Silence is Golden

He’s always been a quiet man. He is a little hard of hearing. He keeps his small, thin lips in a permanent frown. His green eyes droop with age and unhappiness. He has died twice. He has no teeth. He is my grandpa and he is my best friend.

My grandpa’s real name is James Theodore Mangum. Most of his friends call him Jimmy, John Deere, or Hey- Man. Everyone he meets falls quickly for his crude humor and lack of charisma. His gruff, Sling-Blade voice is well known in the hearts of all who accept him.

When I was very young, my grandpa took to calling me Monkey. He would sit with me for hours doing nothing at all. He would push me on the swing long after I fell asleep. He never uttered a harsh word to me. My grandpa plays the biggest male role in my life. As I grew, I too became quiet and withdrawn. My grandpa and I developed a silent, unspoken bond. The quieter we became, the closer we grew.

Two years ago, I found out that my best friend has cancer. Six inoperable tumors lie at the pit of my grandpa’s stomach eating away at his life. After a few failed attempts at slowing the cancer’s progression with chemotherapy, his body decided it wasn’t strong enough for treatment. Our family is praying for a miracle, but mostly we sit and wait. We wait for the cancer to steal his life. We wait as we watch the pain eat away his energy. We wait for his time to run out. I wait to lose my best friend.

There is no man on Earth who could have impacted me like this hard-shelled, warm hearted man. Although our time is limited, his love will stay with me forever, silently reminding me that I am cherished. He will always be my best friend.

Eat That Taylor Swift

If life could be a love story, would it still be as mundane or depressing? If we always got the prince charming, or the Cinderella, would we still have the need to dream? If everything was written out before us- page by page, we flip through full color illustrations of our life- would we still be able to find beauty in the little things? Would we still be able to love life? Would I be able to live with the generic, predictable plot, happily ever after, fairytale life that has become the American dream? Would we want to?
If living has taught me anything, it’s that a fairytale only highlights the good parts of the story. It doesn’t accentuate the negatives, in fear of wearing down all the bubbly feelings we receive from the warm world painted in story books. I have prepared myself to take the bad with the slightest hope that there may be some good hidden in the packaging.

Furthermore

I hate to brag on myself, but I like to believe that I am better at English than the average person. I will even go as far to say I am equal or above some teachers. I know for sure that I am more competent than my current English IV teacher. It’s not that she isn’t smart or educated in the language; it is simply the lack of writing skill- something I happen to care a lot about.
Since I began speaking, my mother has drilled into me the convention of the English language. She, herself, was a partial English major, with the intention of teaching. Over the years she has instilled in me the writing skills necessary to rock the world with my ideas and concepts. She taught me it was important to never start a paper with the words, “In this paper, I will write…” or, “I will now talk about…”
This morning, my English teacher told me that I was incorrect for refusing to use these phrases. I suppose for someone of her intelligence, it is important to remind her that I am, indeed, writing a paper. She is a little aged and a mother, so, I can understand her being forgetful. But insinuating that it is necessary for me to dumb down my writing to pass her class enrages me. I would rather fail her class than compromise my beliefs and rejecting my God given talent.
She tells me that my transitions are unclear because I don’t use expressions such as, “First, next, furthermore, also,… etcetera”, to begin my sentences. Then, she proceeds to deduct points from my grade. I guess I should draw her a map to accompany my papers so she doesn’t get lost between paragraphs. I know it is a great distance to ask her to travel.
“Furthermore,” I have resolved to stand my ground in my English class. I won’t compromise my writing style for a fiery red-head who deems that having a style makes you incorrect. Ma’am, I am sorry to inform you, but I won’t need to know how a verb is conjugated when I get to my journalism class in college. I will simply need to know how to use that conjugated verb to state my belief and make other people believe my opinion is fact. And just incase you haven’t noticed, I am finished with my paper now.