Ignorant, Cute Face, Golden.

Oh how grateful I am for once, for this "Golden Rule" that our society has etched into our brains. This is the story of how an ignorance of boating, being a cute young girl (and white, let's get real) was the golden ticket to getting out of a possible $1,800 fine:

It started with a "date": two acquaintances getting to know each other a little bit better because of an English assignment. Marin was the first person to ask me (it was before I had even heard the assignment!) and I was very much surprised and excited because she had always seemed like a really cool, down to earth person to me. But then we went on this date and it was totally lame.

NOT!

She really is just as cool and down to earth as I had perceived, if not more. We took a dingy from her dad's boat across the bay to Kellogg's beach and had a picnic. It was great! A beautiful day, a cooler full of snacks, sandwiches, the wonderfully polluted San Diego Bay at our toe-tips, what could go wrong?

Nothing really, except we could run out of gas and the motor could not start. But what are the odds of that? Well apparently the odds were not in our favor, because that is exactly what happened. But it was a sunny day, we'd had a great time, no worries, we'll just laugh about this. Thank God for our good humor to get us through.

A nice beach-walker decides to take pity on us, and he helps us. Turns out he knows all about dingy motors, what luck! He informs us we're low on fuel, does a couple little magic mechanic things, and the engine starts. He says we can make it back if we hurry. So we hurry, all the way across the channel, approaching the marina and the little baby poops out.

But again, just our luck, the harbor police station was right there. They came over and happily gave these two poor high school girls a ride home; I'm sure they were smirking and rolling their eyes all the way back to her boat. We were trying to laugh it off still, even while taking the "tow of shame."

They drop us off, and take down our info: name, address, date of birth, parent's names (getting a little worried), parent's phone numbers (now a little scared). While we were trying to keep our cool, be polite, and listening to all their very important input, they tell us all the violations of the tiny dingy, scratching them down on a little note pad. With each infraction they find, I could just hear the chorus of "ha-ha"s going on in the brains of these two white cops; one tall and bald, one shorter with a cliche cop-stache. That racks up about 1800 dollars worth of fines, they tell us.

Initiate face-palm. We are in deep. But we play it cool: Marin just moved into the boating-world a few weeks ago, we honestly didn't know the rules, yes, thank you officer so much, yes, I now realize the dangers of not having a fire extinguisher on a dingy just in case our engine catches fire in the middle of a huge body of water. Thank you so much for the tow, we are eternally grateful.

Turns out the cop has daughters, he lets us go lightly, no fines, you live and you learn, right? We readily agree, say our thank-yous and goodbyes, pry our lips off of their asses, and quickly gather our things and leave.

We really dodged one there. Had we been black or hispanic, it would not have been that easy. If we had been boys, white, black or hispanic, it still wouldn't have been that easy. If we were older and wiser, we would have had to pay the fines. But we weren't. We were cute, teen-aged, white girls who are in high school, live in Point Loma, and can therefore get off with a warning.

They think their system rocked our boat, but really, we rocked their system. Two tennagers. Two little girls. Go Harbor Police.
What a date.
~Kat

The Nerve of Some People

I caught myself thinking this more than once today as I was surprised at the audacity of my peers to say, do, or say and do, stupid things. Stupid being rude, ignorant, idiotic, offensive, or a lovely combination of the four.

One thing I have to commend those people on though, is their courage. It takes some cahones to blurt out in class something you believe to be true with the chance of being shot down, or to make a joke and nobody laughs. These people I've noticed don't even think twice before they state said comments. Now I can attribute that to a very possible and unfortunate break in the line that connects one's conscience to one's mouth; a vasectomy one's morals if you will, that makes speech sterile to intelligent thought. But I'll give them the benefit of the doubt, and go with courage.

So then why is courage given to the wrong people? With great power (or courage) comes great responsibility, so then maybe a better question would be: why isn't courage given to people that will "use responsibly"?

