Halloween is one of my favorite childhood memories. Nothing really compares to running through the freezing cold and fallen leaves, in the dark, dressed up, with friends, on a complete sugar high. It really is the people that make all the difference. It wouldn’t have been the same without everyone dressing up and going all out for the holiday.
Growing up I wouldn’t have traded Halloween for the world, it was the biggest party of the year. Every year, my best friend, her entire family, and most of my family would go all out, everyone dressed up, and go trick-or-treating together in Melba. We went to Melba because the candy is great, you can trick-or-treat the entire town and my friend’s grandma’s birthday is on Halloween, so to complete our sugar high we would go to her house afterwards for birthday cake.
Even though trick-or-treating is a thing of the past now, because I’m too “old.” I still love playing dress-up just as much as I did back then. I love messing with costumes, wigs, and theater make-up. If my major doesn’t work out, I think it would be a blast to learn how to do theater make-up for movies or something. It world be fun to work with monster masks, fake blood, and stuff like that.
Saturday, November 3, 2007
Friday, November 2, 2007
A twisted Cookie
The air trembled as the subway train pulled up, my mother clinged to my hand crunching my fingers in her firm grasp.
“I could have been someone you know, aldi elaiefjdl iealfkeol,” my mother muttered. “I’d be a smart cookie then.”
She can speak two languages, English and one no one quite recognizes. When she was younger my mother would keep busy and paint in her free time; that was before the accident. Now she spends her days singing along loudly to borrowed opera records while stitching away at rose buds and tulips made of silk thread.
My mother remembers how to fix a T.V. for all the good it does her and she can sing her opera, but she can't remember which train to take to get downtown in the city she has lived in her whole life. Sometimes when she is more herself she lectures me about staying in school.
“Esperanza, you go to school,” she says, “and study hard.”
She blames the accident on her lack of education. My mother quit school to work as a seamstress in a factory. She had been there nearly a week when it happened, a sewing machine fell on her head, and she has never been the same since. It was at the factory that my mother had to give up her dream of being a famous opera singer.
“Esperanza,” my mother said softly relinquishing her grip on my aching fingers. “Do you want to know why I quit school?”
“No mother,” I thought to myself as I bit my tongue and waited for her to continue, “You have told me a million times already.”
“I didn’t have nice clothes!” My mother exclaimed, “If I had had nice clothes, I wouldn’t have quit, I was a smart cookie then.”
I fought hard to keep from smiling. My mother’s had always been the theater and fashion, never school. Even with 200 pairs of shoes, I knew my mother would never have been happy in school.
“But now, you have nice clothes and you will stay in school. Someday I’ll go to an opera and see my Esperanza up there on the stage. You’ll be somebody someday, you’re a smart cookie.”
And being a smart cookie, I keep my mouth shut.
“I could have been someone you know, aldi elaiefjdl iealfkeol,” my mother muttered. “I’d be a smart cookie then.”
She can speak two languages, English and one no one quite recognizes. When she was younger my mother would keep busy and paint in her free time; that was before the accident. Now she spends her days singing along loudly to borrowed opera records while stitching away at rose buds and tulips made of silk thread.
My mother remembers how to fix a T.V. for all the good it does her and she can sing her opera, but she can't remember which train to take to get downtown in the city she has lived in her whole life. Sometimes when she is more herself she lectures me about staying in school.
“Esperanza, you go to school,” she says, “and study hard.”
She blames the accident on her lack of education. My mother quit school to work as a seamstress in a factory. She had been there nearly a week when it happened, a sewing machine fell on her head, and she has never been the same since. It was at the factory that my mother had to give up her dream of being a famous opera singer.
“Esperanza,” my mother said softly relinquishing her grip on my aching fingers. “Do you want to know why I quit school?”
“No mother,” I thought to myself as I bit my tongue and waited for her to continue, “You have told me a million times already.”
“I didn’t have nice clothes!” My mother exclaimed, “If I had had nice clothes, I wouldn’t have quit, I was a smart cookie then.”
I fought hard to keep from smiling. My mother’s had always been the theater and fashion, never school. Even with 200 pairs of shoes, I knew my mother would never have been happy in school.
“But now, you have nice clothes and you will stay in school. Someday I’ll go to an opera and see my Esperanza up there on the stage. You’ll be somebody someday, you’re a smart cookie.”
And being a smart cookie, I keep my mouth shut.
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Nothing's Happening
I could’ve traveled somewhere this summer; I think to myself and sigh. The store was entirely dead with activity, I was bored to death. My feet hurt. The clock stopped, the minutes lurking in the corner of my eye. I could fidget and pace my day away, was it really worth the pay? The irony of getting paid to do nothing, to waste an entire day.
I used to like summer, I don’t even mind my work, but to stand and watch the nothing is more torturous than work. How can I complain? When being asked to do nothing? It shouldn’t be this hard. Doing nothing should be easy, but I feel like such a tard. Just standing here all day waiting for the nothing to happen, so that the nothing can continue, and I can get my pay. Then maybe I can get away.
It really can be frustrating, doing nothing all day long. I wish the nothing would go away. That way something might come back, someday. But who’s to say what nothing is. Nothing is nothing, nothing never was. So I’ll continue saying nothing's happening and continue just like that. Until I have something to take away from nothing on travel to coast, beaches far away.
I used to like summer, I don’t even mind my work, but to stand and watch the nothing is more torturous than work. How can I complain? When being asked to do nothing? It shouldn’t be this hard. Doing nothing should be easy, but I feel like such a tard. Just standing here all day waiting for the nothing to happen, so that the nothing can continue, and I can get my pay. Then maybe I can get away.
It really can be frustrating, doing nothing all day long. I wish the nothing would go away. That way something might come back, someday. But who’s to say what nothing is. Nothing is nothing, nothing never was. So I’ll continue saying nothing's happening and continue just like that. Until I have something to take away from nothing on travel to coast, beaches far away.
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