people like him make me believe in a hell...

At dinner tonight:
Me: God, I'm tired. It's only seven and I'm already ready to go to bed. I remember my sophomore year when I'd stay up til 4 like once or twice a week and be fine.
Dad: ...what did you just say? (his eyes turn dark and cold, and more black, like they always do when he's angry)
Me (not understanding why he suddenly became furious but trying to backpedal): Uh, like sophomore year. Two years ago dad. I definitely don't do that any more.
Dad (in a slow, quiet rage): You stayed up until 4...talking to your friends.
Me (meekly): yes....
Then all hell broke loose. My dad went BALLISTIC. He screamed that my sleepless nights were the cause of my academic problems my sophomore year (a B in Calculus and US History, oh my!), that I had lied to him my freshman year when I swore to him that I'd reform my ways after my black boy phase (but isn't that another story...) and that these were all indicators that I'd fail in college.
I quickly realized I needed to get out of this situation. I attempted to leave the table saying "I don't want to fight now, just pretend I didn't say anything and forget about it." This only made him more angry. His eyes got so heated.
My father's eyes are the most expressive thing about him. Unfortunately, they only express one emotion: rage. I can remember seeing those eyes as a little girl, maybe 6 years old, and knowing I was in trouble. This meant my dad was in one of his heartless-soulless-hurtful-screaming moods.
And when I saw those eyes tonight, I knew a switch had been flipped. My dad starting yelling. The longer he yelled, the more he worked himself up and the angrier he got. I cowered in my dinner chair next to him, and turned to my mother for help.
"Mom, please. Tell him to stop yelling. Tell him he doesn't need to. Tell him it was sophomore year!" I pleaded through my tears.
No matter how many times my dad has screamed at me over the years, I can't seem to harden to it. Each time he starts throwing insults, I burst into tears. I just can't help it. Believe me, I wish I could.
"I'm not getting involved in this." My mom pushed her chair away from the dinner table and started washing dishes. Seriously, mom? Pussy.
My dad continued raging. 
"YOU'RE GOING TO BE THE COLLEGE STUDENT WHO STAYS UP ALL NIGHT WITH THEIR FRIENDS DOING AMPHETAMINES AND FAILS ALL THEIR CLASSES." Oh damn. He had gotten himself going.
"THAT'S IT. I'M NOT GIVING YOU ANY MONEY FOR COLLEGE BECAUSE IT'LL JUST GO TO WASTE ON SOMEONE WHO OBVIOUSLY CARES MORE ABOUT THEIR SOCIAL LIFE THAN COLLEGE. THAT'S IT. I'M NOT PAYING FOR COLLEGE FOR SOMEONE WHO'S JUST GOING TO WASTE IT. YOU CAN GO TO STATE SCHOOL AND TAKE OUT STUDENT LOANS"
That was especially hurtful. The screaming went on, but I was fixated on those two points that he had made. He thinks I'm going to do drugs in college, and he thinks I am incapable of handling myself academically while in college. First of all, the 4am nights happened SOPHOMORE YEAR. I pointed this out to my dad, but he remained unconvinced. I also pointed out to my dad that I have always felt morally obligated to stay far away from drugs and alcohol, to the point where I don't even like taking tylenol because I don't like putting foreign substances into my body. This angered him even more. He felt like I was pointing out that he doesn't know me very well (which he doesn't at all) which is caused by the fact that he works a lot. So he started screaming on the tangent of how important his work is blah blah blah.
Maybe you're reading this and it sounds kind of lame to you. In that case, I'm sorry to have bored you with my self pity.
I guess what bothered me about this is that my dad had no reason to yell. I've been an exemplary daughter this year. I've worked extremely hard in school, kept up with my extracurriculars, and tried to help my mom out as best I can. I haven't been yelled at by my dad in months. I didn't deserve to be yelled at by my dad tonight.  My dad started a fight over something that happened two years ago.
I haven't been yelled at in a while. And in that time since I've last been yelled at, I've continued to mature as a person. Tonight, when my dad started yelling, I cried, but I tried my very hardest to remain mature. I explained to him that I wasn't like that any more, that I really had become a better person. Any response to his rants just made him angrier.

