1986

The year: 1986.  The time: 6:00 AM.  All wrong.  How did I get here? Such a big city. Lost. Trapped. In New York City. In 1986.  No.  What happened? What went wrong? My newspaper--time machine--lacks any sort of flaw. What--oh, no. My newspaper. Where did I put it? Why do I not have it with me? No. This comic book... where did it come from? The Black Freighter. Looks interesting. But my newspaper. Oh, no. I must have dropped it in the vortex. Who knows where it ended up? Anywhere. Any time. Anyone could find it. Or maybe--maybe it landed here somewhere. Someone might have found it. Should not look out of place here.  A newspaper stand. Yes, I will sit here. And read this comic book.  And wait. The newspaper holds my key back to 1954. Back to my lab. I hope it does not fall into the wrong hands...

***

My hands shake with the strain of carrying my almost-fifteen-pound English binder into school from the senior lot.  My backpack must weigh thirty pounds today, too.  I wince as I notice the fiery pink glimmer of sunrise from the east side of the school.  Too early.  Why does Ms. Serensky insist on having us here at 6:00 in the morning for an extra study session? Unnecessary.  As I approach the school, I notice a newspaper lying haphazardly on the ground.  I pick it up and take a look.  Just as I open the front page, I hear a distinctive snort of laughter behind me. Ms. Serensky snuck up on me. 

“Aww, Vicki, look at you! Taking the newspaper into school! How uncharacteristically… nice of you!”

This unexpected social contact catches me off guard, so I flush and scurry off into the school and English classroom as quickly as my burdensome backpack and binder will allow.  I struggle to find my seat in the empty classroom, so I plop myself down on the end and cringe as my backpack cracks the cold tile floor as I drop it.  Oops.  Bored already without Ms. Serensky’s intimidating yet reassuring presence, I notice the newspaper still sitting on top of my binder.  Curiously, I open it.  As I notice the date—1986?—I gape, open-mouthed, at the vortex swirling around me, casting me out of my seat and up and up and—

***

The year: 1986.

Mucous, Margins, and Magic

Dearest student,
            First of all, I must commend you on your decision to take AP English.  As a rising high school junior, you have inevitably heard rumor after rumor about the class flying around the hallways like a tiny particle of contaminated mucous expelled from someone's nose after an explosive sneeze.  Like such a germ, these rumors are highly contagious and tend to multiply rapidly.  So, yes, I realize that you probably feel scared out of your mind, as you should.  You're in for a wild ride.  So, with that in mind, I would like to take this time to offer you a bit of advice to ensure your success in AP English 11 and 12.
         After approximately eighty minutes of staring blankly at my computer screen, compulsively downloading a multitude of country music that I will probably never listen to from a sketchy website, and lurking around on Facebook, I have alas come to the conclusion that I have failed to abide by first bit of advice to you: do NOT procrastinate.  Do not wait until Wednesday at 8:00 to start thinking about your blog due at midnight.  Do not wait to do your reading or memorize quotes until the period before English class.  Not only because of the stress that it will inevitably cause you, but also because it will keep you from performing to your true potential.  Trust me, you can do more than you realize.  Which brings me to my second piece of advice: you need to feel confident in yourself and in your abilities in order to succeed in AP English.  Yes, I understand and acknowledge that this may present some serious difficulties, especially throughout the first few quarters of your first year of English, when your self-esteem will likely reach an all-time low. Unfortunately, the only consolation I can offer will appear sometime during your senior year--something will click.  Ms. Serensky will hand back that one essay that you actually felt semi-happy with. And it will have a sticker on it.  Yes, a sticker.  Maybe even two or three. Soon, you will come to realize that little on this earth beats that rush of pride and satisfaction when you see that sticker that says "Good Work!" in bright, bold colors plastered strategically on the margins of your essay. (Speaking of margins, do not try to do anything clever with them to buy yourself more space in your essays.  Ms. Serensky WILL notice.) But, in order to get to that point, you need to work.  Hard.  Because it will not come easily.  Not at all.  Do not enter AP English thinking that somehow, some way, Ms. Serensky will just magically teach you how to write and you will understand and proceed to write flawless paper after flawless paper.  Because you will not.  I have found that Ms. Serensky's first priority somewhat ironically does not lie in teaching us to write, but rather in teaching us how to think.  Once we master that, the writing will come.  She knows that, and you need to realize it too.  So, embrace your ever-changing mind as it grows to think critically and analytically.  Learn to enjoy over-thinking everything (except your English assignments). Learn to deal with failure.  Let your failures shape you, not only into a better writer, but also into a better person.  Believe it or not, English class will change you.  For good.  (Almost) like magic.

