I feel so so so so uninspired. I don’t know why, I am surrounded by things to write about, but every time a idea pops into my head it feels so old and used up, all over written about and extensively commented on to the point of being mundane. Ick. Mundane sucks. I think I will list somethings that I really like since I have been whining to myself all day.

1. When a teacher laughs to themself at an inapropriate joke but tries not to let on.

2. Seeing your bestfriends after waiting ALL day

3. A wealth of inside jokes that never fail to make you laugh

4. BookSox. They really are the bee’s knees.

5. Flannel. Sheets, Pajama pants, pillow case, it rocks!

6. Deodorants that have funny names. My current two are Ban’s Sweet Surrender and Secret’s Truth or Pear.

7. My laptop. She’s my baby and i named her Charlie after my deceased camera ;)

8. Glitter nail polish

9. SLEEP

Hmm so how about a haiku?

Okay!

My phone always rings

When I’m in class I sneeze

To cover it’s noise

Sometimes I feel like some sort of mutant. I used to think this was only because I am bi-racial, and I am an uncommon ( in so. cal) mix of races, but I have come to realize that I feel even weirder because none of my bi -racial friends seemed to be plagued by this split identity. They have fallen comfortably into being ( or identifying with) only one race, almost rejecting one side completely. This I cannot do. I am not trying to draw any prejudice to myself by claiming to be what I am, but people seem notably annoyed when I tell them my race, even if they asked. Am I the only person that is not only confused by where to fit racially but also by the fact that one else seems to have this issue? Never in my life have I met anyone with the same racial mix as me aside form my sister. Most bi-racial anything is geared at half white-half African American kids. No Puerto Rican Irish French Scottish mutants. I know it seems like I don’t like the fact that I am bi-racial, but I do. I love the richness of all of my cultures. Yet i cannot completely identify with any, I feel mostly American, which I obviously am, but the word american is like the word sauce. It looks well mixed, sure, but it is made up of a variety of many things and is only solid in the sense that you have to born in the U.S. You race is irrelevant in being American.

Yet, it is not irrelevant in being a member of society. I see racism everywhere, all the time. My white friends get called Nazi’s my Mexican friends get called “beans” and they all submit. No anger. No anger that they show at least. But to me, racism is deeply hurtful, it is a bit of a raw nerve for me. I used to avoid identifying as hispanic, because many hispanic people don’t consider Puerto Rican hispanic. (Hispanic is another vague, catch all term, like American). I couldn’t ignore it hough. I felt so guilty. And deep down I did identify. Even this year I blew off being hispanic a little. But one tiny event pushed me over. 

My friend emma and I were in history and we were mocking a male friend of ours because our teacher had asked him to sweep and he was doing this miserable hack job. We kept giving him tips on how to sweep properly. The boy ( not the one sweeping) behind me looks at me and says “it’s funny that YOU know how to sweep.” I was confused, so I looked at him and said, “well every little girl learns how to sweep if she like to play house or cinderella.” Emma proceeded to say “Why is it funny that she knows how to sweep? I know how to sweep.” He ignored her and whispered in my ear a moment later  ”It’s funny that you know how to sweep, because you’re hispanic.” I wanted to shoot him, I was so embarrassed and SO SO SO angry. I spat back at him all I could think of. “Racism is never funny.” I have never spoken to his face since then.

Even re telling what may seem like an insignificant forgettable story, an tiny event that lasted all of thirty seconds, my cheeks are hot and I want to shrink in on myself. I am angry, but I also feel ashamed. It wasn’t funny that emma, who called Taylor Swift, could sweep. It was funny that me, the hispanic girl could sweep. I am so angry and confused.

On the other hand, I experience racism from the hispanic members of my family too. When i was visiting my grandma in Puerto Rico, she, assuming I understood zero Spanish, began talking about me. I actually am a beast when it comes to context clue and I understood most of what she said, (her hand gestures in my direction only dug her a deeper hole. Im a California girl, sure, but I’m no idiot). It was something to the affect of “what do you call this? this mix up? white, boriqua? nothing. a mess.” Then i rose from the sofa and said, “i am cafe con leche.” Titi Nancy looks shocked. “Que?” “i am coffee and milk, white AND Puerto Rican.” Grandma’s eyes bugged out and she laughed loudly and uncomfortably as did everyone else. Cafe con leche choked into laughter. I went and got a glass of water, when I came back the laughter had stopped and the conversation had moved on. It was as if nothing had happened, except for the furtive glances Grandma kept shooting in my direction when she thought I was sufficiently distracted. I made eye contact, I figured that the awkwardness would serve as punishment for alienating me. [I was glad she left my sister alone, since ti is harder to stick up for two people, (who knew if she would back me up ? she would probably be scared too, or think it wasn’t worth a comment) but also very jealous.]

