Home

"You know, I remember moving, but I don't exactly remember feeling sad about it or anything," I said, staring out the car window. I was with my friend, who was like my sister when we were little, and her mom, driving to dance after school. Seven years had passed since I had first met her, only it felt like so much longer. "I wasn't really that emotional as a little kid."

My friend's mom laughed. "Are you kidding? You used to cry all the time. It was a good thing, but you always made sure to wash your hands because you were afraid of germs."

"That's not what I meant," I told her. "I wasn't even upset about leaving my home. I don't even think I cried then."

She shrugged and kept on driving. I pretty much forgot about the conversation after that.

in 2005, when I was six years old, my family moved from Massachusetts to Oregon. I must have been to Oregon before that, because the pictures proved it, and I remembered my aunt and uncle's house in Portland. To be honest, though, I don't really remember that much about life before Oregon. We go back every year to see family, and I definitely recognize things, and I have specific memories, but it wasn't enough to feel bad about leaving. It had just always been my home, and I was okay with that. I took it for granted, and never knew any abrupt change. For some reason, when a change did come, I just went along with it. My mom might know a different story, but to me, it was just a road trip, only with a big truck and a really tightly packed car.

My dad came upstairs to say goodnight to me one night when I was probably about six, and I asked him, "are we going to move?" It was too dark to see his face, but he replied, "yes, we probably will." And then he went back downstairs and I fell asleep like any normal night. I told this really obnoxious boy from my "walking school bus" that I was moving, and he didn't believe me at first.  It's weird that I don't remember telling my closest friends that I was moving, but I can remember exactly where I was standing when I told that kid, whose name I don't even know anymore.

There were goodbye parties, of course. I remember that because there are pictures in our moving scrapbook, and I remember people saying goodbye to me and getting a book about Oregon. My kindergarten teacher (I was in first grade by then) gave me a teddy bear that I named Patches and carried with me for the entire move. We went to a restaurant called Bertucci's with my relatives to say goodbye, and I remember stopping near that restaurant again as we were leaving to use the bathroom. We sold our grill to these really nice people who asked me about moving. My mom's friend came over and gave my brother and me each small flat "desks" and some other things for the car. We stayed with my cousins in New York state, the last time I went to their house, and played with their basketballs in the basement. I slept in my older cousin's room with her, and she had these nature noises on a CD to help her sleep. I can remember all of those random details, apparently, but I can't remember for the life of me feeling bad about leaving during this.

It's not like I don't have a good memory, because it's actually pretty good. However, I don't organize my memories chronologically, it's more like eras. I don't know what my earliest memory is, but if you ask me about an event, I might recall it quite clearly. There are a lot of things that have stuck in my mind over time, but it's kind of like my life on the east coast was one happy blur. Nothing traumatic happened, and that included moving. Days just happened, one after another, and it went on for almost six years. When I was eight or so, I would tell my friends here that Massachusetts was really still my home, and that I missed it some times. It's true that I feel like I'm going to cry when the plane circles over Boston every year, but I also ache for the sight of the Portland skyscrapers. It was only a few years ago that I realized that I love Oregon. It's my home now, and I feel comfortable here. When I think about college, all I consider is the west coast, and I don't want to think about moving away.

My grandparents' house is my home away from home. For fourteen years, everything has been the same to me there, even the dolls in the toy chest and the random knicknacks in one of the guest room's dresser. I have real memories there, and some of them are only a few weeks old. But when I think of where I used to live, my old neighborhood, all I see is a street view from the height of a toddler, a coffee shop, a church, and the houses of our closest neighbors. It's not really a home to me anymore. And while that's sad, it's also comforting that I've found another place that really is home, that I don't want to leave yet.

Editing

Sorry for any mistakes in the post below. I didn't, um, well, read it over after writing it. If something seems out of place, it probably is. Then again, if you tell me that there's a mistake so I can fix it, I'll give you a free virtual Hermione viola cake! Or a Hogwarts cake. I do both.