Every Time a Bell Rings, a Gumdrop Dies

     Ooh, food. Vicki's mom is the best.  She always makes such good food.  It smells so good! Wait, my house key! Where--oh, right. On the conspicuous string of thick twine that I always keep around my neck.  Good.  If I manage to lose those keys again, Mom will have a fit.  Time to eat.  Wow, this pasta tastes wonderful.  A little too much oregano for my liking, though.  Could have used a bit more thyme seasoning in the sauce, and a touch more salt too.  I miss Alie.  We should have kidnapped her and made her come with us.  Making gumdrop trees at Vicki's house makes me so happy.  I love Christmastime.  Wait, why does Ana keep glaring at me? Oh, right. My legs. I should stop jiggling them, I think they make the table shake.  Yes, they do.  Oh, well.  Now, time to make my tree.  Vicki has such strange ideas.  I mean, gumdrop trees? How did she come up with that one?  Hmm... I wonder how exactly I should go about doing this.  I shall just follow Ana's lead.  Take a big styrofoam cone... Take a handful of gumdrops (and maybe eat one or two or seventeen)... Grab a handful of toothpicks... Alright, how hard can this really turn out? Stab a gumdrop with a toothpick, stick the toothpick on the cone.  One down.  Wow.  I quite enjoy stabbing these gumdrops.  Die, gumdrops, die! I wonder if I could somehow make this seemingly innocent tree into some sort of weapon.  Yes, I know I could.  I miss Al Pal.  Weapons.  Toothpicks and gumdrops... I know! Spikes! Perfect.  Oh, you have GOT to be kidding me.  No, Catherine, I most certainly do NOT want to watch your stupid Rudolph movie while we make our weap--trees.  No, Ana, under no circumstances will I ever watch "Free Willy."  WHY did Alie not come? She has an impeccable taste in movies.  Takes after me.  Fine, I guess I can settle for Rudolp--NO, VICKI! I WILL NOT WATCH "IT'S A WONDERFUL LIFE!" If I hear something about bells ringing and an angel getting its wings ONE MORE TIME I will put this murderous masterpiece of mine to good use. These people that I call my "friends." I swear.  Unbelievable.  Oh, look! I finished my spiked club.  It looks nice.  I can not wait to show Alie. 

A Foolproof Guide to Making (And Keeping) Friends

      "How do you type a farting noise?"

      "Who else has NO idea what Farenheit degrees mean?"

      "Hey everyone, looking forward to getting to know you all! Just so that you all know, I think I'm a gay horse trapped in a young boy's body..."

      As I look at these posts in the class of 2017 Facebook group for the college that I have committed to, I cannot help but wonder, what exactly have I gotten myself into? Yes, ladies and gentlemen, these are all real and recent posts on the page. I have not yet decided if I find them humorous, pathetic, or just plain unsettling.  As the days fly by and graduation rapidly approaches, I come closer and closer to finally facing the bittersweet reality that my days in the safety of the bubble of Chagrin Falls will soon come to an end when I move to New York this fall.  Frightening, I know.  Inevitably, moving away will create endings to so many of the things that I have come to know and love, but, as always, with endings come new beginnings.  Which will undoubtedly prove more difficult for me to handle than the endings. As a generally quiet, introverted person, I tend to have a bit of trouble making friends.  To put this in perspective, I have had the same group of five friends since I moved here in first grade. Sure, I picked up a few acquaintances along the way, but for the most part the group remained constant. So, when I immerse myself in a diverse and completely new community in the fall, I have devised a foolproof plan for making (and keeping) friends. The first and only rule: act mysteriously.  Not in a weird "gay horse trapped in a young boy's body" kind of way, but more so in a way that prompts others to ask questions.  And, hopefully, intrigues them.  Maybe, if I pull it off well, I might even fascinate them with my wild (and completely true) stories about chasing lambs around milkshake stands.  And my naturally sketchy personality.  Hopefully, if all goes according to plan, my mysteriousness will attract the attention of many, and I will not have to put much effort forth into making friends.  And who knows? I might end up teaching my future roommate how to type farting noises.

Expand Your Horizons! (And Your Vocabulary)

Dear Anonymous,
      I have to admit that I felt surprised when I found your letter on my desk--I do not normally concern myself with the romantic drama of young women such as yourself, and thus it has taken me some time to come up with an appropriate response to your plea for help.  But, as class Valedictorian, I do feel that I can effectively offer you meaningful advice. After a bit of thought and critical analyzation of your situation, I would advise you to let your boyfriend go.  If he no longer feels satisfied with you, do not act so desperately as to keep holding on.  Let him go.  Move on with your life. You deserve better.  Read a book.  Write a poem.  Better yet, write a novel!  Let this experience mold you into a better person--use it to your advantage.  Immerse yourself in the world of literature, and who knows? Perhaps one day you too will become Valedictorian of your class.  Perhaps.  You need to work hard and dedicate yourself to something worthwhile (I suggest an in-depth study of the English language).  I cannot emphasize it enough--without hard work, you will amount to nothing.  Push yourself.  Envision yourself as valedictorian.  Make that your ultimate goal.  Before you know it, thoughts of how intelligent you will have become will replace any lingering sentiments that you may still feel toward this soon-to-be-ex-boyfriend, and soon you will forget him altogether! Envision yourself in a world filled with nothing but knowledge and the subsequent happiness that will inevitably ensue.  Expand your horizons!  (And your vocabulary!)  Read about Jay Gatsby's parties and dramatic Shakespearean love stories and depressed old ladies.  Educate yourself about HeLa cells and high school football in Texas and cold-blooded murder.  Analyze poems about plums and teachers romantically involved with their students.  Allow this experience to transform you into the person who you have subconsciously always wanted to become.