(and being Puerto Rican is extra mixed up because I am mostly Taino indian, but a whole slew of other things too!)

Oddly, I have found some solace in a website, www.racialicious.com it makes me feel normal. It is written by people who feel the awkwardness of race today and it’s weighty relevance.

My favorite post was a video that described how multi racial people can feel like racial spies because people don’t know what race a person is and will trash talk that race in front of them. Am I making sense? Maybe? I don’t know. Rant is over, i love you all!

Love,

The Truly Distraught Cordelia

I have this strange gleeful obsession with the United States Census. I am literally in love with it. I am not sure if it is because I feel like I am helping to make Obama’s life a little bit easier by participating or because of my weird synesthesiac relationship with numbers. The whole thing makes me giddy, I want Obama’s Census to be amazing, because not every president gets to have a census counted while they are in office, and I don’t even know, but i was walking on air the whole time I was filling out the census form. Walking. On. Air. I was so intensely excited! I feel so real. I legitimately exist now, and it feels pretty good. Sometimes I feel invisible, like this tiny little dot that would fade away. No one aside form my circle of family and friends would be affected, life would go on, the census would be done and no one on capitol hill or Arizona, or wherever they count the Census, would know that one half white half Puerto Rican girl had been skipped over. They would count, and in a few years when it is all done, the maps of statistics they use in class would be missing the colored pixel that stands for me. The maps that they use in class, teachers would point to them and say, 400 years ago, back in 2010, when global warming was rampant, this is how many fourteen year olds there were in the United States of America. This was the generation that changed the world.

Being in the Census is as close to immortality as I will ever get, and it feels amazing.

I am a no longer invisible dot on a map.    I am tangible.     I love it.

p.s. i kindof secretly hope that the U.S.A. will have a different name in 400 years, since i feel a little identity crisis coming on…? say what?

Now that I am in my second semester of freshman year, I officially have senioritis. I am tired of being called freshie by the senior in journalism class, I am done worrying about college and failing out of life, and I am so over the high school addiction to inciting  a reaction. (for some reason it seems like the word “illiciting” would be better)

I absolutely cannot wait for next year, because I will be spending it abroad in  … ARGENTINA!

I haven’t quite finished setting it up, but it should be in perfect working order by the end of next week.

On another note highly related to my high school experience, I seem to be freakishly cute. Literally at least once a day a teacher or a girl on my swim team or my mom or basically anyone will exclaim “You’re so cute!” and then giggle at me. I am truly confused. I always though I was normal, now I am a novelty. I suppose being a freshman it kind of comes with the territory. Between balancing out inside jokes about maple syrup and Justin Bieber that are legit, not funny at all, and doing my homework, i have no idea how i also manage to be so adorable. Really i don’t. I have acne and I go to school in whatever I wore to bed at least two days a week. How this is in anyway cute confuses me. Yet it apparently amuses everyone else.

Life is weird. 

Anyways, I have been doing alright, surviving what will either be the best or worst years of my life. When I told my mom that I couldn’t wait to be tired of college, she told me that the real world is much more difficult and heavier with responsibility than being a kid. I refuse to believe that this is as good as things are going to get.

Love,

Cordelia

An Explanation of a Hasty Exit and a Small Thanks

My apologies, to begin,

I hadn’t actually intended to turn on my heels so soon.

It was an experiment, schooling me in new settings, new teachers,

a different level of education,

and nasty smirks.

It really did seem like a good idea, all girls, unique, young,

used to be a senior citizens home.

Clean, well kept

Courtyard fountain

Green V- Neck Sweaters

And overpriced polo’s

Green print smeared like a horror movie title

Not too far from my experiences …

Now, to get directly to the point.

There is no one I mean to offend, though if I have offended you, please do tell me.

I went to a private all girl’s school in seventh grade. I hated it. There. Plain and simple. It seemed too good to be true and it was. Before I get into the details, let me say that this is a thank you note. Upon reflection, there was no better place that I could have learned how life makes strange people, and how pathetically and embarrassingly true movies like Mean Girls ring to life. I cannot imagine a better setting to be taught the importance of saying the right thing at the right time, and only saying anything at all if you absolutely had to.

I was dumb

Fine

I agree.

For the longest time I couldn’t figure out why I disliked it so much. But by the end of the year I knew. There were a few reasons. First, I actually fell for the whole crap about one big happy family. Comedic, the whole thing.

But it was my fault on other counts too.

I assumed that no one else understood

Wrong again

For all that I knew, every other girl spent her mornings

Driving to the bus stop in spitting angry tears.

