Looking for Isabella

            Alice Baker hated the rain more than she hated her neighbor’s cat. They shared many similar traits: the wailing at night as she attempted to sleep, the unexpected visits when all she wanted was some time for herself, away from home and cats, but most importantly, they both seemed to enjoy her company much more than she enjoyed theirs. The cat would always appear at her feet the moment she stepped out of her house, almost as if he was waiting for her. When she first moved into the blue house at the end of the street with her family, she was flattered that the cat found her appealing, constantly bending down to stroke his soft shiny black fur; he would purr into her hand, as she massaged the crease under his chin, where his only white spot shone. That was a year ago. Things grew old quickly; Alice would step out of her house to head to school and the cat would be there. On most days, he would slide between her ankles until she petted him, and if she refused in her rush to leave, the cat would pounce at her every step, sometimes following her all the way to school.

            Alice had also enjoyed the rain at a certain point, but it, too, had reached its peak. The day the Bakers moved into the blue house with the pink door was cloudy and rainy, the showers speaking in a Morse code the entire day, lasting from five minutes to two hours. Alice hadn’t minded, but it made unpacking a hassle. Her parents cursed at the heavens under their breath as they carried in their soaked dishes and bed sheets from the movers’ truck, despite being put in boxes. Alice had laughed as the rain made her chestnut colored locks frizz, and she pulled her hair into a ponytail. The following morning she awoke to a meowing by her second floor window—this would be known as the first time she met the neighbor’s cat. The moment she stepped out of bed and reached the window, a flash of lighting crackled in the clear sky. The cat shot out of her view just as the sky began to cry and darken.

            Upon moving from San Francisco, the Bakers were excited to get away from the bipolar weather, but the on and off rain in their new town caused them to miss the Fog City. The rain came suddenly, sometimes a flood taking place, other times lasting all day in a light drizzle. Alice took to always carrying an umbrella, despite the large number of mornings that she awoke with the sun caressing her face. She carried it in her small, brown, worn-out canvas backpack—her soul mate.

            The backpack had no real value, just that of sentiment. It was a gift from her late aunt, Isabelle, before her sudden disappearance just a year before. She had come for a visit as the Bakers got together their belongings to move and had handed the bag to Alice. “Goodbye my dear,” she had whispered as she placed the empty bag in the arms of young fourteen year old Alice. She smiled tenderly at Alice, looking deep into her eyes, reciting her favorite quote: “watch with glittering eyes the whole world around you because the greatest secrets are always hidden in the most unlikely places. Those who don't believe in magic will never find it.” It was the last time Alice would see her aunt.

            Alice grew attached to her new bag quickly; it was the one thing her aunt had left behind. Although Alice rarely saw her aunt, she admired her way of approaching life and her wisdom. Aunt Isabelle was the youngest from Alice’s father’s side of the family, and also the only girl. From a young age Isabelle saved every penny she got, and by the age of sixteen she had well over a thousand dollars, she then began working part-time and saved every paycheck, and when her parents passed away when she was twenty-six, she inherited half of their savings. She had always lived off the minimal and now was her time to enjoy herself. Isabelle had dreamed of living her own life exploring, and at twenty-eight that’s exactly what she did. She was always considered kind of awkward, weird and way too kept to herself to be normal, but now she was admired by many for her ability to retire at such a young age.

            That was not why Alice admired her. Even if her aunt had not been able to retire, Alice had a feeling she would never be tied down, but would find a way to live her dream. She also had one of the most positive outlooks on life, something Alice had a hard time with at times. Alice never had anything against her own life, but she just knew she wasn’t meant to be where she was. She was like a version of her younger aunt: very kept to herself, awkward, and there was just something off that even Alice couldn’t put her finger on.

