Yesterday I turned 20, like I said I would in the previous post, and this is what greeted me upon my waking.

“Hi there!

So here is the deal. I think you’re awesome and have tried really hard to figure out a way to work with you this season. That’s why I asked for more videos etc. Thing is, because of all the other moving parts and pieces, I haven’t found a way to use you in this summers shows. This is ZERO reflection on how great I think you are (hopefully as demonstrated by how hard I tried to make it work). I really hope you keep in touch and that we get to work together in the future. Best of luck on your job search.”

I’m not sharing this email to showcase compliments I was given, but rather, to clarify a strange and complicated feeling.

I had been in correspondence with this gentleman regarding this job for a little over a week, and things were looking promising. However, I still kept my head out of the clouds reminding myself that in theater casting is completely out of my control and nine times out of a ten I will receive a no.

As I woke up to this email on my birthday, I wasn’t sure what the appropriate reaction was. I glanced over at the kind words and felt so grateful to have been turned down in such an uplifting way. Then I immediately shifted to I’m-totally-fine-I’m-strong-it-doesn’t-matter-to-me-at-all mode.

The truth is, I lost out on a job, and that sucks. But I didn’t allow myself to think that at all because I had to be okay! It was my birthday and today HAD to be perfect.

Turns out, not all birthdays are perfect. Not all days are perfect, and that okay. Now, this wasn’t at all a reflection of the people in my life, they did everything they could to make my day as perfect as it could be. External forces ended up getting the best of me, though. I had class from 9-5:30 that day, which included three midterms, (one of which was for my least favorite teacher ever who made me cry but still gave me an A), no time to eat dinner, rehearsal till ten (where I tried to scarf down a fourth of a bag of sour patch kids), and I had started my period the day before so I was a little emotional and bloated. I felt so sad and on the verge of tears the entire day, but somehow I was okay. This was the biggest oxymoron I’ve ever been faced with.

Later that day I called my dad and as soon as he asked me how my day was, the floodgates opened. I talked at him for about eight minutes, and then my phone died and hung up on him. As soon as I called him back I talked at him a little longer until he managed to stop me when I finally paused for a breath. He said, “Let me talk.”

He ignored everything about the midterms and asshole teacher and sour patch dinner and said, “You’re upset about the job.”

I quickly refuted his statement saying, “No, of course not, I’m fine, it’s not a big deal.”

But he stopped me again and said I needed to acknowledge and accept my feelings. Bottling them up all day is what set me on edge and kept me there for the rest of the day.

How could I not bottle up my feelings though? Yes I was upset about not getting the job, but I felt so selfish for being upset. Here I have a director wanting so badly to cast me and went out of his way to tell me how much he liked me. Here I made it farther than most people do with auditions, farther than I did last year. Here I had proof that I am worthy of being cast and valuable enough to fight for, so how do I have any right to be sad?

What my dad made me realize was two fold:

1-    Be kind to your feelings. I always thought this and I always say this to other people, but like I’ve said, taking your own advice seems to be the hardest thing to do. EVER. My dad reminded me that I need to feel my feelings, that I need to let myself be a little pissed off and cry a little about it, but it couldn’t extend longer than 24 hours because then it just becomes sulking and self-pity. Too often we are told how we are supposed to feel and when we’re supposed to have our feelings. When in reality, our feelings don’t care one bit when and how they come out, they just want to be felt.

2-    We’re allowed to be happy and sad at the same time, and often that is the case. In January I got to work with the great Andrew Lippa for a couple of days on a performance. He had many life lessons to talk to us about, and what he had to say was gold. He really impressed upon us how important it was for us to understand that we can be both happy and sad at the same time, and how healthy that can be. These emotions go hand in hand, and they’re neither better nor worse than one another. They are simply emotions that demand to be acknowledges.

