18aburdon

[18aburdon]

Final Scenes

It’s May 18th, and we have six days left of classes. I’m down to the very last pages in my planner, whose edges are torn and frayed. 

There is a nervousness that is associated with the end of the year. I’m waiting for something big (the last day!), but it just can’t seem to come fast enough. As our class projects come to a close and we start turning in our very last assignments, it’s hard to believe we’ve made it this far. The school year has been painfully long, yet quick at the same time. I assume it’s because we count each second of every last day in an anxious rush.  

Honestly, getting to this point makes me happy not only because school will be over soon, but because I’m proud that we’ve all gotten this far and remained (somewhat) sane. Through countless APUSH seminars, essays, and Chemistry labs, I feel that I’ve accomplished a huge amount and can’t wait to be partially relieved of the stress that comes along with school. 

I wait with nervous anticipation my trip to Tanzania, I imagine the beach days spent with my favorite people, and I long for days filled with nothing but sleeping in and late breakfasts. I’m getting ready to buckle down to start my work in July, and can’t wait for summer horse shows. 

Although summer is my absolute favorite time of the year, I know that in a couple of months I’ll be missing my blue skirt and somehow look forward to the beginning of the school year. Until then, I can’t wait until summer!

[18aburdon]

A rest

The end of the month of March came as a huge relief to me. Why? That meant that the Certificate of Merit weekend had finally passed, and even if I would fail I was still delighted it was over. Many people don’t know this but I’ve been playing piano since I was 4. It’s not the doodle around on a keyboard kind of piano, it’s the being examined and studying and performing kind of piano. There’s nothing more in the world that I dislike doing more, but piano has always been my parent’s leverage on me. The biggest one: I want to ride horses? I have to play piano, and not simply play, but also make a solid effort in passing my exams. 

My piano teacher is a woman from Ukraine that I’ve known since I was 4, when she first started teaching me and I was much more enthusiastic about the instrument. However a bit elderly, she has not aged a single day in the 13 years I’ve seen her. Her past is intimidating, and she makes sure to tell it to me when she doesn’t think my playing is up to par. She worked in Russia as a professor of piano at a music/boarding school for children. She tells me about how 5 hours of practice was average, and that some of her young prodigies were already at the highest levels before the age of 10. She sounds tough, but she gives me a break. 

As soon as March passed and I received the news that I had finished the final level in CM, as per usual I skip practicing and merely show up to my lessons. She knows that junior year is tough, as she’s had countless ‘regular’ high school students throughout her career. However, almost each lesson she’s told me: “you’re too busy.” She praises me for my hard work in school and reminds me that my parents are very proud, but recognizes that no one will ever understand the kind of busy that high school students go through today. 

And as I write this, I do agree with her. In the past 6 days I’ve written the SAT, 3 APs, and 2 more Castilleja tests in Math and Chemistry. I think it’s a little bit shocking that my piano teacher is one of the only adults in my life to truly understand what I mean when I say I’m busy. And isn’t that a little odd, seeing that she’s the tough one? 

I’m just hoping along with her that the next couple of weeks will pass by quickly and all of us students can get our well-deserved rest. 

[18aburdon]

Reminders

Since the beginning of last summer, I’ve gone in and out of periods of extreme nostalgia, overcome with memories and seized with a longing that I had never felt before. Just the slightest reminder of my life from August of 2015 to June of 2016 will trigger a string of visions and memories.

The other day, I looked down, and saw the fading sharpie initials on a pair of my socks. Many of the clothes that I brought with me to France have my initials written on their tags so not to get mixed up with everyone else’s on laundry days. Like described through the writing of Proust, as soon as I see the fading ink my mind transports me to the South of France. It’s on a cold day, walking from my room at the boarding house, down the gravel driveway, towards the gate. Even on days when is was 0° C, we had to wait by the gate for the bus to bring us to school. I remember shivering, missing home, and wishing that I was in sunny California wearing my blue skirt.

