Poop and Periods

If that PP that I spilled up in the title box makes you uncomfortable, well then too bad, I'm not cleaning it up. Not until we talk about it. Personally, I have no problem talking about the movements of my body. Maybe it comes from having a nurse as a mother, but it just doesn't gross me out or embarrass me. The thing is, the entire human population poops every day. Half of the entire human population has periods every month. Why does society tell us that we should be embarrassed or grossed out by something that happens to everybody? It's not like we are the only people clenching our butts and plugging our flow. Happens to the best of us. One Direction, the President, even someone as fabulous as Audrey Hepburn poops. It's kinda funny if you think about it. Imagine another daily activity that we have to do, like eating, and being embarrassed about it. Trying to hide that we are chewing a peanut butter and jelly. Maybe we would even refuse to eat anywhere else besides our house. How weird and pointless would that be?!

I understand that although I'm all about challenging social norms, I'm not about to talk about my cycle and bowel movements with my boss or the Queen of England. But I do think we should be able to talk about it with our peers, or at least acknowledge that it happens. I'm tired of having to clench my butt if I have to fart during class, and then pretending like it wasn't me if I failed to suppress it. I'm especially tired of having to discover new covert ways to cover up the obvious fact that I'm going to the bathroom to change my tampon. We all know that when I take my whole backpack to the bathroom that's what I'm doing. It's especially inconvenient when I don't have a tampon, and need to sneak around and ask people under my breath.

So I'm going to try to be open about my bodily functions and not be embarrassed any longer. Yes, I did just fart. No, I was not "sick" on Monday, I wanted to let my uterine lining shed in peace. It was a great 28 days I had with it, so what if I cry a little and need a day off? The next time I'm at school and need to leave class to change my tampon, I am not going to bring my entire backpack, because ain't nobody got time for that. I am going to take out my tampon, slip it behind my ear, and go.

C'mon ladies, own it. We can start a movement.

~Kat

P.S. Guys should get comfortable with this stuff too. They will have to live with us the rest of their life, might as well begin to understand it now. And ladies, ultimate way to test if your guy friend is true: talk about your period. If they can float with the conversation and be cool, they're a keeper. Alex, you pass.

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.

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

Gears Turning

Did you know that I wrote a book? I did the whole deal: first draft, second draft...tenth draft. I had a published author, a creative writing professor from an Ivy League college, and my beloved English teachers as mentors. It evolved for three years, and I happily watched it grow and transform into something I was very proud of. I self-published it, then looked into "real" publishing. I wrote a quarry letter to an agent, drafted it and drafted it, and sent it off. I expectantly got shot down; who gets an agent on their first manuscript, on their first quarry, when they are in high school? I wasn't that pretentious.

But by that time I had read this story maybe a million times, been working on it for three years, I was done with my shallow immature story I wrote as an 8/9th grader. So I stopped, and haven't revisited it, or even tried to write another novel since.

I've been brought back to this from a classmate of mine, who now two years later, brought to my attention that our freshman English teacher gave her my book, she went home and read the whole thing in one sitting. I don't know what I did to deserve to that, I look back at my book now and see a sophomoric and cliche story of a teen girl trying to save her friend from ruining his own life.

I've grown so much as a writer since, I've had so many new experiences, I'm more well read, and I'm pretty sure I can do a better job now. I've been inspired to write again. With a strong female lead, who doesn't need saving, and isn't worrying about boys. She will be a role-model and will the kind of character I would want my daughter to read about.

A smart lady told me that if you don't like today's movies, make a better one. If you can't find a good book, write it. If modern music isn't doing it for you anymore, compose it.

Thank you for these gifts of inspiration, I'm enjoying my lollipops ;)

And lastly a word from Kurt Vonnegut: 8 short story tips

"1. Use the time of a total stranger in such a way that he or she will not feel the time was wasted.

2. Give the reader at least one character he or she can root for.

3. Every character should want something, even if it is only a glass of water.

4. Every sentence must do one of two things — reveal character or advance the action.

5. Start as close to the end as possible.

6. Be a sadist. No matter how sweet or innocent your leading characters, make awful things happen to them, in order that the reader may see what they are made of.

7. Write to please just one person. If you open a window and make love to the world, so to speak, your story will get pneumonia.

8. Give your readers as much informations as possible, as soon as possible. To heck with suspense. Readers should have such complete understand of what is going on where and why, that they could finish the story themselves, should cockroaches eat the last few pages."

~Kat

Family time

One of the things I value the most is family, this is not unique nor unusual, but I'm discovering it's not universal. Some people have given up on family. Some families are broken, scattered from sea to sea. Others meet at the dinner table every night, but are divided by invisible fault lines. A silent, silverware-scraping dinner table is a sad one.

I've been graced with a wonderful family: two loving parents, a wacky older sister who gives me hell sometimes, but I can always find heaven in the countless smiles that she has painted onto my face. We always sit down together for dinner, even through the worst of times. I've sat through those silverware-scraping meals, but somehow someone always breaks the ice. My family talks, a lot, and we don't detour around the uncomfortable. We face it head on and work through it. But all these things can't be true all the time, we are far from a perfect family, but at least we try.