Here I had the most perfect example of both of these lessons, and I finally let them sink in. I cried in the Kroger parking lot about the job and then reflected on how lucky I was. I have the most amazing people in my life, I have experienced some incredible things, and this was the first birthday I ever felt a little sad. Every year I get a bit nostalgic about getting older, but I have never had a reason to feel truly sad on my birthday, not even this birthday. I am more than thankful for that.

When all is said and done, listening to my parents is the best thing I could ever do for myself. They know what they’re talking about. I’m a lucky girl.

3.4.15

I turn twenty tomorrow. I know it’s not that old to some people, but it’s going to be the oldest I’ve ever been.

Each birthday, I tend to get rather nostalgic, and this year I happened to be reading some old columns I had written for my high school newspaper. It’s crazy that many of the things I wrote about then still pertains to my life today. And strange enough, very first column I ever wrote stuck with me the most.

“I’m in no hurry.”

The words rang in my ears as I tapped my foot and repeatedly checked my watch. I had a can of dry roasted almonds in my left hand and some orbit peppermint gum in my right.

 The man in front of me had a cart full of groceries and when he looked behind him, he saw a frantic girl who appeared to be pressed for time, so he said; “You can go in front of me”—

 When I didn’t respond, he continued by saying;

 “I’m in no hurry.”

 At first, I was taken aback. Why had he offered me this?

Right away, I realized I was tapping my foot and glancing at my watch every 10 seconds.

Then I began to think; Where am I going after this? Why am I so frantic? Am I in a hurry? Should I be? Was my impatience that obvious?

The gentleman gazed back at me with a slight smile on his face. He was older and appeared to be in no hurry at all.

I graciously accepted his offer and went on my way, but as I left and drove home, his words replayed themselves in my thoughts.

“I’m in no hurry.”

 Looking back at my week, I realized I was acting as if I were in a hurry every day. I would fidget my way through the lines at Starbucks, I would anticipate the end of my shift at work, I would carelessly push the speed limits while going places. Never once was I late for anything, though.

Time after time I was seeking instant gratification, I was frustrated with having to wait for anything, I was constantly needing to be doing something.

My week was a blur of rushed memories.

  “I’m in no hurry.” 

The words clouded my thoughts as I sat immobile in the parking lot. I soon realized it wasn’t just that week, I had been rushing through so many things in my life. 

 I rushed through anything school-related. I rushed through the time I spent with my friends, I rushed through family dinners.

I was letting each day sprint on as I failed to appreciate what the day brought me. Memories, happiness; my childhood.

“I’m in no hurry.”

With every day I raced to get to the end of, I let slip away one more piece of my childhood that I had left to cherish.

My entire life I knew what the next year would bring. First preschool then kindergarten, then on to first grade, then second and so on. Now it is senior year, 12^th grade, and the thought of where I will be next year, who I will be next year, and what I will be doing next year is terrifying because I can’t answer these questions.

Not only can I not answer these them, but as each day passes, next year approaches. My ambiguous future is creeping up behind me and all I want to do is go back to preschool where nap time was routine.

I’m in no hurry

I’m in no hurry to get to the front of the line. I’m in no hurry to finish the day. I’m in no hurry to grow up.

What I really need to do is appreciate each day as it comes. I need to appreciate the friends I surround myself with. I need to appreciate the time I have with my family. I need to appreciate my time as a kid.

“I’m in no hurry.”

The kind man who said those words to me had no idea what inner dialogue he had provoked in me, but it was something I needed to hear.

 I need to calm down, take a deep breath and remember that

“I’m in no hurry.”

I eventually arrived at my destination; my home.

I walked in and saw my family in the living room, so I joined them.

I opened my can of dry roasted almonds and smiled as I savored the time with my family;

 “I’m in no hurry.”

Taking advice from myself is definitely the hardest thing to do, and I still have yet to master the art of doing so, but it’s a battle that I am willing to work at every day. I may never master it, but I will never stop trying to be a better me.

