Black and Blue.

This is my response to the book "The Bluest Eye" by Toni Morrison. Probably one of the most intense books I've ever read. So of course I immediately related it to one of the most intense art forms I've ever seen: Spoken Word.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RTZrPVqR0D8

please watch the video before you continue reading the post. Don't be left in the dark.

Pecola Breadlove. Daniel Beaty.
A daughter. A son.
Fiction. Real.
His father left.
Her father came.
Neither left the same,
Forced to change
With one man to blame.

One raised himself up
Into a man
Proclaiming "I can.
I can knock knock down the doors of racism
When they are slammed.
Shut his eyes and proclaim
"We are our fathers' sons and daughters, but we will not be damned.
We can."

The other knock knocked down
To never smile, her lips forever turned the other way around
But never mind the frown
Because she'll never be beautiful
Not even blue eyes could erase
The face only a daddy will love
Not just because it was brown,
But, God, she was ugly.

To those looking from the other side
The other side of store counters
And white picket fences

They wouldn't see a fatherless little boy.
A raped little girl.
No name to match the face.
Not Pecola. Not Daniel.
The only thing they had in common,
The only thing that mattered,
What defined them as a human-being,
The only thing that they were seeing,

Was brown.

~Kat

Precious Pep Talk

I know, two posts in one day, but I couldn't not share this. Today was the end of the first semester at many schools, including mine. And there is nothing more tiring than thinking, "God, I am only half way through." So, to all those dragging their feet through mud (because people in San Diego aren't used to having to pick up their feet to keep them out of puddles) here is a much needed pep talk! Given but just the most precious piece of hope our country has to offer:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l-gQLqv9f4o

~Kat

P.S. the link-y thing isn't working, so you have to copy and paste that into a new tab. I know, it's a bit of an inconvenience, but I know you can do it! You got this!

Poopy Poetry

An inspiration of mine and fellow poet once said, "Poetry is like poop. Once it's there, it has to come out."

Just let that metaphor sink in.

It's funny how true that is. Sometimes it comes easy, and just flows out of you. Sometimes it takes a little longer, and you have to come back to it again and again, in the meantime walking around with a waddle, because it sucks having to hold it in. But either way, once it's there, it always comes out.

My sister once when she was a toddler refused to poop. She held it all in for a good week. I guess that's the only way a toddler could be rebellious and get attention at the same time. So my sister wouldn't poop, and my mom took her to Urgent Care, to see if they could force it out of her.

This last summer I felt like my sister. Except I couldn't write. It was painful and if I could have gone to writer's block rehab I would have:

me: Hi, my name's Katherine.

circle of anonymous poets: *monotone* Hi, Katherine.

me: It has been 6 weeks since my last poem.

But instead, I had to self-prescribe Sarah Kay, Rudy Francisco, and Jack Frost to see if they could be my much needed laxative and get something in me moving. Not a lot did. I wrote two poems all summer. But one of those poems ended up being one of my favorites. It's short and sweet, and always gives a good chuckle.

Enjoy :) this is "A Poetic Piece of Crap":

~Kat

Ah, Sweet Relief!

No, not the sweet relief of finally reaching a bathroom after a long road trip, but the sweet relief of having a plan. I can't get anything done without a game plan. My room is full of sticky notes with to-do lists and reminders of how many pages of "The Bluest Eye" or AP Biology I have to read today. They are my much needed crutch, and until I devise my plans, I am trying to figure out what I have to do and feeling quite helpless.

When I was in seventh grade, I decided I was going to be a doctor when I grew up, and I made a plan. That plan was happily being followed, until I realized one day I didn't know why I was following it. This happened about a year ago, and ever since, I've been scrambling around trying to find some new career that I can hold on to. But that's hard to do when your three favorite things are music, writing, and science, and you also enjoy tutoring. And since I'm not crazy enough to quadruple major and become a Professor of Writing Theses on Musicology, I was trying to pick. This wasn't going very well for me. So here I am, in the middle of my junior year, with Judgement Day coming soon, and I would have to pick a side. Pick a major. Pick a college. It was indeed going to be the end of the world.

