New Friends May Come and Go but Awkwardness Lasts Forever

Photo Credit

Now how exactly do you make friends in college? As I'm going to a school that disregards the universally followed semester schedule I've taken to reading facebook quite extensively in the extra two weeks that I have on my hands. All of my friends facebook statuses resound with the same ebullient "I love College" declaration. Now besides giving me an unwelcome memory of an Asher Roth song, these statuses reiterate to me that I am not in college. The pictures of their new dorms, their wall posts about their annoyingly long homework assignments and early lectures seem completely foreign to me, like they're speaking a different language that I am trying hastily to translate (come to think about it this situation shares a striking resemblance to my french class). But mostly through by voyeurism I see how seamlessly they've made friends. Now my social skills aren't the most finally tuned instrument in the band room. I know, shocking right, considering my witty and charming disposition. But I'm really just not that friendly. Because who really wants to come across as that annoying, over eager, super cheerful girl? I mean that's usually the type of person I make fun of. I rarely even make friend requests on facebook because I don't want to come off as too eager or a person who check facebook constantly (albeit I have been doing just that in the last couple of days). Facebook, it seems, has been a breeding ground for pre-college friends yet I recoil from this form of friend making. Wouldn't it be pushy and a bit creepy to friend someone or write on their wall just because we're both in the Northwestern 2013 group? Yet I don't think my "eradicate eagerness" tactic is really going to be beneficial in this scenario. Of course I am going to try to force friendliness on my usually subdued temperament but how do I attain this without becoming pushy or scaring little children, or myself for that matter? Someone once told me that I was a bit of a loner and I'm starting to believe them. I mean I'm not going to pull a Salinger and move away to New Hampshire or anything but I just don't make friends that easily. Throughout high school I made a handful of great friends. And that was in place where I was reasonably comfortable and familiar with my surroundings. Which brings up another unnerving question.

Where exactly do you find these friends? Are they in your classes or your dorm or the clubs you join? How do you go about making friends in classes? I imagine there's no time to have a conversation while the teacher is giving a lecture and striking up a conversation about your interests in life in between your professors breaths about Tolstoy may just attract dirty looks. And what if the people in your dorm aren't exactly complementary to your character. Which seems like another hurtle. How do you go about making the right friends and not just ones for convenience sake. People say that they've made their best friends by chance. But what are the odds that you end up dorming next to your potential platonic soulmate or bump into them on the way to the dining hall? And this may be just be my paranoia but I think people get intimidated by me. And as much as I like to think it's because of my undeniable intelligence or my stunning good looks I think it's actually because of my name. People actually get scared of pronouncing my name wrong. Which is now that I think about it is understandable. When you pronounce someone's name wrong it's probably a bit disconcerting. Throughout my 13 years of public education teachers rarely called on my the first week. Mainly I think it was because they were apprehensive of saying my name. Now eventually people will become comfortable with my name. Though the usual curious/confused, wide eyed look on people's faces when I first introduce myself is to be expected, the obstacle isn't insurmountable. But do I really need another injury in my already handicapped friend making abilities? Hopefully I will make friends like a normal, socially balanced freshman. If not, well than at least I will be comforted knowing that New Hamshire isn't too far away.
On a Side Note: Aren't the outfits that the students are wearing the in picture just 80's-tastic?

Absence Makes the Heart go Fonder

Photo Credit

Well atleast I hope so. I know I have been MIA on the blogging circiut as of late. But now that I have my laptop posts will become much more frequent. I hope I haven't lost the handful of readers that I had. Becauase well there's nothing sadder than a girl talking to herself. Until than I offer a peace offering in the form of a beautful Richard Avedon photograph

The Price of Being Wise

Oh the price of being wise

It's not so nice
I look like a chipmunk
The medicine puts me in a weird funk
I don't think my doctor was very good
He didn't do the things he should
I miss solid food
And I'm developing a bit of an attitude

Home of the Future

Ice, Ice, Baby

Photo Credit

Picture this: It's January and snowing in Moscow and you're walking across the Red Square to the Saint Basil's Cathedral. As the image is taking shape somewhere in the walls of your mind what exactly do you picture yourself wearing? Is it a luxurious wool skirt topped with a bright red cashmere turtleneck along side over the knee boots and a fur caplet? Or, is it a sweatshirt elegantly juxtaposed with snow pants and Ugg boots? Even in our most nebulous dreams (I bet a lot of us pictured this scene without even knowing what the Red Square looks like) our mind meticulously chooses our wardrobe for that particular moment (if you've never pictured yourself walking along the Champs-Elysées in a beret than you are just depriving yourself.) Yet our mind does not actively take in the windchill factor (a skirt in a Russian winter?) in these moments of delusional reverie, but the question is should they?