Where the sidewalk ends…

This semester was a mess. A beautiful wonderful mess. Every upperclassman last year warned me that sophomore year was going to be a shit show. Did I believe them? Yes. Did I have any idea what they meant by that? Not one bit. Nevertheless, I braced myself and was ready to charge forward headfirst. What did I find? SOPHOMORE YEAR IS SO HARD. And I wouldn’t have it any other way. This year pushed me and stretched me and beat me and scratched me and poked me and every other percussive tactic there is in the world. But it didn’t kill me, I am alive, I am so alive and more ready than ever to keep living my life as an artist. Sophomore year reassured me that this life is where I belong. I am an artist, right here, right now.

So how did I come to this conclusion? A mixture of Constantin Stanislavski, a splash of Proof, a pinch of Doubt, a hint of Fast Girls, and a sprinkle of Michael Chekhov on top. Last year when we read Stan, I thought, “this guys pretty cool, he sounds like he knows what he’s talking about.” I never really applied him to my process because I was so jaded in thinking that I had to focus on winning, being perfect at everything, getting a “good job” from my professors. I was so overwhelmed that I couldn’t possibly think of Stan at that moment. But what I didn’t realize was that I was so overwhelmed because I wasn’t relying on the technique to guide me through. I also wasn’t taking the analysis as seriously as I should have. I thought it was an added bonus to do the analysis, not the basis upon which I would be developing a solid character. So then came my first scene, Proof. I sifted through the book, I did some counting, some givens, some “if-ing” and thought, this is good, yeah? Nope. I really love Catherine too; I think it’s a part I could play at some point, so why didn’t I dive deeper into the analysis? This paper wasn’t to impress my professors, it was for me, but I had yet to see it. I was still too focused on “playing my ending.” I wanted to have it all figured out right away, I wanted the A, I wanted to be perfect. (Side note; this was also the semester I admitted to myself that I am a control freak.) So I went through the process of Proof without any real “process” and came out in the end wanting more. Something didn’t feel complete about the scene, like I hadn’t done enough. Yeah, I received the A I fought for, but I didn’t feel satisfied.

Then came Doubt. I’ll admit, I panicked, I didn’t know where to start, so I took everyone’s advice and started with the text. From there, everything else just took off. I started counting page after page, looking up symbol after symbol, researching about Catholicism left and right, and soon I was in. The play was speaking to me and I was creating the Heather-Sister Aloysius connection. I let the play inform my life even, and I discovered so many things about not only my character, but my own life. Who knew a play could be so life changing? After creating a strong basis to build my character on, I was ready to win and get that A this time! Little did I know that wasn’t what I was looking for. After every showing I felt empty still. I was missing something, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. It wasn’t until after all of the showings were over when I got it. Lori didn’t send out grades. I had no idea what grade I got. HOW MUST I GO ON? Foolishness, that’s what that was. It all came together in that moment, because I had to go on. Not for the grade, not for the sake of even letting down my next scene partner, but because something inside of me wanted to go on, I needed to go on in order to be satisfied. It doesn’t matter what the grade is, it doesn’t matter what my peers think, it doesn’t really even matter what my professors think, the only thing that matters is how I feel. And I wanted to FEEL it. In order to do that I had to get out of my own way, I had to surrender Dorothy…shocker, it’s not like any of us have ever gotten that note before.

This wasn’t going to be easy, though. I started digging deeper into Stan and really trying to rely on the technique to guide me through. I really focused on finding the super objective of the play, and then my character, and then breaking it down in the scene, etc. I tried to gather every given I could possibly think of. I tried to use the magic ‘if” to launch me into my imagination. I tried to rely on and affect my other. I was applying all the technique I could think of, but I still would get a note regarding some area of the technique that I missed. But above all, I was still in my own way; I was still too focused on playing my ending. In rehearsal we would go through the text and lay out each beat and it’s specific objective. Then we would take the scene beat by beat and fight for our objective, but for a while we weren’t really fighting. So then we took each beat and tried to layer in our given circumstances so that we knew what we were fighting for. But the fight wasn’t real, so then we did exercises like tugging on a jacket, or running around the room throwing things at each other to find the fight. That still wasn’t getting us there, but why not? I had never been so frustrated with a scene in my whole life. Approaching the scene I thought that it was going to be great, a “home-run” even. Yet it wasn’t there. 