But what about those families that have lost hope? That don't talk to each other, feel like they can't? What about the families that have been accepted as broken, to have an "Out of Order" sign taped on its front door for the rest of their lives? Even if that's how its been for two years or two decades, could they still be fixed? Should they? Is family still a prominent enough figure in every human heart that it is worth the effort?

I can't imagine that anyone would be able to honestly answer no to the last one. No matter what your family's been through, I think everyone still has that longing to have "the perfect family" or at the very least a family that could stand to be in the same room as one another. Nobody wants to stay broken.

So why do we stop trying?

Do we assume the rest of our family wants to stay apart?

Do we think our family doesn't want us? Are we so scared to ask to be taken back, that we just stay quiet. Shrink into our separate rooms. Don't say how much I desperately miss the way things used to be, and I hope your doing well, because I don't even know you anymore.

Why should we be afraid to say this, when our brother or sister, mother or father, is probably going to bed after those silent dinners thinking the same thing.

Thinking about you.

~Kat

Unknown.

Hello world, I have a gift for you. I can't give it to you now, nor will it be something new. I have it already, it's somewhere, okay, I don't know exactly where it is right now. Or what it is for that matter. But it was given to me, and I know it's something only I can give to you. It might be something great, something a lot of people can enjoy, or maybe just a few.

It's my gift. Whatever it may be. Whether that be music, writing, teaching, medicine, or sometimes even poetry. I'm still young, so I don't know yet what it is I have to offer the world, but I think it's starting to be narrowed down for me. The extraneous branches are dying and being removed. The ones that will flower are being pruned. And all the while I'm making sure that my connection to the Vine is strong and healthy.

That connection is getting stronger, quickly, with nutrients running through its vascular tissues like Seabiscuit. I know now I can't live without the Vine; it's my source for everything.

But climbing out of my metaphor, this is what's happening to me: My world is being rocked. I think my "gift" will end up being something I never imagined for myself: something for the Church. And however that may excite and humble me, for it would be my honor to give back to the Church that's given me so much, it scares me worse than the idea of standing in the middle of the Quad naked. I would have to be just as vulnerable; but it would be what I do the rest of my life, not just a moment of mortification.

It also brings a lot of challenges. Convincing my parents would be at the top of the list, they aren't exactly thrilled with my choice of lifestyle. Paying for the private Catholic college I'm now feeling so strongly pulled towards would be a close second. But I know if this is where my gift lies, I'm going to find it, harvest it, and give it back, no matter how many hours of work I need to spend plowing and sewing the seeds. Because I know that whatever my gift is, it's what I was born to do, what will bring me the most joy, and give the world absolutely everything that could possibly come from all five feet, two inches, and ninety-five petite pounds of me.

I am Kat. Hear me roar.

The Perks of Being a ________.

You are crazy. So am I, and everyone else in this world. I've come to know that everyone has "something". Everyone is "crazy." And I love that.

40 years ago, nobody knew about Autism. Those kids were just a little different. Nobody had ADD, they were just hyper. The kid who stayed home on the weekends did not have clinical depression; the girl sitting next to you in class with two perfect braids and a #2 pencil exactly perpendicular to the edge of the desk and parallel to her pristine white college-ruled paper did not have to take meds for her OCD. The partier was not Bipolar, he was just fun. And the world went on.

Toady, there is an explanation, text book label, and prescribed "cure" for all of these people. So they can feel better. Get back on their feet. Be free to live a normal life. Get out of bed each morning. Eat breakfast. Participate in rush hour traffic. Do your job and earn a good living. Go home. Kiss your kids. Kiss your husband. Pat your dog. Good dog. Eat dinner. Read the paper. Go to bed. Rinse and repeat. Freedom.

40 years from now, there will probably be a text book label for me, too. Doctors will observe me, take notes. Stares at blank walls for 20 minutes at a time. Goes into a room with a purpose, spots something that captivates the subject, doesn't resume her purpose for an hour or so, if at all. Bobs her head and sings with no music on. Her feet are always cold: bad circulation. They will see this as straying from the norm, the poor thing, but don't worry we can get you back on track. And some socks for your feet. They will give me a label, a little orange bottle, and send me on my way with a smile, because they fixed me.

There are a lot more good things to say about modern medicine than bad things, and I can't be sure if this is a bad thing or not. We won't know for many more generations from now, when we can look back on this Age of the Medicated. We are the guinea pigs. But I can't help but feel that this isn't how it's supposed to be. These "disorders" are a part of each and every one of us. They make us who we are, and that's nothing that I think should be "cured."

I've never had to deal with any of the diseases listed above, and I suspect that in extreme cases, medicine was the ticket to their freedom. But I just fear that this obsession with being diagnosed and medicated will escalate as we discover more about psychology, and we will think everyone is mad. When really, we are just starting to understand what makes each of us unique and perfect. And what a beautiful variety of crazies there are.

