August

     How can it be August already? Where has my Summer gone? I have spent seven weeks inside an SAT prep class, dreaming about sandy beaches and watermelon agua frescas.  What has the world come to?
    My June was alright, but my July slipped past in such a flurry of academic hustle-and-bustle that it may as well have not existed at all.  It pains me to admit that my Summa experience (that's the name of the prep class) was not excruciatingly dull.  Rather, I found that I enjoyed myself, and learned things actually relevant to my life.  I always thought that the SAT was an absurdity: a ridiculous way to classify America's youth due to the educational system's general ineptitude.  Typical teenaged pomposity.  I still think that the SAT perhaps isn't the best way to categorize students, but now I realize that it's the best way we have, for now.  It makes sense that colleges need some way of determining their incoming freshman classes.  
     But however much I may have found improving myself an engaging experience, my inner child still rebelled; Little Cynthia wanted to see actual sunshine.  I don't think it's unreasonable to long for what childhood is left me, either.  Sixteen is neither adult nor child, and it's a painfully awkward place to be in.  If I ever look back to the July of my sixteenth Summer, I'll remember a big whiteboard with a dirty eraser and a sea of desks with those stupid plastic chairs that are attached to them (Seriously, whoever invented them must have been a spartan disciplinarian who clearly hated children and smiles and kittens).  Of course, I had weekends and afternoons to myself, provided that I finished my homework, but mornings are my favorite time of the day.  
    Summa now only has one week remaining, and I want to enjoy my ten days of freedom.  If I can't have my July, at least I'll have my August.  It shall be everything an August ought to be: hot, sandy, and irresponsible.  If by the time school starts I haven't increased my chances for skin cancer at least a little, I'll consider myself a failure as a human being ( my bottle of Neutrogena Sunscreen on my nightstand is glaring at me, as if to say: "I'd like to see you try, you screw-up!") 

On the twentieth I think I'll bake Robert Plant a birthday cake.
Let's all be children of the sun together!
~Cynthia

The 1970s

     Even as a young child I had an obsessive personality.  Not that I had OCD, as far as I know, but I did tend to latch onto something and obsess over it.  I remember being captivated by  The Last of the Mohicans in the fifth grade.  I used to dream about it at night and sometimes imagine myself in the film.  I even used to scrawl my favorite scenes onto paper with carefully sharpened color pencils.  The Last of the Mohicans made me interested in Native American culture and history, which I think is the first time that dry, dead thing called history called my name.  
   In the seventh grade I discovered a band called Led Zeppelin.  Instant fanaticism.  I memorized their songs, watched live concert footage and interviews on YouTube, drew them over and over again, and shed tears over John Bonham's untimely death. By the way, I never make fun of One Directioners; It would make me a hypocrite.  
   It's impossible to listen to the music of Led Zeppelin, that unique mix of relentless, primal call, that heavy, heavy beat, and that golden Sunday feeling, without falling beneath their spell.  Even temporarily, although mine was hardly that.  It is also impossible to listen to them without discovering their contemporaries: Aerosmith, the Beatles, Grateful Dead, Steve Miller Band, Bob Seger, and so many others.  In an imitation of my idols, I began to wear my hair long, and parted down the center; I developed a healthy fear for "the man" and scorned popular culture.  I wasn't being a hipster-those hadn't been spawned yet.
   I used to fall into pensive moods and contemplate how much the world sucked, mostly because it was 2009 and not 1972.   Looking back, I remember why, but what escapes memory is the exact feeling of nostalgia, that my twelve-year-old-self used to have.  Whenever I picture the '70s, the image is still grainy, the color still like an episode of the original Charlie's Angels .  
     Different eras emit a certain atmosphere, and the '70's make me feel a sense of laziness, of change, and of a strangely elegant awkwardness.  It's incredible that the music alone could communicate that to me, that the decade after the  '60's baby boom and the turmoil of the Cold War  could make itself heard.  Even before I read about all that in history books, I could feel the uncertainty, the outrage, that came with the mass consumerism and search for individuality.  That isn't something that can be learned in a school.  
   I would lie awake at night and image myself as a hippie in the '70s.  I would imagine that I wore wear bell bottoms and boots, saved money from my after school job to buy Led Zeppelin records, and protested the Ohio shootings.  I think that I would have hung that iconic poster of Farrah Fawcett-Majors in her red swimsuit up somewhere in my room.  

