Saroyan's Ghost

Discover the World, Discover Yourself

2010-05-25T21:43:00.000-07:00

By Vanessa Turchan (Grade 11)

Education: “the act or process of imparting or acquiring general knowledge, developing the powers of reasoning and judgment, and generally preparing oneself or others intellectually for mature life.” You can find the basic definition of education in any dictionary anywhere you go, but when you start asking people what they think education means, that is when everything starts to change.

After taking a mini-survey of my own, asking friends and family what they think education means, I learned that to a lot of people, the dictionary definition of education is quite different from their own. People did say that education is what makes you successful; gives you knowledge to better your life by strengthening your mind; teaches you to succeed and exceed in life. The definitions that really got me thinking were the ones that weren’t as “typical.” One person said that education is gaining knowledge in order to succeed better in life. It seemed like an expected answer at first, not quite what I was looking for, but then the person went on to say that teachers may teach information as education, but the best education is what you get from experience and self-education; this is the answer that embodied everything that I was waiting for someone to finally say. Parents spend hundreds of thousands of dollars sending their children to elementary school, middle school and high school to learn the textbooks. Why? What good is learning everything if the only way you’re going to apply it is through tests and papers? I have a different proposal, my own view on how education should be.

Education should be more diverse and open to different opportunities. People should be able to express themselves and their interests outside of the culture of their school. An example of this is Loyola High School’s ‘Senior Project’ program. Every year, seniors are required to “engage in this immersion project of 85 hours during the school day.” The students take all their exams prior to starting this project, where they devote time to a “poor and needy population demonstrating one or more corporal works of spiritual mercy.” The students engage in this activity for an entire month, and afterwards, they have activities and discussions about their work and what they learned and accomplished.

If someone wants to be a magazine editor, they should go intern at a magazine firm; if someone wants to be a lawyer, a law office; a doctor, a hospital; an editor, a fireman, a teacher, a dentist, an artist, a photographer. There should be a certain amount of freedom to travel around and do what you want, applying what you learn in school to the real world. This way, students can see what they like or don’t like, how things are in the real world job market, and go from there. In this way they get to apply everything they’re learning in the real world, while they’re still in high school. Personally, I think this is a great idea because kids get to see how what they are learning is applied in life, and they get to see what professions they like and don’t like, without having to wait until college or after.

In the 1920s, Professor John Dewey, a faculty member at Columbia University, set forth the principles of “learning by doing.” This was the basis of progressive education where he believed that “the workbench was as essential as the blackboard, and that ‘education for life’ should be the primary goal of the teacher… Dewey continually stressed the positive virtues of experience, cooperation, and democracy, and he urged philosophers to abandon futile debates about knowledge in favor of tackling the real ‘problems of men.’” In many ways, this was the start of a movement that is still in the works today: an attempt to incorporate “realism” into education.

Sometimes very smart students are perceived as lazy, careless students, simply because this “easy,” basic schooling isn’t enough for them; there’s no excitement. Especially in the case of children, at least until the age of 18, there has to be a certain level of adventure and freedom to explore. A youth’s mind works in such a way that it needs to be excited and thinking all the time but in new and different environments. Sometimes, being in the same school five days a week for nine months of the year gets tedious and boring, leaving students less encouraged to learn. If students were allowed to go to different places, different schools and campuses, different states and countries, different atmospheres, things would be different and more exciting. There would be a certain desire and excitement to learn new things and apply them in real life, in new places. They shouldn’t have to wait until college to experiment with their lives; instead schools should encourage this starting in high school.

Different companies and organizations across the country, in every state, should also be open to this idea, calling schools and inviting students to internships in their offices. This should be a type of group effort for the benefit of the children in our country, and even around the world. It could be like a foreign exchange program, except on a broader and longer basis. Students would be able to go from place to place, different cities, states and countries and experiment with all different types of professions, a wide variety of options and experiences. This would be an exciting thing for children, and that’s all that anyone wants: for people to be encouraged and yearn to learn.

Nowadays in politics, all you hear about is the desire to improve schools, make situations better for children and encourage everyone to love learning. Children are the most important part of society because they are the future; therefore they need to be excited about school and learning to get far in life and improve their generation’s situations, just like our government is trying to do for us right now. The government should encourage a program that helps excite students about school. They would be able to travel, learn different languages and professions, attend different schools throughout the school year and experience different types of culture to make them well rounded people. After kids are able to experience this, they can choose a specialty that they want to pursue and enjoy, but will have a well-rounded background to support them.

Overall, there needs to be a more positive, encouraging environment so that the youth of today will have the desire to better the world of tomorrow. Hopefully, future generations will be able to embody this idea and help it progress. For now, all we can do is hope, and help encourage students to find the fun and excitement in learning and help themselves become better people.

Looking Forward, Looking Back

2010-05-04T23:49:00.000-07:00

By Serli Polatoglu (Grade 12)

“For of all sad words of tongue or pen, the saddest are these: ‘It might have been!’”
-John Greenleaf Whittier

I am the most contemplative person you will ever meet – no matter how small the decision, I analyze, subdivide, and categorize each possible outcome and its repercussions. Every possibility is an opportunity, and every decision has a consequence. A question as simple as “Where should I eat today?” can be broken down into a thousand facets. What I eat now will determine how hungry I am later. If I go out to lunch, I may not go to dinner with my family, and without me they will not recognize the famous author seated at a neighboring table. I won’t spill my ice tea on him, and I won’t spend the next ten minutes apologizing. We won’t have an insightful conversation that will result in his guidance and mentorship, and this event will not cement my writing career.