Ms. Serensky

P.S. Oh, and take a Zumba class.  You will undoubtedly thank me later.

The Light of the Past

        Unlike most people, I must admit that I do not particularly enjoy watching movies.  I blame this quirk mainly on my unnaturally short attention span--I find it extremely difficult to sit still and devote my full attention to a movie for two whole hours.  Generally, I begin to lose interest after about a half hour and proceed to become fully restless just as the plot begins to thicken.  So, when I somewhat reluctantly sat down to watch Everything Is Illuminated at the suggestion of Anna Witkin, I felt more than a little surprised when, after the first forty-five minutes, not once did I feel myself growing bored or irritable.  Ironically, this movie, based on the novel by Jonathan Safran Foer, did not even remotely reflect my interests at the time--it did not involve science fiction or dragons or fairies or pirates or anything else that interested fifth-grade Victoria.  Instead, the movie tells the story of a socially-awkward young man named Jonathan who travels to Ukraine in hopes of finding the woman who had saved his grandfather's life in the Holocaust.  His tour guides include a rebellious young adult, Alex, who finds pleasure in night clubs, American rap music, and Michael Jackson; Alex's grandfather, a cranky, short-tempered, and secretly sentimental old man who does not speak English; and his grandfather's dog, Sammy Davis Jr. Jr., who, according to Alex, "is mentally deranged."  Jonathan hires Alex as both his tour guide and translator, and Alex's less-than-adequate English skills offer lots of subtle and often crude humor throughout the movie.  Alex, who narrates the story, provides a humorous, honest, and blunt outlook on the adventures that the three of them have. I think the thing that fascinated me the most about this movie appeared in the form of these three characters--each one has a unique, clever, and forceful personality and each personality complements the other two in a humorous and profound way.  The cultural differences between Jonathan and Alex add yet another layer to this subtle humor--for example, the fact that Jonathan does not eat meat fascinates and shocks Alex and his grandfather, just as Alex's idolization of Michael Jackson and all things American takes Jonathan aback.  Upon the completion of their journey through Ukraine, Alex compiles a book that recounts all of the things that they did and that he learned to send to Jonathan in America.  Despite the erroneous translations and grammatical errors, he indulges quite a bit of profound wisdom through his writing and narration.  My favorite quote, perhaps of all time, comes from this movie, when Alex declares that "everything is illuminated in the light of the past."  Throughout the journey, the three of them realize how the past acts in mysterious yet meaningful ways to shape the present and future.

Defecation Diaries

"Hey Joe!" yelled Fred, from the stall across the hall,
"Check Twitter! Jon posted a picture of his poop, and it looks great and all--"
"HEY!" interjected Jon, from the stall next to Joe's,
"Follow the rules! No talking about the poop log while on the toilet! You know how this goes!"
"But dude!" gushed Joe, "That poop! It looks perfect--round, thick, practically flawless!
You must feel so proud! But... That smell... it makes me nauseous..."
And with a sudden clatter and shifting of a lock, Joe had flown the coop.
"What a wimp!" exclaimed an irritated Jon. "So much for our group poop!"
Nothing but a prolonged silence greeted his exasperated remark,
Until Fred, glowing with pride, bellowed, "MINE LOOKS LIKE A GREAT WHITE SHARK!"


      First of all, I genuinely hope everyone reading this feels as uncomfortable as I did writing it.  And yes, I have indeed based this off of a true story.  As a camp counselor, I spend a week of my summer alongside many young children and very much enjoy watching them interact with each other. Sadly, the rather disturbing interactions that I describe in the poem take place among the high school- and college-aged male counselors, not the children.  Of course, in creating this literary masterpiece, I intended to make the reader feel as uncomfortable as possible.  To do so, I indirectly characterized all of the characters--Joe, Fred, and Jon--as enthusiastic and devoted to their mission to have a "group poop" and maintain a "poop log" on Twitter. Their enthusiasm toward such an objectively undesirable activity evokes pathos, arousing feelings of discomfort and discontent in those comparatively normal individuals who choose to entertain themselves at camp by, say, hiking or swimming, instead of hosting group defecation sessions in the boy's bathroom. Additionally, the eulogistic and admiring tone that Joe uses when describing Jon's picture highlights his fascination with the camp tradition that they have initiated and indicates a potentially unhealthy obsession with his defecation diaries.