I would like to start off this post with a quote.
"Today you are you; that is truer than true. There's no one alive who is youer than you." -- Dr. Seuss
This quote represents the uniqueness that we all inherently have. It's not an option to be unique. No two people -- not even twins -- are exactly alike in every way. I have quirks; there's no doubt about that. I wouldn't be me without all of my quirks. I'm loud; I'm goofy; I'm sarcastic; I'm a news-junkie; I've got a million and one quirks. So do you. These tiny differences are what make the world such an amazing place. If every animal were exactly the same, how boring would that be? If every person had the same view and the same personality, would anyone be attracted to anyone else? It's hard to find an argument that says yes to that question.
The art of humanity lies deep within each and every human being. We all have unquestionable similarities: physical needs, physical construction, emotional needs, and many others. These are all, however, part of a much larger view of humanity. We all need air to breath, food to eat, water to drink, shelter to protect us, and someone else to entertain us. The last in that list is possible the most important. We can have all of the physical necessities of life, but without the emotional connection that we feel with others, many people would go insane -- myself included. I use another quote, this one from my favorite musical artist. "If we weren't all crazy, we'd all go insane." To me, in this quote, craziness is really quirkiness. When you get past the broad view of humanity -- the larger necessities like air, food and water -- and you look down at the emotional needs and the little things that make each of us happy, you find vast differences. Some people are happiest when writing or painting; some are happiest when solving puzzles; some are even happiest when sleeping. Everyone, when it comes to the smaller things in likes different things. Some love country music; some hate it. Some love television dramas; others hate them.
When it comes to differences like these, the petty and unimportant ones, it is important for each and every person to embrace themselves as who they really are, and acknowledge what they really like. Not who others want them to be or what others want them to like. If you love Gavin Degraw, love him. If you love Taylor Swift, lover her. If you love NCIS, love it. Don't be afraid to admit to enjoying things just because they're not the norm. I work at a radio station full of hipsters who dislike Nickelback. I happen to like Nickelback; so what?
I guess what I'm getting at here is that everyone needs to embrace who they really are. If who they are isn't who they want to be, they're the only ones who can change it. You're the only person who can be you.
If you're not going to be you, who is?
28 February 2011
21 February 2011
What have you done today to make you feel proud?
This morning, as I sat in my room at FSU, Switchfoot's "This is your life" came onto my music player. It made me think. Who am I? Am I who I want to be? This is my life. And the conclusion I came to is: Yes. I am who I want to be. I am extremely proud of myself and what I have accomplished this far in my life. I'm twenty-years-old and have many published articles in the college newspaper, many broadcast radio articles and I've got a great GPA. Life has been great to me. I've been in some ruts; I've been through some stuff I wouldn't wish on anyone, but overall I think that I've grown into a very strong individual.
I'm proud to say that I'm me. I'm not what someone else wants me to be; I am who I want me to be. I expect no less from myself. Who I am may be too brash, too outspoken, too loud for some people. That doesn't bother me. I've been told countless times how loud I am. Every time I'm told as if it might come as a surprise. Nope. I know it. I'm loud. I've accepted it. I've grown to love it. My voice carries -- it's a gift, really. I don't need a microphone. I don't need a loud-speaker. I have a voice that can project without any extra effort. It's hard for me to be quiet. This is a part of me.
I do things that make me feel proud about myself because that's all that really matters, isn't it? When you learn to let go of what others think about you, you learn that the only person's whose approval and pride matters is your own. My parents can tell me over and over again how proud they are of me, but it doesn't mean half as much as being able to say, "This is my work, and I'm proud of it."
This is your life. Are you who you want to be? I know I sure am. I hope you are too.
I'm proud to say that I'm me. I'm not what someone else wants me to be; I am who I want me to be. I expect no less from myself. Who I am may be too brash, too outspoken, too loud for some people. That doesn't bother me. I've been told countless times how loud I am. Every time I'm told as if it might come as a surprise. Nope. I know it. I'm loud. I've accepted it. I've grown to love it. My voice carries -- it's a gift, really. I don't need a microphone. I don't need a loud-speaker. I have a voice that can project without any extra effort. It's hard for me to be quiet. This is a part of me.
I do things that make me feel proud about myself because that's all that really matters, isn't it? When you learn to let go of what others think about you, you learn that the only person's whose approval and pride matters is your own. My parents can tell me over and over again how proud they are of me, but it doesn't mean half as much as being able to say, "This is my work, and I'm proud of it."
This is your life. Are you who you want to be? I know I sure am. I hope you are too.
20 February 2011
Writing
The ability to write is not a genetic trait, nor is it something that just anyone can pick up. That leaves it in a class all it's own. Who can write? And what does it mean to write something effectively?
Writing is something that comes deep from within the wrinkles and crevices of our brains. Writing comes from the valves pumping blood through our hearts. Writing comes from the acids in our stomachs and intestines. Writing comes from within a person. Writing comes from us physically and mentally. There are synapses that are fired while writing, as there are synapses that are fired during every second of every day. Why are the synapses from writing different?