Now, I would trade anything to be back there.

I would give up the weeks like this one, where I have 7 assessments (note- I only take 5 classes), for the easy-going, happiness driven attitude of my life in France.

The second thing that often reminds me of my alternate life is a simple, black, spiral notebook. Like many other things that are filed away in my life, I have no idea where it came from. But that was the notebook I chose to write in just about 2 years ago. It includes some little quotes that I like, passages I’ve written, stories about made up people I’ve never met but know, somehow. Taped into its pages are the goodbye letters my friends and I wrote for each other as the end of our time together neared. Every time I open that book I thank myself for having recorded my feelings, giving myself more inspiration to write and relish in the happy times I had last year.

One of the greatest reminders of my old life is the timer set in my phone, counting down days. There is one and a half days left until T-0 days arrives, and I couldn’t be more excited. One of my 3 roommates is coming to visit me, and of course the US for the first time. Its morning there now, and she’ll be leaving for the airport in just about 24 hours. Some of you may actually meet her, because she’ll be coming to school on Monday (and Tuesday?) of the week we get back from spring break! I’m sure I’ll have a few more reminders in my old life thanks to her visit, but I know each one will be thought of with a fond memory.

[18aburdon]

Big Cats

Springtime was always my favorite part of the year growing up. Springtime meant my birthday, easter egg hunts, green grass, new wildlife babies, and best of all: Earth Day. Each year on Earth Day there would be a celebration at the community barn down the road from my house. A wildlife organization would bring all sorts of animals, like snakes, spiders, turtles, rabbits, bobcats, servals, and even a cheetah, for educational purposes. 

But, seeing animals with their handlers is no match for seeing them in the wild. A couple weeks ago my dad and I were driving home at night and a mountain lion ran across our street. At first we thought it was a huge dog, but as soon as it turned and we saw the full length of its tail we immediately knew it was no dog. I was shocked, excited, and could hardly believe my eyes. We turned the car so our headlights would shine onto the cat, and it simply sat down in our neighbor’s front yard and started for a couple of seconds. Once it had enough of us, it turned and leapt over a 6 foot + fence in one foul swoop, then it was gone. 

It was the first mountain lion I’d ever seen in my life, and I was almost frozen in amazement. Things got a little more interesting earlier this week. My brother was walking to his car when he saw a mountain lion (in broad daylight) chilling by the corner of our house. He apparently startled it because it took off, but not fast enough for my mom to run by a window and watch it disappear again. Unfortunately, I was sound asleep in my bed so I only heard of the news thanks to a note my mom left me on the kitchen counter. 

I hope writing this will make me remember this better, because I’ve never been in awe the same way I was when I saw the mountain lion for the first time. Here’s to hoping I’ll see more! (maybe?)

[18aburdon]

@ Simran, 20 answers

There is no light in space, but there is light on Earth, so the molecules appear to be colored. 

Probably not. 

They have a nervous system that respond to earthly senses. 

Some people have found out. 

It’s a reflex that only 25% of people have. 

There isn’t enough air for the water base of glue to evaporate it. 

REM sleep makes it almost impossible for dream recollection.

Good question

Yes. I believe. 

The veins that are blue are carrying deoxygenated blood towards the heart to be re-oxygenated. 

whirlpool

Greek roots have developed many Q words to be followed by U

You don’t want dandruff in your food, do you?

All fish absorb water through their skin, no matter is they are freshwater or saltwater fish. 

In the water, humans have a better chance of being able to grip things with wrinkly fingers, sort of like treads on tires. 

They are used in the same way, but technically cement is an ingredient of concrete. 

Because if we were to spell it without the ‘d’ it would sound out to b ‘frig’, which is “used as a euphemism for ‘fuck’” (Google Translate). 

http://www.mercurynews.com/2013/07/19/girl-who-survived-asiana-plane-crash-killed-by-sfo-firetruck/

It isn’t expanding into anything, because the universe is everything, therefore it’s simply expanding?

