Author: Grace Nason

“Tell me a story,” My mother prompts. She knows I have been in a funk, wants to know I am fine, wants to distract my mind. I cannot answer her.

“Tell me a story,” Mr. Arenstam instructs in reference to our blog posts. He wants us to write regularly, to exercise our minds, to feel comfortable enough to take the AP Exam in May. I cannot deliver.

I have no stories to tell.

I have nothing left to say. I will usually use what is on my mind, but there has been nothing but pain lately. Of course, I could use this, but it becomes a rather dull tale:

“Once upon a time there was a teen with depression and anxiety. She is one among millions. She wonders is she will ever stop failing, stop rocking her body in an attempt to self-soothe, stop sobbing into her hand at 1 am. She leaves her homework until the last minute, too wrought over perfection to complete the tasks. She types this in the dead of night, having accepted that she will go to school in 7 hours with only one assignment out of four completed. She is used to the pain, the waves of guilt and sheer disgust that follow. The absence of emotion that strikes occasionally is scary, as is the urge to leave this life. But she prides herself on her willpower, her independence. She occupies the dark abyss of her brain alone, and refuses to take the hands that reach towards her.”

I cannot tell a story because my story has already been told. The ending is unique to me, however, and unpredictable in all cases. The climax is incoming, and hope blossoms bright before it. Perhaps someday I shall have a story to tell. In present days, I wait for the pain to end.

When I was young, my greatest joy was books. I found solace from social anxiety with their dog-eared pages and imaginative stories. I devoured everything from mythical historical fiction to nonfiction graphic novels. A diverse melting pot of authors wrote my escapes, but none I will ever cherish more than Rick Riordan.

Rick Riordan started writing children’s books with the birth of a whole universe: Percy Jackson and The Olympians: The Lightning Thief. This tale was originally a bedtime story for his son, and would become a bedtime story for millions of others.

As a teen, what I appreciate most about Rick Riordan is his commitment to diversity in his books. While he could just be “checking off boxes,” each minority or difference is explored in a respectful and informative fashion. Main characters and supporting characters alike have various differences that many children can see themselves in, including:

• ADHD and dyslexia
• A Hispanic boy
• An African-American girl who is brought back to life from the Southern 1940s
• A Chinese-Canadian boy
• Italian-American siblings
• Siblings with an alcoholic mother
• A Native American girl
• A boy (Percy Jackson, to be exact) with an abusive step-father
• A whole lot of kids with parents who are “out of the picture”
• A gay couple (actually canon — take notes, J.K. Rowling)
• Bisexual gods
• Homeless main character
• A deaf elf
• A Muslim girl, who wears a hijab and whose traditional holidays and marriage process is discussed and explained
• A genderfluid character with a genderfluid parent (originally a male, this god was a female and was permanent with this child)
• A son of a freed slave who fought in the Civil War
• A lesbian couple
• A Brazilian boy
• Many more I have probably forgotten about

Plus, Rick Riordan is funny. He uses sarcasm, irony, and tone to his advantage. It’s rare that one will read a Rick Riordan book and not have a laugh-out-loud moment at some point. Here is one of my all-time favorite passages:

“Aphros nodded, a glint of pride in his eyes. “We have trained all the famous mer-heroes! Name a famous mer-hero, and we have trained him or her!”
“Oh, sure,” Leo said. “Like…um, the Little Mermaid?”
Aphros frowned. “Who? No! Like Triton, Glaucus, Weissmuller, and Bill!”
“Oh. ”Leo had no idea who any of those people were. “You trained Bill? Impressive.”

— from The Mark of Athena

Furthermore, Rick riordan’s books are informative. His fanbase is full of random knowledge or Greek, Egyptian, and Norse mythology; not to mention, his readers learn about minorities and different people from his main characters and supporting characters. I could tell you about Hecate’s sacred animals (polecat, black dog) or how the Underworld in Greek Mythology works. I could even identify all twelve major Greek gods, their Roman counterparts, and various minor gods and goddesses.

Thanks to Rick Riordan, I have knowledge, exposure to little-explored minorities or situations, and laughter. His books will always hold a special place in my heart.

 

 

I hate myself

The words come to mind like a bullet: fast, ripping through walls of substance in a single second. I cannot bring myself to utter them because there is a finality in voicing this thought; as much as it is true, I wish it false.

I hate myself when I cough: gulping air, intaking breaths that stab pain and frustration into my overused muscles. It has been three months of this, and I often wonder if one step away from an ill peer, one dollop of hand sanitizer, could’ve saved me.

I hate myself when I look in the mirror: the big one, reflecting my bed where I sit writing this blog. I envision what I could be — an idealistic view that I will forever reach to obtain. I glare at the blemishes that speckle my skin, the thickness of my thighs, the dullness to my eyes that life has put there.