In photographs across the blogosphere (The Satorialist and Garance Dore for example) you see pictures of youths in Berlin in punkish streetwear, refined ladies in Moscow in skirts and elbow length gloves and Parisian coquettes in ankle booties and a bodycon dress. Despite the fact that it's winter, these nameless subjects dress for there mood. The weather plays a key role in the process but not the sole role. It is more of an adviser than a dictator. Which is why I find people's response of my going to Northwestern slightly surprising. I think at least everyone who I've told that I'm going to Northwestern has elicited a response similar to "You know, Chicago get's really cold!" I used to believe that my irritation to these predictable responses was just part of extensive collection of neuroses, like the way I can't stand people touching my hair or my utter aversion to feet. But I have recently found out that I am not alone, on Facebook there is a whole group (case in point, they really do serve cathartic purposes) devoted to my neuroses felicitously titled "Yes damit, I KNOW Chicago gets really cold, now shut the hell up about it!" Now these meterologist-esque and informative responses seem to be perfectly acceptable segways to a conversation, except when they go on how it gets so blood freezing cold that the winter becomes dreadfully unbearably, that one must stay inside most of the times wearing Northfaces and Ugg boots perpetually.

Now this is where my irritation starts to turn to a light simmer. I mean must cold weather be synonymous with the "It's Sunday and I've got a the flu" outfit? Can't there be a balance between the ever famous duo of fashion and function? According to a former U Chicago student and a present Michiganite resident the answer is no. Upon asking my cousin if wearing skirts with tights was pushing it in the winter, she started to laugh. She looked at me seriously and said, "Heba, if you dress like that in Chicago you will die." This to me sounds like an exaggeration. I mean how do those statuesque Russian residents dress so elegantly while strolling through St. Petersburg? I bet Anna Karenina wasn't wearing a Puffy Coat and a face mask that's for sure.

vs.
Photo Credit Photo Credit
Now which one would you choose?

To me it seems like a question of mind over matter. Wearing a skirt with wool cable knit tights doesn't seem completely ludicrous to me. But from the bemused looks I was receiving from my cousin and my sister you would think that I was suggesting making snow angels in hotpants. If Anna Karenina can dress alluringly in a Russian winter than I think we all have the potential to, even in the windy city. After relaying these thoughts to my cousin she said, "It's going to be Chicago vs. Heba and Chicago's going to kick your ass." And well, I can't say that I'm not excited for that face off.

"I am always thinking 'What am I doing here? Is this the way I am supposed to feel?'" - Jack Kerouac

I'm always thinking this. I always feel like I am not feeling enough of something, that I am not taking advantage of the situation for all it's worth. It's almost as if you're worried that you are not as happy or sad as you should be. My last day of high school was in a word, anticlimactic. I wasn't severely happy nor was tear stained depressed. The indifference of it all made it seem unreal, like I was a spectator watching someone else's life.

" I always thought that I was more half-there than all-there – I always suspected that I was watching TV instead of living life. People sometimes say that the way things happen in movies is unreal, but actually it’s the way things happen in life that’s unreal. The movies make emotions look so strong and real, whereas when things really do happen to you, it’s like watching television – you don’t feel anything."

This little insight from Andy Warhol encompasses how I often feel at those rising moments, at how I felt today. Maybe it just hasn't sunk in yet, maybe the surreality of it all is causing the numbness. When I was looking around the field I felt I was watching a teen movie with cheesy dialogue and actors that couldn't quite deliver the ending. All throughout high school I was plagued by an inadequacy. A feeling that something about me just wasn't enough for the environment, that my inability to saturate into all the colors made me perpetually a couple of steps behind. And to me this is what high school has always been defined as, a wait of some sort. Yet it is not the type of wait where you are resting but the type where you are running, where you are trying to catch up to some point of complete saturation encased in ambiguity.