For some people it's a feeling of euphoria, for others it's a feeling of despair. For me, writing is almost second-nature. Does that mean it's easy? Absolutely not. There are times that I write and delete, rewrite and then redelete. Other times I can sit down and just let my fingers type magical things into the computer's text box. The most revealing pieces of writing are those that don't use the backspace key. The stream of consciousness that forms on the paper (or in this case on the screen) can reveal some crazy things that exists between our ears.
How does one become an effective writer? Well, some say to read and read a lot. "The more you read, the more good writing you'll read and the more you'll want to emulate that," some say. I don't know how accurate that really is. Sometimes it depends on how well formed your brain is, and how good of a grasp on the language you're writing in you have. For example, if I wrote in Spanish (algo que puedo hacer), the stream would flow much differently than when I write in English. The more immersed in a language you are, the more mastery of it you will acquire.
If in middle school someone had told me that I would eventually begin to enjoy writing, no, that I would begin to love writing, I would have told them that they were insane. I'd have directed them to the nearest mental institution because they needed to check themselves in. Here I am, more than six years after leaving middle school, loving writing. I don't know what I would do if I couldn't write out my thoughts. I may not have gotten involved with the newspaper. I may not have decided to minor in journalism. I might not have become a news junkie. This isn't a case of the what-ifs. This is self-reflection and thanking. I am extremely thankful for every opportunity I have been given. Some opportunities I found for myself; some were given to me on a silver platter. I am thankful for all of them. Most of the opportunities have been extremely rewarding opportunities.
Writing well means to write deep from within. I just let the words come out of my fingertips onto the page. I'll reread them a few times, but usually -- when it comes to a blog -- I just let them sit as they've come out.
Writing is something that comes deep from within the wrinkles and crevices of our brains. Writing comes from the valves pumping blood through our hearts. Writing comes from the acids in our stomachs and intestines. Writing comes from within a person. Writing comes from us physically and mentally. There are synapses that are fired while writing, as there are synapses that are fired during every second of every day. Why are the synapses from writing different?
For some people it's a feeling of euphoria, for others it's a feeling of despair. For me, writing is almost second-nature. Does that mean it's easy? Absolutely not. There are times that I write and delete, rewrite and then redelete. Other times I can sit down and just let my fingers type magical things into the computer's text box. The most revealing pieces of writing are those that don't use the backspace key. The stream of consciousness that forms on the paper (or in this case on the screen) can reveal some crazy things that exists between our ears.
How does one become an effective writer? Well, some say to read and read a lot. "The more you read, the more good writing you'll read and the more you'll want to emulate that," some say. I don't know how accurate that really is. Sometimes it depends on how well formed your brain is, and how good of a grasp on the language you're writing in you have. For example, if I wrote in Spanish (algo que puedo hacer), the stream would flow much differently than when I write in English. The more immersed in a language you are, the more mastery of it you will acquire.
If in middle school someone had told me that I would eventually begin to enjoy writing, no, that I would begin to love writing, I would have told them that they were insane. I'd have directed them to the nearest mental institution because they needed to check themselves in. Here I am, more than six years after leaving middle school, loving writing. I don't know what I would do if I couldn't write out my thoughts. I may not have gotten involved with the newspaper. I may not have decided to minor in journalism. I might not have become a news junkie. This isn't a case of the what-ifs. This is self-reflection and thanking. I am extremely thankful for every opportunity I have been given. Some opportunities I found for myself; some were given to me on a silver platter. I am thankful for all of them. Most of the opportunities have been extremely rewarding opportunities.
Writing well means to write deep from within. I just let the words come out of my fingertips onto the page. I'll reread them a few times, but usually -- when it comes to a blog -- I just let them sit as they've come out.
02 February 2011
The "Race Card"
Why is this a card anyone ever put in the deck of life? I don't understand when someone says "I don't mean to play the race card..." Well, if you don't mean to, then why are you?!
Race, as I've stated before, is a social institution. Why have a race card if so many people claim that "we [as a country and/or society] have moved past race." This is clearly not the case. It still matters to far too many people. As long as someone thinks about race -- as long as they're thinking about it, they don't necessarily have to speak it or write it -- then there is still an issue with race. America, come on. We're better than this. If you think you can joke about race but that you don't have an issue with it, you're wrong. Race doesn't matter. It's not something worth joking about, laughing about, talking about or even thinking about, let alone "pulling the race card."
Something I said in a previous post that I feel is still worth saying now:
"Black people like fried chicken." Well, I guarantee, I can eat just as much fried chicken as a black man. I adore fried chicken.
"Asian people love rice." Again, I could eat you out of house and home when it comes to rice. I love it; I eat it more than once a day.
I hate racism. I hate social institutions. It doesn't matter! Move past it. Sheesh.
