout and strong enoguh to help her out in case she needed any help. I heard anguished yelling and crashes of things that I imagined to be glass or porcelain. I looked for a sign of my family, my father even, past the tropical landscape in front of this stranger's house. Nothing.
Then, "Open the door! Open the door!" I looked at my mother dumfounded. Her hand wrapped in this strange lady's toilet paper, parts turned red, those parts dripping blood on the concrete. My mom holding the roll in her gory hand, tapped on the window as she jogged towards driver's side. "Diana! Are you deaf! Open the door for God's sake!"
I did so. And the excitement of it all, flooded into the car. My mother started the car and peeled away. My brother asking a book of questions to add to the encyclopedia that was his scientific mind. Why did you do that. Who's house was that? I saw my mother's intermitten smirk in the rearview mirror as she tried to explain, while not getting into an accident, and not being in too much pain, bleeding all over her white shirt.
I copied her smirk. I mirrored the joy she felt as she tried to explain this to us as a good thing. "I went into that 'Lola's' house and I smashed her things. She has tacky things and doesn't deserve anything for messing with you guys. He takes her out and we are in the house starving. I ruined her house so you can have good things. Ok papito?" I felt nothing but what my mom made me feel, happiness, that she had been brough to justice. That the problems with her and my father were over. My brother was silent, reflective.
Those problems are still not over. Not for me. They may have divorced. But I am not even separated from the memories. Because as soon as I am wronged, I will spy, I will hunt, I will find truth, I will cry and bleed, but I, I will destroy.
Tonight, for the millionth time I found out something that:
A- made me instantly nauseous
B- I was not supposed to find
C- made me flush with anger
D- I was not supposed to be looking for
E- made my eyes feel dry, wishing they could not see
F- made me question my relationship...again
Being the completely jealous and kind of psycho girlfriend that I become once I sniff something is...off, over the past year or so I have found a shit ton of evidence that I should not be in the relationship I am in.
This has happenned so many times before w/ other ppl. But never has it broken my heart so many times, over and over again. Making me slowly despise parts of him. But affecting me like a venom serum of the conscience, making me completely loathe myself for putting up w/ this again.
Man after man, add in an ex husband and a boyfriend who cheated on me over 20 times. Now add, My Favorite. Add to the mix the one I believe to be my soulmate, for every breath acounted for together (keyword, together) in my mind has been a harmonious step in the direction we were meant to live, in the right direction.
I learned the detective routine from my mother. When I was about 5-6 my mother took my brother and I on a road trip to hell. Her personal hell. She had found out the address of this week's mistress and we went. To break in to her house. I think she was looking for him. But found no one.
I stayed in the car. But my brother being 10-11 participated because he was smart enough to keep a lookout and strong enoguh to help her out in case she needed any help. I heard anguished yelling and crashes of things that I imagined to be glass or porcelain. I looked for a sign of my family, my father even, past the tropical landscape in front of this stranger's house. Nothing.
Then, "Open the door! Open the door!" I looked at my mother dumfounded. Her hand wrapped in this strange lady's toilet paper, parts turned red, those parts dripping blood on the concrete. My mom holding the roll in her gory hand, tapped on the window as she jogged towards driver's side. "Diana! Are you deaf! Open the door for God's sake!"
I did so. And the excitement of it all, flooded into the car. My mother started the car and peeled away. My brother asking a book of questions to add to the encyclopedia that was his scientific mind. Why did you do that. Who's house was that? I saw my mother's intermitten smirk in the rearview mirror as she tried to explain, while not getting into an accident, and not being in too much pain, bleeding all over her white shirt.
I copied her smirk. I mirrored the joy she felt as she tried to explain this to us as a good thing. "I went into that 'Lola's' house and I smashed her things. She has tacky things and doesn't deserve anything for messing with you guys. He takes her out and we are in the house starving. I ruined her house so you can have good things. Ok papito?" I felt nothing but what my mom made me feel, happiness, that she had been brough to justice. That the problems with her and my father were over. My brother was silent, reflective.
Those problems are still not over. Not for me. They may have divorced. But I am not even separated from the memories. Because as soon as I am wronged, I will spy, I will hunt, I will find truth, I will cry and bleed, but I, I will destroy.
Katie Makkai "Pretty"
Pretty by Katie Makkai
When I was just a little girl, I asked my mother, “What will I be? Will I be pretty? Will I be pretty? Will I be pretty? What comes next? Oh right, will I be rich?” Which is almost pretty depending on where you shop. And the pretty question infects from conception, passing blood and breath into cells. The word hangs from our mothers' hearts in a shrill fluorescent floodlight of worry.
