Kiara Blog Post PictureShifting into this awkward phase where I’m beginning to think about adult things like constantly being aware of money, yet I still laugh about the scribbling in the bathroom stalls is torture. I mean, that sounds really angsty, but it really is. I’m really disappointed nobody told me that all those high school movies are completely inaccurate, like me looking twenty seven at sixteen and definitely having my license by now (I don’t even have my permit).

It’s reassuring as all my peers are going through the same thing too, the constant emails from all these colleges and the mail from universities I’ll never be able to even imagine paying for. Then there’s the part where I get to laugh with them about dorm life and dating all over campus and no parents!

And then sometimes there’s those moments where I can’t help but feel absolutely alone when I’m looking at SAT and ACT registrations and when I’m wishing that my PSAT score was a little higher to offer some form of reconciliation. Mom of course says it’s natural to have these fears and I’ll get through it but constantly drowning (or more so flailing in open waters). Sometimes a boat will come by, offer help, and sometimes I’m an idiot and say no, and watch the boat fly off across the sea into the horizon. Sometimes boats ignore me, and then every now and again a boat stops and I’m not stupid and climb on.

It’s strange planning campus tour dates and taking virtual tours of dorms, trying to decide the rest of my life. I know all adults are like: you still have time, but cut the crap, we really don’t. It’s like, college is probably going to be some of the best moments of my life, but if I mess it up, then it’s a huge blight looming over my life and you can’t get re-dos, just, I’ll try to clean up the mess.

I’m just hoping I’ll get some awesome scholarships, and maybe a school will really want me to come to their school and debt won’t be a problem. I just want to get a job I love and pays amazing, but doesn’t everyone want that? Well, some people don’t but most people want that, and it’s in the form of that false American Dream or whatever people want to call it. But maybe, this end to my childhood, isn’t the end of me.

-Kiara Ivey, Junior Layout & Design Editor


Amazon Christmas

CHRISTINA PictureMy family’s house has never been the one that was decorated like a ginger bread house for Christmas. We are simplistic when it comes to the holidays. My mother may put up an artificial tree with enough ornaments to fan out over the branches. Sometimes she puts a velvet ribbon or two on the door. Whenever people come over, they ask why there presents aren’t under the tree, and my mother grumbles about how she waits until Christmas Eve to stuff all of the presents under the tree.

Lately, I haven’t been wanting many presents, which has satisfied my parents as they close their wallets before everyone else. My simple request has been that I have enough money to buy what I want from Amazon.

On the Christmas of my ninth grade year, I managed to persuade my mother into signing up for an Amazon prime membership. After we ordered our first package, it fascinated me how seeing a tan cardboard box, with black duct tape and the Amazon symbol, can give you so much glee. I became immersed in the American holiday tradition of purchasing with little to no restrictions, simply for the enjoyment of it. For whatever reason, the idea of sitting down at a computer screen, dabbing at the corners of my eyes in between each flash of green that appears after they notify me that they’ve received my order, couldn’t be more satisfying. I crack my knuckles before alternating between keys on the keyboard, searching for new items that I’ll probably forget about when a new box crowds the porch. My eyes glimmer like a child’s when they meet Santa Claus for the first time at a crowded mall with other children attempting to shove their way towards him. I greedily carry the package off to my room and rip apart the box, tossing the remains of it on my bed.

I don’t know why I have such a fascination for the many terrains the box traveled just to get to my porch. Every time I order something, I like to see the location it’s coming from. Sometimes it says something as nearby as Atlanta, Georgia, or somewhere as far away as Rhode Island. I like opening the box and imagining that the person who packaged it wondered what type of person I am and why I admire that particular item.

I’ve made the decision that my favorite Christmas colors are not green and red, or silver and gold. In fact, they’re tan and black.

-Christina Sumpter, Senior Creative Nonfiction Editor