20 July 2010
McDonald's
I'd just like to say, the shoes are way too uncomfortable. I wish I could wear only socks.
27 February 2010
Disappointment
Wednesday was a great day. It was one of those days when you learn something about a friend, and your friends learn something about you, and it's just wonderful. My best friend generally hates Wednesdays, for who knows what reason, but this time he was smiling until we left the parking lot. We played euchre, ate pizza, drank pop, joked around, and had band rehearsal until nine that night. I sit right by my best friend in band, so it made the rehearsal even more fun. It was one of the best days I could have asked for. We all left in a good mood. On the ride home, I realized that I had forgotten to tell my best friend, Ian, something, so I called him, and told him to call me when he got home; his ride would be longer than mine. He laughed, and said okay, and we hung up so I wouldn't be on the phone while driving. When I got home, my world fell apart.
There was a letter for me. It was from U of M. It was thin. Dear Anne, it said, You're not good enough for us. Thanks for trying.
I just stared at it for a while. What was I supposed to do? Cry? I think that's what my parents were expecting. I'm not one to cry. At least not over something like this. I turned my phone off so I wouldn't have to talk to Ian. Once I got sick of my parents' stumbling for words, I called Marianne. She had wanted to room with me at Central, and I knew she would be excited to hear this news. She seemed happy and sad. She was glad to room with me, but had no idea she would actually be able to, since she was positive I would get in to U of M. But she was still driving home from band, so I let her go. I wasn't sure if I really wanted to tell Ian yet or not. He's a bigger Michigan fan than Paul (if that's possible) and he was positive I would get accepted. He was the only one I actually believed when he said that. I decided to turn my phone on, and soon, I got a call from him. He asked for a friend's number. Still on his ride home. I told him he didn't have to call me back. He gave me a confused okay, and hung up. Within seconds, I realized that he was the only person I wanted to talk to. So I called him back.
I lied. I do want you to call me when you get home, I said. He said okay, then asked if everything was alright. I said no, it's not. He said okay, then hung up the phone. I laid in my bed, with my phone on my stomach, rising up and down with each strained breath. Finally, the Michigan Fight song announced a phone call from a certain Michigan-obsessed friend of mine.
Hello? I strained.
Hey, he said.
I have something to read to you.
Okay...?
Here goes: And I read him the letter, beginning with the date, and ending with the title of the man who signed my letter.
Half an hour later, I felt partially better, but he had a government test to study for, and I had distracted his mind. That night, I took a half hour shower, then painted my fingernails and toenails. I was up until one-thirty finishing them. They are a very intricate checkerboard design with two splotches of bright colors on each nail. I have matching socks.
I fell asleep reading a history of Michigan football. The next morning, I didn't brush my hair. I got up, brushed my teeth, and went to school. I was the first vehicle in the main parking lot, including teachers. I went straight up to my locker, and sat there reading from seven-twenty until eight o'clock, when my best friend showed up to talk in person. Neither of us knew what to say. He had cried. I showed him the letter. We were able to squeeze in half a game of euchre in before school; we lost. His recent bad luck in cards had not left him. By the end of the day, though, I was feeling better, what with being able to talk to Marianne, and staying after school until five o'clock "doing homework" with friends. My mom brought home bubbles from the grocery store. We had spaghetti for dinner.
Friday, I brought the bubbles to school, and they were a big hit. I blew bubbles in every class, and friends and classmates all got a chance to blow some, too. A few friends of mine were stressed and/or depressed for various reasons, and they all said that the bubbles helped.
I have accepted the fact that Central will be a good fit for me. I am excited to room with Marianne. I might even join the marching band. We'll see. I'm still in high school. I have every opportunity ahead of me.
There was a letter for me. It was from U of M. It was thin. Dear Anne, it said, You're not good enough for us. Thanks for trying.
I just stared at it for a while. What was I supposed to do? Cry? I think that's what my parents were expecting. I'm not one to cry. At least not over something like this. I turned my phone off so I wouldn't have to talk to Ian. Once I got sick of my parents' stumbling for words, I called Marianne. She had wanted to room with me at Central, and I knew she would be excited to hear this news. She seemed happy and sad. She was glad to room with me, but had no idea she would actually be able to, since she was positive I would get in to U of M. But she was still driving home from band, so I let her go. I wasn't sure if I really wanted to tell Ian yet or not. He's a bigger Michigan fan than Paul (if that's possible) and he was positive I would get accepted. He was the only one I actually believed when he said that. I decided to turn my phone on, and soon, I got a call from him. He asked for a friend's number. Still on his ride home. I told him he didn't have to call me back. He gave me a confused okay, and hung up. Within seconds, I realized that he was the only person I wanted to talk to. So I called him back.