Put it into a bigger garbage can!

[18aburdon]

As many of you know, my passion in life is horses. Since I could walk, I spent time at the barn around horses. I owned a couple ponies when I was younger, and moved up to my first ‘real’ show horse when I was about 12. ‘Lenny’ was a saint of a horse, as he was forgiving of my mistakes (which were plenty as a junior rider) and always tried his best. He wasn’t the fanciest horse, but his big heart and honesty at fences made him one of the coolest horses I’ve sat on. It became clear that after about three years of owning and showing him, it was time to move up and on.

After about 3 months of looking for a new horse who could jump bigger and bring me up the levels, we ended up purchasing a 6 year old. She was living in Canada at the time, but originally was imported from the Netherlands (which is very common for show horses). As a young and green (meaning not fully trained/developed) horse, my trainers and I had our work cut out for us, which I knew going into this. She was quirky, hot blooded, and not quite as honest as my last horse. But, the way she jumped was incredible.

She was very careful, she knew exactly what her feet were doing at each moment, and if the distance to the jump wasn’t perfect, she would sometimes stop at the fence (which became very discouraging). Before I left for France, things had started to flow and she was doing well in the show ring. We had her in training with people that my dad had found through mutual contacts, whom he trusted.

In retrospect, what happened during the year I was gone wasn’t probably that best things that could’ve happened. The details are very complicated and probably bore people that aren’t familiar with horses, but it didn’t work out. In the show ring, Daminka was stopping at fences with the woman riding her while I was away, and they didn’t think she  was living up to her potential. The two head trainers told my parents to find me a new horse because this one had been a waste of our money. When I found this out, I was disheartened and couldn’t be more upset. But, when I got back home, I started riding her again and successfully showed in Oregon during the summer. Things weren’t perfect, but I could feel things clicking together again.

I switched away from that barn and my current trainers that I’ve been with for about a month have worked wonders with me and Daminka. Firstly, they love her! When they first saw her jump they were immediately interested. My lessons have been improving and my confidence along with Daminka’s is starting to increase. We’ve been coursing around pretty big jumps with ease! Hopefully, this change is just what me and Daminka needed.

Essentially, the moral of the story is not always to believe what you’re told by professionals and to get a second reference, and keep on riding on!

[18aburdon]

On growing up

Last semester, an example of a 6th grade profile was being read and little by little I realised the profile was about me. At first, the vague blue eye blond hair description didn’t catch my attention, but I soon recognized the horse and the strict piano teacher references. I was suddenly captured. I couldn’t help but wonder what I was like in 6th grade, what the then-junior thought of me.

So, I searched my email. I found the very brief string of conversation between me and that junior, and could not be more embarrassed. She once asked me a pretty simple question: do you want to grow up, why or why not?

To my horror, I responded (quote end quote, typos included): No I don't realyl want to grow up because one I don't want my parents to die and I'll be sad, and I'm scared that I'll be broke and starve and wear the same clothes every day and not have a house.

Things got worse from that point on. She asked me what I did in my free time, to which I typed: "So I ride a ton and I practice jumping on four legs”.

Not to my surprise, I never got another email back! But recently, I realised that childhood has a funny way of completely disappearing from your life and never returning. One day, I was eleven years old, galloping on four legs and setting up obstacle courses out of the furniture in my house. In the summer, I saved baby birds and bunnies, hand fed and raised them myself. I didn’t think about homework (mainly due the fact that I didn’t have any), or remotely school for that matter. My hair was light and my skin was tanned.

I used to write stories. Day in and day out, I filled those black and white notebooks with fantasies about horse boarding schools, horse competitions, horse anything and everything. I bound together drawings that I created of my future horses. I made up dances that I would preform for any guests staying at our house. I dressed up in a Dalmatian costume and told them I was a dog. I remember dreaming about leaving my elementary school, and applied to Castilleja.

