While I was in Israel this past summer, I met two girls who I became really close to. One of them, Roxy, goes to Brown University in Rhode Island, and the other Katie, goes to Ohio State. THE Ohio State. Recently, as in four days ago, Roxy and I went to Ohio to visit Katie, who is already back in school. Just for a little background, Ohio State is the largest school in the country, accommodating nearly sixty thousand students. Wow, just a tad bigger than I'm used to, considering my school has a whopping four thousand students.
Anyway, we all had a really good time together, but the most memorable part was definitely my bus ride back to the airport. My flight was at 9:15 Monday morning, and Katie had a class, so she wasn't able to drive me. We looked up the bus schedule on the internet, and figured out if I caught the number 2, and then transferred to the 92, I would make it to the airport in no more than thirty minutes. Perfect. I would catch the 7:30 bus, and hopefully, make it by 8:00 with plenty of time for screw-ups. Well, not plenty, but enough.
Early Monday morning, I got out of the twin bed I had been sharing with Roxy, gave her hug, and walked with Katie to the bus stop. As she waited with me on the bench, snow gently whirling around our blowing hair and visible breath, we reminisced over Israel and how incredibly amazing that trip had been.
"Hahahaha remember having to climb Masada at sunrise, and then literally passing out at the top from being so tired?"
"Oh my G-d yes! We like stayed up til two in the morning, and then woke up at four!"
"And then of course the camel ride. ARABIAN NIIIIGGGGGHHHHTTTSSS!!!!!!"
"Oh man!" said Katie. "This is like the only bus we have waited for together where we won't be able to sit next to each other!"
"That's sad. Aww and I won't be able to sleep on this one either!"
We hugged each other, and made a vow to meet up again in the summer.
I boarded the bus in my discombobulated style, with my huge suitcase, my backpack, my purse, and my $1.50 to give to the bus driver. I found a seat near the front, so I could have the bus driver tell me where to get off in order to catch the 92. As the bus trekked along High street, I gazed out the huge revealing windows, and every time I succeeded in fully immersing myself in a daydream, I would have to catch my suitcase with my feet as it kept rolling across the isle, attempting to maul the little old lady sitting opposite me.
"You goin' to the airport?"
I yanked my thoughts from memories of Israel.
"Yeah! Are you?" I said excitedly, hoping for a travel companion in this foreign city.
"No," said the girl. "But I've taken the bus there before." She had a blond bob haircut, and wore a red beret with an orange scarf. "You know you have like 45 minutes on this bus before you transfer, right?"
Hold on. according to the internet, I should only have like fifteen minutes on this bus, and it had already been at least ten.
"Really?" I said disbelievingly. I thought to myself she doesn't know what she's talking about. The internet wouldn't be wrong. Or...maybe Katie read it wrong? Oh jeez.
"Yep," said the girl. "And make sure to be really really careful when you transfer. It's like the worst part of Columbus. You will probably be the only white person around, so I'm just warning you. When I did it, I was pretty scared. It's like the most ghetto area. I mean, you should be okay, the druggies probably aren't out on a Monday morning...but....I don't know, just be really careful." She was going on and on about how dangerous it was for a girl in that neighborhood, especially a white girl. Crap, that made me a wee bit nervous. When she got off the bus her departing words were "Good luck".
Several stops later, I was still on the first bus. It was almost eight o'clock, and I should have been at the airport precisely four minutes ago.
"Excuse me sir," I said to the driver, "How much longer until James street?"
"Oh you have at least another twenty to thirty minutes" he said apathetically.