At the time I didn’t know it, but I know now that I was not letting myself reach the state of “I Am.” However, in order to reach that point, I had to LET GO. I wasn’t letting go. I wasn’t letting Lucy’s given circumstances inform my life. I was fully aware of what they were, but they weren’t real to me.

Along came the day of the final showing of this scene. Everything that could have gone wrong that day went wrong leading up to the showing. I mean everything. And it was a gift. I was so mad at the universe that I wasn’t thanking the universe for its gift. I was so frustrated with everything and focused on my frustration that I finally got out of my own way. It took me a couple beats to get there, but I did it. That was the first time that I could care less about what anyone else had to say about the scene. All that mattered was that I felt great. I felt so great and happy with the art that I had just created with Anna, I couldn’t have asked for a better way to let out my frustration. That was what I was missing all year. Better late then never, I guess?

I’m still not done, and it certainly is not over. I have a long way to travel in order to fully be out of my own way. However, it is progress, and the more I head in this direction, the more I am going to get the hell out of the way. And what a better time to begin reading a new technique to keep my process refreshing and not stagnant? Talk about the text speaking to you, I did not choose this text; this text most definitely chose me.

On the Technique of Acting by Michael Chekhov is very similar to that of Stan’s technique. In fact, he refers to him often in his text. Chekhov, however, expounds upon some specific techniques that really resonate with me. His chapter on Psychological Gestures is so interesting. Maybe it’s because I myself have psychological gestures such as twirling my hair or biting my cuticles, but it really spoke to me. He states that “Every psychological state is always a combination of thoughts (or Images), Feelings, and Will-Impulses…Therefore, the psychological state in which the actor finds his character gives him the full opportunity to see it as the Action or (Gesture) with appropriate Qualities and Images. Thus, we may say that the same movement in one case is physical (Gesture) and in the other psychological (Qualities and Images)” (Chekhov 60). He’s clearly speaking in images, and I am such a visual person that this is easy for me to grasp. I also have always struggled with physically acting, and so focusing on those gestures is just another way of, literally, embodying my character.

Another concept of his that really resonates with me is one that we have been told before, but I just love the way he phrases it. Chekhov poses the question “Suppose a group of painters sat before the same landscape with their paints, and each promised himself faithfully to record the view before him. What would the result be...the artist did not paint the landscape, but their own individual concept of it, one made possible by each painter’s Creative Individuality” (16). This concept reminds me of Socrates’ idea that “he who sees with his eyes is blind.” Art comes through your soul before it enters the world, so what informs my art is going to be entirely different from what informs anyone else’s art. It’s not about the physical sight of things, but the perspective from which you are seeing something. 

Which brings this around full circle; art makes us feel something, which is why art is so important to the world. Whether we like it or not, we are overcome with some kind of emotion when we encounter anything art related, whether it be a song, a painting, a play, etc. We then welcome this emotion into our guesthouse and say thank you. I had a professor the other day put it into perspective for me. She said that the thing we were put on this earth to do is the thing we do the least, and that is to live. But I believe that art desperately tries to remind us to live. It’s welcoming us to run into these emotions that we feel, and deal with them, and work through the shit, and embrace the love, and everything else that may come with being alive. Life is such a beautiful gift, so why am I holding myself back from letting go and getting out of my own way? Because I’m forgetting to let life take me where I’m supposed to go. Now that I am reflecting on my growth, I am continually brought back to one of my favorite poems by Shell Silverstein:

There is a place where the sidewalk ends

And before the street begins,

And there the grass grows soft and white,

And there the sun burns crimson bright,

And there the moon-bird rests from his flight

To cool in the peppermint wind.

Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black

And the dark street winds and bends.

Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow

We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow,

And watch where the chalk-white arrows go

To the place where the sidewalk ends.

Yes we'll walk with a walk that is measured and slow,

And we'll go where the chalk-white arrows go,

For the children, they mark, and the children, they know

The place where the sidewalk ends.

Letting go promises such a beautiful reward, but I’ve been scared this whole time. Yet, inside of me, my soul is screaming out for me to surrender. And this is the voice of reassurance that I am an artist, and that I was put on this earth to perform. While it may be a lot of work and emotional energy, it is so worth it. Doing the work has become therapeutic. Even writing this paper is therapeutic. So I surrender! I surrender to failing 100 times, because I know the 101^st time, I’m going to get it.

The Little Things

Cherish the little things.

I never dreamed this day would come. 

It all started when I was 8 years old and decided to audition for my first show with Christian Youth Theater, CYT. 

I stood on the audition stage in hot pink overalls, showing off the huge gap between my teeth, my hair in tight, even pig tails; I was ready.

Little did I know this organization would slip into my heart and impact my life so that one day, when it was time to age out, it would be one of the hardest things to let go of.

Accompanying each Spring show, we held a graduation ceremony for the seniors. People would speak for them, the entire cast would cry and hug as we reminisced about their CYT careers.

Many of these seniors were people who my friends and I looked up to; they where my role models. I attribute to them so much of who I am today. 

Seeing them leave, go off to college, grow older, get married, even have children has been such a wonderful thing. These people who helped shape who I am today are living amazing lives, and I still get to be a part of them because of CYT. 

However, this year was different. This year the cast looked at photos of me and my friends from our first show, to our awkward teenage years, to now. This time I got to choose who spoke for me at my graduation. This year I graduated alongside the most incredible people; my best friends. 

 I am not going to lie, I was not looking forward to that day. May 25, the dreaded day, quickly approached. 

But it wasn’t necessarily the fact that I had to grow up that was sad, or the fact that I could no longer perform. Growing up is inevitable, and performing is my major. But it was the fact that I could no longer perform with this particular company that hurt the most.

Theater is a very rough environment. It’s ugly, cutthroat and brutal. Good career choice, right?

But CYT somehow hid that from the naive eyes of the youth, and kept the innocence in theater so that kids of all ages could really enjoy theater without having to grow up too quickly. 

CYT somehow bridged the gap between each age group and brought us all together to perform as a family. And it really felt as if each cast was a different family. 

From age eight to eighteen, everyone one of us where friends. We all hung out, asked how each others day went, had sleepovers, we really do care for one another. 

And every single person is accepted. It doesn’t matter if you stutter, are in a wheel chair, or are bullied at school, you walk through the doors at CYT and all of that goes away, and people look at you for who you really are; a nerdy kid who just wants to be on stage. 

I truly attribute the person I am today to CYT. I stayed out of trouble, I had the strength to be true to who I was, even if people at school didn’t understand that, because I knew when I went to CYT, myself was enough. 

As a kid, I remembered thinking, “I hope that I can be a great example to younger kids, and influence them as much as these older kids have influenced me.” And I have tried my best to do so. 

But what I found is something beyond what I was expecting. These kids touched my life, these kids influenced my life far more than I believe that I influenced theirs. 

You see, each kid brings something new and unique to CYT, but they all possess something that is the same: their innocence. They reminded me of how important it was to keep some of that innocence in the world. 

The world can be a negative, sad place, but it all comes down to how you look at it. And these kids look at the world through wide, glistening eyes, and they see good. They see the positive, wonderful things in the world that  makes life worth living. They see the little things.

So as I stood on the stage for one last time at my graduation, I wasn’t wearing hot pink overalls, I no longer had a huge gap between my teeth, my hair was not in tight, even pig tails; but, I was ready.

I looked at each one of my friends, sobbing by my side as we all graduated together, and then I looked at each little kid, all 60 of them. And they where sobbing too, because I was leaving them to go to college. Knowing that they would miss me made my heart ache even more. I was going to miss them so much more than they could ever know, but I am going to try my very best to stay in their lives, just as each one of my role models has done for me. 