I'm naturally more of an introverted person. I usually would prefer spending time in my own little cave where I can play music, write, and read to my heart's desire than to go out and socialize. But when I do muster up the energy to venture out into deeper waters, I generally hangout with other introverts (if I'm being honest, most extroverts kind of scare me). So we introverts gather and have our periodic little social outings where we generally just talk about everything that we've been able to contemplate to ourselves since we last talked. And a lot of my introverted friends have a lot of really intelligent, wise, and creative thoughts. If any of them had half of the courage of the previously mentioned sterile-minded persons, and shared their wisdom half as much as the dumb kids in my classes, this world would be a heck of a lot better place.

So why instead of being deemed the red badge of courage are we branded with the red face of embarrassment? I guess only God knows.

But I know that the next time someone interrupts a moment of silence in memory of the recent Boston bombings with "Bang bang bang!" I'm going to say something. Because the only way my brain can comprehend the reasoning of why on Earth anyone would think that would be okay, is because they just simply don't understand the reality of anything that goes on. So it's our duty to tell the kid. The poor dear doesn't even know.

Maybe if enough of us speak up just once when we know something was wrong, we can reverse their possible (probable)thought-vasectomies and give them the much needed procedure of an add-a-brain-to-me. Because remember, these kids already have the courage to speak out, so why don't we give them something to say, and more importantly, something enlightening for the next generation to listen to.

~Kat

P.S. These people will be able to vote someday... 'nuff said.

Real Beauty

I am not an effortless beauty. My hair's too thin to do anything with, even if I did know how. My eyebrows are too thick and dark, my skin is too white, and I have too many pimples. And freckles. My skin gets red too easily, especially on my chest. My legs are too short. I have boy hips. The hair on my arms bugs me, my stomach is too squishy, and my hands are too small to play Vince Guaraldi effortlessly. I can't write poetry on a whim, and most of the time it sounds forced; the same with writing lyrics for songs. I'm terrible at formulating thoughts while speaking to anyone that isn't my keyboard.

We are all our own worst critiques; we never see ourselves as the beautiful creatures that we are. Maybe it's part of our human nature, or maybe it's something we learn. Maybe it was something originally intended to keep us humble, because if we saw ourselves for who we really are, we would enjoy and bask in our beauty so much that we wouldn't be beautiful at all anymore. Just big-headed egotistical turds.

But what happens when we are constantly rating ourselves as sub-par or below average? When we truly believe it, that's what we will portray to people. We aren't beautiful, I'm not worthy, you don't owe me any respect, because I'm not anyone special. We lower our standards. We accept the love we think we deserve.

That's why it's so crucial that we have good friends. Their eyes aren't clouded with self-image. That's why for all you men out there, it is so important to tell the women in your life how beautiful they are. Because even though you know it, and it may seem so obvious to you that you don't need to say it, we often don't see ourselves like that. We look in the mirror and see all the flaws. And even when you do tell us, we won't believe it. Not the first time, maybe not even the tenth time. But if you tell us enough I guarantee you it will sink in.

So guys, don't keep it to yourselves. Or anyone for that matter. When did we stop acknowledging beauty when we see it? It seems the only time we say anything positive or complimentary about someone is once they're gone, and then they never get to hear it. And for some people, that could change a lot in their lives, maybe even save their lives. You never know.

So here comes the sappy, but hey, I love it:

Ms.Beltran, I really appreciate how you never wear makeup. You're being real with us, and it makes me feel like I can be real with you. It's not an act, no strings attached pure Beltran, and you own it. It's an inspiration.

Alex, you're one of the nicest people I know, and I love that we've become so comfortable with each other. You have a really unique vocal talent, and I know I tell you that all the time, but really. It's bomb.

Cameron, I love our Starbucks runs and how you make everyone feel like they're your best friend. It's really a gift.

Sydney, I always knew there was something about you. You got spunk, you're confident, and I've always looked up to that. And not to mention you always look stunning, keep it real girlie. Thanks for the video, which inspired this post.

There are a lot more people I could call out, and from now on I'm going to try to. But one big huge thank you to all the people who read this blog, and especially to Beltran (again, I will forever be in your debt) who shared it, despite the ensuing embarrassment and awkwardness. Every page view I see is a lollipop moment in itself.

So thank you all.
~Kat

P.S. In remembrance of Jonathon Vargas, let's all try to tell at least one person tomorrow how beautiful they are. It could never hurt.