   Sometimes I felt such a sense of loss and of nostalgia that it would bring tears to my eyes.  My Mother has walked into my room, astonished at my crying more times than I'd care to admit.  So many great and significant things happened in the '70s, but the what seems to be forgotten by nearly everyone is the intrigue of every day living. I wouldn't know, but I can't believe that growing up then is the same as growing up now.
                   

"Catch the wind, see ya spin, sail away, seize the day" ~Led Zeppelin

Trying Something New

     Sometimes we have to step outside of our comfort zones.  We have to risk failure and embarrassment with the vague hope that our endeavors won't come to that.  I've always been an avid reader, and an almost equally avid writer.  Just for my own sake, of course.  But my mother has been proclaiming my genius to her friends since the day I handed her a Mother's Day card, still wet with Elmer's Glue and tears of frustration, as most mothers are apt to do.  Lately she and my father have both been after me to try to publish a book.  Naturally I was irritated, because who would want to publish a piece of garbage written by someone like me? But after my hormonal rage subsided, I actually began to play around with the idea of submitting something online.  Why not?  If anything, at least it'll give me something to add to my college applications.  
     There are a bunch of self-publishing ebook sites online.  I think I may want to try and publish one, just so that I can say that I have, and just so that my parents will stop harping.
     I have decided that I want to try to write a historical fiction, set in the Viking Age ( lord, I love vikings!).  I have already started writing, based off some general research and what I already know.  My favorite story is with the legendary Ragnar Lodbrok and his wife, Amazon and shield maiden Lagertha.  Actually, more specifically, my favorite stories of the Sagas deal with Ragnar's greatest son (at least, I think so), Ivar the Boneless.  
     Some themes I really wanted to explore include the clash of the old pagan gods and Christianity, the not-quite-oppressive attitudes toward women, as well as glory in battle and death.  Did you know that for their time, Norse women were pretty well respected and comparatively independent?  They could choose their own husbands and could choose to divorce them as well. 
     My main character (hopefully it's obvious) is a female that seeks to identify herself not with her gender but with the warriors and has been brought up in an environment that is both christian and Pagan.  I hope to show her lack of understanding towards Christianity in general, as it was a relatively new movement at the time.  Also, I once heard a critic say that a truly great author has "a wide array of 'voices' that they can assume at will", and I wanted to try to develop another "voice".  It was pretty challenging.


       So, here is what I have so far:

     The home is the sphere where a woman many reign supreme.  At least, where the care of such sundry items as the wash or children are concerned.  My mother passed such divine knowledge unto me, in the year of our lord, 912, before the Almighty saw fit to send that which plagues us, even now.  My mother taught me things a woman ought to know, even as she lie expiring upon her straw pallet.  She had only me, and although a child still, I was old enough at least to send her off with a dog at her feet and her sword in her hand.  A longship we had no longer, and even if we had, I would not have been strong enough to defend it from thieves.  
    When the greatest of the shield maidens that served the great Lagertha had descended beyond even the powers of Ineata, wisewoman of the village, I closed my eyes and laid my brow against my mother's wasted arm.  I prayed to the gods, old and new, that she may be allowed into the Halls of Valhalla, although she had not died in battle. 
   I knew not the name of the man that sired me, but my mother told me once, a long time ago, that he had not come with the wave upon waves of Christians, clad in their rough woolen smocks and shaven heads.  I would have gone to him, if I could have.  If i knew where he was, or even who he was.  I would ask him to learn me in the arts of the Ulfberht; I would ask him to help me become a shield maiden like my mother, most trusted warrior of Lagertha, wife of Ragnar Lodbrok.  
    My mother had not wished a raider and warrior's life for her daughter.  Had I not been born beautiful, it is likely I would have had my way.  Instead, for all my wit, I was cursed with a fair face.  I was raised not to fight, but to bear fighters.  My glories could come only from my sons.  
    A beautiful woman cannot be taken seriously, and an ugly woman cannot be trusted.  This I understood only upon reaching my fourteenth summer.  The pain in my flesh almost rivaled the pain of being alone, bereft of a mother.  This second pain I inflicted upon muself, for a woman scarred, at least, is neither beautiful nor ugly. 