However, if I don’t go out to lunch I will avoid making eye contact with the boy seated across the restaurant, and he won’t spend the next seven minutes agonizing over whether or not he should come talk to me. He won’t casually saunter over to my table, and reveal that he is my long-lost brother from Nicaragua.

I could simply decide to take a different route home, not give change to the hobo who’s usually seated on the street corner, and he could do himself bodily harm because no one showed him an inkling of compassion. Or, I could stick to my usual route, avoid noting the trying times that plague people in the lower half of town, and not be inspired to found a nonprofit organization by the time I’m twenty.

Alan Lightman’s Einstein’s Dreams detailed the notion of parallel universes – a world where every possible action occurs, and every reaction is forever changed. I spent an entire Friday eating frozen yogurt and, in concert, agonizing over the infinite number of parallel universes that would exist if every possibility became a reality. Then I began thinking of what a parallel version of myself would do, instead of sit at a table and contemplate asking for a free sample.

Every decision is a missed opportunity. The decisions you make create experiences, and your experiences define you. So, a decision as simple as my choice of eatery could forever change my life. This is why I agonize over every decision - I want to be sure I pick the best options for myself. Whittier makes me want to seize the opportunities that are most appealing, rather than stick to what’s generic and ordinary. His quote inspires me to be extraordinary – to push myself outside my comfort zone and accomplish something in the process.

I never want to look back on a decision and think of what could have been. I want to look back on my life and be confident I made the best choices. I’ll be able to evaluate my judgments by counting my regrets - the fewer I have, the happier I’ll be. And rather than thinking of what “might have been,” I’ll happily think of what has occurred and look forward to what’s yet to come.

You, Too, Can Look Good In A Bikini

2010-04-20T21:47:00.000-07:00

By Chris Geozian (Grade 12)

There is nothing quite like a really well-done ad campaign. Ads evoke many emotions and dormant opinions deep inside us. They make us happy, they make us sad, they make us cynical, they employ hundreds of thousands of Americans, and are an irreplaceable part of our culture. Case in point, they’ve become a staple of the Super Bowl to the point that there are ads for the ads. Annoying as they may be, we need ads to boost our economy.

For example, there is a new ad for Denny’s Restaurant about their breakfast lover’s trio. In the ads, there is a single man dressed simply in a dark plaid shirt; this man is portrayed as a manly man, a blue collar icon if you will. In one of the ads in this ad campaign, the man starts a monologue: “What’s the deal with all these people rushing to work, drinking their mochaccinos, cappuccinos, choclaccinos, whateverccinos…” All these things are associated with Starbuck’s coffee shops. Oh, and did I mention the patriotic music? Yeah there’s that, too. He also says, after the product is introduced, “Listen, coffee and milk foam is not a meal” and at the end of the commercial he says “Thank you and good morning,” as he holds up a mug of hot coffee in a sort of toast to America and all its blue collar workers. The best part is the subtle implication they’re making here that if you patronize Starbuck’s, you’re unpatriotic. Truly a superb ad, a classic, if you will.

This next ad is directed at women; I’m sure all of you have seen it at least once. This ad is for Old Spice body wash and it starts off in a bathroom where there’s a half naked muscular black dude talking about how he is so much better than the ladies’ “man.” He says “…sadly, he isn’t me, but if he stopped using lady-scented body wash and switched to Old Spice, he could smell like he was me.” The scene switches to a boat where his towel is traded for white pants and a sweater tied around his neck. He says “Now look down, back up, where are you? You’re on a boat with the man your man could smell like. Look at your hand, now look at me. I have it; it’s an oyster with two tickets to that thing you love. Now look again, the tickets are now diamonds. Anything is possible when your man smells like Old Spice and not a lady.” With an abrupt “I’m on a horse,” the camera pans out and he is indeed on a horse. The tagline reads, “Smell like a man, man.” The implications are much more overt in this ad; in fact they are more like suggestions.

Of course, there are a handful of terrible ads. The UPS ad that features a man in a lady’s wig is a good example. In this ad, a man in a lady’s wig demonstrates the advantages of using UPS. Another terrible ad is AT&T’s ad to counter the Verizon maps ad campaign, which is also terrible but in a whole different way (it’s just really, really annoying). This ad just seems incredibly weak, like AT&T didn’t even try. Of course there are the various annoying ads that are everywhere: Sit’n’Sleep, most car commercials, commercials for certain restaurant chains such as Applebee’s and Outback Steakhouse, and all ads where celebrities sell out in the worst way possible (yes I’m talking about you, Michael Phelps and Subway) just to name a few.