~Kat

Nocturne of Coughs in E Minor

Coughin' and Chopin, these are two words to describe February thus far. My month's been conducted in E minor as I work through Chopin's two easiest pieces, and probably the two gloomiest as well. It's only fitting that they would become the soundtrack of my life as I work on them. It's not that my life is gloomy right now, it's beautiful, like Chopin's pieces. It's just, well, minor. It's no waltz. It has a lulling pull and tug to it that weighs down on my soul.I'm dragging it around with me, and laboriously lifting it to keep my spirits up. But somehow I still manage to carry it with me. I'm lifting it up everyday I go to school, pack it on in to my 15 lb backpack, sling it over my shoulder, and trudge on.

We did an exercise in my youth group the other night. The theme of the talk was "Living for a Purpose," and it was about how we were all given distinct and unique gifts that we are to contribute to the world in a way only we can. Then at the end of the night we all had to tape pieces of paper on our backs and go around and write on our friends backs the gifts we see in them. At the end of the night we all took the papers off and saw what others see in us. I was surprised by some of the things people had written, "Inspiration in my faith", "I want my future daughter to be like you", "Great musician and shares openly", "strong in Spirit." All the while I'm trying to figure out if I can recognize the handwriting because it's all anonymous. I couldn't figure out any of them, so I don't know who to thank, but all those kind words really built me up. I'm glad I can be an inspiration to someone, I'm glad people aren't seeing all the faults that I see. Or at least they aren't mean enough to write them, so at least I have good friends. But the one that I keep in the front of my mind was scribbled in green felt pen: "Comes back from anything."

So I trudge on. In the rain, through heartbreak and disappointment, through days that just feel blah, through a hacking cough that has lasted two weeks now. Nothing has stopped me yet. I haven't been given a lot of grief, thank God, not yet. But I'm training for it. I pick up my 15 lb backpack daily, I lug around my soul, I tediously work through these Chopin pieces so I can finally be done with E minor. I power through, I gain endurance, I come back. I won't let that person down. I will come back from anything.

Empowered and invigorated,
~Kat

Spread the Love

Ah! El mes de amor ha llegado! The month of love has arrived! So to kick off this month of x's and o's, I'm going to talk about love! I have yet to celebrate a Valentine's Day with a significant other, but I find that with each coming Valentine's Day, I know a little bit more about love than the last time I was there. Mostly, it's the realization that I still have no idea what "love" is. Then it actually makes me grateful that I'm alone on Valentine's Day, because I am obviously not ready for it yet.

But one of the things that I have come to know about love, is that it is vital. Like butter. Butter makes everything better. Sometimes it's a little unhealthy in some doses, but as long as your not eating it by the butter ball, you're okay in my book. Same thing with love. Love makes anything better. You could be taking the SAT, in your 4th hour of the test, one more essay to go, but if you are in love with the person in front you, even then I bet you would have a smile on your face. Because the back of his/her head is delicious. Like butter.

What I know this Valentine's Day that I didn't know last year, is that also like butter, love is always best when it is spread. Whether that be spread over wheat or rye, spread to a friend, family, or a lover, spreading the love is what it's all about. And it's so easy. Just tell them. Even if you think they already know, or you think you tell them enough, you never know. I wouldn't take the risk of going another day without telling them. It could mean the world.

Ask yourself this: what's the point of loving someone, if you keep that yourself? None at all. And there's so many ways to tell someone you love them: "I love you", "te quiero", "you're the butter to my biscuit." Or simply telling someone you're grateful for them. Think of where you are right now. Who helped you get there?

I have a lot of wonderful friends that helped me get to where I am now, and a lot of them are of the male gender. This one is for them. For all the nice guys:

This is for all the nice guys out there
Being used as a life size teddy bear
Because you can't help but care
For her, you're just a friend.

When you know there could be more there
But she won't bother to look
Because that might mean the end
Of a friendship that took years to cook
And once it's eaten, there's nothing to mend.

But how is that fair?
We've heard it time and time again
"I think we should just stay friends"
And for what?
To comment on your hair?

This is for all the nice guys out there
Who will sit through a chick flick til the end
Tell us we're pretty
Even thought they know we're just fishing for a compliment.

Listen to all our crap about our boyfriend
Who you can't stand
But you'll support us anyway
Because unlike him, you're a man.

Who will wait for us
While we try on clothes
And tell us we're beautiful
Without dressing like hoes.

This is for all the nice guys out there
Stumbling around in a world
Where nice guys too often finish last.

This is for all the nice guys out there
Who need to hear
That without you
We would be going downhill, fast.

And we need you
Because we are scared of falling on our ass
And to please stick around
Until we realize
That as long as we're falling with you
And we are love bound
There will never be any chance
Of you letting us hit the ground.

Alex, Jon, Philip, Kaleb, Austyn, Aaron, Toby, Eddy, and for who I originally wrote it for, Christian, thank you, you're all great, and I love you guys.
~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!

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