Probably not.

But maybe,

They could hide though.

I was standing, every flaw perfectly and strategically exposed.

They all could hide behind what they thought would make them happy.

Actually, those things probably did make them happy.

Things like Brazilian blowouts, impeccably airbrushed nails,

and Marc Jacobs mousie flats.

Maybe they all hated it.

Maybe everyone wanted out

Perhaps they, too filled their mornings with promises to live a life confined to homework

If they could just, please, please leave.

But I know none of them

Jumped out of a moving car

On Barrington.

No, that is the one prize I would like to keep for myself.

First Archer Girl to Jump Out Of a Moving Car In Front of Their School on What Was Probably a Tuesday Morning.

Anyways, back to my point.

Thank You all

For a year studying

The behaviors of People in Hiding.

I found this old blog that I never uploaded, and wrote over the summer while I was in Puerto Rico. Rofl, enjoy :)

I cant stand it when people return to me something that I lent them in better condition than it was when I gave it to them. Why? Because I know that if I mess something up that was lent to me, I over compensate, toiling away to clean what I have ruined. There fore there is nothing scarier than seeing the coffee mug I lent out somewhat dirty come home sparkling clean. Yes, I realize that the people I associate with are nicer than me ten-fold and do things, just to be nice. I cant help but be nervous about it after all, I’m pretty sure everything a dear friend lends to me suffers some sort of damage that I try in vain to repair. The awkward “Umm, yes the pockets of your sweatshirt do look quite nice now, perhaps it’s my organic detergent?” when in truth I spilled hot chocolate on the pockets and then scrubbed the hell out of them to hide the evidence. I mean you never know, maybe they just washed my mug before they gave it back or maybe … they washed out the blue pom-wonderful juice stains they made on the porcelain! Ha, how bout that!

(Now you know why everyone thinks I’m crazy)

On another note, Puerto Rico is lots of fun and I tried my hand at cooking. Any on who knows me knows that left alone with any heated cooking appliance, one of two things will happen to me—I will burn myself and end up sleeping with a napkin full of ice cubes, or I will miraculously make something quite edible, and even enjoyable. This time, thank the heavens, both happened. The latter was a pleasant surprise. But the burn, a surprise yes but not such a welcome one. I did not burn my hand on the stovetop, as one would expect but I burned it by sliding my finger, with a lot of pressure actually over the bulb on the hood of the stove. Amazing, just amazing. Ten out of ten if you ask me. My burn is really gross, no I wont freak out with the details like did in my previous post, but I will tell you it extends to one of my knuckles and is so deep that when I first bent my finger, the pain shot all the way up my arm. You are probably cringing now. You are most certainly cringing if you are my mother or grandmother, and if you happen to be Freddy, I give you credit for a thicker skin then my loverly kin. (Rhymaliscious!)

Adios

Love

Delia

There is a terrible disease that is taking over the world! It is Poseritis, most commonly manifested as Indie Fashion. [Well actually, I don’t think any normal girl in the bible belt (yes I realize that statement was horribly contradictory) would tolerate it.] Anyways, I am not talking about legitimately indie and unique fashion. I am referring to the unbrushed hair, generic plaid, and personality purchased at Urban Outfitters that seems to be plaguing Los Angeles. ( Too be honest it’s not even the clothes that bother me, it’s the god awful superiority of the people who act like they are just too garsh darn fantastic to have a conversation. The ones who talk about the fairfax flea market like they own it. I have been going there since I was in uber early elementary, and I’m not entitled about it. It used to be fun for me to hang out there with my dad, now I have to deal with whiny hipsters in factory work shoes.)

As someone who dresses in an odd and unique way, I have always admired people who were daring with fashion. I myself have always stood out in a crowd, and much to the chagrin of the perfectly coiffed Juicy girls I share a hometown with, I never had any shame.

I was ten years old and in the fifth grade when I first dyed a streak of my hair purple, and I found myself relishing in the comments on how bad it was that someone so young had such a horrid bit of purple hair. Mind you, I happen to know for a fact that these mothers had been dying their daughter’s hair to keep them honey blonde for some years.

Anyways, back to this Indie business. It really infuriates me, that people who happen to know a band that no one has ever heard of are able to claim that they are so damn miserably individual because of it! I will happily admit to you that I like bands that you have probably heard of. I also enjoy shopping at Target, and I have known about the horrors of Splenda and High Fructose Corn Syrup since my playground days. I was a very strange child, and i suppose now I am an equally shamelessly odd teenager. But I actually enjoy it.