I want to discuss a few gems as far as advertisements go, the first being the Terry Tate Office Linebacker ads for the Super Bowl in 2003 that Reebok did. These are pure genius. Definitely the Carl’s Jr./Paris Hilton ad for the Super Bowl. Fast food restaurants generally come out with good ad campaigns. As far as Subway goes, they’ve had some stellar ad campaigns that are effective: the 5 dollar foot-longs campaign started as promotion by a single shop owner in Florida who owned a few stores. This caught the attention of the higher ups on the corporate ladder and presto. A winning ad campaign.

Ah, there really is beauty, wit, humor, and truth in good advertising.

My O'Papa

2010-03-30T21:49:00.001-07:00

Words and Photograph by Ari Ekmekji (Grade 11)

“Step out of the window onto the air conditioning unit,” he told me.

My grandpa was unlike anyone else I had ever known or will ever know. That afternoon at his house was like most of the other numerous ones I spent there. One of the most common activities my brother and I undertook while visiting my grandparents was to play cards with my grandpa, whom I called by the nickname O’Papa. From a young age he had taught us how to play the card game pinochle, and we never failed to pull out a deck and play a few rounds while at his house.

But this time when we were playing in his bedroom, my O’Papa noticed that the loquat tree that grew right outside the bedroom window still had some precious loquats on the higher branches. Since they were too high for him to reach from the ground, he told me to “Step out of the window onto the air conditioning unit.” Being a fearless, adventurous nine-year old, I proceeded as instructed, and after establishing my balance I stretched to pick as many of the loquats as I possibly could without falling seven feet to the ground. But the entire time he maintained a firm grip around my small waist and refused to allow me to venture to the outer portion of the protruding air conditioning unit.

At my young age, my grandpa even let me drive his car—well, kind of. I clearly remember his white Cadillac, which I spent so many afternoons helping him wash, and every now and then he would take me for a ride. Now this was back when I was a mere lad of around six or seven years, so I was just the right size to sit on his lap in the car. He would then put my hands on the steering wheel and let me steer the car as he accelerated and braked. Being so young, I had no other reaction to this than pure amazement and joy, but little did I know at that point that his hands were always on the bottom of the steering wheel in order to take control whenever he deemed necessary.

This idea of making me think I was accomplishing something that in reality I had no control over repeats itself in some other stories I have with my grandfather. The next best example I can think of is pulling the garbage cans from in front of my grandparents’ house up to the garage. This may seem nothing special, but to a young kid, a row of garbage cans and a steep driveway up which to pull them equals oodles of fun. I would grab the garbage cans and begin hauling them up the rather long and inclined driveway with all my effort. Once again I thought that me, myself, and I was getting this task done, but all the meanwhile my grandpa was in the back pushing the garbage can so it would actually go up. However I was oblivious to this minor detail and joyously and strenuously pulled up the cans in complete satisfaction with my strength, perseverance, and accomplishment.

In the mornings when I went over to my grandparents, or when I woke up after spending the night, our traditional procedure was to have a special breakfast, which I called (and still do call) O’Papa’s breakfast. This standard arrangement of foodstuffs consisted of olives, cheese, bread, jam, and lebne (yogurt). Even now when I go to visit my grandmother, in the mornings we almost always have O’Papa’s breakfast—partially in remembrance and partially because it’s just so good!

When the later hours of the day rolled around, my O’Papa’s menu changed to a slightly less sophisticated, but equally delicious duo—Dr. Pepper and peanuts. Without even the slightest competition, Dr. Pepper ranked first among his favorite drinks, and he could gulp a can of it at almost any time of the day. I remember the refrigerator being full of it almost constantly, and whenever it did happen to run out, there was a sufficient stash in the garage to keep up his supplies. I cannot go a day anymore without thinking about him every time I, or someone around me, orders a Dr. Pepper at a restaurant or drinks one at my house.

And then come the peanuts—ah, the peanuts! How many sunny, rainy, and cloudy mornings, afternoons, and nights we spent crunching this delectable snack from huge bags filled to the brim. Cracking the hourglass shaped shells while sitting and talking with my grandpa was always more enticing to me than watching television or playing some kind of silly game.

And the fun only continued when we would go inside to listen to music and even dance. My O’Papa absolutely loved music and had an incredible ear for it. For decades he had played the accordion, and in my house resides a picture of a dashing, young man with an accordion in his hands looking out to greet those who walk by. He always loved how I played the piano, even though I was only at the beginning stage, and now that I have advanced so much, my parents and grandma frequently tell me, “Only if O’Papa were here to hear you playing so beautifully.”

One thing I will never forget is the Greek song “Kalimera,” which he would almost always play to sing along with and dance to with me. When my grandparents were vacationing in Greece one summer, he heard this song on the radio and immediately fell in love with it. The next morning he went up to the front desk of the hotel and sang the song to them, having already learned it, and they told him its name. After that he swiftly proceeded to go to a cassette store and buy the song, which I now hum in my head from time to time and smile remembering how much joy it brought him.

Now even though my O’Papa possessed all of these amazingly kind and sensitive sides, inside lurked a serious one as well. This rare side most especially came out when he would sit down with his regular bridge partners and play this card game that mystified me as a child. Even though he enjoyed playing simple games with my brother and me, when push came to shove, bridge was one of his passions. This game seemed to me nothing more than grown men throwing around pieces of paper with numbers on them at speeds imperceptible to my untrained eyes. My grandfather would pick up cards, discard them, gather chips, and hand them over faster than I could keep up.

