Creativity

Creativity is one of those things they claim to be teaching you in school. The problem is they do so by crushing all your creative thoughts. (Or at least attempting to.) I have only come across a handful of teachers who actually appreciate it when you are creative. That is outside of the restrictive coloring lines type.

Teachers have this habit of telling you to be creative on projects and in essays. A lot of these teachers are straight up lying. Either that, or their definition of creative is about as interesting as a museum on pocket lint. (Thank God, that's a type of museum my dad hasn't drug me to.)

They have very specific guidelines they'd like you to follow when writing an essay. I'm not even talking about the necessary format and grammar related ones. All teachers usually ban the over used topics that really can't get more interesting because they've been done so many times. I can get that. (By the 8,000th time I've read an essay on the death penalty, I'd secretly be praying that I'd recieve it.)

What I don't get is teachers that ban the fun topics. I understand, it's hard to right a factual essay on werewolves (mostly because they don't exist), but you can write a factual essay on the myths, legends, and media that surround them and why people still give a crap.

While I've got nothing against the fellow who wants to write his essay on the health effects  of paint fumes, I personally don't want to do a whole lot of research into it. (Apart from, its bad for you, so don't huff it.) I would like to do an essay on an interesting and fun to research topic. This however proves difficult when the teacher shoots down everyone of your ideas like clay pidgeons, then yells "pull!" as he prepares for the next one.

I get that they want to avoid students just BSing an essay at the last minute off of stuff they "know", made up, and read off Wikipedia, (admittedly, I do this, but mostly when the topic is boring to me) but come on. If they put in as much effort as all the other students and it's clear that they know their shit, why does it matter what the topic was. (If nothing else, you'll have an amusing break from the paint fume papers.)

Midway through kindergarten, I started listening to my teachers and doing what they said. Sometime around fourth and fifth grade, I stopped because coloring a pilgram was not actually a useful learning tool. (I mastered that back in kindergarten before I started paying attention.)

After a year of straight detention, I decided to pay attention to the teachers who weren't sucking my soul out. (When I was in sixth grade, there was a total of one.) As for the other teachers, I was to busy daydreaming, sleeping, passing notes, launching pencils across the room, or getting sent to the office for writing on both sides of my piece of paper. (That is not a joke. One crazy, anal retentive, sixth grade social studies teacher did exactly that.)

I was interested in the classes  and what was being learned, but could never see the point of not writing on both sides of my paper. (It should be noted, I was taking notes; not doing an assignment for turning in.)

Since I am a stubborn person, I only do things if I can't see the point in it. For years, I only did homework if it was interesting or fun. In high school that had to change (at least enough so that I actually passed the class), so I did a bit more, but only the assignments I liked or just enough to get by. By my transcripts, it is very easy to tell which classes interested me and which didn't. Often it was the teachers that actually encouraged creativity that I did better in. (Not counting geography; I just really couldn't stand that subject, no matter how cool the teacher was.)

If teachers were actually serious about wanting you to be creative they'd let you. Actually, a large part of it's not even the teachers, but the school board. At my high school, most of the teachers that actually encouraged creativity have been fired, are on probation, or straight up left. (There are the occasional ones that are coaches or married to coaches that are surviving though.)

My senior year, a new English teacher got fired at the end of it because of plagiarism. A lot of kids in my graduating class were, well, douche bags. I was in two different classes of his that year.

First semester, I was in the one with every single douche in my grade. I kid you not. The administration (in some sick joke) packed them all into one class room at the same time. They barely payed attention and treated the teacher like an evil baby sitter. As such, they hated it when he called them on their crap.

Once when he left the room for a minute, they went out the door and were assing around outside. He came back and shut the door on them. The poor babies had to walk around to the front of the school, which was pretty darn nearby.

Every class, kids made dickish comments. If people wouldn't shut up enough for him to teach, he'd kick them out of the class. The teacher was awesome, but I wouldn't have been terribly surprised if he had to pull a shot gun out to get the class to shut up.

Then second semester came and I was switched to a different class. This class was a nice one. People respected the teacher and the only kid that ever got kicked out was the angry one who would blow up and just storm out over stupid things ( see UWA). It was a mellow and fun class.