I cannot lie and say the cliched line of "I had a horrible time in high school." Because a select group of people I have met have made it all the worth while. Through them I have gained a confidence and a self possession that you really can only obtain from your peers. And though them I have felt as if I have asserted and solidified my character into something that wasn't so familiar and comforting as family. I have spent 13 years at this school and there's no denying the fact that the people and the school always will be a large and news 12 spotted part of my youth. But I'm tired of running in the wait. These past years I will keep in my body like an appendix, something I once needed but have evolutionary outgrown. I guess it's fitting that today was anticlimactic because after a climax everything goes downhill, and well, I'm kind of looking up from here.

Hiatus

Photo credit

Just for a couple of days.

P.S. Doesn't this photograph make you want to learn photography?

Scaredy Cats Anonymous

They say that "the brave may not live forever but the cautious do no not live at all." Well if that's the case than I haven't lived for about 15 years since the last time I remember not being fearful or cautious was at the tender age of three. I was the girl on the playground who didn't pump her legs on the swings because she was afraid of going too high, the girl who would avoid the jungle gym for fear of heights (and lack of upper body strength but that's besides the point). Hell, if you gave me a red wig and violet rectangular glasses I could well as be Chuckie Finster.

I must admit, it's not an easy life for us Scaredy Cats, everything becomes more worrisome, more complicated, normal proceedings become obstacles, things to endure rather than enjoy. It's not to say that scaredy cats don't have fun, it's just more of a process. And if fear is my addiction than clothes are like my nicotine gum. They take the edge off. Despite the fact that I am fearful, cautious and calculating to a tee I garner no apprehensions on what people will say about my outfits of choice. Sartorially speaking, I don't fear sticking out in the crowd . Which from a logical standpoint goes against everything I stand for. With clothes I am not cautious or fearful. I am clear thinking, decisive and strong minded. Even though I do not agree with many of the supeheros' outfits of choice (underwear as outwear? head to toe leather? capes in general?) I understand the empowerment of the costume. Batman didn't wear latex leather just to show off his hot bod nor did Superman wear visible underwear to just attract the ladies (though I'm sure those were top priorities). The function of these costumes was to transform them into another person, a more concentrated version of themselves. So even though I am not a superhero, at times I can identify with their fearlessness. It's almost as if the fabric acts upon me like a spider bite, transmuting me into a caricature of myself. Because even though by nature I am timid and shy, when I put those clothes on my body I become more confident and less contrived. It's as if in one area of my life I'm not thinking of what everyone else's reaction will be. For once, I'm just thinking about myself.

Hey Bully!

Oh I don't think I could ever forget what I looked like in middle school. I was a fairly breathtaking figure with eye brows that could rival any Russian man's, hair that's geometric shape was taken from the Egyptian pyramids and clothes that hung away from my lank little frame as if it rejecting any association with my body. I was a vision of awkwardness.

I took this little saunter down the rather-not- remember lane during a certain conversation in math class. My friend was discussing the latest episode of the Tyra Show (the stimulator of all intellectual conversations) which concerned the hazing between popular and unpopular girls at high school. I asked her "So were you a bully when you were younger?" Her affirmative response triggered me to questioned a variety of people about their browbeating past. Their responses certainly surprised me for they lied at extreme ends of the spectrum. It seemed like it was either bully or be bullied. Now I'm not referring to the take your lunch money type of bullying but moreover the let's make fun of your magic school bus sweatshirt type of bullying. I wondered what triggered these reformed aggressors. Traits like popularity, wealth and domineering physique are the commonly accepted notions . Obviously these stereotypes are superficial but they do hold clout in certain analysis since their is a certain confidence that is associated with these traits and a certain confidence is needed for bullying. But what exactly makes someone a bully? As someone who was on the other side of the predator-prey relationship I have made some of my own theories:

1. It's genetic: Is it just me or does popularity/bully-esquenss run in the family? As someone who has an older sister who went to the same exact schools as I did it seems as if the younger sibling filled the place of their older predecessor. It's as if popularity is some sex lined gene that is passed on through a lineage line. Well at least popularity is a better trait to pass on then hemophilia, just ask Queen Victoria's kids.
2. They've got the goods: You know who 'm talking about. It was those kids that got exactly what you wanted. Maybe it was that barbie dream car that you desperately wanted (or still want if you're like me) that they had. Or maybe it was the trampoline that they got as an early birthday present. But it certainly seemed like some kids had everything you and everyone else wanted. Maybe all those material acquisitions made them have a sense of entitlement, a right to rule so to speak.
3. They just watched too much Angelica Pickles as a kid: if someone was a bully in 7th grade doesn't mean they are Hitler's right hand man. Because everyone's mean sometimes. Maybe they were just confused or maybe it was for laughs. In 8th grade someone wrote in my yearbook "Start being mean, it's much more fun that way." Well one thing is for sure, being called hairy four eyes certainly wasn't.