Back when he lived in Aleppo, he would often go to the country club with his friends when he was off from work. There they would swim, converse, and engage in very important games of bridge. One major reason why bridge constituted such an important part of my O’Papa’s life is because one of his bridge partners in Aleppo was the American ambassador to Syria. Through this connection, he learned about a great opportunity to move to America, and consequently he, my grandma, dad, and uncle came to Los Angeles.

But his playful side was still quite evident in his personality. Whenever we would be driving somewhere and a red light came our way, he would stare it down and say, “Turn green!” And laughing the whole time, I would join this silly and humorous game until the light finally did turn green and we felt like we had somehow contributed to it.

Then there was the time when we went to a fast food restaurant, which my memory fails to recall the name of, and when the cashier asked what we wanted to order through the speakerphone, my grandfather purposely began acting confused as to where the noise was coming from. He stopped the car, got out, and started circling the machine from which the man’s voice was emanating, and I was hysterically laughing while the cashier was probably just in disbelief. After continuing these antics for a minute or so, he got back in the car and we proceeded along our way, snickering to ourselves as we paid the cashier.

Every birthday and Christmas I had another tradition from my grandpa. He would always make out a $100 check to both my brother and me, and we would go with him to the bank to cash it, usually in one-dollar bills. This sum of money was so mesmerizing to us at such a young age, and although these funds always ended up being deposited in our bank accounts, the few days that we had with a stack of 100 dollar bills on our desk made it all worthwhile. And with each year, we would receive the letter addressed to us, open it with anticipation, thank our grandparents, and be excited since we thought we were now “rich.” And to this day my grandmother never fails to provide us with checks every birthday and Christmas for $100, and on the line of the check designated to its purpose, she writes “O’Papa’s Wish List.”

The memory of my grandpa, my O’Papa, travels with me along life’s sinuous path. And even after Dr. Pepper stops making their delicious soda, after “Kalimera” is completely forgotten as a song, and after the checks stop coming, that memory will remain.

Finding My Way To Tomorrow

2010-03-16T21:13:00.001-07:00

Words and Photograph by Talia Tanielian (Grade 12)

Cancer devoured my father. I was five. I was too young to recognize his impact on my life. I was too young to imagine the impact he would have on my future if he suddenly disappeared from this earth. All I could see was my father, bald and smiling, on his hospital bed, his deathbed. I refused to hug him in his last days because I thought, in my small and stupid mind, that what he had was contagious. That refusal is my only regret. I went to his closet one day shortly after that day—February 4—tried on his sweatshirt, put on a tie, slipped my tiny feet into his enormous loafers, and stared at myself in the mirror. I don’t remember what I was thinking.

In the beginning, my tears were routine. I’d miss him, just as I would if he had gone to work in the morning and I knew I would see him at night, but just couldn’t wait. I’d want to sit on his lap, have him tell me a story and lull me to sleep, but I felt no different from when he would travel for a week or two for business and couldn’t be there at bedtime.

A bit later, the thought began to sink into me—he’s not coming back. I would get angry when people pitied me, for I felt it to be a weakness. I started thinking about how little things like father-daughter dances were now enormous pits of emptiness that I would fall into because I didn’t have anyone to play that role. I was angry with myself for not spending more time with him in his last days. I rarely went to the hospital in the two or three months that he called that dreadful place home. Whether or not I had any control over that escaped my reasoning—I couldn’t forgive myself.

Sometimes I got irrational. Sometimes I’d yell and scream. Other times I wouldn’t. I grew hard. I chained up my emotions, dragged them to the cavernous depths of my soul, and left them there. Months passed. Years passed. I grew solid. I built walls along the edges of my character. I never wanted to be hurt that way again. I aimed to be impermeable. There were times when I felt enveloped by my emotions. Ten thousand different strings pulling at every crease and nook in my brain. Do this, beat that, forget them, tick, tock.

I watched and imitated my mother. Two squirts of perfume. A smile on demand. Never a rolling tear. I watched her carry on her daily life calm and collected. I envied that strength. My mom remarried, his family hated us. Such coldness was strange to me; I still believed in fantasies and make-believe, happy endings. My mother wasn’t what we Armenians call “makoor.” She wasn’t pure, she was widowed, and she had two kids. My brother and I were rejected by their family. I gripped my father as a guide through the actual death itself, being excluded from his funeral, the incessant crying, having to accept a new man in my mother’s life, and growing up knowing that many areas of my family life were, are, and always will be behind curtains.

It took some time to realize the importance of valuing his life before it was no longer there, and how I never did. Appreciating what I had before I lost it became the most important thing in my life. For about the last decade or so, this is what I wake up with and what I sleep with. It’s the central philosophy by which I live my life. I began writing, composing music on the piano, thinking, talking. I tried to remember every little detail of our time together. Memories of when we used to play a game called “yakala,” which is Turkish for “capture.” Memories of when he made me a necklace with my name on it using the beads from my Bead Studio play set. I still have that necklace. But I could only remember so much of the first five years of my life, two of which I spent in diapers. I aimed to appreciate now what I didn’t appreciate then. It was the worst feeling in the world, knowing that I didn’t value my father for who he was in my life while he was still in it.