I lied. I do want you to call me when you get home, I said. He said okay, then asked if everything was alright. I said no, it's not. He said okay, then hung up the phone. I laid in my bed, with my phone on my stomach, rising up and down with each strained breath. Finally, the Michigan Fight song announced a phone call from a certain Michigan-obsessed friend of mine.
Hello? I strained.
Hey, he said.
I have something to read to you.
Okay...?
Here goes: And I read him the letter, beginning with the date, and ending with the title of the man who signed my letter.
Half an hour later, I felt partially better, but he had a government test to study for, and I had distracted his mind. That night, I took a half hour shower, then painted my fingernails and toenails. I was up until one-thirty finishing them. They are a very intricate checkerboard design with two splotches of bright colors on each nail. I have matching socks.
I fell asleep reading a history of Michigan football. The next morning, I didn't brush my hair. I got up, brushed my teeth, and went to school. I was the first vehicle in the main parking lot, including teachers. I went straight up to my locker, and sat there reading from seven-twenty until eight o'clock, when my best friend showed up to talk in person. Neither of us knew what to say. He had cried. I showed him the letter. We were able to squeeze in half a game of euchre in before school; we lost. His recent bad luck in cards had not left him. By the end of the day, though, I was feeling better, what with being able to talk to Marianne, and staying after school until five o'clock "doing homework" with friends. My mom brought home bubbles from the grocery store. We had spaghetti for dinner.
Friday, I brought the bubbles to school, and they were a big hit. I blew bubbles in every class, and friends and classmates all got a chance to blow some, too. A few friends of mine were stressed and/or depressed for various reasons, and they all said that the bubbles helped.
I have accepted the fact that Central will be a good fit for me. I am excited to room with Marianne. I might even join the marching band. We'll see. I'm still in high school. I have every opportunity ahead of me.
23 December 2009
there's a candle lit for you
An old friend once said, "Confession gives the heart a chance to know that it doesn't have to hold it all in." I have never been more nervous about confessing.
10 December, 2009
I was sitting in homeroom when seniors with last names beginning with N through S were called down to the gymnasium for Confession. Reluctantly, I made my way through the crowded doorway and trudged down the stairs. I remember marveling over how many seniors were heading towards the gym, until it hit me that it was still homeroom, and they sold bagels in the commons. The lonely road began when I passed the cliques near the food lines and entered the gym lobby. I signed in at the table and followed the candlelit pathway through the gym doors. A powerpoint played with reflection questions following the Commandments and the Beatitudes. The first slide I saw read, "Why do we skip Mass?" This was my chance to leave. I don't skip mass. I attend weekly with my parents. If this doesn't apply to me, then I don't need to go, do I? Besides, I asked Fr. Tim about it once during my independent study and we learned that the Church only requires Confession once a year if you've committed a mortal sin. I haven't murdered anyone lately and I'm pretty sure I haven't consented to any moral failures, so technically I could have gone back to class. However, my upbringing dragged my conscience into a chair and I sat down to wait my turn.
Between the two seatings of chairs was a multi-candle holder, holding about fifty candles, lit and unlit, with a lighter underneath. Some students had lit candles for deceased parents, grandparents, or anyone for whom they had a particular special intention. I had done this type of thing before, but I had lit candles for all of my special intentions, so I did not get up to light a candle. I sat, waited, dreaded the moments to come.
Another wave of seniors came in before the juniors were called. I waited for the courage to go. It did not come. The bell for fifth hour rang. I sat. The late bell rang. Still, I sat. A list began forming in my mind of all I had to say to the priest. But my mind wandered and I had to begin again numerous times. As the list got longer, my mind wandered further. I began to think about my fellow drum majors, particularly how I treated Joe. He and I had talked about my behavior in the past three months, and I had apologized for being such a censored word. I added that to my list. Further yet, I thought of two of my closest friends, Justin and Lauren, and how much I had hurt them in the recent weeks. I hurt Justin in the worst way possible, and treated Lauren as though she was worth nothing. I added two more items to my list. The last two seniors got up to see an available priest. I took a deep breath, lifted myself from the chair, and somberly walked first to take a votive candle, then to the priest I had been eyeing for a few minutes. He had just arrived, and had yet to hear a Confession. No judgements. I wouldn't be compared to anyone.
