Summer Travels

          Napa, California, was something more than what I expected it to be. At first, I had heard it was where tourists visited to taste wine, get drunk, then regret it and move on back towards their work schedules and lives. My friends made it sound as though it was a location filled with older people three-times my age and up taking photos to show their grandchildren. My grandmother had planned it, and while she is older, I didn't take what my friends had said and applied it to her. Instead, I went with an open mind, a legal pad, and a plan.
          My brother decided not to come with us, but that didn't stop the rest of us from enjoying ourselves. Of course, there's the wine, which starts at downtown Napa and leads up north past where he had stopped, a winery built within a renaissance-esque castle.

          But I wasn't there for wine. Instead, I was there with the opportunity to tell others I had been there, something much like the idea that it's more fun to have written than to actually write. I did taste wine, but it was too dry for me, and when I did find the wines I enjoyed, the one slipping my glasses gave me two bottles and a wave of the hand (I think my grandma bought three).
          Wine is not the only taste of Napa, we learned, as I had spotted a diner filled with people out the front and down near the curb. Stopping, we had lunch and the burgers, much to my expectations, were amazing. As a write, I would make up some excuse to return and draft a novel, or an article such as this. But I would return in actuality to this very stand, and I would have another of their delicious bacon-cheeseburgers.

          Throughout the trip, my legal-pad sat in my Mickey Mouse labled backpack, and stories bled out of me unlike anything I had experienced before. Driving up the 5 at the start, I thought of a man driving home from a business conference to a static-filled radio; however, in the static, he hears the world ending and his loved ones dying. While trying to find our hotel, I illustrated the conflicts faced within five pages and thought of a gas-station attendant too bored out of her mind that she helped us. I sit here now remembering these incidents and tales, and it feels as though I could push them out as one reads this.
          We left Napa only after a short stay and traveled to San Francisco, a city too close to my heart to forget. It's a different world in that several different cultures blend into one fondue of creativity, openness, and passion. Walking down the streets and seeing the filled cable cars demonstrates the passion these people hold while going to a Giants game. Visiting Milk Plaza and seeing a district built on rights and freedom is eye-opening to say the least. The music's not bad, either. In this way, traveling is an amazing way to see what's out there--artist, writer, student, or none.

          I travel with my family every summer, and even though some rides can be rough, the ability to capture an entire destination in words and pictures is astounding. Growing up, I never had the chance to see outside the walls of my family's homes. Now, as I travel to conferences, conventions, and possibly haunted locations, my life is able to become something much grander than what I had ever dreamed. Writers, spend some time out in the world and see what's out there to inspire you. Artists, visit the oceans, mountains, and sunsets, and capture it all in paint, sketch, or photography.
          Families, don't bring your six-year-old to Napa and ask him why he won't keep quiet. He won't, so just go with it, and write it down.

Mother, Where and How Art Thou

          Growing up, I never saw my mother. That could be seen as a lie as I did see my mother, just rarely. I rarely saw my father too, and that can at times hurt a little; when I'm asked on who my parents are or what they do, I explain but don't go heavily into detail. With Mother's Day, that can be somewhat conflicting.
          It's okay to have certain feelings, of course. That's what makes us human. I was raised on the edge of East Los Angeles by my grandparents until the age of fourteen, right around when my grandfather passed away due to unknown reasons (at least to me, for I've never asked my family how or why he died). But me and my brother were happy regardless of our folks, who spent the week working: our father was a truck driver, and our mother is still currently a supervisor at Southern California's Gas Company. We would visit them on weekends by means of car, picked up by our father, inhaling the smoke of his cigarettes as it would coat the windows in ash. I always told my parents I had reasons why I can't smell.
          But the weekends were always happy memories. Mom would take us to the grocery store, and we would get cookies, fresh baked from the bakery. She would drive us early at dawn to Disneyland, a place that today is still a large part of my life for the memories we created; I'll never forget the week we took off of school to attend Disneyland's 50th Anniversary. I still have the souvenirs from that weekend.
          Sadly, our father was in a serious car accident that crippled him to a permanent limp. I don't remember how old I was, but again, I didn't know the severity at the time--he was delivering food to the local Mcdonald's on Central ave in Chino, when a car spread through parking lot, ran him over the hood and left him on the ground with a broken neck.
          He got back up and went straight to work until he could work no more.

Mom on the Las Vegas strip during a vacation.