After the graduation ceremony ended, there wasn’t a dry eye in sight. 

I hugged each kid, and began to cry even more as their little bodies trembled and their eyes soaked my shirt. 

As I tried to calm one of them down, I picked her up and sat her on my lap. I sat, stroking her hair, telling her everything was going to be okay, that I was still going to see her whenever I came home from college. 

Then she flipped like a switch and immediately lit up. “Oh yeah,” she exclaimed as she threw her arms around my neck.

As she beamed at me, I couldn’t help but wonder how she always managed to be so happy all the time. And so I asked her. 

This little 8-year-old took my hands, and just stared at me smiling, and I couldn't help but smile back. She kissed me on the cheek, hopped off my lap and went to go get ready for our final show. 

At that moment I knew that it was the little things that made these kids so positive all the time. They live in the moment without a care about the past, or the future, just what they knew at that moment. 

And I knew that I not only left these kids with happy memories and a good example to follow, but these kids taught me an invaluable lesson that I was prepared to take with me to college—to cherish the little things. 

Elmo

 Maybe it’s because I have seen firsthand the joy that Elmo can bring to children. Maybe it’s because I am still a four-year-old inside. Maybe it’s because I’m partial; it could very well be. Having played Elmo for two summers at SeaWorld, I have witnessed the joy this furry red monster brings children from all around the globe. Whether the children come from Australia, or Britain, or Japan, whether they be a boy or girl, they still approach Elmo with the same giddy awe and million-dollar smile.

When I was a child I watched Sesame Street and I watched Elmo’s World. I sang along, and I loved it. It brought joy to my childhood. Now as a teenager, I find that being able to give back to the community by delivering that same joy to a nation of children and seeing the impact it has on them has been an invaluable experience; something I never knew was possible.

So yeah, maybe I am partial when I say this, but rightly so—

 Regardless of what Kevin Clash, the voice and creator of Elmo, has or has not done, should have nothing to do with the character of Elmo.

Clash was accused of having a sexual relationship with a minor many years ago, and now the said minor has decided to bring their previous relationship to the media’s attention.

Many of the parents are skeptical about allowing their kids to watch Elmo now, according to the Wall Street Journal. They say that they can’t look at Elmo anymore without seeing Clash and remembering the accusations against him. 

I have no intention of arguing whether or not what Clash did was consensual, or whether or not he is guilty. However, whatever Clash has done should not overshadow Elmo’s character and what this character has done for millions of children.

When children watch Elmo they don’t look at the person behind the puppet. If that were the case then the children, and many of the parents, would be confused to find that a 5’ 1,” Asian-American, 17-year-old girl (me) plays Elmo as well.

It doesn’t occur to these children that there is a person behind the magic. 

To them, Elmo is real. He is a living breathing red furry monster that has the same interests, fears, questions as they do, and he answers those questions in a way that children all around the world, at any age, can understand.

Children probably have no idea who Clash is or what he has done in his lifetime. 

I am speaking from experience when I say that the person behind the puppet or costume has nothing to do with the character.

I have seen children light up at the sight of Elmo.

I have heard children scream out for Elmo at an ear-piercing decibel, shouting for Elmo to wave hello or blow a kiss while he is singing “One Fine Face.”

I have felt their little arms wrap their hands around him so tight, as if they never want to let go.

I have seen a mother cry as she watched her Down Syndrome child smile for the first time.

Elmo brings a multitude of happiness.

Elmo fosters that innocence that is so pure and valuable in children.

Elmo speaks to them in a way many adults cannot. 

And even Clash recognizes that. He created this character for children of all ages, races, and cultures to enjoy and latch on to.

He wasn’t fired from Sesame Street, he chose to step down from playing Elmo to sort out his personal life.