But get this. My relief was soon to arrive. This is how it happened, no exaggeration. I came home from school on Thursday thoroughly stressed after being told I needed to pick a major and a college. I came home, and to calm myself down, I sat down to pray and let God take care of things for me. He follows through pretty consistently, so I figured it'd be a good idea to take up one of the biggest decisions of my life with the Big Guy. So I told him all about my conflict, the majors I was thinking about, the schools I was interested in, and pleaded that He would lead me into a good and happy life and to a career where I can use all the talents I've been given and give them back.

Then this morning I was chatting with my dad about my future, a popular conversation lately, and we had an argument. Here's the gist: he wants me to be a doctor, I don't know I want, but I know I want to do something with music. And he's scared of me being a bar singer the rest of my life. I go into my room, and start cleaning it up for the day. Ever since I had the stomach flu New Year's Eve, I have been meticulously neat. I think it's because I was so disgusted with my sickness, I wanted to cleanse everything. And keep it that way. So because I'm a stickler about clear counters now, I moved my prom dress catalog on my desk into the magazine rack in my living room. The magazine I pushed aside to put the catalog in front of was TIME Magazine, the Alternative Medicine addition. I picked it out, thinking of my English teacher who would be happy to hear I read something this weekend as scholarly as TIME. I read a whole article on placebos, took notes, and flipped the page.

This is what I see: The Sound of Healing. I read the article, and it's all about this growing field of medicine called Music Therapy. They have found that by playing music to patients, they have rehabilitated much quicker and with less pain. This can benefit a wide range of patients, from Alzheimer's and Parkinson's, to cancer, to depression. All these neuroscientists are finding physiological links between the brain, the immune system, and music, which explains the amazing results they see. It gets complicated, and there's a lot more to it than that, but the whole time I was reading it, I could see myself doing that. I was amazed. I kept saying, "This is insane, this is insane!" My medical mind was satisfied and intrigued, my musical heart was upbeat and perky, and my soul took a huge sigh of relief. I knew immediately this is where my life should be going.

I took the article out to my dad, and said, "Look, we can both get what we want." I read it to him, he was equally amazed by all the results found and amazing things music therapists have achieved. He was even more thrilled when he heard lots of colleges have that major, and that the field is young, so there aren't a lot of music therapists out there yet, and that the practice is booming. I would be on the cutting edge, and in high demand out of college.

This all happened two days after I'd prayed about it. It took God two days to figure out what had taken me over a year of searching. And now I can finally relax and walk steady on my path.

Ah, sweet relief,
~Kat

Knock Knock

Opportunities. They don't come around very often. So when one does come knocking, I don't ever want to send it away. This blog I've realized is a huge opportunity for me. An opportunity for me to be honest, and a place where I don't need to hold anything back. I can be silly and write a Declaration of Knickers if I want to. I can be serious and share something that's really on my mind. But for my posts to be really worth anything, they have to be honest. And to be honest, sometimes you have to be vulnerable.

This realization was all spurred by a movie clip I was shown at my beloved youth group last night. It was from Even Almighty, the movie with Steve Carell playing the "New York Noah" and with Morgan Freeman, of course, as God. So in the movie, Steve is told by Morgan Freeman that he has to build an ark, and he starts growing a beard spontaneously and has animals following him around. He starts building the ark and everyone thinks he's crazy, and his wife thinks he's crazy,so she leaves him temporarily with their boys for him to "sort things out". Then this conversation happens between Morgan Freeman disguised as a charismatic server at a restaurant and the wife. Morgan is being comforting and tells her this:

"If someone prays to God for hope, does He give them hope, or the opportunity to be hopeful? If someone prays for courage, does he give them courage, or the opportunity to be courageous? If someone prays for their family to be closer together (the wife prayed for this at the beginning of the movie) does he shoot down warm fuzzy feelings, or give the opportunity for them to be there for one another?"