This is sort of like a prologue.  This second part (below) is some time in the future, after she has found her father and become a warrior.  It also takes place just after Aella of Northumbria captures Ragnar Lodbrok.  BTW, the switch from past to present tense was intentional.

   There is an uproar in Ragnar Lodbrok's great halls tonight.  It is because Ragnar, strongest and hardiest of men, has been taken by a man that can be no man.  What man hides behind stone walls and cannot bear to do his own killing?  Here in the North, such a man is below even a dog.  
  There is talk that this is the punishment of the new god.  But I look across the dusky firelight into the faces of Ragnar's sons and I cannot believe that a birthling god would dar cross such giants of men.  
   "Aella.  Aella."  the halls writhe with hatred, swelling beneath the chants of the Coward's name. Bjorn Ironside spits at his imagined foe and roars for blood.  His brothers join their voices to his, mingling with Thor's thunder outside.  The rain, always rain, cannot wash away such blood, such hate.  Only more blood can wipe clean the wrath of Odin, and of Bjorn.  The crowds call for the Coward's death, for Ragnar is much loved here.  
   I stand and cast aside my cloak, scratchy in the heat of the firepits.  I can feel the eyes of men, tracing, appraising.  They must wonder at a woman dressed in a man's leathers.  Those that know me look away as soon as they realize where their eyes have wandered.  The chicken-livered look away beneath my gaze, fearful of my ravaged face.  Now there is only one man whose eyes boldly fix themselves upon my.  A rose blossoms between his eyes before he even has time to blink.  I yank my dagger out of his skull and bury it to the hilt in the soil beneath the rushes on the floor.  When I pull it out, it has been cleanse by the earth.  
    "Yngnah!" Bjorn bellows, thrusting a tree-like arm heavenward.  His eyes glint with humor, beneath his murderous rage.  "Sister-not, I see your anger tonight.  Do you not wish also to avenge Ragnar-king?  Will you join our Great Heathen Army?"  His query is directed to me, but is met by Ragnar's people with thunderous approval.  I kneel before him.  
     "I will fight."The hall erupts.  Lagertha rises, shakes free her fame golden locks, and kneels beside me. 
     "I will fight."  Our twin oaths bind us, our wrath unites us.  I notice that Ivar, wisest of Ragnar's sons, celebrates not with his brothers, but with his horn.  Lo, his eyes are filled with the same hate, the same fury as Bjorn, as Ubba, as Halfdan, and even as Lagertha.  But his glitter with an ice colder than the midnight sun.

BTW, that last part was a Led Zeppelin reference, for anyone that cares.
I'm starting to ship Yngnah and Ivar, but I really want Yngnah to stay single.   We'll see.  I would really appreciate feedback, so please comment on this.  Does this make sense? Should I use less adjectives?  Is it interesting?