Race, as I've stated before, is a social institution. Why have a race card if so many people claim that "we [as a country and/or society] have moved past race." This is clearly not the case. It still matters to far too many people. As long as someone thinks about race -- as long as they're thinking about it, they don't necessarily have to speak it or write it -- then there is still an issue with race. America, come on. We're better than this. If you think you can joke about race but that you don't have an issue with it, you're wrong. Race doesn't matter. It's not something worth joking about, laughing about, talking about or even thinking about, let alone "pulling the race card."
Something I said in a previous post that I feel is still worth saying now:
Race DOES NOT MATTER. I don't know how else to say that. I don't know how I'm supposed to help society move past this horrible notion. I don't see color; I have friends who are black, white, yellow and purple. It doesn't matter to me. When I'm describing someone I don't say they're "black, tall, fat and bald." I say they're "tall, fat and bald." Why? Because it doesn't register in my brain that they're black. I don't care... it's not only that I don't care, it's that I don't even think about it. My brain is so inclined to not care that I legitimately don't see it anymore.
Race is a touchy subject in America. For example, as long as Barack Obama is the "first black president" instead of the "44th President of the United State of America," race will still be a problem. All of this notion that we've "moved past race" as a culture is clearly hogwash. As long as FSU students remain afraid to go south of Gaines St. or go out on the FAMU homecoming weekend, we clearly still have an issue with racism. There may scientifically be three races (Mongoloid, Negroid and Caucasoid) but all three are still human beings. Every person on this earth bleeds the same color: red. That is something that won't change no matter what color skin we might have, what socioeconomic class we might fall under, who we go to sleep with at night, or what gender we identify with. We all need food, water, shelter, compassion and most importantly, we need each other.
"Black people like fried chicken." Well, I guarantee, I can eat just as much fried chicken as a black man. I adore fried chicken.
"Asian people love rice." Again, I could eat you out of house and home when it comes to rice. I love it; I eat it more than once a day.
I hate racism. I hate social institutions. It doesn't matter! Move past it. Sheesh.
23 January 2011
Give it a rest, already!
Some have told me to "Give the Maya Angelou thing a rest, already." It may sound strange, but after reading I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings, I feel like I've known Maya for my entire life. For a book to impact me like that is amazing. It was like someone really knew and understood my soul. Not my feelings, not my emotions -- my soul.
That kind of a connection through text, and text alone, does not come easily. I, too, know why the caged bird sings. There is a feeling of entrapment, of a shadowy cloud that cannot and will not stop hovering just over your head. Seeing the stories that such a phenomenal woman went through on paper in front of me not only showed themselves to my eyes, they spoke to me. The words were more than just mere words on that page -- they were Maya's soul poured into the binding of that book. Maya's soul, my mother's soul, my father's soul, my sister's soul, my brother's soul, my friend's soul, your soul and everyone's soul.
Words on a page can have a far deeper impact than just passing a story along. But having the ability to talk to the woman behind the voice on that page was the most... liberating experience. Hearing Dr. Angelou explain the process of Caged Bird to ME -- not explaining it to Larry King, or Oprah but to me: Turner G Cowles -- was absolutely amazing. Amazing, frankly, doesn't do that situation justice. There really are no words to adequately describe how it felt to hear her say "Hello, good morning. Is this Mr. Cowles?" Here is a woman who has, not only talked about doing, but done things in her life that so many people never even dream of: working with Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., Malcolm X, studying in Africa, learning six languages, teaching at Wake Forest, and writing poetry and books galore. And from all of this, she was talking to me. Now, I may have been just one interview on that particular day, but for those minutes, she was talking with me. ME. Lowly little college journalist at FSU.
So, to "give it a rest" would be a horrible injustice to Ms. Angelou and to her legacy. I will forever cherish those minutes with her forever.
That kind of a connection through text, and text alone, does not come easily. I, too, know why the caged bird sings. There is a feeling of entrapment, of a shadowy cloud that cannot and will not stop hovering just over your head. Seeing the stories that such a phenomenal woman went through on paper in front of me not only showed themselves to my eyes, they spoke to me. The words were more than just mere words on that page -- they were Maya's soul poured into the binding of that book. Maya's soul, my mother's soul, my father's soul, my sister's soul, my brother's soul, my friend's soul, your soul and everyone's soul.
Words on a page can have a far deeper impact than just passing a story along. But having the ability to talk to the woman behind the voice on that page was the most... liberating experience. Hearing Dr. Angelou explain the process of Caged Bird to ME -- not explaining it to Larry King, or Oprah but to me: Turner G Cowles -- was absolutely amazing. Amazing, frankly, doesn't do that situation justice. There really are no words to adequately describe how it felt to hear her say "Hello, good morning. Is this Mr. Cowles?" Here is a woman who has, not only talked about doing, but done things in her life that so many people never even dream of: working with Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., Malcolm X, studying in Africa, learning six languages, teaching at Wake Forest, and writing poetry and books galore. And from all of this, she was talking to me. Now, I may have been just one interview on that particular day, but for those minutes, she was talking with me. ME. Lowly little college journalist at FSU.
So, to "give it a rest" would be a horrible injustice to Ms. Angelou and to her legacy. I will forever cherish those minutes with her forever.
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