Crud muffin fudgsickle. This wasn't good.
As I stared out the window, trying to figure out what to do, I noticed that all of the nice restaurants and shops had turned into liquor stores and bored up buildings. The determined college students carrying backpacks were now replaced by homeless people carrying Santa Clause style trash bags full of recyclables.
By the time we reached the next stop, there were exactly four white people (excluding myself) left on the bus, all of whom got off, and were replaced by several black people. I though to myself Mikayla, come on. That shouldn't be a factor in making you afraid. Race shouldn't even matter. Oh but it did. I stood out. I was this white girl with a nice fur jacket, black boots, and a GIGANTIC suitcase. Plus I had a backpack, a purse, and a plane to catch.
Suddenly, I decided to make an executive decision to get off the bus at the next stop, no matter where it was, because at this rate, there was no way I was going to catch my flight by taking the bus. I had no idea where I was, but the more I thought about continuing on the bus, the less I liked the idea. I couldn't help but giggle silently as I pictured myself waiting at some bus stop in the middle of one of the poorest areas in Columbus with several bags, and not knowing where on earth I was. What a predicament.
As the bus putted to a halt, I grabbed all my stuff, and departed. Where the f*** am I? I dragged my suitcase to the nearest open liquor store, and went inside.
There was an Indian man working behind the counter. He gave me a warm smile as I entered.
"Hi." I said happily. I don't really know why, but for some bizarre reason, throughout this whole ordeal, I seemed to stay really positive, and the Indian man's smile infected me with even more "look on the bright sidenss".
"Hello. lksdfjHOWsdlfkjARElsdkfjYOUlskdfjTHISlskdfjMORNING?" He spoke with the thickest accent I had ever heard in my entire life! Somehow I was able to determine what he was saying, but he might as well been speaking spanish, that's how hard it was for me to understand him. Okay, I'm probably getting carried away...
Anyway, this man ended up making this whole bus trip worthwhile. He offered me free coffee, gave me a place to sit, and best of all, he kept me company, as I waited for the cab that I had called.
"Thank you so much for being so nice to me! I really appreciate it."
"Well, you know I am Indian, and I believe that you should always be nice to everybody and help anyone who needs helping. And you should not be on these streets alone! It is not very safe for a young woman."
"You know," I said. "I really like Indian people. Every single Indian person that I have met has always been really nice to me. I hope to go to India someday, maybe even this summer."
"Yes, we Indians believe that being nice is very important. India is a beautiful place."
As I sat in the chair, he bustled around making coffee for the both of us. I thought back to my junior year, when my family made the drive from Davis to Eureka. On the way, we stopped in Berkeley, just to take a quick tour of the campus. As we drove through town, we noticed an Indian bangle shop, and my mom and I really wanted to take a peek. It was a good hour before we left that store. The Indian owners were so kind and warm. They told me, having just met me, that if I ever ended up at Berkeley, they would be my second family; my home away from home. I will never forget the kindness and generosity they bestowed upon me, and these same qualities were clearly reflected in this liquor store owner.
As my cab pulled up outside, I pulled myself out of that store, away from this extraordinary caring and giving man. I was tempted to ask for his address, so I could keep in contact with him. That might have frieked him out though. But I mean, seriously, how many people do you meet like that? Probably a lot more than you think, actually. My taxi driver was the exact same way. Just as nice as the liquor store owner.