Since he was the only teacher for English 4, everyone had the same assignment on Macbeth. We had a topic list and had to write one measly 2-3 page paper on it. It was damn easy essay to write. He actually taught you the info you needed. (What a concept?) My grade, being dumbasses, decided that was too much effort and plagerized their essays. Litteraly a third of my grade did this. The problem was they all turned in the same damn essay so they were caught pretty quick. The Fish (as me and my friends dubbed him) turned them in. Instead of the school chewing out all the douchey jocks for being jackasses, the Fish was bitched out.

For months, all anyone was doing was complaining about getting caught and calling the teacher a jerk. I even heard my art teacher join in (thus loosing even more respect for the woman who called me Penis Drawer for three years).

As a result of all the complaining, the Fish made a test to shut people up. It was only one quiz for The Heart of Darkness which wasn't worth many points, but it was hard. I barely passed and I did the reading (unlike most everyone else). It was on tiny details. It was his way of saying, "shut up or I'll make it a hell of a lot more difficult." This of course only causing more bitching, but points for effort.

If they'd bothered to pay attention, they'd have liked the teacher. He was actually quite easy going, but if you were an ass, he didn't put up with it. He let you be creative with just about every assignment. (There was still some of that wretched busy work, though.) He got fired at the end of the year because of all these jackasses who were eager to get out of high school, but only if it required no effort.

Not only does the school not even teach you creativity like it claims, it straight up chews it up and spits it back at your face like spit talkers eating crackers. I've seen more punishment for creativity than reward for it. They are just producing carbon copies to sit on the couch and eat cheetos while watching reality TV ('cause chances are that was what was more important than writing the damn essay.)

The Power of People

People are always talking about the power of God, the universe, and whatever else, but people very rarely talk about the power of people. I'm not discrediting the power of God or the universe. I'm just saying that people make up most of the power we see around us.

A couple years ago, I went on a mission trip to Jamaica. It was a wonderful experience. However, I am not a religious person and don't really care all that much about whatever God's doing or if he/she's doing anything. I'll just do what I'm going to do and God can do whatever it wants.

At the end of each day, we'd sit in a circle and discuss how we saw God in action. While it was easy enough to come up with a suitable answer, I hadn't seen God in action. I'd seen people in action. The things that the other people were saying were all examples of what people had done. They'd sight making all the little kids at the elementary school smile or someone painting a third of the room by themselves as examples. While I don't really care if God gets the credit, it should at least should be noted that people made these things happen.

It was us letting little children molest our heads and jump on our stomachs that made them smile. (Also the fact that we were the only white people they'd ever seen.) It was our drive to paint the building that got the job done that made the teachers thankful. Mostly it's just people affecting people.

Everyone that a person comes in contact with is has an effect. People make things happen or keep things from happening. It is people that are behind bombings and people that are behind pulling others out of the wreckage.

While not every interaction's as big as painting a school or even traveling to Jamaica they are still there and do have an impact.

Over Thanksgiving, I traveled to my sister's place in Fort Collins for a family gathering of more people than was likely safe. Getting there was interesting. I was riding the bus system. Catching my first and second bus was smooth sailing.

Then, traffic got balled up and an incredibly nice, but confused fellow got on the wrong bus. The bus driver, being super awesome, pulled around the block and dropped the confused guy off and we continued on.

As we got closer and closer to the place where I needed to catch my next bus, I noticed the bus wasn't going to make it in time to catch the conjoining one. I'd have to wait for three hours until the next one came. I texted my sister and told her I wasn't going to make it in time and was completely prepared to wait around.

All the other passengers were squirming in their seats as well. Checking how close to the bus stop we were, checking the time, and in general just being anxious. Everyone started discussing feverishly that they weren't going to make the bus. That's when the bus driver decided to be awesome!

Instead of following his normal designated route, he cut across the conjoining streets and headed straight for the stop we all needed. He said "screw you" to the speed limit and floored the bus to the best of his abilities. He pulled right in front of the bus we were trying to catch and we all scrambled out and ran to the connecting one just as it was about to leave.