But you know what, my dad was wrong. Part of the reason I became emotion so quickly was that I couldn't even fathom someone, my own father, doubting my preparedness for success in college. I have absolutely no doubt in my mind that the maturing I've done over the last four years (no thanks to him) has prepared me to go out on my own in college as a student who is prepared academically and socially for the adjustment.

It's funny, those late nights sophomore year were absolutely instrumental to my overall development throughout high school. I wasn't staying up late to talk to worthless, stupid, bad influences. I was staying up late talking to people who were so intriguing intellectually that I couldn't pry myself away from the computer. Sophomore year I developed my beliefs and really got in touch with my intrinsic morals. If it weren't for my those apparently horrible nights my sophomore year I wouldn't be prepared to turn down beers in college. I wouldn't be prepared to have a discussion over ANYTHING philosophical.

My sophomore year was a big turning point in my life. It was the year I dedicated myself to departing from the social life I led and pursuing a more respectable one. Sophomore year was a HUGE transition from the person I was to the person I am today. And transitions like that take time. And since I made the transition in mere months, it'd make sense that I'd have to be awake a little longer each night, right?

Fuck you dad. You have been and will continue to be only valuable to my life in the form of the money you put into me. You have remained uninvolved in my life physically (where were you at those band concerts and booster meetings?) and emotionally (won't ever forget the text I read on your phone telling your mistress you loved her. I can't remember you ever saying that to me).

So here's to independence. Here's to knowing you're worth more than anyone thinks you are. Here's to getting as far away as you can and proving yourself. Only  4 months and 24 more days until graduation.

Deferred: to be postponed or delayed.

I've been deferring things all year: schoolwork, actually going to school, friendships, relationships, etc. Everything was put on hold; nothing mattered except going to college. Specifically, Stanford. So, it was ironically fitting that I'd be deferred from Stanford (Boyd's rule of life, anyone? The irony gods WILL take every opportunity to bite you in the ass.)

Applying to college has been the most stressful, anxiety-inducing period of my life. I had to put off all my homework to devote the time necessary to my apps, I stayed up late every night doing them, and would therefore be an emotional wreck the next day. I spent my days crying and my nights stressing over apps. Somewhere in this obsessive period in my life I found collegeconfidential. And that, of course, became my new way to spend my time. I joined the Stanford REA Applicants' Discussion Thread, and met people in my exact situation. As I grew closer with these people I learned to love Stanford even more... I became even more infatuated with the school as I played out fantasies of me there with my new friends; my dream became closer and closer. My hopes were up, my dreams, dreamed, and there was no going back. I was set on Stanford. As I became closer to the people Stanford became more of a goal for me. And suddenly, there wasn't anywhere else I wanted to go. The advice "You will end up happy wherever you go" resounded on deaf ears. I will be happy at Stanford, I knew. THAT is the school for me. I was convinced.

As deadline day approached, the bonding only continued. These people weren't just collegeconfidential friends anymore; these people had become some of my closest friends. Time passed quickly with their company. And then the night before deadlines came. As I laid in bed last night, I found myself praying not for my acceptance, but for the acceptance of my friends. This involuntary selflessness surprised me, and left me with a certain peace. Worrying about others was much easier than worrying about myself. I had such confidence in my friends- they were SO talented. Smart, beautiful, funny, teeming with personality. You name it, my friends had it. I fell asleep dreaming of finally meeting my new favorite people.

And then decisions came. I was deferred, hardly a desirable situation, yet I fared better than almost all my friends. I was so convinced that I'd be devastated if I wasn't accepted. Yet when I read that not acceptance, I remained rather apathetic. I had simultaneously received texts from many of my friends telling me they were rejected. And without the idea of them at Stanford with me, my glorious dream school had lost its appeal. I gave up on Stanford then and there. No tears, no yelling, no suicidal thoughts.