I set the candle on the floor next to me and recited the opening prayer. My first Confession was that I didn't know when I had last confessed. I don't remember having gone last Lent or the Advent before, and I know I hadn't confessed in between. After an awkward pause, I realized the priest was waiting for me to continue. The list spilled from my mouth in a whirlwind of stuttered words and fear of embarrassment. I forgot things; I said the same things twice, three times. I couldn't look him in the eye.
He didn't even ask if i was sorry. Not even a wink of curiosity. he already knew I was. A part of my penance was to perform a random act of kindness or two. After saying my Act of Contrition, I couldn't breathe. My head bowed nearly between my shaking knees as the priest spoke the words of absolution. The final words broke me. "I absolve you from all of your sins in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit."
I shook the man's hand and left the confessional in tears. After returning the candle to its table for another student's use, I hobbled to my chair bawling.
I don't deserve forgiveness, I cried to my Father. Why did you give this to me? I don't deserve it. I don't deserve Your forgiveness. I hurt him, Father. I hurt him deeply.
Just as I was beginning to calm down, a friend of mine came down in a group of juniors and sat at the end of my row. I tried not to be obvious about my crying, but I was shaking too hard. He slid down the row, put his arm around me, and asked if I was okay. I nodded, then burst into tears for the second time that day. But there was no point in hiding it any longer. Someone had noticed, so I let the tears come. I cried in his arms for what seemed like hours, but was only minutes. Someone gave him a pile of Kleenex for me. I was finally calmed, and he allowed himself to confess himself. He returned momentarily to pat my leg, pray, and head back to class. I sat in a solemn silence for too long. The two bells rang for sixth hour, but I didn't get up. Another friend passed my chair and asked if I was okay. I nodded with a convincing "yes." She said, "You sure? You look like you're crying." I laughed. "I'm not crying." It was the truth. She went to Confession and left the gymnasium.
Sixth hour was my religion class, and my teacher was hearing confessions so I had nowhere to go. I just sat there watching the powerpoint repeat itself over and over again. The same ten Commandments, the same eight Beatitudes, the same reflection questions. I answered each one of them to myself. The more I read, the more I answered, the more I thought.
As I left the gym, I lit a candle for him. For how much I hurt him, for how much I loved him, and for how much I wished it did have to end the way it did. That day at lunch, I bought cookies for Joe. He did a double take. I tossed them across the table to him, and he said, "Oh, thanks!" But after I said, "you're welcome," he didn't realize I actually meant it. I told him to go ahead; I bought them for him. He ate them with a smile on his face.
So if you're reading this, know that I miss your friendship. I miss the laughs we had together and even the crying we shared. I wish that things would clear up between us. But until then, there's a candle lit for you.
10 December, 2009
I was sitting in homeroom when seniors with last names beginning with N through S were called down to the gymnasium for Confession. Reluctantly, I made my way through the crowded doorway and trudged down the stairs. I remember marveling over how many seniors were heading towards the gym, until it hit me that it was still homeroom, and they sold bagels in the commons. The lonely road began when I passed the cliques near the food lines and entered the gym lobby. I signed in at the table and followed the candlelit pathway through the gym doors. A powerpoint played with reflection questions following the Commandments and the Beatitudes. The first slide I saw read, "Why do we skip Mass?" This was my chance to leave. I don't skip mass. I attend weekly with my parents. If this doesn't apply to me, then I don't need to go, do I? Besides, I asked Fr. Tim about it once during my independent study and we learned that the Church only requires Confession once a year if you've committed a mortal sin. I haven't murdered anyone lately and I'm pretty sure I haven't consented to any moral failures, so technically I could have gone back to class. However, my upbringing dragged my conscience into a chair and I sat down to wait my turn.
Between the two seatings of chairs was a multi-candle holder, holding about fifty candles, lit and unlit, with a lighter underneath. Some students had lit candles for deceased parents, grandparents, or anyone for whom they had a particular special intention. I had done this type of thing before, but I had lit candles for all of my special intentions, so I did not get up to light a candle. I sat, waited, dreaded the moments to come.