Weekend Adventures and Thinking in Fours

This is the part of the blog where I write this long synopsis about what I did during my weekend and how I analyzed it, etc. etc. Actually, if I'm going to do myself justice, I would write about the last two or three weeks or however long it's been since I actually wrote something on here. I can't say that I was busy, because I was definitely not, but I will admit that I was uninspired most of the time. Still, life went on for me, and I kept living it, even though I didn't write it all down. Some day I'll regret that, probably, but I just went on with what I do without worrying about how I was going to phrase it, or what I'd pull out as highlights.

I came back from Rhode Island. The last few days were rainy and stormy at some times, but that didn't stop us from plunging in the dangerous ocean, dodging the out- of- control surfers, and then finally getting out before being sucked out into the waves. I bought a fedora and a shirt, went by Taylor Swift's house twice, hung out at a coffee shop with my parents and my mom's graduate school friend for two hours eating muffins and talking about turtles, and went on a 70-foot sailboat with my relatives in Newport, listening to jazz music.

I sat around for a week, unwinding from my trip and (shhh) watching television and practicing violin. I babysat once or twice, and studied for my health challenge test, which I passed (yay!). My brother went to camp, and I made a bread Dalek with my friend.

I started band! Well, actually, I only went for three days, because even though it was scheduled in May, only about twelve people showed up every day, and none of the older flute players came. We played pep band music and practiced marching commands, which are pretty funny to watch, but really simple. It's so different to be an actual member of the band, and not just a little middle schooler who played with them at times. I'm still a freshman, but at least I belong.

So, this weekend I went to Portland with my mom to pick up my younger brother from his rugged, wildlife nature camp, where the kids are required to bring a knife. We hung out with my cousins and aunt and uncle and I read comics in their hammock.


In a brief recap, I/we:

-Got instructions to Taco Del Mar from a pathological liar from Pennsylvania, who put us on the completely wrong path for about thirty seconds.

-Went blueberry picking in the middle of nowhere, and spent ten minutes looking at a dead mole.

-Went swimming in freezing water, really close to a waterfall, while carrying my sweatshirt on my head.

-Mused about life with my wise and lovely relatives.

-Watched my brother and cousin use their very sharp knives to create spears and atlatls (if you know what those are, kudos to you!)

-Went to hippie central in Portland.

-Ate a lot of chicken.

-Tried to think up a good reason for not writing on my blog more often.


School starts next week (nooooooooo), so I registered the day I took my stressful health test (which is ironic, because the textbook had a ton of ways to cope with stress, and none of them really worked). I'm taking journalism because of the lack of health class in my schedule, which I've been worried about for the past year, and Spanish 2, along with P.E. and Geometry. I was all set to take Biology from the aptly named Mrs. Life, when my friend's mom called while I was painstakingly trying to shop for clothes on the way to Portland, and explained to my mom why it would be a good idea for me to take Chemistry instead, from my sixth and seventh grade science teacher, who moved to the high school last year. This way I could take Chemistry this year, Physics next year, and then I.B. Biology for two years after, rather than taking Biology for 75% of my time in high school (I can still do math!). My schedule is kind of up in the air right now because of that.

It's kind of scary to think about. Elementary school was so long ago when I really look back on it, with this whole school being in the middle of it and high school. The first five years were the basics, and middle school was just a launching pad for high school, which is a launching pad for college, which is the springboard for life. I think I wrote a post on that a while ago, but the more I consider it, the more true it seems. I only have four years of school left. That's like from first grade to fifth grade, which is a million years, but it's also like fifth grade to now, which was a while ago but still feels like just a few months ago. To some adults, that would be no time at all, and when I think that I've lived a while, I realize that I really haven't at all. I'm not even fifteen years old yet. Just a decade plus four. Everything seems to be in fours now. I'm glad I wasn't born on Leap Day.

Why Do We Hurt?

(That isn't really the royal "we". It's the "we" that means every human that has ever walked this planet, or if that human didn't have any feet or for some reason couldn't walk, has ever existed on this planet. I understand that there is probably a really nice person somewhere in the world who either can't talk or hasn't hurt anyone ever, but I'm just generalizing here, because the majority of people on this planet probably have done something offensive in their lifetimes).

When the Internet was first created a long, long time ago (like, the 1950s), it was meant to be a new and amazing advancement in technology. Now, sixty years and billions of emails, tweets, and instant messages later, it's something that we take for granted, and, more often than not, abuse. 