Book Worm

Or at least I used to be.

I used to consume books like runners consume a 100 meter dash, at full speed. I started my run of books when I was four, wrote my first book report at five, and delved into my first book series at six. It was the Little House in the Prairie books, and I would read them to my mom every night before bed until we finally finished. I must have proved myself sufficient, because those were the last of the bedtime stories. From then on I self-administered Junie B. Jones, Magic Tree House, Judy Bloom, and my favorite: Where the Red Fern Grows. I've probably read that one at least four times. In eighth grade I finished my first classics: Wuthering Heights, Midsummer Night's Dream, and As You Like It.

Lately, I haven't had the time. The last book I read took me two months. I have a stack of bedtime stories--Stephen King, Anne Lammott, Kurt Vonnegut--beckoning to me from my nightstand. They are being side-stepped by Brinkley's "American History", Campbell and Reece's "Biology", and Princeton Reviews.

The highest offender by far: Zuckerburg's "Facebook." I, and many teens alike, get sucked in for hours. Time flies by when your Facebook-stalking--our generation's version of fun. It's not only cut into my reading time, but my prayer time, homework time, and ironically enough, time with my friends! Facebook, the site to keep friends "connected", has made me lose connection with most of them. I go through their photos and their walls, and I feel caught up in their lives. I have nothing against Facebook, I think it's a great thing, but only in moderation.

So today I admit: I am a Facebook-worm, and I am going to try to eat my way out of this one cold turkey. I deactivated my account until June, and I'm sure I'll be feeling the withdrawals. But for my grade's, my friend's, and my faith's sake I am going to stay connected by disconnecting, maybe even for good.

I'm Kat,and beginning 35 minutes ago, I'm Freckled, Faulty, and Facebook-free!

P.S. I might even be posting more often too!

I Am Danny Herrera

We all remember the class clown. The excitement as the period begins, because we can't wait to see what he'll do today. We are all putty in his hands, and a simple raise of his eyebrows will have us squirming in our seats and soar sides from the heartiest laughter we've had all day. "I can't believe he just said that" is escaping our lips so often it should have frequent flyer miles. Sometimes the class clown seems like the sole reason that we stay sane. My class clown is Danny Herrera, but really, this is for all of them:

I am Danny Herrera.
I am the one who says "no" to detention.
I am the kid your friends are talking about.
Yes, I am that kid with the hipster glasses.
I am the butt of the jokes, but I'm also the one dishing them out.
I am the curator of laughter.
I am the king's finest court jester.
I am the onion ring that slipped into your carton of fries.
I am the one who walks away from almost certain demise
Without looking back.
I am the flamingo in a flock of pigeons, and the tuna slip-streaming against the current.
I am as cool as my loafers, cuffed jeans, collared shirt and bobbing head suggests.

You all know me.
You all know what I let you see.

But outside of this classroom
Where everything goes
And Danny Herrera knows just how to pinch all of our rosy round cheeks into smiles
He's really just a mystery.

No one knows where The Wild Thing goes.
And no one bothers to ask
Because we know he would tell us if we did
And we can't risk knocking our two-in-one class clown and class fool
Off of the pedestal where we placed him
With a strong hit of reality.

So we contain him in our own little Neverland
Where he will always be our Peter Pan
To supply us with all the shenanigans and make-believes we desperately need
Because it's the last period of the day
And after all our honors and APs
Nothing's better than a little taste of joy
No one's going to look behind the curtain with the chance to discover
That our Peter Pan is really just a Lost Boy.

No, he is Danny Herrera.
He is the guy with the head-back, booming, ridiculous laugh
He is the wind in our sail, the pep in our step, the cat-nip behind the crazy
He is the guy everyone is looking for, but will never find
He is the last masterpiece left uncovered by da Vinci

He has charm so contagious, they had to create a vaccine for it
He has been asked by alien abductors to probe them
His legend precedes him the way lightening precedes thunder
If he forgets to put postage on a letter, it will still get there
If it is raining, it's because he is thinking of something sad
His blood smells like cologne
His hands feel like rich brown suede

He is the most interesting man in the world.
And we will stay thirsty.

~Kat