“Will I be wanted? Worthy? Pretty?” But puberty left me this funhouse mirror dryad: teeth set at science fiction angles, crooked nose, face donkey-long and pox-marked where the hormones went finger-painting. My poor mother.
“How could this happen? You'll have porcelain skin as soon as we can see a dermatologist. You sucked your thumb. That's why your teeth look like that! You were hit in the face with a Frisbee when you were 6. Otherwise your nose would have been just fine!
“Don't worry. We'll get it fixed!” She would say, grasping my face, twisting it this way and that, as if it were a cabbage she might buy.
But this is not about her. Not her fault. She, too, was raised to believe the greatest asset she could bestow upon her awkward little girl was a marketable facade. By 16, I was pickled with ointments, medications, peroxides. Teeth corralled into steel prongs. Laying in a hospital bed, face packed with gauze, cushioning the brand new nose the surgeon had carved.
Belly gorged on 2 pints of my blood I had swallowed under anesthesia, and every convulsive twist of my gut like my body screaming at me from the inside out, “What did you let them do to you!”
All the while this never-ending chorus droning on and on, like the IV needle dripping liquid beauty into my blood. “Will I be pretty? Will I be pretty? Like my mother, unwrapping the gift wrap to reveal the bouquet of daughter her $10,000 bought her? Pretty? Pretty.”
And now, I have not seen my own face for 10 years. I have not seen my own face in 10 years, but this is not about me.
This is about the self-mutilating circus we have painted ourselves clowns in. About women who will prowl 30 stores in 6 malls to find the right cocktail dress, but haven't a clue where to find fulfillment or how wear joy, wandering through life shackled to a shopping bag, beneath those 2 pretty syllables.
About men wallowing on bar stools, drearily practicing attraction and everyone who will drift home tonight, crest-fallen because not enough strangers found you suitably fuckable.
This, this is about my own some-day daughter. When you approach me, already stung-stayed with insecurity, begging, “Mom, will I be pretty? Will I be pretty?” I will wipe that question from your mouth like cheap lipstick and answer, “No! The word pretty is unworthy of everything you will be, and no child of mine will be contained in five letters.
“You will be pretty intelligent, pretty creative, pretty amazing. But you, will never be merely 'pretty'.”
When I was just a little girl, I asked my mother, “What will I be? Will I be pretty? Will I be pretty? Will I be pretty? What comes next? Oh right, will I be rich?” Which is almost pretty depending on where you shop. And the pretty question infects from conception, passing blood and breath into cells. The word hangs from our mothers' hearts in a shrill fluorescent floodlight of worry.
“Will I be wanted? Worthy? Pretty?” But puberty left me this funhouse mirror dryad: teeth set at science fiction angles, crooked nose, face donkey-long and pox-marked where the hormones went finger-painting. My poor mother.
“How could this happen? You'll have porcelain skin as soon as we can see a dermatologist. You sucked your thumb. That's why your teeth look like that! You were hit in the face with a Frisbee when you were 6. Otherwise your nose would have been just fine!
“Don't worry. We'll get it fixed!” She would say, grasping my face, twisting it this way and that, as if it were a cabbage she might buy.
But this is not about her. Not her fault. She, too, was raised to believe the greatest asset she could bestow upon her awkward little girl was a marketable facade. By 16, I was pickled with ointments, medications, peroxides. Teeth corralled into steel prongs. Laying in a hospital bed, face packed with gauze, cushioning the brand new nose the surgeon had carved.
Belly gorged on 2 pints of my blood I had swallowed under anesthesia, and every convulsive twist of my gut like my body screaming at me from the inside out, “What did you let them do to you!”
All the while this never-ending chorus droning on and on, like the IV needle dripping liquid beauty into my blood. “Will I be pretty? Will I be pretty? Like my mother, unwrapping the gift wrap to reveal the bouquet of daughter her $10,000 bought her? Pretty? Pretty.”
And now, I have not seen my own face for 10 years. I have not seen my own face in 10 years, but this is not about me.
This is about the self-mutilating circus we have painted ourselves clowns in. About women who will prowl 30 stores in 6 malls to find the right cocktail dress, but haven't a clue where to find fulfillment or how wear joy, wandering through life shackled to a shopping bag, beneath those 2 pretty syllables.
About men wallowing on bar stools, drearily practicing attraction and everyone who will drift home tonight, crest-fallen because not enough strangers found you suitably fuckable.
This, this is about my own some-day daughter. When you approach me, already stung-stayed with insecurity, begging, “Mom, will I be pretty? Will I be pretty?” I will wipe that question from your mouth like cheap lipstick and answer, “No! The word pretty is unworthy of everything you will be, and no child of mine will be contained in five letters.
“You will be pretty intelligent, pretty creative, pretty amazing. But you, will never be merely 'pretty'.”
