What is innocence?

My sister and I were hanging out today. Whenever I'm with her, the car rides are always long and quiet. Of the two of my sisters, I think I'm closest to this one. She's the second to youngest (there are three of us), and she seems to care the most.

I tried to start a conversation to mentioning I actually enjoyed watching CSPAN, and that I'm a major nerd for it.

She told me she thought I watched it to fake being smart. I agreed, and joked about being a "highly educated stupid person".

It got quiet again, and she just repeated herself. "I just--I don't know!" I just agreed. "I had a job at your age, at 18 I was engaged--" I laughed and said I didn't like people. "I'm not saying you need to be engaged, but. . . .  I dunno." I sorta got where she was going with it. "You need to get a job. You need to go to school. You need to grow up, you know? You're still so innocent, and it's starting to annoy me." I'm 17. And she has a point. 

"You're going to be an adult in a year--"
Young adult, technically.
"No, you'll be a full adult under the law. You can drive, you can vote, you can do everything! Why don't you drive."

She went off over how I'm going to be able to do everything under the eyes of the law. How I'm not looking for a job, and how I don't do anything.

I kept thinking she was in learning center at my age, and how I'm taking a top of higher level classes, but in the end she still has a point. I don't do anything, really.

I mentioned FAFSA and how I needed it done for scholarships, which I guess is only partly true. But you also have to be living in the US for a lot of these, so. . . .
She said I was too dependent on others and don't take responsibility. And that I need to learn the world doesn't revolve around my room.

Today was my nephew's first day of school. My sister cried for about 30 minutes after leaving him, and got to the school about 10 or so minutes early. She waited at the gate for four, claiming we could never understand how close her and her baby were.

He has a slight speech problem, because he never interacted with other children. I genuinely hope he doesn't turn out to be like me.

With love
Nikola Strange.

A continuation.

With the sudden influx of death in my life, true to my generation’s nickname, I can’t help but reflect on myself. As an individual.

How selfish.

Does it matter much [if I’m selfish right now]? I don’t know. I like to think it does.

My view on the topic at hand is not a common one in my family. In fact, it might just be mine alone—I don’t mourn the deaths of others. In fact I’m happy their sufferings are over, if they were suffering to begin with. I’m happy they lived their lives, and they had their happy moments and sad moments. So long as their lives were, for the most part, pleasant, I’m happy they’ve lived at all. And I’m happy they’re now resting. Or in a heaven. Or reborn. Or simply gone. Whatever suits their taste while alive.

I don’t know how my family would take that.

I pity the living instead. That’s the real reason why I cry in funerals.

How strange, maybe.

Mulling over these beliefs brought back memories: memories of childhood—a bookworm, refusing to put down novels twice her size, itching to get out of the kiddie’s section in the library. A loaner, whom spent time talking to imaginary, opposing sides of herself. An outgoing kid who loved to show off victories—something as small as being a “super student”—like trophies on a shelf. A kid that hated being told what to do if it wasn’t a teacher instructing her. A kid that liked work, most odd of all, I think.

I remember a teacher once asked what we had to be thankful for on Thanksgiving. While most kids said they were thankful for their toys, their rooms, their parents playing with them, I remember thinking those were stupid things to be thankful for. I raised my hand and proudly said I was thankful my parents worked for me. I was interrupted by a kid I don’t remember (lies. I still know his name) shouting “You’re mean! That’s like your parents being slaves!” I never got a chance to mention I was thankful I was fed and clothed before receiving toys (which I did receive whenever my parents could afford them, mind you).

Was that a strange thing to say? I’m not sure. I wonder what that says about me.

I don’t think I was that off. I still liked childish things, and I still love them now! I was never allowed to like Belle from Beauty and the Beast because my older sister claimed her as her favorite. Being the darkest of the three sisters, I was always stuck being Jasmine, whom I couldn’t relate to. I tried instead to be like Cinderella: she was a hard worker, and I liked that toil more than I liked her ending with Prince Charming (his name is Henry, by the way).

I remember I tried to learn to wash clothes or scrub the floors on my hands and feet, or dust the house. Mother never let me.

I also remember trying to lighten my skin with flour, and contemplating if the material would sink into my skin if I dipped my hands in egg first.

Esmeralda’s my favorite now.

Mother once said I was so sure I was a princess as a kid, I would tell her about running off to England to meet my relatives and be friends with Anastasia (bonus points if you can tell me what my favorite childhood movie was*). I remember that. I remember thinking I was a lot of things, because a gap existed on both ends of my family, grandfathers on both ends. I’d spend ages trying to imagine myself as a wizard or princess or superhero because of those gaps. I look onto those memories fondly.