          However, Mom pushed through it and still drove us where she could, cooked what we enjoyed, and took care of the house while Dad was recuperating. He never grew stronger, so he sits in the living room on a large leather chair. He watches television and reads, doing what he can to help.
           When I was in second grade, I had a freak accident and broke my right femur, supposedly the strongest bone in my body (of course, I took it to the challenge to prove science wrong). Immediately I was taken to the hospital by my grandmother, who phoned my mother. I was medicated and fell asleep under the pain, waking up occasionally to scream; the memory of crying at night with the cold, rigid metal brace against my back and mangled thigh is something I'll never forget. When I awoke, Mom was there, and for the next three months, working to get healthy so I could be home for Christmas, I found her staying at the side of my bed through the tears and joy. It wasn't until a week ago that I learned she was told by the doctor at the time I might have had bone cancer due to the broken femur. She told me, as I prepared for work, that she cried hard that day.
          And now when I'm soon to reach 21, a serious achievement for me after a couple of years of stress and fear, she is still there for me--for us--taking care of the family the best she can. Dad's unable to work due to his handicap, but he gets a check in from time to time, and Mom works every day of the week, late or early, and she even works weekends--the woman has 8 weeks worth of vacation saved for crying out loud.
         Growing older as an young author, I look back to see what parts of my history could make a story that affects people inside. The idea of changing someones life and proving to them they're not alone is something I strive for, and it's difficult. It really is. When ideas are dry, and the game system calls me, however, I think on my family, and especially my mother. She's showed me out of everyone that it's possible to have the strength to do anything, and I thank her for that.
          Now, if only I had the strength to clean my room.

Just Once

When I first held you, and you cried to me

something fierce, I was too afraid to hold

you, carry you, even set you on me.

I could see how your claw strikes were quite bold.

But with you gone, now, I wish I had known

How we were both scared, and how I was wrong.

At the time with how dependent you were,

Don't jump on me, I would say, nerves shaken.

You didn't deserve the pain you went through.
Yes, that's life, and it can be really tough,
But the adventures you had then show through,
And the pain of your bite made me know enough.

But you're gone now, and I wish that just once

I could feel your claws on my hand—just once.

Dedicated to my cat, Tiger, kneading something somewhere, free of pain. 

Friendly Communication: Body, Voice, and Mind

     Communication is an important part of living. Especially as a writer, too. You're going to meet lots of new, and possibly intimidating, people, and whether you're a writer or not, it's best to approach someone in a certain way. Looking at animals, body language is very detrimental to communication; when a dog's in fight-or-flight mode it's teeth are bared, and its hackles are raised. The same thing works with humans. We might not snarl, or raise our necks when angry--scary image, I know--so the question is how do we use our language, spoken and physical, to send a clear message to a peer or co-worker?
     At work, I meet with a lot of students from many different backgrounds. Some are native speakers, and it's easier to communicate, while others can be transfer students from different levels of education--or even different cultures! I try to keep myself open to whatever comes, and keep myself open and friendly.
     Being open and friendly doesn't just mean keeping a smile glued on. It means carrying a certain composure. If I were to walk up to another writer, published or not, things would go much smoother in introductions if I were standing straight, keeping eye contact, and my hands arms were visible at all times; furthermore, if I was to greet them screaming, arms crossed, and possibly one hand behind my back, I could be taken as a threat. Of course it's an exaggeration, but it works.
     When I meet the student, no matter what background, I greet them with my name, a soft, friendly tone, and arms out and seen. I make eye contact, but don't stare into them to find the inner-direction of their soul's desires. Tutoring, I sit down, turned slightly towards them, and I'm a foot away as to not hover on them. If standing, I would be at an angle, as well; sitting or standing directly in front of a person can be seen as off-putting and tense. I don't cross my arms, and if I get comfortable in my chair, I might sit in a relaxed way. Standing comfortably, if that were the situation, you would loosen up and not be so tense.
     To give an example, police-officers crouch low to speak with a child when they're hurt, upset, scared, or just conversing. This puts the officer at level with the child and takes away the image of someone stern and intimidating. Another would be when someone's dealing with an angered person; people can be upset for many reasons, such as the child, but speaking with open posture and gestures, and a soft tone (not too soft, though. You don't want to come off as condescending), the situation could be lowered into an understanding discussion of the situation.
     I was tutoring a student today, and with her final draft due the following week, she was stressed for perfection. It's common to see these situations. It's even more common to see it when the paper is due the next day, so I came into the session letting her know we had time to work on it. I kept my tone soft, and I pulled myself away from the tutoring sheet and red pen (I would go back to take notes, but a red pen is something we all know as a horrible thing inflicted on us in grade school, so space worked out there). The situation was lowered, but she was stressed that her examples in the paper spoke on their own, not needing discussion to explain. I grew comfortable, so I lifted my legs onto the chair, sitting on my thigh.
     "With essays," I started, "the reader's coming in for information."
     She didn't look at me, but she stared at her essay.
     "In fiction, the reader works to use their imagination and put themselves in the story. Here, however, we want to do the opposite and show the readers step by step how this example relates to everything."
     "But it should stand on its own," she said.
     I discussed it further with some examples, and she had a better understanding. The situation would have been much more stressful if I raised my tone and did something as simple as turned away, or crossed my arms.
     Having open body language and a friendly outflow of discussion creates positive socialization. The use of negative tone, raised volume, or acting intense, direct, and even mean can have repercussions whether in simple speech or professional settings. This works with writing as well, but without the use of body-language; the tone and direction you take in communication is what your audience will use to assess the situation. Whether you're working on campus with just-as-stressed students, or at home with your parents, communicating in a outflow of positive vibes can make even the most direct and negative situations into something approachable.