I hate myself when I fail. I miss homework assignments on the daily, so afraid of imperfection that I refuse to try. Hell, I’m pretty sure I am close to ten blog posts behind my classmates. Each instance is a chink in my soul, breaking down the wins until I only recall my flaws, my guilt, bright in Braille on my arms.

I hate myself, but I am still moving. Perhaps that counts for something.

 

 

 

The one time I don’t WebMD my symptoms.

I thought it was a combination of burnout and a recovering cold. It explained why I would feel weak and have coughing fits occasionally.  I thought I was getting better. I thought a lot of theories, until my dad dragged me to the clinic on Thursday and I got a call on Friday. I tested positive for pertussis, more commonly known as whooping cough. I am the third confirmed case of pertussis at Thornton Academy this year.

Pertussis is a bacterial respiratory infection that is characterized by violent coughing fits (paroxysms) that are interrupted by a big inhale, hence the “whooping.” It has three stages. First, cold-like symptoms and a low-grade fever. This lasts about a week or two, before moving to one to six weeks of paroxysms, usually more common at night. Finally, a chronic cough wraps up the illness in weeks to months.

Pertussis is highly contagious, especially so  for pregnant women and babies. I try not to worry about how I could’ve exposed my dance instructor, who revealed her pregnancy to my jazz class when we returned from break. I try not to worry about how I babysat a baby— twice — in the first stage of my whooping cough.

Guilt swirls through me when I think about my significant other, who I can never resist being around. My lab group in Physics, who I was in close quarters with to finish our risky bridge. The hundred or so dancers that witnessed me coughing backstage at the Winter Dance Concert before going on once more. Anyone could’ve been exposed.

I try not to remember that more than 100,000 people around the world die from pertussis every year. I am privileged to have been vaccinated beforehand, to be on day four of the antibiotics that will rid the bacteria from my system. My family is on the antibiotics as well to avoid a bigger outbreak. So many do not have this chance. I try not to wonder why I have been chosen to survive.

So here I lay, in the bed that I am confined to, trying not to do a great many things. I will have a coughing fit soon, most likely. I hear the “whoop” now, I didn’t hear it before I was diagnosed. I will quell it with all my might, tears springing into my eyes. The alternative scares me — coughing until I can’t anymore.

Please, if you feel sick, get checked out. Who knows who has been exposed to the illness by me, by the other unnamed two, by the students and teachers who no doubt walk the halls undiagnosed. An outbreak has begun, and I would hate to see anyone else fall prey to the bacteria that lives in me.

“No, I can do it myself!” I argued into the phone. The sun beamed down on the hot August day as three year-old H chased a chicken around a tree. I was thirteen and thoroughly independent, which is why I had speed dialed my mom on my flip phone asking for advice in the situation that lay before me. Or should I say, bok-boked before me.

Allow me to back-track a bit. A few days earlier, I had been asked to babysit H. I readily accepted, eager for cash, little kid interaction, and with nothing better to do. H was a spoiled little girl, but I had learned to tolerate. An only child, H never really had to share. She also had racked up a list of allergies a mile long, including eggs and tree nuts. I am proud to say that she has matured in school, and is now sweet and moderately down to Earth. I digress.

I may have been a teenager then, but I possessed no back bone when it came to children. I spent the morning following H around as she dictated what she wanted to do. Which is why we found ourselves staring at the wire fence of the chicken coop that day.

H was telling me about all of the adventures she had with the chickens and her cousins R and K. I nodded along, noting nervously how close she was to the hens. Is it possible for someone with an allergy to eggs to have an allergic reaction by standing next to the chicken coop? I certainly didn’t know.

“It’s time to feed the chickens!” H declared, chewing on the end of her braided pigtails.

“Hey, I don’t think —“ I was interrupted by the scratching of the fence on dirt as H’s pudgy baby hands pushed the door open. Oh dear.

A flood of chickens came strutting out, seeing freedom and taking it by the beak. I snatched H’s hand and pulled her away from them. “Uh-oh…” H mumbled as I dragged her a couple of feet away to a large oak tree.

“Stay here.” I told H as I waded back into the chicken hurricane, and that is where we left off.

I put a hand on my hip as I ended the phone call. There was only one way I could see an end to this, which is if I chased the chickens back into the coop. I sighed, gazing  at the farmyard poultry that dotted the backyard. A couple pecked at a stick, while one squawked indignantly at their companion beside them. H was still chasing the lone tree chicken, panting as she went.

The next half an hour consisted of yelling and stomping at the chickens who knew the truth behind their beady little eyes but nonetheless aqueised. I took H back inside, where we sat on the couch in stunned silence until E’s white car crawled into the driveway.