It's true. We can't expect things to fall into our laps. We need to take advantage of the opportunities given to us. I've been praying for ways to step out in my faith this year, ways I can let God take more of a precedence in my life, and here I am given opportunity after opportunity, but I am not taking them all. I've been too scared.

But no longer. I want to take this opportunity to be real. Because I realized I haven't really made it known that I am Catholic. I have been kinda suppressing it, because I've been too scared to show it. But being Catholic is a huge part of my life, and how I've grown to become the person I am today. If I can't be real with this part of my life, than I can't be my real self.

So I'm coming out. This is My Honest Poem:

So I have a confession
My closest friends know it
My parents too, but they aren't all for it
If you know me, maybe you could guess it
But I think it's about time I said it
Because I'm tired of feeling like I have to suppress it
Cuz God forbid somebody feel uncomfortable or offended
But I... I am Catholic.

And not just "I go to church some days
Christmas and Easter, but that's it."
No, I am as devoted as an NFL fan
I show up every Sunday
Cheering on my number one man
No, not LT or Rivers
But JC, my Savior.

I am that Catholic
That has a cross on my heart
At the end of a chain.

I am that Catholic
That believes in silver linings and fate
And will put a ring on my finger
Because I believe true love will wait.

But I am not that Catholic
With her nose to the air
I am just that Catholic
That wants to be free to say grace before lunch
In the name of the Father, and in the Son
Without feeling scared.

I don't want people to judge me
Or treat me differently
I'm the same person I was before
Only a little more relieved
And a bit more freed
Because now I don't need to hide
The biggest part of being me.


Praise God, be kind,
~Kat

Pass Me My Quill

What does it take to be able to write something formal? It used to be not so much of a challenge for me as it is now. Back in eight grade, give me a research paper, give me a prompt, give me an excerpt to work with, even better. I slayed it. Consistently. I put knights in shining armor to shame. Timed write, no problem. Give me 45 minutes, I'll finish in 30.

But I must have left my ink well and quill in my cubbie hole outside of room 8, because I look in my backpack now, and all I have are pens. And don't get me wrong, pens are great. They don't call them Papermate for nothing. But my pens seem to be out of synch with my paper, and as a mate, isn't really meeting its needs, if you know what I mean. My pens have taken a stand for what they believe in, even if they aren't completely sure what that may be. They tell it as it is, they have found their voice. If only their voices had British accents, then maybe what I'm saying will sound more scholarly. But even then, it's still a pen.

So I will once again take up my quill, and dip it in a well of brilliance. A well that I need to refill a little bit, but still, a well! Baby steps. So I'll start here: with this very important piece of legislation I have drawn up myself, regarding a deal made behind closed doors. I'm nothing if not traditional. It's regarding my friend Maddie and I. We were chatting about prom, like girls do, and since I had recently ended a relationship in my life, I was looking forward to going to prom with my friends. To which she replied, "Katherine, if you don't get a date, I will eat my own pants." And then this happened:

Declaration of the Eating of Thine Knickers

On this day, the twelfth of the twelfth month of the twelfth year of the twenty first century, Miss Maddison (insert last name) and Miss Katherine (insert last name) of the (insert school) have shaken phalanges and agreed upon the agreement that should Miss Katherine (insert last name) not have a date for Senior Prom, Miss Maddison (insert last name) will consume of thine own knickers. *

*Since knickers have been deemed in-consumable, they may be substituted for something equally silly and effectively humiliating, by a majority vote of two thirds of the affiliated. This shall be decided on the day after Senior Prom, assuming we have thoroughly recovered, and whence the consumption shall commence.

This document is hereby notarized by the following signatures. This document may never be deemed void.

And so that is now written on a piece of lined paper, in black ink, with the finest cursive third grade can teach. Plus now it's on the interweb, so even more proof, haha! Even still, I will keep it forever. And I think I may have found my trick to writing formally: write with a British inner dialogue.This particular document is obviously silly, so I will replace the inner British voice from that of Russel Brand to someone a little more scholarly, like Sir Ken Robinson or Queen Elizabeth.