I channeled my emotions into keeping myself busy. My schedule became my antidote. Drama kept me sane; Rachmaninoff and Chopin for days that were never-ending. I dove into a world of maintained schedules, planned appointments, and finite activities. What gradually happened was that I began to shut off for a day here, a few days there. Soon enough, relaxation became my ambition. I’d work and work in hopes of finishing everything that needed to be done to relax in its true form—worry-less. I vacillated between being intensely busy and enjoying life. I started appreciating the little things—an extra hour of sleep in the morning, one more dance after an amazing night, a random “I love you” between my mom and me—and started slowly tearing down the chains that shackled me. I trusted my friends more, I let myself talk about my past, I opened up—not as a rose blooms towards the sun to exhibit its beauty, but as a clam reveals its pearl for the first time in the shadows of the ocean: the pearl that was made from its own torture.

I’m seventeen now, quite a different girl than I was twelve long years ago. I simply consider myself bruised. My father’s death shaped my life in ways I can’t even describe. I’m scared of hospitals, disgusted by smoking cigarettes, and terrified of cancer. These emotions mirror the fears I’ve developed subconsciously throughout the years. My father’s memory pushes me forward; this experience has molded my character indefinitely. I strive for the things he never got a chance to see, to feel. I strive for success because it’s the best revenge. I strive for excellence because I know I can achieve excellence. His memory pushes me to become stronger every day.

It all works around time. How we deal with things is the fabric of how we live, how we braid ourselves into the world. We remember, long for, and despise the things in our past. We dream, pursue, and get anxious about our futures. Where is the present in all this? There shouldn’t be any waiting to value the goodness in life, because before we know it, it’ll all disappear.

Thinking back to February 4th, 1998, I do not feel the rush of tears on my cheek; I feel acceptance, and I feel ready for the next chapter of my life to begin. After all, it is my past that made me who I am today, and it is that person who is ready for tomorrow.

Dreaming, Drawing and Soccer

2010-03-02T22:11:00.001-08:00

By Cynthia Saglamer (Grade 9)

Often times, students around the world will be given the task to sit down, and write an essay about where they feel they belong in the world—where they feel most at home. Questions arise such as, “What if I don’t belong anywhere?” or, “How should I know where my home is?”

And I can relate, because what if you haven’t found that one place yet? What do you do? Make something up, or just pick a few things or places that you enjoy the most?

In my life, I have found that lying is not the answer. I have also found that I get closest to that feeling of belonging when I’m doing one of two things: drawing or playing soccer. At times I wonder how I would feel if I could do both at one time.

Doodling—that’s all it really started out as. Since I was a toddler in diapers, I drew or made marks on anything I could find. Of course, I would get in trouble for drawing on objects around the house, but that didn’t stop me. I was the invincible Cynthia with a marker in my hand but never a paper to write on.

Although it was years ago, I vividly remember the day when my sister, Stephanie, (who, by the way, was my inspiration for drawing in the first place) and I were sitting at our kitchen table and making paper horses for an occasion that I can’t recall. We cut out the shape of a horse, stuffed it with tissue paper, and then stapled the sides together. Now came the time for coloring the outside of the horse—my favorite part. My sister, being a much better artist than I was, knew the right way to color it and criticized mine because I drew red and blue squiggles on it instead of the usual brown. We actually fought about which horse looked better. Deep down inside, I knew hers was prettier, but I would have never told her that. I was just too stubborn.

After an array of random (but memorable) home projects, my mom took me to my first art class. I went with my sister of course, because I was too scared to go alone. Maybe the teacher would be mean. Maybe the other kids would paint on my face with pink—I hated that color. Once I got there, all that fear faded. Sure, I was nervous that maybe my drawings wouldn’t be good enough, but I really liked my teacher and she taught me a lot. I always think about that one day when she was absent and someone else took over her class. I was really annoyed because I didn’t like the new guy and I needed to draw some kind of animal that day. I always forget what the animal was. I do remember, however, that the drawing had to be pink.

After a year or so, I quit the class. I’ve always wanted to go back but never found the time. Nowadays, I just stick to drawing at home in my free time.

Another one of my habits is drawing at school during classes—especially Armenian class for some reason. My notebooks, textbooks, and binders have been filled with random designs, pictures and outbursts of boredom. Take away whatever I’m drawing on, and I’ll draw on the desk. Take away the desk, and I’ll draw on myself. Can’t do anything about it now, can you?

Although most people don’t mind my constant drawing, there is one person who just seems weirdly annoyed by it: “Cynthia, why do you always draw hearts in your binder? Look there is one there, and there, and there.”

I never answered that question because it is not something I can really explain. It’s just a feeling.

When I have that brush or pencil in my hand, everything feels right. My imagination does the bulk of the work, and I just draw away. It feels weird, like nothing else matters for that little time that I’m drawing the picture. Then, my work is done and it’s back to reality.

Along with my obsession for anything art related, I have found a love in soccer. Yeah, I know; drawing and soccer?

Soccer is also something I began as a child. My parents first signed me up for AYSO when I was about four, and soon I fell in love with the sport. I’d get nervous at games out of fear of making a mistake or looking like a complete idiot in front of all the parents, but once we started playing, I’d completely forget that anyone was watching. It was just me, the ball, and some annoying girls trying to get in my way.