      

ACIS Trip 2015 (For the senior class of 2015)

     First of all, I would like to congratulate you at least for your curiosity, if not your desire to see the world.  Like I said in that really, really, excruciatingly embarrassing video I uploaded to YouTube, I was fortunate enough to be chosen to be 2015's student ambassador.  If you haven't and would like to, here it is:

       This is a great experience for so many reasons.  First of all, we'll all be going off on our separate paths to that elusive place called college! Going out and seeing how the other side of the world lives is an excellent way to broaden our minds and better equip us to handle the long and twisted road ahead.  It'll teach us to stop stressing over the little things and maybe even appreciate a more active lifestyle.  All of the things we learned in the classroom will be right in front of us! It blows my mind to even think about.  
    Something I didn't mention in the video is the possibility of a Facebook page.  Of course, that means that I'll have to make a Facebook page first, but we all have to make our sacrifices, I suppose.  Please tell your parents and your friends about it.  If you have a friend who might be interested but did not have either Mr. Casas or Ms. Tanaka as a teacher, let me know.  Or, if you would prefer to talk directly to Mr. Casas, his email is in the description box of the video above.
   If you do choose to go on this trip (as you should),please keep in mind that we will be guests in another country.  Please remember to be respectful of not only the natives' local treasures and museums, but also their privacy and customs.  Just as a general rule, most people outside of America and maybe the UK don't wear very short shorts, or crop tops, or anything like that.  It's not really a big deal, but let's not perpetuate any stereotypes about America, yes?  
     The legal drinking age in most of Europe is 16, and we will be given the privilege of a glass of wine or beer per dinner.  However the limit is one, and no drunkenness will be tolerated.  The point is to experience another country's culture a different way, not to overindulge.  Keep that in mind.  
     Also, there is a strict policy on showering and deodorant.  As in, if you don't use both in liberal doses, Casas may or may not throw you into a nearby lake.  Just kidding, but smelling bad is rude, when you have to share a hotel room and bus.  
    ACIS website:
  http://www.acis.com/trips/itinerary/program/PSM

   

“The World is a Book and Those Who Do Not Travel Read Only One Page.” -Augustine of Hippo

       In the old days, if a family was wealthy, its sons would be sent on a tour to transform them into sophisticated and cultured gentlemen.  This "Grand Tour" was popular mostly from the mid 1600s to the 1840s, until the advent of the train.  The purpose of  a trip like that was for recreation, education, and perspective.  Not to mention that many young men stopped in Venice, a city famed at the time for its art as well as discreet courtesans of exceeding beauty and refinement.  
       Personally, I think it's a stinking shame that we don't do that anymore.  And I think it's an even bigger, even stinkier shame that no one seems to "beweep their outcast state" (Shakespeare anyone?).  
      What really irritates me( even though it's not my buisness to care) is when some people act superior when I bring this sort of thing up, seeing as they've been places I haven't.  That in itself is mostly okay, because if our places were switched, I'd probably be gloating too.  But what isn't okay is when I ask for stories of Paris, or Budapest, or Prague, or Seoul, and they have nothing meaningful to say.  Oh, sure, they'll mention their surprise at finding a McDonald's so far away from home, or that the shopping was great.  Yeah, the Eiffel Tower's huge.  Looks nice at night.  Really? Come on...
      I said in an earlier post that schools and parents should emphasize the importance of learning world history in addition to the history of whatever country you're from.  I also mentioned the value of art, all kinds of art.  Because without such knowledge, it isn't hard to see how people might be satisfied with the occasional  watered down visit peppered with tourist traps.  How can  anyone appreciate beauty until they've seen the Slovenian Alps in autumn? What is the grandeur of anything compared to that of the Roman Colosseum, collapsing beneath Time?  As an American born to Chinese immigrants, visiting China breaks my heart, and to see the polarization between the well-off (not necessarily rich, only financially comfortable) and the impoverished is shocking.  A person cannot  hope to live a full and cultured life without being tested by  poverty, corruption, beauty, and history.  
      

Farmhouse at the foot of the Carpathian Mountains, Romania

Johannesburg, South Africa

Abruzzi, Italy

Russian State Library in Moscow, Russia

      
Stupidity is not a sin, but ignorance ought to be.  Thanks for reading,

~Cynthia~