God I love stories.

Mother found it strange I preferred my imagination to people most of the time. She insists to my older sister her baby boy is perfectly fine, since he’s largely the same as me. “Every child is different—you three are as different as could be. He’s just fine.”

Love you, mama.

Daddy always tried to soften the blow, though. I wasn’t your average kid, and my family has the bad habit of saying “not normal” over “not average”. He’d always tell me that wasn’t the case with me, “You’re different”.

Normal is just a state of mind, and “different” doesn’t mean bad.

Thank you daddy. I wouldn’t have come up with that without your chats.

In fact, there are times where the strange things are truly the most beautiful.

                Yet I feel that in certain situations, like a death in the family, whether it be good or bad is irrelevant.

With Love,
Nikola Strange.

*it was Jurrasic Park.

A death in the family.

                My grandmother is terminally ill with breast cancer, and although this may be a dreary topic for Valentine’s Day, it seems to be all that’s eating away at my thoughts this week.

                I don’t think I should be posting this, simply because I have this misfortune streak, where whatever I say is both out of line and horribly misunderstood, but I feel like I should post this anyways. It’s a bit of a catharsis, one might say? Either way, I feel like I should get some things off my chest regarding the issue:

                Now my grandmother and I were never particularly close, so I wouldn’t benefit from “I’m sorry” notes, but I still can’t help pondering her death.

                In all honesty I am happy for her.

                That may sound like an odd thing to say in regards to the death of an individual, but I truly am happy for her. She’s made it. This is the final chapter, and she’s made it to the end.

                I might as well express my feelings towards death now, before everyone reading decides I’m a heartless bitch: I prefer to feel a sense of comfort for the end of a life—an end regarding old age, mind you—this person, grays now adorning their tired heads, have lived and experienced life. I like to think—I genuinely hope—they’ve experienced live to its absolute fullest. That they have done everything they would have liked; that they’ve had both pleasant and unpleasant surprises; that they enjoyed living. And that this last chapter is a bit of comfort for them: it’s over. All the bad things one experiences, all the fears: I like to think they evaporate and only the good memories are left. Or if they have no good memories, that they take comfort in the fact the bad things won’t matter anymore.

                I like to think they’re visited by loved ones, if they believe in such a thing. That their souls drift to give little presents to the living, if they believe this is so. That they see their own version of the pearly gates, if that’s what they believe in. My grandmother believed only a finite number of people make it to heaven.

                I genuinely hope she’s on the list.

                My grandfather died a few years ago, and I like to believe they’ll be nagging each other in the heaven they believe in again, grandfather cooking grandmother her meals, despite the pain he felt in his joints, all because of love.

                Grandaddy was a blue eyed devil from Texas whom ran away to Mexico from being drafted to Vietnam. He spoke enough Spanish to survive and hold a job, and was content mining the land alongside his friends, ‘til he met a woman in a laundry mat and fell in love on sight. He nagged her into marriage, despite her many children, and raised them as his own, along with a pair of twins he had with this woman together. His name was Anthony, but everyone called him “Antonio” or “Tony”.

                Grandmother grew to love that “charming” man eventually. He was her second husband, and a much harder worker than her first, a charming musician (another white boy, ginger, green eyes). He put bread on the table. He took care of the kids. He was kind to her (I think. No one has ever said otherwise).

                One day, he let it slip he was from Texas, and she demanded they immigrate to the United States. He received pardon and brought his family over.

They were never saints. They were never the perfect parents. They never treated all their children equally, but grandfather was always a kind man when we visited (of my sisters and I, I visited the least. I still don’t know why). Grandmother was a slightly different story.

                She never loved me, and I can’t blame her. Like I said, I was never there. I was not there enough for her to know me at all, and she was known well for her quick temper. She gave me the time of day, and in retrograde, I’m grateful for that.

                My father is the oldest child of her first marriage. I’ve grown up hearing many stories from his childhood, and the childhoods of his siblings from the first marriage. Some were fun, some not so fun. Despite this, I don’t doubt she loved them. I also don’t doubt they all love her.

                Now, in her final moments, there are tears and quarrels and silence, but above all else, there’s love.

                I’m glad.

                I’m glad they’re all worried over trying to be there during the end. And I’m glad they’re mourning.

                There’s love in that family.

                I don’t think I’m of any use during these last moments, besides maybe a bit of comfort. So I’m not completely sure why I go on the visits to my grandmother’s myself. I’m glad I do, though. I want to be there with everyone else when it happens. I’ll be weeping too, but I’ll be weeping for them: for her children, who loved her so dearly and won’t be seeing her again for quite some time.