What is it in typing that makes it just so easy to hurt somebody, just by tapping out few letters and pressing send? What is the drive that pushes somebody to do this? Instead of having to face the person and spill out the insults, all that's needed is a device and some creativity, and BAM, you've ruined someone's day. Is it just a sport, to go around to different blogs and Facebook pages and see how much venom you can inject into someone's work, just for the sake of it? Trolls are interesting creatures, but no matter how much studying, it would be nearly impossible to find out everything about every single one. 

Maybe I'm just generalizing again, but the act of hurting seems to have just a few different motives: you (the hurter) is personally hurting (low self-esteem, troubled past, whatever), it's just fun to see how much you can manipulate someone, or you actually really are offended by something that has been said, but can't express your opinions in an acceptable manner. There's absolutely no reason to go onto someone's blog and go off on an foul-mouthed rampage about how much you hate something that you see there, even if it's just a random post that really has nothing to do with you. There's absolutely no reason to hurl destructive comments at somebody's writing, ruining that person's confidence in that piece. Is it because you don't think that your writing is as good, so you feel the need to hurt everybody who has more developed writing than you? There's absolutely no reason to ridicule somebody because of his or her faith, and call the entire religion names just because you don't belong to it. There's absolutely no reason to mess with people, steal identities, and try to ruin friendships, because there is no gain for anyone in that, unless you count the satisfaction of watching people struggle. 

Unfortunately, trolls will be out there no matter what. You can never really know if it's somebody sitting at a computer with no life except messing with the lives of others, a bully on Facebook or something with low self-esteem, or just someone with a really, really bad temper. It doesn't exactly work to guilt them, because it either bounces back to you or just can't quite pierce the remorse part of their hearts, but it does work to not be easily intimidated by them. Ignore them, or, if you have to, reply with facts, mild language, and a calm manner. We hurt because sometimes we're hurting, too, and a nudge in the right direction might be the key to helping someone get back on track. 

Happy Birthday to the Boy Who Lived!

Well, actually, it was yesterday.

I knew that I was getting bad at keeping up with this blog, especially now that I'm on the other side of the country, but how could I remember April Fools Day and just pass over the birthday of the century, of the Chosen One? Sacrilege, I tell you. I am very ashamed of myself.

People always talk about what Harry Potter character they like the best, and who they want to dress up as for Halloween or whatever, but not many people seem to really talk about the main character, for whom the series is named. When you really think about it, though, Harry James Potter really is a great person. He may not have the best grades or be the most tactful person at Hogwarts, but how many kids have the bravery to face a terrifying two-faced person at eleven years old, one of them being the murderer responsible for the death of his parents? To go on rescue missions all the time? To accept the responsibility that he is the one to kill the Dark Lord in the end? That's pretty incredible, really. And no matter what Cho Chang thinks, he's a pretty nice person, too. He looks out for his friends, cracks jokes when necessary, and is generally liked by the other students. Besides, he's only human.

According to the Harry Potter wiki, which is actually amazing, Harry was born in 1980, which means that the books took place in the 90's, and he's supposed to be 33 now. However, the "Nineteen Years Later" part of the last book took place in 2017, which means that right now his kids are still too young to go to Hogwarts, and he will be 37 by then. It's a fixed point in the future that we just lead up to, but at least we know what will happen next. I am very confused by it.

I actually did celebrate, though, even though I didn't write anything here. With the help of my grandma, I made a replica of the birthday that Hagrid gave Harry on his eleventh birthday-Happee Birthdae, Harry. I had to skip the sitting-on-it part, but other than that, it looked pretty much like it was supposed to. It helps that my cake decorating skills aren't that wonderful, I guess. Anyway, we sang to him, and then I remembered that it was also J.K. Rowling's, the god and creator of this magical world, birthday, so that was another reason to celebrate.

Happy birthday to the Boy Who Lived. May you live forever or something. Many happy returns (that's what they say in the Winnie the Pooh).



By the way, I now have over a thousand pageviews! Yay! Even though some of them may have been me trying to get to where I can make a new post, yay!