Ta Ta.
~Kat

"The Precious Ones"

I've decided that the following is absolutely true: Good people make our world livable. They are like the CIA or the Secret Service, keeping all of us safe from becoming angry people who drink coffee infused with bitterness and kick puppies. But unfortunately, like members of the CIA or the Secret Service, they usually go unnoticed. Too often they are overlooked, maybe because they are shy, maybe because they are just surrounded by so many loud personalities that their quiet comforts simply cannot be heard.

I was surprised by two people's kindness today, and both I had previously overlooked. First was Brett, a nice kid who is the teacher's assistant in the class before mine. After class I was chatting with my teacher, as I sometimes do, and she says to me, "Katherine, look at what Brett gave me." She pulls out a large jar full of different kinds of teas and a large tin of Starbuck's hot cocoa. I was amazed. It was such a generous and thoughtful gift (my teacher loves teas and all that stuff). And then she looks to me and says, "You know, teachers aren't paid a whole lot, but look at what we get." She wasn't talking just about the tea and cocoa, but "the precious ones." The students like Brett who do thoughtful and caring things like that, just to make her day.

Next was Alex, who ran up to one of our classmates after class today (this I was later told about from said classmate). Alex had heard about her grandmother being hospitalized and took the time to find her and tell her, "Hey, I heard about your grandma, I hope she gets better soon. I'm praying for her." Such a simple thing, takes two seconds, but it really meant a lot to her to hear him say that.

I think it's tragic that things like this go unnoticed. But people like Alex and Brett, they aren't in it for the recognition, they don't even know that I noticed what they did today. They don't even know how much their kindness and generosity really meant to my teacher, my classmate, or especially me. And I think that's just the way they like it.

So I'd like to end this post with this: there are good people out there, and there is always hope to be had. Not all of the human population are greedy pigs, some of us have actually overcome the porkiness. I just hope I can follow their subtle examples. And like Ellen DeGeneres says at the end of every one of her shows: be kind.
~Kat

Raw and Retching

This is how I welcomed in the new year. About 7 pm on New Year's Eve night I started feeling a little queezy, and a half hour after sensing the first signs I said hello to my dinner. Again. I'll spare you the gory details, because trust me there are plenty, but what I'm trying to justify is why God thought it would be a good idea to give me a 24 hour stomach flu in the first 24 hours of the new year.

I'm generally an optimistic person, so I'm hoping this means 2013 can only get better from here. I don't see how it could get much worse without anything really tragic happening, knock on wood. So this is my justification: this flu was my body's way of literally getting rid of all the bad from 2012. And I was more than happy to flush it all away.

So with that spirit in mind, I'd like to welcome in the New Year with my newest poem. This is the last remnant of the last year that I still need to get rid of, the last of the "2012-funk". This one is titled "Merry Christmas, babe, I bought you a watch":

Merry Christmas, babe
I bought you a watch
Because your old one wasn't really working out
And I know you want to keep it
And figure out a way to make it work again
But that would just take too many hours
And minutes
And seconds
That you can no longer count
Because you need a new watch

So let me be the little birdie to tell you
to part from the past
and try something new

Something new that can count every moment
That you're thinking about someone
Other than me

Something new with and LED light
that works
So when you finally get the nerve to take her out for a night
You can see how much time you have left
to enjoy her

Something new with a stopwatch
So you know how fast you're going
And maybe you should slow down
And when your time runs out
Don't worry, it's waterproof
For when you breakup with your next girlfriend
In the rain, too.

A little birdie told me that sometimes
You need something new
I just never thought that little birdie
Would be you

But I still have this watch
Sitting in the back of my closet
In pretty paper and a bow
And I never got a chance to give it to you
Because you decided to let me go
Two weeks before Christmas

But don't worry, you'll get it soon
Cuz you desperately need to work on your timing
So you don't break up with your next girl
On your 6 month anniversary
When instead of ending
You should be dining

So I bought you this watch
And I'll give it to you
Leave all this behind me

Because I may have bought you a watch
But you bought me time
Because now I don't need to waste
Any of mine
Thinking about you.

~Kat