            It was on the last day of school that Alice was beginning to understand what it was. Alice opened her eyes to rays of sunlight spilling into her room, landing on her nightstand. She sat up and rubbed her eyes, glancing at her alarm clock. 6:08 AM. She still had thirty minutes to sleep until she had to get ready for school, but with all the sun on her face, she knew she wouldn’t be able to fall back asleep. Alice pulled the covers off her body, sat up, and swung her legs to the side of her bed, her legs barely reaching the sun-warmed floor. She stared out her window, squinting at the sun, partly from suspicion that it would suddenly be replaced by gray clouds and cool rain drops. Still, the sun kept shining, and so Alice got to work. She dressed in jean long shorts and a short sleeve plain black t-shirt, along with her black high-tops, leaving her long hair down. Just as she was about to leave her room and head to the kitchen she heard a meow.

Before even turning around Alice knew what awaited her. Of course the cat was waiting for her, she shouldn’t have expected anything different. Alice spun back to face the sac of black fur on her windowsill, his green eyes narrowing in on her. He meowed again, and began to rub against her window. Alice sighed, conflicted on whether or not she should let him in. The cat, whom she took to calling Cili because he acted supercilious about ninety percent of the time, was very daint and never made a mess, but left a trail of cat fur that only seemed attracted to Alice. The whole house could be spotless, but all of Alice’s shirts and pants and even her shoes would be covered in cat fur. She sighed as she turned away and walked down the stairs, leaving the cat to cry to its own distress. Why should I feel guilty, she thought, his owner should feel bad, not me. I can’t let that measly cat control me. Still she heard those meows in her head as she poured her cereal.

Once she stepped out her door Cili pounced at her feet, as if they were a gourmet meal of liver. She ignored him as she walked on, her backpack pounding against her back in a steady rhythm. She walked on, ignoring everything around her, thinking about ways to waste her summer: reading under the shade of the trees in her backyard, hanging out with her friends, sleeping in. She didn’t even hear the meowing that seemed to run after her. The breeze brushed her hair off of her shoulders. The smell of her cherry blossom trees filled her nose as she turned onto the block her school was located.

The meowing which had ceased behind her roared up suddenly. Alice spun around, her eyebrow raised at the sudden enthusiasm of the cat she forgot was following her. She caught her breath as she witnessed the cat curl himself into a ball, shivering as if it were ten degrees out rather than seventy. Just as Alice arrived to the cat’s side he began to grow quickly in size, his black fur turning smooth and his small ball shape becoming long and vertical, slowly taking the shape of human. Cili’s face lightened as the fur fused together and inward, exposing olive toned human skin, his face framed by sharp edges. There before her stood a 5’6 foot tall man, in a black suit with a white button down and a black tie and dark shades covering his eyes. He had a mat of black hair slicked back and where Cili’s whiskers were before was a clean shaven face.

Alice hadn’t realized she was holding her breath until she let out a long sigh, her eyes franticly looking over the man in search of Cili, or some sign of the cat.

“Hello Isabelle.” His voice was low but gentle. He let out a small cough into his right fist, and then patted his chest twice lightly. “Pardon, cat fur makes me cough, Isabelle,” he chuckled. “Alice, I mean, sorry, you look so much like your aunt.” He reached out, about to grab Alice’s shoulders, and so Alice did the only logical thing: she ran.

Alice panted as she slammed the school door behind her, leaning against it trying to fight down the burning against her chest. Once her breathing regulated she looked around and her stomach dropped. Something was wrong. No one was around. Of course this didn’t make sense; it was the last day of school, there should have been waves of students standing by empty lockers or open classrooms, chatting away about their summer plans. Instead the halls were empty, the fluorescent light reflected off of the glossy floors.

Alice pushed herself off the door and walked deeper into the school. The school was well lit and looked quite normal, nothing like a haunted school would look like in a scary movie. It was just… empty, as if everyone had decided to sleep in an extra hour. Alice was half way down the hall when she heard the door she entered in open. She froze and forced herself to face the door. There stood the man in the doorway, holding open the door with his right hand.

“Okay, maybe that was the wrong way to approach you. I apologize, I really do.” He strolled into the school, the door slowly shutting behind him. For every step he took forward Alice took one backwards, never letting her eyes stray off the cat-man in front of her.