                I pity the living the most.

                In the end, I don’t think there’s much I could ever say to my grandmother, spare maybe a “thank you”. Thank you for giving birth to and raising my father. Though you were never the best as far as I can tell from the stories I’ve been told, you must’ve done something right, because I couldn’t ask for a better father.

                “Thank you, and I’m sorry.” I’m sorry for never being there, I guess. I’m sorry for not being what you wanted, if you expected anything of me at all. I’m sorry for not existing (I don’t know what this means yet)? I don’t know what I’m sorry for, but I feel as though I should definitely apologize for something.

“Thank you, and good luck.” I still genuinely want you to see heaven.

“Thank you, and goodbye.”

  [edit] She just pasted on.

Nikola Strange.

Empathy Dependency

After a load of (positive) peer pressure from my favorite dick of a best friend last year for not having watched the movies, I had finally given in and decided to read the Lord of the Rings novel—and I meant read. It’s my moral belief to always read a book before watching a movie! The school librarian, earning a spot in the awesome people of the world list, instantly dropped everything to help introduce me to Middle Earth: He flat-out rejected me the Fellowship until I had read the prequel book what started it all—the Hobbit. This book, along with its sequel, instantly became a favorite of mine!

In fact, I went out to purchase a copy of the Lord of the Rings book* as soon as I had money in my hands! I got a copy of the Hobbit on my Kindle and set out to learn all I could on the rich history of Middle Earth, gobbling up information over the Undying lands, the Istar, the different races of Elvenkind, and the men of Gondor, and Middle Earth herself.

You can imagine my sweet elation at finding out Bilbo and the Dwarves would be brought to the big screen by director, Peter Jackson.

Instantly, I began gorging myself on all the articles I could find, sharing them on Facebook, spamming my friends with the movie, and absorbing every released image. I ate away at the differences between the book and movie, along with its similarities.

One moment among these stood out to me the most, however. As per usual, I was very much late to the news of two fandoms of mine crossing, and began hyperventilating and squealing uncontrollably at my discovery of Bilbo Baggins being portrayed by Martin Freeman, better known to the Sherlocked at Dr. John Watson.

I was jumping for joy and scaring the neighbors when everything in my world came to a screeching halt: Tumblr was down.

By the Valar I was devastated! That beautiful site was my outlet! There are no LoTR fans in my family, and I only had two friends whom really liked the books and movies! I needed these strangers there for me, to understand and share in all my feels! I needed those hilarious images crossing the fandoms to feel complete—to relieve my happiness. Then it hit me:

We’re all really damn spoiled.

As a society we’ve all gotten so spoiled by this miracle technology, we expect people to care about things we care about, even if they’re complete strangers—we assume as fact this will happen. Caring! I was so amazed that this word could be reduced to something so trivial yet blown up to something so vast by the internet: the feeling and exhibition of concern and compassion for others looked for in people behind the clacking of a keyboard.

I remember when my elder sisters felt special and privileged when one had to give up the phone for the other to use the internet (why the hell were they on the internet anyway? What did people do on here then?!). Hell, I still remember sucking up the courage to sit through and weather the storm of the dial up modem and the happiness that ensued after the (seemingly) warm voice saying “Welcome!”

I began to wonder if, as a generation, we were too indulged by this sense of self-worth. Do we really love ourselves too much as to expect empathy? Or was this a coping of sort of mechanism to make ourselves feel closer to others? Have we really become so anti-social strangers are more welcomed than people we know? And how much do we really know about either side? The argument could be made that we’re more open to strangers, but when did the classic “stranger danger” safety tip become null and void for the sake of our self-expressions? And how much of that is really us?

I remember being genuinely scared of sights like Facebook and Twitter since people could follow you on them. I found it disturbing a site would name the connection of two separate pages “following”. The term “stalking” on the internet has become something of a joke; a quick laugh, to downplay you’re admiring of another individual. This is what we’ve come to. We expose ourselves to the world in a matter that would probably make Narcissus blush, yet we can’t help but do so.

And in a sense, who could blame us? The internet was initially created as a way to share information to massive number of people at once. With a slight tweak of the definition of information, you have the very basis of our social media structure.

But what of our attachment to this?

I don't think I would ever leave. I don’t think ever could.

I can slowly but surely feel myself losing my sanity, but I'd never leave this place. It's a society within a society, thus explaining the success of the anime Sword Art Online. In this world, we are who we wish we were, not who we really are . . . . . which is also concerning. I don't think I'm much different here and, well, here, but I enjoy the company of strangers, be they lovely lies or beautiful people. I don’t know what that says about me.

With Love,
Nikola Strange.