I immediately described the past events, apologizing profusely for allowing the barnyard to meet the backyard. She looked at me for a long minute before chuckling. “Grace, it’s okay. The chickens get out all of the time. They don’t go far.”

Oh.

I had never babysat an actual baby until a month ago. I love babies, but I had never gotten that chance. When I heard that I would be babysitting baby J, both felicity and trepidation flooded my mind. Was I qualified for this? How would I do with four kids and a baby?

When I arrived at E (the mother of J,K, and R)’s house, there was a flurry of activity. K squealed and came to hug me (I mentally noted that her eight-year old body came up to my shoulders — she did NOT get her tall genes from my side of the family). I was introduced to two sisters, H and A, whose mother made sure to explain everything I needed to know twice. Baby J smiled at me, but clung to her foster mother like a leaf in a snowstorm.

The parents left, and I had a content baby J on my hip. However, the mom of H and A jinxed me: as she was leaving, she patted my shoulder and exclaimed, “Good job getting the baby to calm down!”

And with one look at my face, J opened her mouth and wailed.

My first thought was, hey, am I really that ugly? I could think no more before J squirmed out of my arms and started toddling away from my ugliness as fast as a wobbly one-year old can. I went to grab her, but her face turned red with the exertion of her screaming. Oh dear.

It was twenty minutes later that found me sitting on the floor of the living room. I could see baby J out of the corner of my eye; if I looked directly at her she started to cry. This could not do — I needed to think out of the box. I remembered something that E told me before she had left. I turned to K and A, who sat in the kitchen playing Minecraft.

“K,” I called, “Can you play Baby Shark?”

I am convinced that someday, when the world is minutes away from ending, an innocent soul will play Baby Shark, and the world shall be saved. I stood in the small living room, baby J scrutinizing my every dance move. And miraculously, she was quiet. The last notes of the song rang out, and she was still silent.

A while after the last crisis had been averted, baby J was sleeping on my lap. I stroked her hair and half heartedly watched Trolls. Now came the next task — transferring the little lady to her crib upstairs.

I tiptoed up narrow stairs, cradling her lolling head in my weak arm. I made it into the dark room, when baby J shifted and woke. I turned on the light. She gazed at her crib and began to cry. She took big, upset breaths and sobbed from her spot on my hip. She was tired, and NOT going in her crib. I slid down, my back against the wall, and let her calm down.

It was another half an hour later when K strutted into the room and asked me to help paint nails. I told her later, and she nodded and went to leave the room. However, she stopped at the door and turned. “You know Grace, if you press the paw of that bear in her crib it’ll play music and she’ll stop crying and go to sleep.”

Oh.

Sure enough, I left the room as baby J slept, well, like a baby. Mission messily accomplished.

 

I’d like to think that I’ve babysat quite a bit in the past four years. Primarily for the same family, but each experience new and challenging. I have microwaved enough of Chef Boyardee’s Mini Raviolis to overflow our quaint little classroom. I’ve decided to share my top 5 babysitting fails in hopes to educate some and amuse all.

The first story comes from right at the very beginning of my trysts, at the tender age of 12. My little cousins (whom I shall call H, K, and R) were 2, 4, and 6, respectively. One of the perks of babysitting the same children is watching them grow up. H is now in the first grade, and R will enter middle school next year. K, however, maintains some of her toddler qualities — she still asks for lunch at 9 am. “It’s REALLY late.” She argues every time.

H was upstairs taking a nap in a cot set up for her. She is the cousin of K and R, and stays at their house frequently. R and K’s mom gave me all of the instructions, before offering a soft smile as she tugged on her sneakers and ventured into the snow of December break. I turned on a Disney movie and obliged K in a round of hide and seek. R has always been a stoic child, unless something involved arguing with her sister. She sat quietly and stared at the TV.

After awhile, I heard rustling upstairs. H was up; time to add another small child into the mix. I approached her cot, and H looked at me for a minute. “I wan’ Mama.” She voiced, before preceding to weep. I cringed internally — what does one tell a toddler that wants their mother? “Sorry, Mom is not available right now, leave a message with the clueless babysitter.” I proceeded to gather the crying child into my arms and take her downstairs. Luckily, she saw a Barbie doll and was forevermore distracted.

I was relishing in the relief that washed over my nervous being like The Ice Bucket Challenge when a rumble was heard. The roof began to shake and clatter, thunderously rattling the house on its concrete foundation. Was that a metaphor for beginning to babysit? Probably. I took a cursory glance towards under the table — a safe place for Earthquakes — but my feet stayed where they were. H screamed and clutched my ankle; I picked her up as the wails began again. K whimpered, standing up and scurrying to the glass doors that led to the backyard. R continued to watch the television. I joined K, and the three of us watched a mound of snow deposit itself onto the deck. All noise ceased, and the house was still once more.