Sure, I learned a lot of cliche things from applying to college. I learned to write like a beast, I really got to know myself, and I set an example of hard work and determination. But beyond that, I really learned that it doesn't matter where you go to college. Honestly, I probably won't end up at Stanford. And I'm okay with that. Because today Emma and I decided to apply to colleges together. I added Yale and Vanderbilt to my list, she added Duke to hers. We are both already applying to Columbia and Dartmouth and Princeton. This is weird and spontaneous, and far from practical, but I really feel like this is what I need in college. I don't need a "special college." I don't need a warm climate, or $55,000 a year tuition. I just need to experience whatever I experience, with a new friend.

After all these months of imagining myself at Stanford with my new friends, I realized it wasn't Stanford that I just LOVED, it was my friends! It's weird, but this amazing group of people really has changed my life- the decision I make in April will shape the rest of my life, and all of them have been a gigantic part in that. They've opened my eyes to see that there is more than one "perfect match" for everyone. For me, that match will be wherever my friends are.

Honestly, if Stanford decides to accept me in the spring, I may very well say no. A school who would deny so many awe-inspiring applicants isn't the school for me. So goodbye, Stanford dreams. And hello, happy life.





***EDIT*** I feel like I HAVE  to mention how fortunate I am to have the friends I do. I've had a ridiculous amount of people talk to me through tonight and really inspire me.
***DOUBLE EDIT*** So the title of this blog said deferred was an adjective. At least that's what the dictionary said. But the more I think about it, the more I am convinced it's actually a verb. So I'm just going to take that part out. Embarrassing.
***NOTE*** So two months later, I came back and read this and realized how silly a lot of it sounds. No, I am not going to go to a school just because my friends go there. But at that time it was what I needed to be thinking to keep me sane. So instead of editing the post I'm just going to leave this note: This post is an immediate reaction to my deferment and nothing else. Read it with the situation in mind. I was very upset and very emotional. 

I Love Being A Big Sister :)

To me, she was beautiful. Her unkempt blonde hair gave her an innocent, playful look that could only be acquired from hours of relentless play. Her teeth were straight and pearly, as all baby teeth are, and they beamed life, energy, and adoration to all who received her smile.

That day, she clung to me, wailing her devastated cries into my shirt, my inviting shoulder, my soothing arms, anything to comfort her. She grasped at my hands, my hair, and finally decided the best way to keep me from leaving was to wrap her arms around my torso. The idea of facing a summer full of lonely Wednesdays tortured her.  As I cradled her golden head, I was touched. In that moment, I realized that Payton’s inconsolable cries were only a demonstration of the strength of her love for me.  This charming little girl with her shining smile had chosen me to smother in her affection. I valued every secret, every game of Mother May I?, and every hug Payton chose to share with me. I appreciated her not just because she was a child, but because she was my child, my Little Sister.

I had just completed my first semester as Payton’s Big Sister, a volunteer program through the Boys and Girls Club. That Wednesday in mid-April was the last of the semester, the last time Payton would spend time with me before I returned the following fall. Throughout the previous nine weeks a bond was initiated that would only strengthen through the next three years.

Wednesday evenings, as we read Dr. Seuss stories together, we both discovered our talents. From our hours of reading Payton discovered her love of books, and became an avid reader. I, however, learned something far less tangible. My time with Payton re-taught me a skill I had lost nearly a decade previously- the ability to have carefree, unrestricted fun. My time with Payton was spent doing whatever she wanted to do: imagining made-up animals, playing Simon Says for hours, or creating the ball gown of our dreams with crayons and construction paper.  These imaginative activities gave me an advantage few teens had- I could express myself however I wanted to without having to worry about the judging eyes of my peers. I found myself beginning to emulate Payton’s unworried attitude. I began to live my life like I saw Payton living hers- becoming more expressive of my feelings, worrying less, and enjoying more. I discovered a fun-loving, untroubled part of me that I didn’t know existed.