Clash recognizes that Elmo doesn’t need him, and that letting Elmo’s reputation remain innocent is a greater service to this nation than anything else he could do.

So I will leave you with this. Try not to think, “sex offender” every time you see Elmo now. Keep the puppeteer separate from the puppet.

Think of the joy this character has brought to a nation that needs it so.

Just look at the children’s faces while they’re watching Elmo play with his fish Dorothy, and I promise you, you won’t even remember the man behind the puppet.

Defense Secretary Leon Panetta announced recently that the Pentagon was lifting its ban on women serving in combat.

Before, women were only allowed to “temporarily be in danger zones,” but now they can be on the front lines, just as men are allowed to.  

My first reaction was, that’s great! 

Quite frankly, I’m not really a “feminist” but I’m not “sexist” either. I fall somewhere in the middle. The draft didn’t really affect me before, and it doesn’t really affect me now seeing as I have no intention of going off to serve in combat. 

Nevertheless, this is a step in the right direction for full equality. 

Women who want to serve in combat should be allowed to fully serve in combat and be treated as the equals of men. 

They still have to pass the same physical tests, they still have to pass the same health tests, and they still have to be able to do at least three pull-ups, just like men.

A military official told The New York Times that the law will be implemented “as soon as possible;” however, Congress has three years to make a final decision.

The New York Times added that each branch of the military reserves the right to withhold a job from women if it decides that she cannot fulfill it.

However, the article also states that Congress is thinking about allowing women to enter the draft.

This comes as a bit of a contradiction to me. There may still be some jobs that the military doesn’t want women to do, yet they will allow them to sign up for compulsory enrollment with the armed forces. 

 So my first reaction to that statement is hell no!

I don’t want to sign up for the draft, there are plenty of women, who I know don’t want to sign up for the draft, and honestly, I don’t think America is ready for women to sign up for the draft.

I’m not being sexist, I’m being honest.

Our society generally raises girls and boys very differently.

Boys play with swords and pretend they’re pirates. 

Girls play house with dolls.

Boys dress up as ninjas and kick and punch everyone walking by.

Girls dress up as princesses and prance around with jewelry and make up on.

Boys play Call of Duty and Black Ops.

Girls don’t play video games.

Of course I am being very general, but our society typically raises pretty princesses and strong knights in armor. Not to mention, men are built differently physically than girls. They develop different muscles, and they have different chemicals that naturally make them more aggressive.

According to Mail Online, a newspaper from the UK, Australian scientists have found what they call a “macho gene” in men that gives them the “fight or flight” instinct whereas women are more of the “tend and befriend” type. 

When men are in stressful situations, they have stress hormones that increase their blood pressure and pump adrenaline through their veins. Women have estrogen and the “cuddle hormone,” oxytocin, that counteracts that.

This isn’t to say that girls can’t defend themselves.

You see women lifting cars off of their babies because mama bear comes out from the adrenaline. 

I loved playing with dolls and I loved dressing up like a princess, but my father also taught me to punch when I was 6. He told me that if a guy ever attacks me, punch them in the throat first and then kick them in the sweet spot because their first reaction is to protect their jewels. 

However, I also know that my father would find it difficult to watch his princess pick up an AK47 and go at it on foreign land.

So no, I don’t believe that is the right step towards full equality.

With all of that said, there are some guys out there who I don’t want defending our country. No insult to men, but some people are born in different situations, live different lives, have more or less of the “macho gene” in them. Just as some men can mentally and physically handle war better than others, the same goes for women. 

So my solution?

Plain and simple, make the draft optional for men and women. 

I know that sounds insane, and you may be thinking, “how in the world can you even propose that,” but here is the thing:

The draft was created after President Franklin D. Roosevelt signed the Selective Training and Service Act of 1940 because there were not enough volunteers to fight in the war. However, according to the U.S. Department of Defense, in 2009 they had almost 300,000 Americans sign up for different branches in the military, each branch meeting or surpassing the necessary amount.