That bus driver is in my record as being one of the most awesome people I have ever met. (Sadly, I don't know his name though.) He instead of just doing his job as he was payed to do it, he did it in a personalized way. He actually cared about who bothered to set foot on the bus. Not deeply or anything, but he actually cared that we were people and that we needed to get places.

No amount of praying, hoping, or chanting would have made me catch the connecting bus if we didn't have that bus driver. It wasn't achieved by the grace of God. It was achieved by the grace of people. The nervousness of missing their bus that produced the chatter and the driver pushing the rules to the side is what made us catch that bus. Nothing else.

It is people that make things happens. Maybe outside forces such as bugs and weather affect what people make happen, but it's still the people that make the memories of cockroach dances, and filming in the rain happen.

So people, here's what you've got to do. Pat you're self on the back. You make things happen. Even you sitting on the couch eating Cheetos makes the cushion flatter. Give yourselves some credit and give it to the people around you. It's not God that made you rich; it's your hard work (or maybe your rich parent's hard work) that made you rich. It's not God that made your wife leave; it's your drinking problem.

Stop blaming things on and giving other people's credit to a giant possibly non-existent person in the sky.

Princess Smothering

As I promised in My Favorite Disney Princess and Why, I will explain the concept of princess smothering.

Princess smothering is an art form my grandma on my mother's side perfected. Since my name is Sarah and Sarah is Hebrew for princess, I of course must be a princess. My grandma made sure I never forgot this fact.

For years, all I received as gifts from them were princess related paraphernalia. Not even the stuff from Disney movies that little kids are obsessed with now. As far as my grandmother's mind worked if it was pink it was for a princess. If it was for a princess it was for Sarah.

For many little girls this wouldn't be a problem. For me, a little girl who played with trucks, wanted to be a Knight, and spent her days daring her comrades in mischeif to eat worms, this was a big problem. For the first few years of my life, I was okay with liking pink. My other grandma liked it so it couldn't be all bad. My mother's mother cured me of that thought. After years of bombardment by pink everything, I thoroughly detested that color. (It also didn't help that my bedroom walls had hideous pink wall paper I wasn't allowed to change.)

I had boxes filled with rhinestoned pink bandanas, binders reading "VIP Very Important Princess", pink shirts, pink skirts (something I wasn't much for wearing  regardless), etc. They all got shoved under my bed, only to be unearthed years later. Then thrown out because they weren't important archaeological discoveries (like the light bright). By the time I reached middle school, the thought of being called a princess or coming in contact with pink was enough to make my skin burn just on principal. It was like a cross or garlic for a vampire.

I, at one point, received a lecture (in letter form) about me being a princess based on my email address. As twelve year olds do they create ridiculous email addresses. Mine was no exception. (I would write it here, but I still use it.) One of the words in it was freak. A simple word yes, but leading to complicated lecture none the less. This letter went on about how God doesn't create freaks (to which I thought "where did you come from then?"). He only creates beautiful princesses. Therefore I could not be a freak. The actual letter was a lot wordier, but that was the main point of it. I was becoming more and more princessphobic (I wonder what the actual fear of princesses or pink is 'cause I had it.)

Finally sometime between middle school in high school I had enough. During a phone conversation with my grandmother, I was for like the nine billionth time explaining to her that I wasn't a princess. The conversation went like this:

Grandmother: You're a pretty princess.
Me: I'm not a princess.
Grandmother: But your name means princess.
Me: Well my middle name means John. So I guess I'm Princess John then.

That was officially the end of all princess nonsense. After 13 or 14 years, I had won the war and was free to roll in mud, climb things, and get injured, pink free. Or so I thought. Since then one of my best friends has made sure to never let me forget my princess status. Every year, I receive something pink, frilly, and/or princessy from her.

The moral of the story is either change your name when you have the chance, you can't escape your destiny, or (my personal favorite) your crazy friends will never let you forget they are still less crazy than your family.