Last spring, as I once again prepared to say goodbye to Payton for the summer, the little girl gave me a quick hug, and shouted her goodbye as she ran off to play with her friends. While I was a little hurt knowing she wasn’t attached to me like she once was, I was proud. Our purpose in each other’s lives has been fulfilled- I have helped Payton grow and mature, and she has helped me discover the world through the eyes of a child. In my absence, Payton will be able to completely test her newfound independence, and I will leave for college completely cognizant of who I am- a person who has learned to be true to herself, no matter what, all thanks to a little girl. 

I am so lucky to have Payton in my life. Every Wednesday evening I grow a little closer to her, and value her a little more. Today was no different. It's funny, I was assigned to Payton because she was a "high risk" child- that is, one who is growing up in a less-than-ideal situation, but Payton has been nothing but an angel for me. I really feel that I don't have much to help Payton with- instead, I let her help me. Payton is an ear for all my stories, someone to share my greatest hopes and fears with. I tell her about my perfect days, and about my girl drama. She listens to it all and loves me regardless. I wish I could accurately convey my love for this little girl in words, but it's much too powerful. I cherish every smile, every hug, and every game we play. 

Today we were watching a movie, and Payton snuggled up to me and put her head on my shoulder. That kind of affection from a 4th grader is so striking to me. While most 4th graders would run off and play with their friends, Payton focuses all her attention and love on me. And that is a really, really special gift. 

She's adorable, isn't she?

Now, I'm gonna leave with a letter of recommendation Payton wrote that I submitted to all the colleges I applied to. I've already had one personal phone call (from Sweet Briar) expressing how powerful it  was, and I have to say, I agree. 

Courtney is my Big Sister at the Boys and Girls Club. She’s been coming to spend time with me for three years, since I was in 1^st grade. Now Courtney and I have been Big Sister/Little Sister longer than anyone else at the Boys and Girls Club. The people who work here were so impressed with us that we got to be in an article in the newspaper last year! We might not be related, but Courtney’s the best sister I could ever imagine. Courtney has helped me a lot. She has helped me with all of my school work, even when I don’t want to do it. Whenever I am upset, Courtney talks to me about my problems and comforts me until I feel better. She gives the best hugs. Courtney always seems to be in the mood to be at the Boys and Girls Club, and makes everyone she’s around happy. Even though I’m sad that she’ll be going off to college next year, I know she’ll make people there happy just like she makes people here. I hope that when you guys are making your decision you realize how special Courtney is, to me and everyone else who knows her.

                -Payton Liffick, age 9

 

Stanford Stanford Stanford

So I’m about to be lame and talk about what I’m thankful for. And I’m about to be even more lame and center my thankfulness around college. No, I haven’t been accepted to my dream school. And I probably won’t be accepted to my dream school (which is Stanford, for those of you ignorants who don’t know). I feel so cliché and emotional for posting this, but here is my story:

During spring break of my sophomore year my mother and I made the trek out to northern California to check out some colleges. We were mainly heading out to see UC Berkeley, which I had fallen in love with while reading about, but my momma suggested we tour Stanford’s campus just for kicks. So we went on my first two college visits. As only a sophomore in high school, I wasn’t very focused on college. I trudged through Berkeley’s tour, hot and uncomfortable, but found myself liking the atmosphere of the school. I decided it was a suitable place for myself; my mind was made up. So when the next day came and it was time to visit Stanford, I felt it unnecessary. I complained through the campus tour, texted through the info session, and went to find something to eat while my mother attacked one of the admissions counselors with questions. I was, to say the least, uninterested. But not because Stanford was uninteresting. Even through my 15-year-old pout, I fell in love with Stanford. I was mesmerized by the lively hum of campus, by the Spanish-style architecture. One could feel the academic prestige and brilliance just dripping off of people as they biked through campus (and I say this in a good way). But more than these tangible, observable qualities, Stanford had “it.” That little kick. The indescribable feeling that gave you peace because you knew it was the right place for you, but simultaneously made your heart drop to your bowels because it was TOO perfect for you. Yeah, that kind of feeling. Yet I didn’t devote much attention to the tour nor the information session. While I loved it, I knew even then, in my college-application-process-ignorant state that Stanford wouldn’t want a student like me. Stanford wouldn’t want a student who sometimes got Bs because she didn’t like putting effort into her work. Stanford wouldn’t want a student who rarely did her homework. Stanford wouldn’t want a student who rarely studied, and whose grades suffered for it. Stanford wouldn’t want me. So I didn’t even consider it. Why get my hopes up when it would inevitably end in disappointment and heartache? So I forgot about Stanford.