The next day I'm 16, driving by myself, thinking about college, doing all the things I used to think I would never be old enough to do. My skin has never been paler than it is right now, and I think it might be because I never go outside much anymore. I ride horses under a roof, learn, eat, and study under a roof. Apart from riding, my favourite part of the day is standing in the shower, willing my brain to eliminate all thoughts and just stand. Its a mindset that I try to achieve whenever I’m feeling stressed. I don’t write stories anymore. Although I don’t gallop on all four limbs anymore, I’m sure it would be negatively received anyways.

This sudden realization has made me nostalgic and sad in many different ways. Of course, I wish that I could go back to elementary and middle school and not have a care in the world. But, would I still feel the same about growing up?

I’m still uncertain about my feelings about this loss of innocence and its sudden revelation, but it’s definitely made me nostalgic.

[18aburdon]

The things we take for granted

Before we get into the car, my dad gestures the key fob at me. “Want to drive?” he asks. I reply, “no thanks, I’ve kind of got a headache.”

We’re on the 101 South Bound tonight. A lot of cars, Friday night, headlights. It’s the Sharks against the Habs tonight in San Jose, we’re going to watch hockey. There’s 5 of us in the car. A lot of talking: “how was your trip to Australia? How’s your mom? What colleges are you looking at?” It’s 6:47, the traffic is getting slower, but we’re still moving fast. 

Out of the corner of my eye, a motorcycle. A Harley Davidson softtail, to be precise. It slips past us, and not a moment later the car ahead and to the side of us puts its blinker on to merge, the motorcycle swerves away. It happens so fast, but when I close my eyes and think I see it frame by frame. He plummets into the divider and bounces back into the flow of traffic into the rear end of a yellow Jeep. I can’t breathe as I watch the motorcycle spin out of control on the pavement. Pieces of car and motorcycle are being sprayed everywhere, and within it all I see a body being whiplashed down the highway. We come to a screeching halt. It’s all still for just a second, and I want to throw up. Eyes wide, hands covering mouths, and our breath caught in our throats. 

 All of a sudden there’s a thousand honks, beeps, car doors slamming, and I hear,“Lexi, call 9-1-1 right now.” But, my eyes are attached to the limp body lying sideways just yards in front of us. My dad is out of the car within seconds and crouched by the man’s side. “This is 911, what’s your emergency?” “Hello, is anyone there?” Finally the words are choked out but I’m almost certain it’s not me who is speaking. I give our location, the general details of the accident and where we are. I’m transferred to a couple different different people before it’s confirmed that the emergency responders are on their way. In the background, I can hear the sirens. 

My dad says that when he first approached the man he could hear a small wheezing sound. Life. As a cardiac surgeon, my dad knows the ABC rule by heart. Airway, breathing, circulatory. On instinct, he pried open the man’s mouth with his fingers to retrieve the coagulated blood in the back of his throat, which he vomited out. As he had reached inside his mouth he felt an absence of teeth. The protective glasses the man was wearing had been broken, and the lense has been wedged beneath the skin above his eyebrow. A smashed wrist, and of course broken ribs. From the car I can see blood everywhere. I can’t believe he is alive. 

Soon there is a firetruck, a police car, and an ambulance. After 20 minutes of my dad saving the man’s life, the paramedics arrive and push him aside. As my dad puts pressure on an open wound, a paramedic arrives to remove his clothing and find any ID. “If you don’t get your hands out of the way, I’ll cut off your fingers,” the paramedic says to my father. I’ve seen it happen before but it makes me angry every time. The man is just trying to do his job. My dad hands it off cooly, calm, like he always does. He gives a statement, and comes back into the car, not before wiping his hands with a wet wipe that’s been given to him. The friend in the car with us comes back with blood stains on his jacket. 

We go to the hockey game. Sharks win. At home, my dad takes a shower and throws his clothes into the wash. He goes to bed without a peep, like usual. I can’t even sleep. 