Saturday, October 23, 2010
Needs: The Cavity
To want to be taken care of is something that most women will not admit to. I can say that I have had everything I've been set up to believe by my female role models tainted because it hurts to admit that I have not yet broken in to the "independent woman" category and probably never will. I need to be taken care of. I don't depend on myself fully to make myself happy. I used to believe that happiness was always within myself but when you've been in as many relationships as I have, all of which have made me feel stronger about being able to find love, you kinda start getting lazy. You start to not believe in people, exactly but believe that there is someone out there who will read your mind.
Then again, it's because you start becoming either more hopeful or more adamant about finding the things you want in someone, or a weird mixture-delicately balanced-between both. I don't depend on myself fully for money, sustenance, and shelter. It might take me a while to get used to being all alone, truly alone and self-sufficient. So this is where the decision about going to study abroad comes from. Should I stay? And find the same old Diana, lingering for another chance to take advantage of, not bettering myself? Or should I go and crash and burn, and be ashes blown away to a different existence, starting from mere dust?
And it's like going to the dentist. The cavity is your insecurity, your reliance on others that goes rotten and you only feel it when the damage is irreversible. So you go, and they put a needle in your mouth. And it stings on that space between your gums and your bone (I think?). But maybe that experience is rewarded ten-fold because when that anesthetic hits, if you've suffered enough, you know you won't feel a thing.
Then again, it's because you start becoming either more hopeful or more adamant about finding the things you want in someone, or a weird mixture-delicately balanced-between both. I don't depend on myself fully for money, sustenance, and shelter. It might take me a while to get used to being all alone, truly alone and self-sufficient. So this is where the decision about going to study abroad comes from. Should I stay? And find the same old Diana, lingering for another chance to take advantage of, not bettering myself? Or should I go and crash and burn, and be ashes blown away to a different existence, starting from mere dust?
And it's like going to the dentist. The cavity is your insecurity, your reliance on others that goes rotten and you only feel it when the damage is irreversible. So you go, and they put a needle in your mouth. And it stings on that space between your gums and your bone (I think?). But maybe that experience is rewarded ten-fold because when that anesthetic hits, if you've suffered enough, you know you won't feel a thing.
Thursday, October 21, 2010
Website Versus Blogger
What do people think? Should I get a website for my poetry? Or should I just stick to blogger for a while? What makes me more legit??
Thanks!
Thanks!
Monday, May 3, 2010
History
HaZelGrEenXoXo
: i wish i was in 3rd grade again
the toughest thing i had to deal with is learning english and fitting into american culture in a predominantly latino neighborhood
: i didnt want to rebel against school i was a dumb kid and loved it
Forar1269
: where were u born
HaZelGrEenXoXo
: brooklyn...born a premie when my mom was on a business trip...we moved back to ecuador when i was like 6 months, healthy enough to fly
: lived there til i was 7
: did 2nd grade summer school
: and went right to 3rd grade
Forar1269
: would u rather be there now
: i wish i was in 3rd grade again
the toughest thing i had to deal with is learning english and fitting into american culture in a predominantly latino neighborhood
: i didnt want to rebel against school i was a dumb kid and loved it
Forar1269
: where were u born
HaZelGrEenXoXo
: brooklyn...born a premie when my mom was on a business trip...we moved back to ecuador when i was like 6 months, healthy enough to fly
: lived there til i was 7
: did 2nd grade summer school
: and went right to 3rd grade
Forar1269
: would u rather be there now
: or here
HaZelGrEenXoXo
: u kno...i'm thinking there mainly cos as an american the grass is always greener somewhere else but then i was thinking about how i'd rather not have grown up with these ideals of perpertual self-importance
: ideas*
: the very reason i dont wanna do HW right now and am procrastinating is b/c my mom never taught me how to be disciplines and the US school public school system barely tries to instill that either
HaZelGrEenXoXo
: i kno if i had grown up w/ my father (my mom separated us from him) i'd be a better person
: he's an architect and a professor and he understood me my mother didnt and still doesnt
: but then again understanding a 7- year old isnt too hard
: my mother just never tried
HaZelGrEenXoXo
: u kno...i'm thinking there mainly cos as an american the grass is always greener somewhere else but then i was thinking about how i'd rather not have grown up with these ideals of perpertual self-importance
: ideas*
: the very reason i dont wanna do HW right now and am procrastinating is b/c my mom never taught me how to be disciplines and the US school public school system barely tries to instill that either
HaZelGrEenXoXo
: i kno if i had grown up w/ my father (my mom separated us from him) i'd be a better person
: he's an architect and a professor and he understood me my mother didnt and still doesnt
: but then again understanding a 7- year old isnt too hard
: my mother just never tried
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