I guess it's pretty irrelevant whether you were the oppressor or the oppressi in the day's of finger paint and first junior high dances. Since it doesn't so much represent the person you are as the person you've become. But even though their isn't a line separating those who bullied and those who were bullied I still think you can see the stripe in people's character. Because when someone is bullied it's not just the magenta magic school bus sweatshirt that is being made fun of it's the most weakest part of them that is being exploited. Targeting someone on their looks, or their possessions, or simply their personality is attacking their most vulnerable side because it is something that is specific to them, something that makes them an individual, something they are helpless to change. Even though being bullied wasn't one of my most shining moments I think it has been solidified as an integral bone in my body. Being bullied makes you more sensitive, more insightful and more perceptive to other people's weaknesses. When we're in the boardroom there isn't going to be a scarlet letter attached to the former bullies since it doesn't represent who they are now. But I like to think that part of us will be able to tell who was bullied, that something in their antibodies will trigger a self recognition in their fellow underdogs. If not, a bad reaction to magenta sweatshirts and frizzy hair will certainly tip us off.

A Walk Down the PROMendade

Prom is emblematic, an institution in it's own right. If it were not for prom where would the teenage movies of the 90s be? (10 things I Hate About You and She's All That both had their respective climaxes at Prom). But I think the real question is where would we be without prom? With a lot less taffeta and successful limo companies that's for sure. As someone who is forgoing prom I strangely do not feel any grief about missing this "supposed" milestone of my life. To me Prom is more of a goodbye party to high school itself than to the friends who you are actually going to miss. I guess to me Prom just doesn't seem worth it. Doesn't all the excess, whether it be the loud dresses, the booze, or the parading of wealth dilute the essential purpose of prom? In view prom has become a display of decadence, an over consumption and I feel as if I wouldn't even remember my friends in the midst of all that gluttony.
Don't get me wrong I don't think people who go to prom are "conformist" nor do I think people who forgo it are "too cool for school." To steal a line from Sly Sloane it's just "Different Strokes for Different Folks." Plus prom will save me a package of humiliation since I am
a) A really awkward dancer. Correction: I do not dance
b) Really unphotogenic (Commiserating on prom photo's would not be a joyous experience)
c)Not a fan of prom getups. I've never seen one person whose prom ensemble I actually liked, with the exception of Laney Boggs.
So I guess I'm not the prom type but maybe I would got to prom if: Freddie Prince Jr. sas my Prom date, Usher would DJ my Prom and my whole senior class magically learn a synchronized dance to Fat Boy Slim's "The Rockefellar Skank" (see below)


But than again Freddie Prince Jr. did leave his prom (despite the synchronized dancing) to get the girl and it seemed to be pretty much worth to him at the end.

Let's Get Personal?

I never wanted to write a blog. I did it primarily to improve my writing because writing like anything else, improves through practice. I was hesitant in creating a blog because I thought it would turn into some narcissistic, self indulgent rant. So I always veered on the side of caution, trying never to write about anything going on in my actual life, strictly trying to keep the topics about human interest pieces (whether they're actually interesting is a different story). Because who really would want to read about what was going on in my life? But I started realizing that the blogs that hold my interest the most are the ones that are a bit personal, the ones that provide insight into someone else's life.

I guess blogs, unlike any other medium, feed our voyeuristic desires. They're like reality shows but without the tackiness, the Corona induced fights, and the over dramatic characters. But blogs, unlike reality shows allow you to see the thought processes of people. Reading a person's blog is like hearing that person's voice in your ear. Perhaps that is why they've always frighten me a bit. I personally think it's admirable for people to talk so openly about their life on a forum that can be accessed by an infinite amount of people. Maybe that's because I have privacy issues (I like to delete all my news feeds on Facebook). I know its silly to hide the fact that you joined the "I love Harry Potter" group on Facebook (like it's a secret) but I guess it's a form of protection. Because if you become inscrutable you cannot be attacked by the vulnerabilities that come with transparency. But I've decided to get a bit more personal with my posts. Who knows? Maybe I'll actually start keeping my Facebook feeds.
Photo by Jeques B. Jamora: http://jeques.wordpress.com