“You’re Cili…” It was more processing statement than a question, but the man nodded, “You do call me that. Though I’m not sure why.” He half-smiled, as if they were chums and he had not just turned into a human before her eyes.

“What do you want?!” It came out much louder than Alice had intended, but she could feel the panic rising in her chest. She took a gulp and tried again, “why are you here? Who are you?”

“You said it yourself, I’m Cili,” he pulled off his glasses exposing his green eyes, a goofy grin hanging on his face. “Cili—what a silly name.” He chuckled. “Alice, I must speak with you.”

“Who are you? Where is everyone? What did you do with them?” Alice asked again, her voice steady emphasizing every word. Her eyes bore into his face, unwavering.

The man, Cili, sighed. “Alice, I can’t really explain that just yet, I will tell you that everyone is safe and unharmed, just taking a nap. But we must talk… about Isabelle, your aunt, of course.”

Outside there was a crack of lightning followed by the booming sound of thunder. The blue sky was slowly covered by grey clouds that let raindrops fall into quickly forming puddles.

Alice Short Story

            Alice Baker hated the rain more than she hated her neighbor’s cat. They shared many similar traits: the wailing at night as she attempted to sleep, the unexpected visits when all she wanted was some time for herself, away from home and cats, but most importantly, they both seemed to enjoy her company much more than she enjoyed theirs. The cat would always appear at her feet the moment she stepped out of her house, almost as if he was waiting for her. When she first moved into the blue house at the end of the street with her family, she was flattered that the cat found her appealing, constantly bending down to stroke his soft shiny black fur; he would purr into her hand, as she massaged the crease under his chin, where his only white spot shone. That was a year ago. Things grew old quickly; Alice would step out of her house to head to school and the cat would be there. On most days, he would slide between her ankles until she petted him, and if she refused in her rush to leave, the cat would pounce at her every step, sometimes following her all the way to school.

            Alice had also enjoyed the rain at a certain point, but it, too, had reached its peak. The day the Bakers moved into the house with the pink door was cloudy and rainy, the showers speaking in a Morse code the entire day. Alice hadn't minded, but it made unpacking a hassle. Her parents cursed at the heavens under their breath as they carried in their soaked dishes and bed sheets from the movers’ truck. Alice had laughed as the rain made her chestnut colored locks frizz, and she pulled her hair into a ponytail. The following morning she awoke to a meowing by her second floor window—this would be known as the first time she met the neighbor’s cat. The moment she stepped out of bed and reached the window, a flash of lighting crackled in the clear sky. The cat shot out of her view just as the sky began to cry and darken.

            Upon moving from San Francisco, the Bakers were excited to get away from the bipolar weather, but the on and off rain in their new town caused them to miss the Fog City. The rain came suddenly, sometimes a flood taking place, other times lasting all day in a light drizzle. Alice took to always carrying an umbrella, despite the large number of mornings that she awoke with the sun caressing her face. She carried it in her small, brown, worn-out canvas backpack—her soul mate.

            The backpack had no real value, just that of sentiment. It was a gift from her late aunt, Isabelle, before her sudden disappearance just a year before. She had come for a visit as the Bakers got together their belongings to move and had handed the bag to Alice. “Goodbye my dear,” she had whispered as she placed the empty bag in the arms of young fourteen year old Alice. She smiled tenderly at Alice, looking deep into her eyes, reciting her favorite quote: “watch with glittering eyes the whole world around you because the greatest secrets are always hidden in the most unlikely places. Those who don't believe in magic will never find it.” It was the last time Alice would see her aunt.

            Alice grew attached to her new bag quickly; it was the one thing her aunt had left behind. Although Alice rarely saw her aunt, she admired her way of approaching life and her wisdom. Aunt Isabelle was the youngest from her father’s side of the family, and also the only girl. From a young age she saved every penny she got, and by the age of sixteen she had well over a thousand dollars, she then began working part-time and saved every paycheck, and when her parents passed away when she was twenty-six she inherited half of their savings. She had always lived off the minimal and now was her time to enjoy herself. Isabelle had dreamed of living her own life exploring, and at twenty-eight that’s exactly what she did. She was always considered as kind of awkward, weird and way too kept to herself to be normal, but now she was admired by many for being able to retire at such a young age.