I love how this bad situation created such good memories.

Fire and Ice

"I'm totally getting a hot cocoa," I said, glancing out at the trees struggling against the mighty breath of the wind. "Seriously though, it's FREEZING out!"
Hannah and Giulia giggled at my amazement with the weather. As we paid for our comforting cocoa we found seats near the huge fireplace. I looked at the glowing wood, nostalgically musing over my experience with such majestically hot flames.
Every summer solstice, the Waldorf school held a bonfire. I played at the beach all day, thrashing around in the white water, or daring to swim out past the breaking point. After hours of being in the ocean, I ran back to shore, lips blue, and fingers wrinkled. I could see the six month old Christmas trees that people had saved especially for St. John's bonfire. As dusk seeped through the sky, and the sun began to trickle below the sea, magnificent colors of lilac and pink permeated above us. At this point the pallets and the trees were piled into the pit. Fierce flames burst and crackled as my mom handed me a tofu pup to roast on an unwound hanger.
After all the kids had finished eagerly eating their fire cooked food, we sprinted over to the
lifeguard tower to play hide and seek. "Ready or not, hear I come!"
Finally, time for s'mores! Running back over to the fire, as fast as possible I gathered the ingredients necessary to cook my marshmallow over the dwindling flames, slowly fading into embers. The crimson beauty swam before my mesmerized eyes, as my marshmallow slowly took light. Under the trance of the magical fire, I failed to notice my suffering marshmallow, engulfed in a blinding array of orange and gold. "Ah!" I blew and blew until my scorched dessert was rescued. I glanced around as all my friends toasted their marshmallows with patient diligence, glazing them to a perfect golden brown crisp. I scowed down at my own; black and unrecognizable. Oh well, I was used to eating burnt s'mores. It happened every time. I always wanted a perfectly toasted marshmallow, but somehow, every time I crouched on the sand, and held the hanger over the fire, the bright liveliness of the flames always distracted me from my goal...
Sitting in front of the grand fireplace in the cafeteria, I found myself again, pensively staring into the flames, lost in memories of my childhood. Suddenly someone startled me out of my thoughts, yelling "Snow! Snow! It's Snowing!"
No frieking way. SNOW??? At this, I sprinted away from the fire to go peak out the window. I felt like I was in a post card. Little white flakes bustled about the air, then gracefully settled on the glistening green grass. I smiled to myself, as I gazed out at the stormy sky. How different I felt. Fire had always meant, summertime, the beach, s'mores, and tofu pups. Now, in my new home in the north-west, fire meant winter, hot cocoa, and, although it's still hard for me to believe-snow.

Cross Currents

Last year in my English class we watched the movie Crash. We had to do an "open" project on it, which basically meant we could do whatever we wanted. Some people composed a diary of a certain character, others analyzed specific aspects of the film, others made a film of their own addressing the issues identified in Crash. I chose to write a poem, and present it in front of the class. Here at UPS, there is a magazine/book called "Cross Currents", where students can submit anything from essays, to short stories, to poems. Today is the last day to submit work, and I had been thinking of submitting my poem that I wrote for English last year, but for some reason I couldn't muster up the pluck. Finally, about two hours ago, I decided to just do it. I submitted my poem...Here it is for you guys to read and critique; all comments positive or critical are very welcome!! Thanks! Oh yeah, I couldn't think of a title that wouldn't give away the entire meaning of the poem, so, as of now, it is "titleless".

She coats with malice
The ignorant mind.
Compels it to dash
To twist to thrust
Into harsh convictions
Mounted on unstable stilts
Of fallacies and hatred.
She gazes on the world
Through a pane
Obscured by splotches
Of premature thought
And shallow visions of certainty.
Gaping through calloused
Eyes,
Hardened by influences of
Song and sight.
She gawks at the novelty of
Diverseness in color and
Diverseness in sound.
With ease she crashes
Between
The comfortable conclusions
That have founded
Her cruel identity.
With uncanny stealth and
Frightening furtiveness
She dwells within
Our unknowing minds
So disillusions
To her
Prevalent existence.
Her name be that of
Racisim.

Independence

This week I have Monday and Tuesday off for my fall break, so I bought a ticket to visit Ben. I feel so independent buying and booking my own ticket, and taking the public bus to and from the airport...
Independence has become an extremely common feeling for me. The novelty of not calling my parents and telling them where I am and what I'm doing every weekend is not accompanied by a sense of relief, but more a feeling of acceptance. During high school, my parents were always very understanding and lenient, which I am extremely grateful for. As I watch many of my peers struggle with their new freedom, I feel comfortable with my personal ability to make intelligent and practical decisions. Since I have been at college, I have had a friend taken to the hospital for alcohol poisoning, I have seen a friend drop out due to slipping grades. Along with these cases, I have witnessed several other people display poor decision-making skills, due to independence thrust too suddenly upon them. I am so thankful for the perfect preparation I received from my parents in readying me for my recent freedoms. Mom and Papa taught me to be pragmatic and responsible, they showed me how to make the right choices, and these skills have thus far kept me out of trouble, and guided me on the path to what I hope will be success. I would like to thank my parents for providing me with these skills, and tell them not to worry about me. I will be smart, keep my grades up, not party too hard, and call them often...