An Epilogue of Sorts
I have since middle school cured myself of my fear of pink. I actual appreciate and enjoy it to some extent. I have not been called a princess straight to my face in years, but if someone were to try it, I'm not sure as to what horrible event would be the result.

Why So Serious?

As the title notes, I do not take things seriously. It's, in fact, a difficult task for me. I'm just one of those people who can't help, but see the bright side and humor in just about every situation. As such, when I devote my time to something, I prefer that it also not take itself too seriously.

Or I just blow it up and walk away while laughing maniacally.

The movies and books I enjoy usually have some humor in them. It is really difficult for me to get into something if it doesn't mock itself at least a little. (That doesn't mean it can't happen.)That is why I spent the past two hours in the library.
 

Okay also 'cause I'm a super nerd.

  I was of course looking for something in the dorky/nerdy science-fiction category, but most of the books were too damn serious. It was really difficult to find one that wasn't just some prestigious nerdy guy making a political statement. I unfortunately just barely succeeded in my quest. I found a few fantasy books that were willing to make fun of themselves and inside one of these books there just so happens to be one science fiction story. It only took me two hours of looking through science fiction books to find one short story that had a sense of humor.


There were a total of two Douglas Adams novels both of which I own.

That is darn right depressing. There are multitudes of fantasy, mysteries, and whatever else that aren't all about big serious political statements, but when it comes to science fiction you can hardly escape it. Most science fiction novels out there are overly serious. I understand wanting to make a political statement, but come on, the world is a funny place. I doubt it will be any less so in the future.

Sorry, 1984, but no one actually cares what you're doing or thinking.

Science fiction writers in general just appear to have bugs up their asses. They're always talking about the end of the world, humanity, or freedom. Whether it is via robots, aliens, time travel, nuclear fallout, etc. they all expect the world to be a terrible gloomy place; which it's not.

There are however a few science fiction authors out there who either make a political statement by using humor or really just enjoy being nerdy. To those authors out there, I salute you.

Since my quest for humorous and entertaining science fiction will likely never be at an end I shall begin on my next quest.

Which I think might involve turning tiny children into Ewoks.

As a person who at one point could sing, the Ewok Celebration song from Return of the Jedi off the top of her head, I will leave you with a few of the more humorous nerdy science fiction novels I've enjoyed.

• Calculating God by Robert J. Sawyer
• Douglas Adams (Just read something by him.)
• Dead of Night by Jonathan Maberry
• Red Dwarf: Infinity Welcomes Careful Drivers by Grant Naylor (I suggest watching the show as well 'cause it's awesome!)

I do enjoy more serious science fiction as well, but there is a serious lack of humor in genre. (The novel aspect that is.

On Being Quiet

I am a quiet person. That is a fact. In general the thoughts that pop into my head don't come spilling out of my mouth. For years this has been a problem for my family.

My family are the types of people who talk a lot. Nothing against them for it. I just don't. Everytime I call home, it's a circus. The last time I did so the conversation went like this.

Grandma: hello?
Me: hi, Grandma, is Liz there?
Grandma: I don't know. (Walks into other room) is Elizabeth here?
Dad: (overheard from across the room) no, she's off with Jayson (her boyfriend).
Grandma: Here's your dad.
Dad: Hellope.
Me: Hi, Dad, it's Sarah. I'm guessing Liz isn't there?
Dad: Liz isn't here. Do you want to talk to your mom?
Me: Sure...
Dad: Wendy
Mom: What?
Dad: Miss never talk is on the phone.
Mom: Oh okay. (Takes phone) hello?
Me: hi, mom.
Mom: what's up?
Me: I just had a question for Liz, but I hear she's off with Jayson.
Mom: they went *some activity I don't remember*
Me: alright well can you have her call me?
Mom: yeah. Love you. Bye.
Me: bye.

I got conversation whiplash from that phone call. I just needed to ask my younger sister a question and instead talked to everyone excluding her. (And my aunt. Who honestly I'm surprised I didn't end up talking to.) It was insanity. In less than two minutes, I had said hello to the entire house, but had no answer to my question and the person who could answer it wasn't even there.