Fast forward to June, right at the end of my 11^th grade year. Not much had changed: I still procrastinated, made too many Bs, and wasn’t exactly a “model student.” But something monumental happened that day in mid-June: I got my ACT scores back. Now, I had always been a pretty good test taker, scoring 31-33 the first couple times I took the ACT. WAY above average nationally, and at the high end of average at my school. I had been satisfied with my scores then, but had to take it again with writing to apply to most of the colleges I wanted to. And this time, ohh this time. I got a 35. Maybe I was good enough. Maybe I was smart enough. Holy cow, I WAS academically and intellectually competitive with my classmates! And that day I decided to apply to Stanford.

Within a week I had begun my Stanford application. The CommonApp wasn’t open to students yet, so I just free wrote essay after essay. Horrible at first, but slowly better, I’d put in hours a day to perfect these essays. I had never enjoyed writing at all; I had never put in more than the bare minimum on any writing assignment before. But all of a sudden I found myself with a million stories to tell and more ideas than I could handle. I wrote and wrote.

It’s funny, my ACT score didn’t prove that I was smarter than anyone else, nor guarantee my acceptance at any college more than before. But it initiated an instant, severe change in me. My confidence blossomed, and this random work ethic appeared.  I wanted to prove to myself that I deserved that score. So I searched, and I struggled, and I eventually found the intellectual inside of me. And for that, I am thankful.

I am thankful that I am now here, nearly done with the college application process, and as competitive of an applicant as I could make myself out to be. Through hours of hard work I perfected essays and apps utilizing a work ethic I didn’t know existed. There hasn’t been a day that’s gone by in the last three or four months where I haven’t taken a moment to realize how lucky I am that I found this drive within myself to get through the college apps.

But this whole college obsession has given way to an even more important benefit. Through my nightly college-induced panic attacks I discovered College Confidential. Now, of course I’m going to be cliché and make everyone reading this blog want to stop reading this blog, but yes, I’m going to talk about how the friends I’ve made on CC really made a difference in my life. Through the *Official* Stanford REA 2015 Applicants' Discussion Thread I connected with a ton of people from all over the world applying early to Stanford like I was. At first, our communication was all small talk: “What do you think the strongest part of your application was? ARE YOU SO SCARED FOR DECISION DAY?!” and the like. But gradually my relationship with some of these people began to transform. I became facebook friends with several of my fellow REAers- Jason, Emma, Michelle, Min Ju, and Sarba, and began to develop an intimate friendship with some of them. I found my conversational capabilities with these people extending far beyond just Stanford stuff. I found myself talking about my life, my problems, and my dreams with these people. I skype for hours with Jason, connecting with him on a level I don’t with most of my other friends, and facebook chat with Emma (who has become my undoubted favorite) nightly like we’d been friends forever. I could imagine the next four years of my life with these people in them. I’d LOVE the next four years of my life with these people in them. So what’s a girl to do? My chances of getting into Stanford are abysmal, yet I can’t imagine myself anywhere else with any other people. It’s funny, because to apply to Stanford you had to write a “Why Stanford” essay. I was satisfied with mine, and I’ll post it below. But I can only imagine how much more passionate it’d be now…. These people have given me ten thousand reasons to want to go to Stanford even more than I already do. I can only imagine how much happier acceptance will be... or how much harsher rejection will be afterwards.