Please Mister Postman

My first occupational ambition came at the age of four when all I wanted to be was a mailwomen. Though I have decided to take a slightly different vocational route I am proud to say that my obsession with all things postal has not seized since. Yet I do not limit my indulgences to documents that are branded with a postage stamp. As a mail connoisseur I do not discriminate against new age communication. I take whatever type correspondence I can get. E- cards? Letters? Facebook messages? You name it, I hoard it. Which is the reason why I can't understand why no one writes letters to themselves. In a way letters are more insightful than journal entries, because you aren't just recklessly writing your thoughts down, you are directing them to someone else. You are objectifying your feelings for the sole purpose of it being read by an outsider. In a way they are consciously constructed artifacts of who you were at that moment in your life.
So wouldn't you love to have that insight? To read a letter from the past proclaiming about the future which is in actuality the present? (Stay with me here). Wouldn't it be refreshing to hear the voice of a former, more historic self, a version of you that was more naive, that was filled with the ignorance of the unknown? So the next time you are on the cusp of some big endeavor or in the midst of some personal tragedy write your self a letter or an E card (which can conveniently be set up to sent out 30 days in the future). Write about what you hope will happen, your worries, and your dreams. Offer yourself advice about the next coming days, months or years. Because who really knows what your going through better than yourself? And when you open up that letter after that big endeavor hopefully you will be comforted to hear the voice of someone so familiar, someone you used to know, someone who has come out of the other side. Just don't write to yourself too publicly. The last thing you want is for your letter writing to land you in the same category as the lady who sends herself flowers on Valentines day.

Off to the Windy City

A Eulogy to the Past

O Prestigious University why didn't you accept me?
I wasted $75 dollars on your application fee
Can't you see your the one?
Why can't you let me in you sun of a gun?
Oh crap, I really need to get a life
To distract me from this everlasting strife

I created this elegiac masterpiece during AP French as my intestines were inundated with feelings of pity and self deprecation. Getting my rejection letter was painful, depressing and heinously pathetic. But as I flooded my ears with Conor Oberst and Neutral Milk Hotel (like I wasn't depressed enough) I realized something. No matter how strong, practical and rational we are we all become seduced by our dreams. We cheat on actuality to give in to our wants, our carnal cravings, our clandestine thirsts. We are no longer prisoners of reality but fugitives of reverie. And no matter how much you try to prepare yourself, no matter how many times you say to yourself that you have no chance, that getting rejected is expected, that it shouldn't come as any surprise it always does. Because you always believe that you're the exception to the rule or you wouldn't have even attempted to break it. And know matter how many times people fill you with the stories of qualified students getting rejected it doesn't soften the blow. Because you never want to be that kid. You want to be the one that succeeds, the person who everyone looks at and says "I always knew she would make it."

About two weeks before acceptance's were being mailed one of my cousin turned to me and said "I really hope you get rejected." I looked at her as if she were telling me that she wanted to become a Death Eater (Oh, come on we all know they're a historical parallel to the Nazis). After I gave her the look of death she preceded to tell me this: Rejection letters are a life experience. They make you see that life isn't easy. At the time I thought she was just waxing about some abstract moral lesson that would hopefully never apply to me. But it looks like it did apply to me, because I certainly learned that things in my life do not come easy. I guess getting the letter made me feel as if I wasn't enough, just mediocrity at its most finest and most delusional. Everyone from my mom to my best friends told me "Everything happens for a reason." My response? "That's the saying of failures trying to justify their lack of success." But as I let the reality of it marinate inside my head I had to acknowledge the fact that I wanted to get into Columbia more than anything I've ever wanted but I didn't get it. I have to realize that relating my self worth to a college acceptance is not only tenuous but foolish. I have to accept the fact that maybe everythign does happen for reason, that even though I really believe that I could have done great at Columbia that I can do great or maybe greater elsewhere. But mostly I have to accept the fact that if there is something special inside of me, even an ounce of potential, than I have to remove it from an abstract notion into something tangible. Hopefully I can still be that person who everyone always knew "would make it." My rejection taught me that my life isn't easy. But I guess I never wanted it to be a slut anyway.