Everytime I talk to my father, he states one of the following in regards to my being quiet:
"Getting answers from you is like pulling eye teeth." (I really don't know.) 
"Trying to have a conversation with you is like pulling eye teeth." (Again huh?)
Basically just multiple forms of "pulling eye teeth" whatever that means paired with something about me being quiet. At least when I talk it's in English, not Backwoods Huh?. (My Dad's very fluent in his language.)

There have always been comments made about me being quiet. When I was little I didn't participate in a tallent show because I didn't want to play a leaf like my older sister insisted, so I didn't participate. At the talent show I sat with my mom and her friends in the audience. One lady I was introduced to said, "so this is the shy one." Apparently me being a stubborn little kid who was unwilling to play a leaf made me shy.

Years later, (like when I was in high school) my older sister had a birthday party. While we were all sitting at the dinner table, I made a joke at the expense of one of my sister's friends. Everyone appreciated it (except the friend of course). Then my sister told him that he just got dissed by her antisocial younger sister. It was some big surprising thing apparently. Despite the fact I make jokes at people's expense quite often.

Let's get something straight. I am not antisocial. I like my privacy and space. I enjoy alone time, but I in no way am antisocial. I enjoy conversations, hanging out, and even *gasp* meeting new people. I do enjoy company just not all the time. (My summers in an overcrowded house cured me of that.)

Since my family's convinced I'm antisocial and don't talk to people they're convinced that I'm lonely. Every conversation I have with my mother involves her saying, "I worry about you being lonely." I appreciate the concern, but relax. When my older sister moved out, she had a hard time adjusting to being alone. I did not. At least not in the same way. I wasn't lonely so much as paranoid. I kept expecting to be yelled at and had to remind myself that the yelling somewhere else actually in no way involved me. It was more culture shock than loneliness. I love living alone and have since the moment it began.

Another problem I have is that when I'm not feeling any particular emotion, I let my face relax. As a result, I, apparently, look really pissed off at any given moment. That partnered with the silence and I look like I'll beat you within an inch of your life if you say hello to me. I promise you that's not actually the case.

Now the final and most annoying thing. On occasion, I stutter.  It's usually not so much because I'm nervous or afraid. It's usually if I'm excited. When I'm excited my mind runs fast. I know everything that's coming out of my mouth before I say it in general. When I'm excited it's at hyper speed. As a result I get vocal back up.  A word gets stuck and I can't get my sentence out doomed to repeat a syllable until it breaks free or someone finishes my sentence for me. Since I stutter people seem to think I have low self esteem or some such nonsense.  I assure you I have no lower self esteem than anyone else. Sure I have insecurities, but so do all you nonstutterig people out there.

The strangers out there can continue to speculate as much as they'd like. They don't effect me. As to my family, believe me when I inform you I am fine. I can ask where the bathroom us without your help (a skill my younger "social" sister can't even master). I am not lonely. I am not pissed at you. I do not need you to give me a confidence boost. And I will only beat you up if you keep asking if I'm okay.

Screw Romeo and Juliet

Everyone has at least heard of the good old fashioned, hard to understand "love story" that is Romeo & Juliet. While I love Shakespeare, I think that Romeo and Juliet were total dumbasses. It's really not a love story of the ages. Yes it's a good story and a terrible tragedy, but it's more about stupid teenagers than it is about uncontrollable love.

Let's look at the facts. We've got one Guy who's "in love" with some chick named Roslyn (or something like that; it's been awhile since I read it so names are a bit iffy). And we have some chick who's arranged to marry a guy named Paris. Oh and by the way these two people have families who hate each other, but don't even remember why. There's the basic premise of the story, forbidden love. Isn't it romantic? Blaaaaauuuugh!

Well anyways this Romeo guy asked out Roslyn (or whatever her name is) and got rejected, not in a nice let's just be friends way either. She basically said the Shakespeare equivalent of "I'd rather become a nun." Yeah, Romeo actually not so hot with the ladies. (So ladies when you're looking for your Romeo he's that dweeby kid who's been rejected by every other girl in the area.