Anyways, as promised, my Why Stanford essay:

                I love anything that sparkles. My sequined dresses, Urban Decay eyeshadow, and glitter hairspray are literal examples of this love. But things don't have to glitter to have sparkle; once I've recognized the sparkle, I'm hooked. Stanford emits a sparkle brighter than any other I've encountered. More by instinct than choice, I knew Stanford was where I belonged from the moment I set foot on the campus. There, students' hard work, intelligence, and individuality make the campus gleam.

I've often heard students comparing Stanford's campus to Disneyland. I always assumed this comparison had something to do with the beauty of the school's campus, until I visited it myself. True, Stanford has a gorgeous campus: the unified Spanish-style architecture gives off an "it doesn't get any better than this" vibe.  But an intellectually vital student on Stanford's campus really is like a child at Disneyland. There, the dorm rooms with doors wide open and the community of school-spirited band members are enough to get me just as excited as an 8 year old about to ride Space Mountain.

Just like Disneyland, the students at Stanford aren't forced to attend, they don't have to attend. They choose to attend. They dream to attend. Now THAT is sparkle. I identify with this sparkle; I find it not only around the campus, but also within myself. At Stanford, my developing sparkle could shine brightly beside the similar sparkle of hundreds of others.

My Religious Experience for the Year

I excitedly prepared for my interview. Pink beaded cardigan, khaki pants, extra mascara, pearls on the ears and on the neck. I zipped down Farm Road 141 and finally arrived right on time at my destination: Cox South Hospital. The interview went well, and to my delight I was accepted into Cox's Cuddle Therapist program. As a Cuddle Therapist I'd get to hold babies in the NICU to aid their development with human contact (studies have proven that underdeveloped infants develop better with consistent human interaction).

As I walked into the main lobby of the hospital, I felt as if I were watching the storm from the Wizard of Oz. I looked out the glass doors of the hospital, and all I could see were leaves, impaled by sheets of rain, thrown about by strong gusts of wind. The rain blowing horizontally gave the atmosphere a greenish tint, the one associated with tornadoes. It appeared as if Springfield was in the middle of a cyclone. I took one look at the mess outside and called my mother- letting her know I'd wait out the storm at the hospital. I settled myself into a chair in the lobby, positioned perfectly to observe the strengthening storm.

The rain seemed to wane as the hail began to pound wrathfully. Cars were dented, windows broken. A woman coming into the hospital from the parking lot at that inopportune moment was struck repeatedly. She came inside sobbing.

A few minutes later, as the fury of the storm was beginning to subside, a queer old man approached me. He was tall, around 6 foot, with a feathery brown, unkempt mustache/beard. His  old gray t shirt rested on a protruding stomach. He was unremarkable, to say the least, but undoubtedly benign. He peered into my face for a few seconds before questioning "Are you all right?" I nodded and explained that I hadn't been out in the storm yet, but would leave in a few minutes. "Do you pray?" he inquired further. Now, in general, the answer to this question would be a resounding "no." But, as I didn't want to offend any strangers, nor did I want to pass up any opportunity for luck or karma in the future, I affably answered "Sure!"

He offered his hand to me. I laid my hand in his as we bowed our heads. "Dear Lord, while we don't know what you have in store for us today, we accept it. We know that you have a plan for us and that you will not hurt us. Please protect this wonderful woman of yours, God. Amen."

This complete stranger had gone out of his way to ask for my protection. The love I felt was overwhelming. "Amen." I echoed.

I walked outside into the storm mere minutes later. As I trudged across the parking lot to my car, it was as if I couldn't feel the rain at all, as if it didn't even touch me.... The kindness of the stranger protected me.

When I walked into my house that night I found myself a little more pleasant: I laughed more, bragged less, and hugged longer. The man's kindness had permeated my soul, and found a permanent resting spot deep within.