The next morning my dad gets a phone call, it’s the wife sobbing in thanks. “You saved his life.” I start to wonder how many times he’s heard that. 

Since Friday night I have not been able to close my eyes without seeing the image of that body. He’s ok now, I know that. But it makes me think about things I don’t usually think about. How is it possible that man survived? How did he not break his neck? What if it were me who had been driving? What if we had been 5 rows behind, and my dad hadn’t gotten out of the car? 

I know that I won’t be given any answers, but I know that that night was a miracle. He lived. He’s still here. And even though it wasn’t me, maybe that’s something even I sometimes take for granted. 

[18aburdon]

It doesn’t always start with the subject

One of the profiles I read, ‘The Lonely Death of George Bell’, started off about, well, George Bell’s lonely death. It described his house, his personal life, and other generic facts about him. The author took a turn to tune in on the people that deal with deaths, such as the police, the morgue workers, and specifically the investigators. The paper took a focus to the job of these investigators, with an affiliation to Mr. Bell as their project at the time. I learned that starting a profile with the subject and their life immediately isn’t always the case. Although you might think the paper will profile George Bell, the unexpected turn to focus on the investigators makes the writing more relevant, and connects it to different lives. Incorporating the relationships created unintentionally (not just friends, family, etc) can enhance the writing. The work that the investigators carry out are so personal, and although this is a singular case, it involves so many relationships and connections that make the paper much broader than a single person’s profile. 

[18aburdon]

“Life After ISIS”

      For a long time, I’ve wanted to know more about the issues in the Middle East the the questions that the area raises, especially concerning IS/ISIS. How did it become so powerful? How are they able to influence peoples’ lives, and to what extent do they?

       An article published by yahoo documented the life of a man living in Al Fazliya, Iraq. The owner of a barber shop has been overwhelmed by the amount of costumers visiting him after the flee of ISIS. Incoming Kurdish forces drove the ISIS group out, and the original residents of the city claimed to “finally feel normal” after their departure. For 2 years, people’s daily lives were dominated by ISIS’s control, meaning no shaving of beards for men and an approved haircut. The article describes that “the wrong haircut could mean a month in jail” (Michael Holmes, CNN). Thankfully, Al Fazliya is no longer possessed by the control of ISIS, but many other cities are still undergoing the horrors and restrictions under ISIS. But, I still question, what is America’s role in this situation, and what has been done to change it? Is it possible to intervene? I know that many people have questions about what is going on and I hope to develop a deeper understanding of the situation, and hope that change is seen before it’s too late.

[18aburdon]

America in the World

Although we are lucky to have such a controversial election going on right now, I’m not even sure where to start. I try to keep in mind that I am not aware of everything going on with either candidate and I do not know enough to have any real arguments, but I am frustrated with the way this election has been presented. I don’t understand why people pay so much attention to the way debates and other events are publicised to be viewed like a TV show. This isn’t about who can one-up the other or make a bigger fool out of their opponent. The elections aren’t meant to be a game. It’s not a kindergarten game, it’s something extremely serious and I think it’s important that people recognize, even if you can’t vote, that we shouldn’t be trying to make a scandal out of our candidates. The way the US is viewed is bad enough in the first place, and we don’t need to exacerbate our unfortunate state of events by representing ourselves in such an inappropriate manner. I don’t know what would be best for our country at this point, but I’m certain that what’s going on right now is not doing us any good. 

[18aburdon]

Spirit!