Romeo on the rebound gets drug to a party by his Shakespearean wing man. Oh by the way it's the party of his family's mortal enemies. There Romeo sees this chick standing there and suddenly it's all "Roslyn who?" He goes up to this chick who duh is Juliet. Oh, and by the way she's like thirteen. There's some witty banter and they kiss like three times in a flirting scene that would make the gushiest couple I know (my younger sister and her boyfriend) gag. Then Romeo runs off.

Then to the famous balcony scene. Juliet's sitting there talking to her self like people in plays often do. "Wherefore art thou Romeo?" Let's get a couple things clear. Wherefore does not meen where. It means why. She's asking why the hell she has to like the one dude on the planet that she's supposed to hate. This makes the fact that Romeo's being a creeper over in the bushes a lot more disturbing, doesn't it? So Romeo pops out scares the crap out of Juliet, yet she over looks the whole stalker thing (presumably just this once 'cause he's really cute). Then more gushy crap that's been immortalized as romantic.

A little later on they run off and get some poor sap of a preacher to marry them. Instead of running off and living together like the normal people who elope, they decide that Romeo's just gonna sneak into her room at night. Facepalms anyone?

So Romeo's strolling down the street with his wingman. And they get into this fight with Juliet's cousin. Sword play ensues and what do you know Juliet's cousin gets stabbed. Well the guy in charge if Verona's not exactly pleased so he banishes Romeo.

News travels to Juliet that there was a fight. She of course asks what happened to Romeo not you know her cousin! Her nurse (the news bringer) gets pissed and finally attempts to knock some sense into this chick's skull. But while sad about her cousin, Juliet is still madly obsessed with Romeo.

So the preacher dude, the nurse, and Juliet make a plan. (Doesn't that just sound like the beginning of a bad joke?) Juliet's supposed to drink this magic potion to make her appear dead. The preaching guy's going to send a note to Romeo informing him of this plan. Then they're gonna run off into the sunset all happily ever after.

This of course does not work. Juliet's part all works fine, but he note doesn't get through due to an inability to travel. Well balls! So Romeo hears that Juliet dies. He's all devistated, so he buys poison, gives the apothecary some speach about how greed's the real poison, then runs off to kill himself next to Juliet.

Romeo shows up all ready to die and Paris sees him enter the tomb. Paris who's actually a nice guy who really loves Juliet goes in after him thinking "mortal enemy of Juliet's family; bitch is gonna defile the grave!" Paris (again actually a good guy) attempts to put an end to this crap and oh, what do you know, gets stabbed. The one sensible, sweet fellow in the whole damn play and everyone wants the love obsessed, stalker dweeb to come sweep them off their feet? *facepalm*

So Romeo gives his whole romantic I can't live without you speach then swigs his poison. Thud! The dude's dead. Right then Juliet decides to come out of her magic coma. She sees dead beat on the floor and flips out. She kisses him after seeing the poison in hopes there will be enough on his lips to kill her. (Do I even need to say "facepalm" here?) She decides that ain't working so she takes his dagger and stabs it through her chest.

After that everyone shows up finds the three dead kids. Mourning all around. The two feuding families decide to put apart their differences and cry collectively blaming themselves for not letting them just love who they want.

Now how many times has this story been done (usually with a happy ending)? Let's see there's The Lion King II, some movie about lepricauhns and fairies that I watched one time, an episode of Scooby Doo, etc. It's everywhere but with a lot less death.

Yet, when they do it they give Romeo a personality transplant. The personality of the character is really nothing like the original Romeo so everyone wants Romeo.

As far as I'm concerned,  screw Romeo he can go stalker suicide somewhere else. I sure as heck don't want to be Juliet. I like not stabbing myself or drinking poison. I don't know about you but a nice healthy relationship without mutual suicide sounds good to me.

I bet you if they just came out about it and told their parents this is the way it is, they could have avoided the whole suicide thing. There'd be lots of yelling maybe a couple more sword fights, but hey suicide free. Or they could've just been sane and ran off together like everyone else.

The moral of the story don't kill yourself dumbass! Or maybe it's sane guys get stabbed. Or in he manner of all Shakespeare tragedies everyone dies.