At the end of each season, my team would have a little get together at a restaurant where the coach would hand out awards. One year, my coach handed me my award and said, “Cynthia here is the kicker of the team. Her kicks are so strong that once we needed to stop a game because someone’s nose started bleeding due to her kick.”

I was embarrassed because the girl that I had hit in the nose was on my team, and she was sitting right beside me. Although this is not a memory of a certain game I played, it is my clearest and best one because when I was handed that award, my dad smiled at me and I knew he was truly proud and that meant the world. He is also a fan of soccer and loves that I followed in his footsteps.

I stopped playing AYSO a couple of years ago, and although I play on my own time, I miss it a lot. It became apparent how much I missed it when I went to a Bolsahye gathering where the kids play soccer and the parents enjoy themselves and watch the games. I did not play that day, but as my dad and I were walking to the car at the end of the night, we went across the soccer field. This odd feeling rushed over me for a few seconds. I immediately stopped in my tracks and looked around at the empty field, the grass, the white lines, the goals, and the lonely ball just sitting there. Confused, my dad asked me what was wrong. I just said, “Nothing,” and kept on walking to the car, but my mind was a still on that lonely field. Why had I stopped playing the sport? I knew that soccer was for me—a sport that I should’ve continued playing.

When I’m on that field, when I’m dribbling that ball or scoring that goal, I feel on top of the world. Losing games didn’t even phase me, because I wasn’t playing just to win; I played because I love it.

Although both of my passions are on opposite ends of the spectrum, they combine to make a huge part of me. They show my two sides perfectly and when I’m drawing or playing soccer, I feel that I can be myself and no one can say anything about it. Sure, they aren’t exactly homes that I can call my own, or places where I belong, but they symbolize me as a person. And that’s just fine with me—the “I’ll kick you in the nose if you mess with me,” yet quiet girl: Cynthia.

"A Teacher? Why?"

2010-02-23T21:43:00.001-08:00

By Tiffany Esmailian (Grade 11)

Since I was in elementary school, I have always been asked, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” I knew my brother always dreamed of going into the profession of medicine, and I did not want to seem as if I was copying my brother. Therefore, I never said that I wanted to become a doctor. The second best thing, I thought, would be a lawyer, and so that was always my answer. Being a stubborn child, I was very argumentative, so people would tell me that being a lawyer would be perfect for me. I was able to convince myself that I really dreamed of becoming a lawyer in the future. Unfortunately, I was merely feeding myself lies and false hopes.

For majority of Armenian parents in my culture, a prestigious career would be a doctor or a lawyer. To be respected, according to them, one must follow a profession that brings in tons of income, so that they can wear their Gucci suit and drive around in the latest Lamborghini. To them, this is happiness. To them, this is success. Well to me, happiness is success, and happiness does not come from my Lamborghini or my Gucci attire. Happiness comes from being able to wake up every morning and instead of dreading to go to work, put a smile on my face and anticipate the surprises of the day. For a while, I was not able to figure out what profession I could pick up in the future that would allow me to achieve this level of happiness.

When I entered the ninth grade at AGBU Manoogian-Demirdjian School, I was placed in the Honors Civics class with Mr. John Paulos as the instructor. As much as I attempted to clear my mind, focus, and concentrate on the material I was trying to study, I could not. Trying to decode this mystery and find out the cause of this, I stumbled upon a very important piece of information: I do not like law.

So taking this piece of information into consideration, I came to a very simple conclusion. I was never going to be a lawyer.

But now what? I was back at square one, trying to decide what I wanted to do with my life. However, now it was a bit more difficult because I was in high school and felt the need to decide as soon as possible, or else it would be too late.

Oddly enough, I do not know who or what inspired me to come to this conclusion. I do not know what sparked this interest in me. I do not know how I came up with this idea. Honestly, I did not care either. It clicked that I dreamt of being a teacher, and nothing anyone said or did could get in the way of me realizing my dream.

So the next time I was asked, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” I could answer honestly and say, “I want to become a teacher.” But when I answered the question, I was a bit disturbed at the responses I received. I would get disappointed looks from a few, and some would ask “A teacher? Why?” as if I was doing something wrong. But I did not believe that I was doing anything wrong; I was simply following my dream, and what is so wrong about that?

Was Socrates, for example, not a teacher? Why is it that it was perfectly fine for him to be a teacher, but it is degrading for me to become one? The Socratic Method is the method of inquiry that would enable one to solve a problem by asking questions. It could be broken down into a series of questions, the answers to which gradually distill the answer a person seeks. The influence of this approach is most strongly seen today in the scientific method used to carry out experiments. To this day, the Socratic Method is still used in classrooms and law schools as a way of discussing complex topics in order to expose the underlying issues in both the subject and the speaker. Clearly, Socrates is a significant individual in the history of teaching.

Why is it that Albert Einstein was able to become a highly respected teacher, but I would be disappointing everyone around me? His great mind’s contributions to our world include developments in the special and general theories of relativity, photons, and quantum theory. Albert Einstein is known as the Father of Physics. Nobody would dare put down this teacher, so why put down my dream?