Even though I’ve been a student at Casti since 6th grade, I’ve never felt more apart of the class of 2018 until this year. One of my concerns in coming back to Castilleja had been stress as junior and being able to handle all of it, especially as an entire class. I know that sometimes we get really down on ourselves, and I think that can be pretty detrimental to our mental health and overall school experiences. At the same time, I had been looking forward to being together as a class and getting through so many things as a group. This would be a new, and exciting experience for all of us. There was so much for us to look forward to: college, finding our passions and Global Investigators. At the beginning of the year, I was pretty disappointed. A lot of people were in a pretty negative mindset and made it clear that they were not looking forward to this year. Our cheer at the first day of school pretty much summed up our spirit. But, this week has been pretty influential for our class. I have never seen so much spirit in our grade since we’ve started. We attended all of our group activities and didn’t let our losing streak bring us down. I’m pretty sure there’s even a revolution against the administration and our restrictions on rivalry and spirit week rules (#jexit). I’m sure we’ve been a little inspired by APUSH and the American Revolution, but atleast we’re connecting our school work to our daily lives! We have all been riding this sort of high of excitement, and honestly its been pretty fun. Even though these aren’t the most positive ideas, we are united and enthusiastic about our well being. In all, I’m hoping this livelihood and encouragement lives on into the rest of our year, when we have bigger and scarier things to face.

[18aburdon]

When Breath Becomes Air

During my time working within the Department of Medicine at Stanford, I was recommended a book that’s significance can not quite be put into words. One of Stanford’s neurosurgeons, Paul Kalanithi, wrote When Breath Becomes Air shortly after being diagnosed with stage IV lung cancer. He writes his autobiography in the last 22 months of his life ‘while learning how to die’. One of the most striking parts of this story is his familiarity with life and death, and how it is suddenly much more intimate than what he’s ever experienced. His almost instantaneous proximity to death left me with a feeling of desolation and hope at the same time. Its a shocking reminder of the vastness of unpredictability and a provocative message that instills in me a sense of gratitude and a desire for a meaningful life. I know that in continuing this book I will ponder what I find important in my life and recognize the privilege I’ve experienced. As I finish this book, I will relentlessly question our own futures and what they hold. 

Caelica 83: BY BARON BROOKE FULKE GREVILLE

You that seek what life is in death, Now find it air that once was breath. New names unknown, old names gone: Till time end bodies, but souls none.            Reader! then make time, while you be,            But steps to your eternity.

[18aburdon]

What does home mean to you?

Until August of last year, home for me had quite literally been my house. Not because it was the four walls and a roof that kept me warm, but because of its beauty and the memories that were made in it. The backyard that turned into forest were the keepers of many childhood memories. The sunrise that spilled through the glass doors into my kitchen lifted my spirits everyday. But, the time came that we packed all of our belongings in boxes and said goodbye to friends. What I had taken comfort in, felt safe in, and thrived in was something I would no longer have. I spent three months with my parents, and the next 8 in a boarding school. Customs lines and airport tarmacs were the only constants in my life. Like Somini Sengupta wrote, “We are like turtles, we carry our homes on our backs”. The top bunk would become my study corner. The sound of 4 or more languages at once was now music to my ears. The chatter and conversation of roommates was my therapy. The things I called home quickly faded and became a distant memory. Certain songs would bring back a sudden feeling of nostalgia, but the fast paced European life carried me along the current. At first, language barriers embarrassed me, but soon enough the discomfort of the unknown started to grow on me. Leaving the place that held all of the most captivating experiences of me tore me into pieces. Now, home is  the bursts of adrenaline of being lost in a big city and having no option but to find your own way. Home is driving down a highway with the music loud and hair flying. For me, home will never be constant, it will never feel safe, but that is something I will take comfort in. 

[18aburdon]

What does it mean to be an American? What does it mean to me to be an American?

When I think about what it means to be an American, a number of different ideas come to mind. A melting pot of cultures and races has developed from the immigration around the period of The United States’ birth. Being American never means the same thing from one person to the next. Unless your ancestry is tied to those of native decent, no one is really “American”. The culture in the southern states is worlds apart from that of the liberal coasts. Because of its sheer size, America has allowed for multiple “brands” of Americans to develop from within. Now that many families are much more “American” than their immigrant ancestors, being American can be held much closer to heart than it might have originally been. Personally, I believe that being American means taking the people beside you, no matter where they are from or how they look, and treating them as equals.