I won’t go as far as saying that the draft is unnecessary, because I can’t predict if there is going to be World War III soon where all of America will have to go off and fight. But for now, save Americans the heartache, and make the draft optional for both women and men. 

Some people would be more than happy to waltz down to the United States Post Office to sign up for the draft on their 18th birthday. I can promise you that I was neither thinking about it, nor wanting to sign up for the draft on my 18th birthday. 

However, I can also promise you this: If there was a war on American soil, families were dying, loved ones were tortured, the American people would come together and they would fight.

If Red Dawn went down on American soil, if Korea took my family, killed my father, and hurt my loved ones, I can promise you that I would pull a Mulan and go defend my country and my family. 

If it is full equality America wants, making women sign up for the draft is one step too far. I believe we must take one step back, making it an option for those, both men and women, who know that they can mentally and physically handle it. 

Merry Christmas!

 I have become immune to hearing these words. For 17 years of my life this phrase has been repeated from Dec. 1 until Dec. 25, and then the phrase is put away for another 11 months. The Christmas season has become almost a routine for me. 

Most Christmas mornings my eyes pop open at 7 a.m. 

 I scurry downstairs and jump onto my daddy’s lap, while he finishes his morning coffee and newspaper. 

When my mother stumbles out of bed, I pester her until she agrees to make breakfast with me. 

Soon after, my visiting relatives from out of town wake up to the smell of pancakes and eggs and make their way to the kitchen table.

Once we’re all fed, we cram into one car and head to church.

Then, after church, we make our way home, pile into the kitchen and help my mother make dinner. 

After we all finish cooking, my sister and I drag everyone around the tree to open presents.

After we’ve torn through every present under the tree, the smell of food is wafting through the air and our tummies begin to growl. 

As we sit around the table and eat, we exchange stories and laughter.

And then, once we can’t eat anymore, we light a fire and watch It’s a Wonderful Life.

However, this Christmas will be different.

As I sit on my dad’s lap in the morning, I will let him hug me that extra second, instead of wiggling out of his arms.

As I help my mother make breakfast, I won’t complain when she asks for my help cleaning up the dishes.

As we gather around the tree, I will take the time to notice every smile on my family’s faces after they open a gift.

As we fill our bellies, I will be attentive to the stories being told, cherishing the time spent with my family. 

This Christmas will hold a deeper meaning in many of our hearts across the nation. 

The tragedy that occurred in Connecticut last Friday will be in our hearts this Christmas. 

I don’t think a heart out there didn’t ache for the community when they heard what had happened. 

The grief I feel for the community cannot be anywhere close to what they are going through.

 Young lives, innocence, the feeling of love, family, friends were taken 11 days before Christmas. 

On, Dec. 14, kids went to school, expecting to be in the arms of their parents on Christmas day.

On Dec. 14, parents found a few moments to slip away to buy that special gift for their kids from Santa, with the hope of seeing joy wash over their faces on Christmas day.

On Dec. 14, the news tore through the hearts of many, leaving agonizing pain throughout the community. 

Parents, grandparents, siblings, relatives, friends. Many will be forced to stare at that gift under the tree, nicely wrapped, never to be opened. 

Many will not get to feel the joy of giving or receiving.

Christmas will never be the same for these families.

Let Christmas never be the same for us either.

Be present, physically and mentally on Christmas, and do not take the little things for granted. 

Be aware; take in every smile of joy you see.

Be thankful; let your parents hug you for that extra second, don’t wiggle out of their arms.

Let us dedicate this Christmas to the families and community of Newton, Conn.

 Remember the teacher who threw her body over her children to save their lives, or the one who locked her kids in the bathroom, reassuring them that there will be Christmas and there will be Hanukkah waiting for them when they get out. 

Remember the principal who tried desperately to protect her school.

Remember the parents who walked into the fire station that day, only to find that their child was not there. 

Keep them in your thoughts, open a gift for them, hug your family, siblings, relatives extra tightly for them. 

And do not forget to have a very Merry Christmas.