I began to search for justification for this twisted logic of the majority of parents from my culture, and found a few miniscule ideas that may be a part of it. According to the Census Bureau’s statistics, there are 6.2 million teachers in America. While on the other hand, according to the latest statistics from the World Health Organization's report "World Health Statistics 2006," there are 730,800 doctors in America. There is a large difference in the number of doctors and the number of teachers, and maybe since there are so many more teachers, it is hard to appreciate them as much.

I have one argument to bring up to those who follow this ideology. How did any of the doctors get to where they are? How did any of the lawyers in our world end up being successful, rich, and victorious in almost every case they take on? Who educated the ones who are making billions of dollars, living in mansions, wearing their Gucci attire, driving their latest Lamborghinis?

As a future teacher, I’d like to say, “You’re welcome.”

Home Lasted Only A Few Seconds A Year

2010-02-16T15:38:00.000-08:00

Words and Photograph by Anaiis Avanesian (Grade 9)

I have been asked to tell you where I feel most at home, a question I fear I cannot really answer. I say this because I have not seen enough of the world or done enough to know where or what home is. However, as the question was presented to me and I do have to write something down, I’ll tell you about the one place or rather the one activity I get the most sense of belonging from: track and field.

I had always been fast. Every year starting from first grade, I was chosen to participate in the track portion of our school’s field day. I took it seriously, even at that age. I wanted to win. As the years went by, I became faster, accumulated more and more medals, and started my reputation as one of the fastest girls in our grade. Fifth grade came. My last year in elementary school, and my last year running track and field. Track was only for elementary. I was upset that I was no longer able to run, but the following year, our school participated in our first ever Kaham games and I could run again.

The Kaham games are a series of friendly sports competitions among the Armenian schools in Los Angeles. One of these sports was track. We all had to try out, and I made it. The races took place at Glendale Community College. We got lost on the way to the track itself. When I finally reached the track, I remember seeing a few of my friends and getting a number pinned to my shirt. We were wearing our P.E uniforms. The older boys were getting ready to run the 400 meters which was one lap around the track. It seemed like an impossible thing to do at the time.

A few of the Armenian schools there were Ferahian, Chamilian, Alex Pilibos, and Merdinian. I remember feeling very excited all day. When it was finally my turn to run, they called my name and which school I was running for over the loud speaker. I went to the track and stood in the lane I was assigned. We were about to run the hundred meters. A man explained to us that he would be at the end of the track and would say the usual “On your mark, get set,” but the “go” would be a shot from his starter gun. He shot it once so that we would become familiar with the sound. As I stretched, I looked around at my competition. Some were stretching, some seemed to be mentally preparing themselves, and others were nervously chattering with friends. Armenian music was blasting and parents, relatives, and little children were in the bleachers above us talking, taking pictures, and recording every minute of the day. There were butterflies in my stomach and my heart was racing long before I was.

Soon it was time to race and all I could hear was the sound of the starter’s gun. BAM!!!! I was off. All I could see was the end of the track. I don’t remember if I won or not. All I remember was running. Wind in my face, legs working hard, arms pumping, looking straight ahead.

It was that year I began to realize that this was where I felt most at home. This was what I was good at. Sure, there were others who ran fast, but I was the fastest and I was the one who fell in love with it.

The following year my reputation as the fastest girl was pretty much set. No one tried to take it away from me, even if they could. I was faster than most of the guys as well. That year, the Kaham games were early in the morning, same place as last year. I knew exactly where to go this time. The butterflies had settled in my stomach the night before, but I didn’t care. My coaches were there and they pinned my number on: 232. Again I don’t remember winning or losing. It had become insignificant. All that mattered was that I was doing what I loved, what I was good at, and I was comfortable doing it. I remember the rush I got before and during the race, the most wonderful yet terrible feeling you could ever imagine. I do remember losing the 400 meters that year. I was upset with myself afterwards. I vowed that next year, I would win. It was NOT impossible. I could do it.

Some of my friends didn’t understand why I liked track so much. Running to them meant getting sweaty and tired. “You’re crazy Anaiis.” I didn’t care what they said. It didn’t make a difference; I was still going to run and give my 110% even during P.E. After a while they stopped trying to figure out why I was so obsessed with speed and even started to support me. One day, a few of us were at a friend’s house. It was already dark and we were tired from our usual day of craziness. It was Olympics time, and we were all piled on the couch watching the games on T.V. It just so happened that the women’s Olympic track was on. One of my friends turned to me and said, “Is that going to be you ten years from now?” The question made me smile.

“Maybe,” I replied. And I’m still smiling.

Eighth grade. My last year in middle school. My last year running in the Kaham games. Coach Dikran had chosen a lot of us that year to make the school look better. It was definitely a fun year having most of my friends there, but they complained so much there were times I literally had to hold back from slapping them. It was the same routine as the year before. I showed up early in the morning, and had my number pinned on my shirt. My number was 464. In my first race, the 100 meters, I did not only win but there was at least ten feet between the other runners and me during the race. Needless to say, I felt great. The next race was the 400 meters. All five girls were supposed to run. I ended up being the only one. “This is your race!” one of the parents told me.