Whew. Okay sorry that was so ranty, but moccasin sandals and incessant babble about Urban really get to you. On another note, I just re dyed my hair and it’s neon red, my mom and grandma say it looks very Alice in Wonderland, which pretty much sent me over the moon. :)

More Later from LaLa Land

<3

Delia

Okay so I, for Christmas got a subscription to Seventeen Magazine. I used to hate it, and then i started buying it at the newsstand every month and I realized it is lots of fun to read. Except for the fact that the adjectives they use are painfully common place, like “pretty!” “flirty!” “hot!” and it gets old pretty quick. In comparison, there is also Teen Vogue. I used to like Teen Vogue until I realized how condescending it was. I mean, they don’t even try to be accessible. They had an article in an issue I read over the summer about how the key items for any girls wardrobe were “it” items. The suggestion that really infuriated me was buying a classic Chanel bag, in three colors. I was in shock, I realize I have never had some wildly lavish lifestyle, but what teen girl can actually afford not one or two Chanel bags, but three!

I was talking to my friends at summer camp about it last august, and we came to a very wise conclusion. Seventeen is for making fun of the outfits, and Teen Vogue is for making fun of the editor.

So today I was at this meeting thing for teens in my school district. (I was attempting to be non specific about where I live, but heck I’m probably going to slip up pretty darn soon anyways.) At this meeting their was a guest speaker, from The ____________ ______ Courier. At first he didn’t bother me, until he unabashedly embraced his arrogance, and managed to slip in more than once that his paper was far superior to certain other papers. (Ahem, _____ ______ Weekly, a tactic that was very low of him, if you ask me, to try and prove how good you are by putting down another paper for no reason other than to make your own agenda seem better.) and commended a certain journalist with the initials A.H.

A certain journalist with the initials A.H. whom I happen to despise.

This guest speaker was a Conservative Republican, yet despite this I was trying my hardest to hear him out on his views of journalism, but he was so so ignorant. He informed us that he refused to learn how to use the Internet because he believed that as soon as got a grasp on it, what he had learned would be outdated and useless. Wrong! The Internet in cumulative, and refusing to learn guarantees that he will be reliant on others to run his business until he is dead. I thought republicans like power, but he actually refuses to gain the knowledge necessary to become a powerful person in the modern business world. Astounding. I feel so angry and ranty! He muttered on and on forever about his courier in journalism, yet I wanted to tear my hair out. He spoke about commitment to community in a way that made me feel guilty for wanting to explore the world. To be perfectly honest though, what really got to me was when he said that his paper staffed amazing journalists, and then he mentioned A.H. as one of them. I was furious and fuming and I wanted to scream to him, “Have you ever actually read one of her leads? It is so pitiful that actually opening the Courier after seeing one of her cover stories goes against all my survival instincts!”

Okay, so I am done bashing some old, likely religious, dinosaur for the time being.

My god— It’s still Monday, I can barely believe it!

LOVE-PEACE-SNUGGIES,

Delia

Okay so I think I must be really immature, but i adore “your mom” jokes, and it is even funnier if your replace “mom” with  ”mum” trust me! SO anyways, I have a soft spot for ones that aren’t so much mean as they are witty. For example, “you mom is so fat” is rather unfortunate, whereas “your mum wears athletic socks with her crocs!” is way more awesome. Catch my drift?

Anyhow, life is pretty good but I am in a perpetual state of tired, no joke. Five hours thirty minutes of sleep a night on average. Oh yes I know, you are sooo jealous!

Every time I blog I feel very self centered. This is mostly due to the fact that I am an astoundingly horrible typist so it takes a considerable amount of effort for me to capitalize my I’s. Each and every time I have to reach over and hit shift I realize more and more that I say I ALL THE TIME!

On another completely random and unrelated note, I have been thinking a lot about fashion lately. I actually have a lot of fun with it, putting together outfits that make me feel like a bag of skittles all decked out in bows, as if every day is a holiday. I just sometimes get so disoriented that outfits don’t quite work out… but usually they do, and I have realized that I should probably stock up on basics: denim shorts, black tights, black flats. You know, that kinda stuff. I don’t want to ramble on too much longer but something very funny happened to me on Black Friday! I was in line for the dressing room and right behind me stood none other than the middle aged Persian ice cream man from my high school. It was only a minorly awkward encounter since he recognized me first and asked the same question he asks me EVERY. SINGLE. TIME. HE. SEES. ME. “So you are Brazilian right? And you are friends with Stephanie?” Same response everytime: yes, I am friends with Stephanie, no I’m not Brazilian, may i please have an orange Big Stik?

I have to learn all of the countries in Latin America now, so wish me luck!

xxxxxxxooooo,

delia <3