            That was not why Alice admired her. Even if her aunt had not been able to retire, Alice had a feeling she would never be tied down, but would find a way to live her dream. She also had one of the most positive outlooks on life, something Alice had a hard time with at times. Alice never had anything against her life, she just knew she wasn't meant to be where she was. She was like her younger version aunt, very kept to herself, awkward, and there was just something off that even Alice couldn't put her finger on it.

            It was on the last day of school that Alice was beginning to understand what it was. Alice opened her eyes to rays of sunlight spilling into her room, landing on her nightstand. She sat up and rubbed her eyes, glancing at her alarm clock. 6:08 AM. She still had thirty minutes to sleep, but with all the sun on her face, she knew she wouldn't be able to fall back asleep. Alice pulled the covers off and swung her legs to the side of her bed, her legs barely reaching the floor. She stared out her window, squinting at the sun, partly from suspicion that it would suddenly be replaced by gray clouds and cool rain drops. Still, the sun kept shining, and so Alice got to work. She dressed in jean shorts and a short sleeve plain black t-shirt, along with her black high-tops, leaving her long hair down. Just as she was about to leave her room and head to the kitchen she heard a meow. 

Old Money, New Money, and Everybody Else

Nick is part of the Old Money community, but prefers to live with the New Money in his journey to making his own way in the world. I understand this need to be (moderately) independent and to become one's own person. The difference is that Nick is making one smooth transition from Old Money to New Money, never really encountering what it really is like to not be wealthy. His home is more humble than those in the West Egg, but it is still classier and in a cleaner environment that many of the people not identified as Old or New Money. Otherwise known as "Everybody Else." Myrtle would be identified as Everybody Else due her economic status when Tom is not to be found. While Nick might be making an effort to be his own person and not mooch off of his family or even associates who are not really in the business (such as Gatsby), he is still at an advantage and does not (or will not) face the same economic struggle as Myrtle or her husband or Everybody Else. I, myself, even at a smaller scale, would identify as Everybody Else, not inheriting any family money and definitely not making any money myself (quite yet). But where is the Everybody Else line drawn? Economically (and culturally) many people are thriving during this time; The Roaring 20's was a time to start up a new business and to become famous. Anything was possible, but where was Everybody Else left? How wealthy did living in the West and East Egg require a person to be? We know that Nick is associated with money, but does not have any since his business has yet to really start up. If Nick could rent a place for $80, could other people not? And pass off as New Money? 

Thankful

Who am I thankful for in class? I don't know, that's a hard one. I know many people in our class, but I'm not necessarily close to any of them. I guess I would have to say I'm thankful for Noemi. I've known Noemi since last year, when we were in the same English class. She and I struggled with that class together, and adapted to the ways of our teacher and grew somewhat close.

Because of Noemi, I rarely faced that awkward not-having-a-partner-or-group situation, since she would frequently ask me to be her partner or in her group. Because of Noemi, I felt wanted and accepted, which was nice. I'm thankful for Noemi because she included me, and didn't leave me to be out casted.

Noemi and I often communicate outside of class to discuss homework or assignments. If one of us misses a day, we'll text each other to find out what we missed. It's really convenient to have someone you can count on to help you, and I'm grateful for having Noemi, because I know she has my back when I need information or help.

Noemi has also been a good friend to me; she and I can make jokes and just talk and it’s not super awkward. I can't say she and I are super close, but I know I can call her my friend. She is someone I can count on, and if I ever wanted to talk to her, I know she wouldn't turn her back on me. I hope that Noemi can see me as someone she can count on as well.

It's weird to say that am I thankful for a classmate, but in the end, I know I'm thankful for Noemi.

I Celebrate Myself

In today’s society, we are very distinct from nature. Most kids would prefer to spend their days hanging out with their friends or on the internet instead of sitting and admiring grass. We live in a very fast moving world, where if you don’t move fast, you’ll fall behind. But is this a valid excuse for separating ourselves from nature, and most importantly, our inner selves?