Several theories ran through my head as I bounced H on my hip and stared outside in disbelief. Was the roof broken? Was there too much snow? Was the world ending? Would I, Grace, 12 year-old amateur babysitter, have to protect three little girls from a hoarde of feral zombies?

A few hours later, a car arrived in the driveway. Over K’s dramatic retelling of our hide-and-seek escapades, I informed R and K’s mom of the events that had transpired. She nodded all throughout the story, but her lips curled into an amused smile as the story wrapped up. Laughter bubbled inside her, it seemed, and spilled over when I finished. “Grace, this roof is metal. Snow falls off all the time.”

Oh.

It was when my family hosted my cousin’s wedding that I learned that having a boyfriend was not my only option. It was 2014, and there were no laws in Alabama — my cousin Char’s home — allowing same-sex marriage. If her and her partner had simply waited a year, they could’ve celebrated at home. They had laid in stasis for a decade, hoping the world would catch up to them — and it refused to. So they raced ahead with felicity.

I had had a steady stream of male crushes up until sixth grade, and the idea of anything different was so foreign to me. Girls like girls like boys do? Boys could be more than friends? Strange.

This was still strange to me when I met Her at the end of that year, and I was drawn to Her shy soul. I wanted to be friends instantly.

Unfortunately, it wouldn’t be until a year later that I got the chance. Our English class was taking a trip to Boston. Considering we weren’t close friends with anyone else, our socially awkward selves sat together on the bus. After bonding over a bowl of gelato at a sophisticated museum cafe, we began to sit next to each other in the mornings. Oh no, we didn’t talk, just read in close proximity. And it was enough.

At a school dance in eighth grade we bopped side by side. A passing peer called us “baes,” and we rolled with it like one would a rollercoaster. It escalated from there: we proclaimed that we were “married,” slow dancing in mockery of another’s reality. I thought about Her every second, it seemed. I began to worry when our dancing got lethargic, and I found myself staring into Her eyes for the entirety of “Stairway to Heaven.”  We were only friends, right? What is this feeling?

It was love, I realized that spring. I am about as straight as a bar of wi-fi. Hi, I’m Grace, and I like girls.

This was strangely exhilarating when our mutual friend whispered in my ear that she like likes me too, one number before my grand debut at my first dance recital. My red sequined costume swished as I shook with the possibilities. The world became a blur. Eager thumbs penned a less-than-eloquent response as I sat oblivious to the atmosphere of congratulations that follows a dance recital.

This was strangely wonderful when I mouthed the word “girlfriend’ to myself after she replied.

 

Across the vast and diverse land of America, a debate over climate change, its existence, and how to best address the issue flickers like a California forest fire in the communities of fishermen and CEOs, immigrants and native born citizens, Democrats and Republicans alike. Such a culture of climate change denial has emerged. It has reached the Oval Office, with President Trump promising to pull out of the Paris Accord agreements earlier this year. However, this cannot be done until 2020. Currently, the U.S is still at the table for negotiations on the agreement.

The Paris Agreement ended another series of negotiations on December 15 of this year. These negotiations were more on the specifics of the guidelines laid out in 2015. 200 countries and their representatives pulled an all-nighter to debate how strict recording carbon emissions will be, how invested wealthy countries will be in aiding the development of technology to “go green” in poorer countries, and other partially vague baseline areas of the agreement.

Despite the Agreement’s triumphs, scientists and officials warn that it may not be enough. A groundbreaking U.N report —opposed by Saudi Arabia, Russia, Kuwait, and the U.S —concluded that if countries were to halve their emissions in 12 years, permanent climate destruction could be avoided. Not a single country is on the way to this goal. The Trump Administration pitched the benefits of coal for the 2nd year in a row, angering many activists. In the capitalist society of today, where oil lobbyists manipulate the government and the dollar overcomes all logic, it is possible that climate change may not be addressed.

In the current climate, where the West burns in drought, the Southeast suffers under once-in-a-century storm after once-in-a-century storm, and the Northeast shovels itself out of several feet of snow, the people in not only the U.S but the world are waking up. Many wake up to different conclusions, but those who voice a cry of anger directed to the climate change ignoring/denying officials of their government can taste the bitterness of hope caused by the Paris Agreement. Despite its flaws, it is a start. A start to a future that our grandchildren could live to see on a habitable planet.

Sources:

• http://time.com/5418134/ipcc-climate-change-report-2030-crisis/
• https://www.washingtonpost.com/energy-environment/2018/12/05/we-are-trouble-global-carbon-emissions-reached-new-record-high/?noredirect=on&utm_term=.371587372d73
• https://www.brookings.edu/research/the-paris-agreement-and-its-future/
• https://www.nytimes.com/2018/12/15/climate/cop24-katowice-climate-summit.html