Another wave of seniors came in before the juniors were called. I waited for the courage to go. It did not come. The bell for fifth hour rang. I sat. The late bell rang. Still, I sat. A list began forming in my mind of all I had to say to the priest. But my mind wandered and I had to begin again numerous times. As the list got longer, my mind wandered further. I began to think about my fellow drum majors, particularly how I treated Joe. He and I had talked about my behavior in the past three months, and I had apologized for being such a censored word. I added that to my list. Further yet, I thought of two of my closest friends, Justin and Lauren, and how much I had hurt them in the recent weeks. I hurt Justin in the worst way possible, and treated Lauren as though she was worth nothing. I added two more items to my list. The last two seniors got up to see an available priest. I took a deep breath, lifted myself from the chair, and somberly walked first to take a votive candle, then to the priest I had been eyeing for a few minutes. He had just arrived, and had yet to hear a Confession. No judgements. I wouldn't be compared to anyone.
I set the candle on the floor next to me and recited the opening prayer. My first Confession was that I didn't know when I had last confessed. I don't remember having gone last Lent or the Advent before, and I know I hadn't confessed in between. After an awkward pause, I realized the priest was waiting for me to continue. The list spilled from my mouth in a whirlwind of stuttered words and fear of embarrassment. I forgot things; I said the same things twice, three times. I couldn't look him in the eye.
He didn't even ask if i was sorry. Not even a wink of curiosity. he already knew I was. A part of my penance was to perform a random act of kindness or two. After saying my Act of Contrition, I couldn't breathe. My head bowed nearly between my shaking knees as the priest spoke the words of absolution. The final words broke me. "I absolve you from all of your sins in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit."
I shook the man's hand and left the confessional in tears. After returning the candle to its table for another student's use, I hobbled to my chair bawling.
I don't deserve forgiveness, I cried to my Father. Why did you give this to me? I don't deserve it. I don't deserve Your forgiveness. I hurt him, Father. I hurt him deeply.
Just as I was beginning to calm down, a friend of mine came down in a group of juniors and sat at the end of my row. I tried not to be obvious about my crying, but I was shaking too hard. He slid down the row, put his arm around me, and asked if I was okay. I nodded, then burst into tears for the second time that day. But there was no point in hiding it any longer. Someone had noticed, so I let the tears come. I cried in his arms for what seemed like hours, but was only minutes. Someone gave him a pile of Kleenex for me. I was finally calmed, and he allowed himself to confess himself. He returned momentarily to pat my leg, pray, and head back to class. I sat in a solemn silence for too long. The two bells rang for sixth hour, but I didn't get up. Another friend passed my chair and asked if I was okay. I nodded with a convincing "yes." She said, "You sure? You look like you're crying." I laughed. "I'm not crying." It was the truth. She went to Confession and left the gymnasium.
Sixth hour was my religion class, and my teacher was hearing confessions so I had nowhere to go. I just sat there watching the powerpoint repeat itself over and over again. The same ten Commandments, the same eight Beatitudes, the same reflection questions. I answered each one of them to myself. The more I read, the more I answered, the more I thought.
As I left the gym, I lit a candle for him. For how much I hurt him, for how much I loved him, and for how much I wished it did have to end the way it did. That day at lunch, I bought cookies for Joe. He did a double take. I tossed them across the table to him, and he said, "Oh, thanks!" But after I said, "you're welcome," he didn't realize I actually meant it. I told him to go ahead; I bought them for him. He ate them with a smile on his face.
So if you're reading this, know that I miss your friendship. I miss the laughs we had together and even the crying we shared. I wish that things would clear up between us. But until then, there's a candle lit for you.
03 November 2009
17 September 2009
Cookies Say I Love You
My wonderful sister wrote a brilliant blog post on her blog that I must recommend to you. As I read it, I kept nodding and smiling, nearly moved to tears at how true it was, and how true it could be. Since I cannot put it any more eloquently, and copying her would be plagiarism, here is a link to the most true blog post I have ever read. Thanks, Mary. I love you.
08 September 2009
Catholic Apologetics.
I had to fight for this class and by golly I'm going to enjoy it. I already had a blast the first day, and came home with seven Bible verses to memorize and I know where they all come from and why they are important and in which context they are used. I'm really excited about learning everything I'm going to learn this year and I am so happy it just made my day. Literally. It really did make my day. Anyway, I have nothing about the same topic to blab, so this is the end of my blog post.
30 August 2009
Senior Year
Everyone's making a big deal about how exciting it will be. I'm thinking... college applications, AP classes, getting INTO college, passing AP classes, stress, more stress, being cheerful and friendly on top of this, and anything else that can be packed into one year. When am I going to have time for fun? Oh, yes. Wind Ensemble and marching band. The fun stress. :) It's good to know I have awesome family and friends to help me through. Or... wholesome friends. I like that. :) Thanks, mom...
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