                Another thing we often don’t do is celebrate ourselves. We’re raised in an environment that pushes you to achieve, to do better, to never settle. I was raised to push myself every day, and to do and be the best I could be. While I would often receive compliments for my hard work, I rarely complimented myself. “I can do better,” I would constantly think, and often still think. It’s helped to achieve what I have, and allowed me to be in the place I am now, but every now and then, I should allow myself to relax, and reconnect with myself, my real inner self. I’m so caught up in all my work that whenever I feel my immune system weaken and myself getting sick my first thought is, “I don’t have time to get sick.” When I do get sick, I don’t give myself time to recover until the weekends, when I finally have the time. Why do I do this? So that I can go to school and do all my work and not fall behind. Why? To succeed in school and enroll in a good college. Why? To get a good education and allow myself to succeed. Why? Because success leads to happiness. That’s what we’re fed at a young age: hard work will lead to success, success will lead to happiness, and happiness is what should be achieved. When are we ever told to sit down and admire grass, because grass is almost as complex as humans are? For most of us, never.

                Transcendentalists believed in going against the social norms, and doing what they believe is morally correct and what makes them truly happy, not what they’re told will make them happy. They believed becoming one with nature, and going back to our roots, to our real old selves, before society developed and become a place that told you what you liked and who you were the moment you were born.

                I believe we should all have a little of transcendentalists in us, and learn to celebrate ourselves for what we truly are and what we have achieved.

Poe

Okay, so Edgar Allan Poe always seemed like a cool guy, but I never read many of his work pieces. Sure, he was popular, and I had heard so much of “The Raven,” and I had often meant to read his stuff, but I never did. So when I found out we would be reading a number of his stories, I was pretty excited.

It wasn’t so much of a letdown as it was a sad realization. I had such high hopes for Poe, and when I read “The Fall of the House of Usher,” I was not as drawn in as I hoped. To be quite honest, I was bored and the story was dragging. Like really dragging. It was bit of a torture to read; Poe took his description a bit too serious, and I felt we weren’t getting to the action of the story quickly enough. Literally, the real action of the story didn’t take place until about the last page or so of the story, while it occupied about seventeen. I jumped into “The Fall of the House of Usher” expecting it to be as good as I had heard “The Raven” was. But was I read it, it felt dread and weariness. Needless to say, it was not my cup of tea.

“The Raven” went much better; as I read it, I kept a rhythm in my head that added to the creepiness, and the “action” was continuous. It was pretty good, and I realized why “The Raven” was arguably Poe’s most famous work. It was definitely better, in my opinion, than “The Fall of the House of Usher,” and because it was short, it didn’t drag the details across 17 pages.

Of course, I would have to read a wider range of Poe’s works to fully develop an opinion on him, but as of right now, I am wearier of all the praise he receives. Though there is no doubt that he has a real talent of having hidden messages or double meanings behind his words, or even that he chooses his words wisely to hint at those messages, probing the reader to think deeper.

What is an American?

When people think of Americans, there aren’t many positive things to what they imagine: “’Murica,” McDonalds, obesity, etc. I’ll be honest, it’s what I first think of. Of course, that’s not what being an American is really about. Sure, we aren’t the best country out there, as we falsely boast about, but there’s a reason we got to be one of the biggest countries, why everyone (loosely put) wants to come to America, and why we’re known for our freedom and hope. 

I’m not going to sit here and praise America; I couldn’t possibly. I know all too much about how corrupt our country is. For example, our government shut down? I don’t think I’m the first to think that’s a bit out of proportion. I can, however, recognize that America can be pretty grand, and the people can be kind and accepting . America really is a melting pot, and to be an American, you have to be willing to accept people for their ethnicity, or ethnicities. Unlike many countries, we aren’t built on one particular race; we’re like chunky soup, some races blending together, while others are still are their own. Being American doesn’t mean you have to be more than one race, but it means you have to accept others even when they’re not your race. You can’t claim to be American when you can’t embrace what America is: a huge melting pot.