I was assigned to the fifth lane, which was right in the middle. Perfect. The gun sounded and I was off. This was a longer distance so I kept my pace, slowly passing everyone till I was in second. I could hear my friends and the parents screaming,” Go, Anaiis, Go!!!!!!”

As we reached the last hundred meters, I suddenly turned on the afterburners and zoomed past the last girl and won the 400 meters. I did it. In those few seconds of intense speed, I found home.

What was sad about my home though was that it lasted only a few seconds a year. I’m in ninth grade now. No Field Day, no Kaham, no school team, and no teams outside of a school. Where am I supposed to feel at home now? I’m still searching for a team, but until then I’ll always be running. Wind in my face, legs working hard, arms pumping, looking straight ahead. Catch me if you can.

Near-Untouchable

2010-02-02T20:39:00.000-08:00

Words and Photograph by: Nar Gulvartian (Grade 11)

My dad had this ingenious idea that during our visit to India we would take a drive from Delhi to Udaipur and stop at Jaipur on the way.

“What? That’s like a ten-hour drive. And how would we get there anyway,” I complained one evening while discussing our trip.

“By bus, by train, by car,” dad said.

“No, no not by bus. Not by train either. Didn’t you read Namesake? He almost died in a train accident there. The train toppled over, and everyone died but him. It’s not safe.”

“Nar it’ll be fine, just relax…It’ll be just fine. We’ll figure it out when we get there.”

And we did. We took a drive from Delhi to Udaipur, stopped at Jaipur on the way, and it took eleven hours. Of course, we took a car; I was too scared to do otherwise.

But this story is not about what I saw during that drive or what I did. It’s not about the poverty or the beauty or the dirt. Those things are repetitive. Everyone talks about those things when they return from India. My trip was too special to be told so simplistically. This is about one person during a period of time when all I wanted to do was watch and listen, watch and listen.

His name was Chandra Khan, but I called him Chucky–with good reason. When I first saw him I thought he was a street vendor, ready to sell warm, sweet laddus near India Gate, a monument dedicated to the country’s independence. But he was our driver. His skin was dark brown and his hair was silky black, highlighted with pale-grey streaks of dust. You could say he was an untouchable, for his situation was no different, but he was actually a Jat. He seemed nice but looked desperate: desperate for work, desperate for interaction, longing to smile. But I liked him.

“Sir, sir. Me, me. I take you, please sir,” he said, stuttering in a language foreign to him as a group of long distance drivers ran toward us. “I take you; I take you, sir, please sir.”

Speaking in Armenian, I told my dad, “Let’s go with him.” So we did. My dad pointed at Chandra, and he smiled, revealing his mangled teeth. We ignored the teeth and asked him for his name.

“My name is Chandra. Chandra Khan,” he answered coyly, putting his hands together in front of his face and shaking his head, in a gesture of typical Indian salute.

“Chucky? Oh, okay Chucky. Nice to meet you. My name is Nar.” Chucky began to laugh, and I started laughing with him, for I was pleased to see him happy and not desperate.

“No, sir. My name is Chandra.”

“Oh, sorry, sorry, sorry. I didn’t hear you too well,” I said as my face went flush. “Well then, can I call you Chucky, since it made you laugh?”

“Okay, sir. Just fine, sir. You call me Chucky.”

And so, for the rest of the trip I called him Chucky. And every time I said his name, he smiled and sometimes giggled. Making him smile, making him happy felt good, for he was a near-untouchable, someone who thought that he was worth less than the dirt below his feet. But I had no reservations; I didn’t believe in the caste system.

He asked us where we were going, we told him, and I took the front seat by Chucky while my father stretched across the back seats. We took off. In the first hour or so, Chucky introduced himself. He was, at first, very hesitant to say certain things, but after laughing at his jokes and listening to his Indian folk stories, we made him feel comfortable, and he told us things even we didn’t expect to hear: personal stories, familial accounts, and village secrets.

He was from a small village called Nilothi, located on the outskirts of Delhi, and was, like many of its inhabitants, a Jat, a farmer, a driver, one of a low caste (but not the lowest). His father was a ceramist, and his mother had been a small, village school teacher, before she was killed in Hindu-Muslim riots. Embarrassed that I had brought up the topic of family, I apologized, and Chucky accepted. But I could see his eyes watering, his face contorting, his soul fighting for a gasp of air. I felt bad, but he continually told me it was okay.

He had an older brother, Salman, who had a family of his own: two kids, a boy and a girl, and a wife from West Bengal, ten years younger than him. Chucky told stories of Salman and him growing up in the village and eventually becoming distant from one another as they grew older, each taking his own separate path. I could tell Chucky was lonely for he told each story as if it were a memory that everyone had forgotten but himself.

One hot summer afternoon, their mother asked them to obtain water from the well a half hour walk away from their home.

“She need water to boil rice with the curry chicken for eat that night,” he said.

Both had gone to the well numerous times before, with friends and family, but they had never paid close attention to the route, for they had always been distracted with play and talk. So on that hot summer afternoon, Salman and Chucky got lost. The sun had set, and they had not found the well.

“We laid on the ground and we watch the stars,” Chucky continued to explain. “We count them; we make shapes with them. We were good brothers then. Now he not even come to visit my father and me.”

I listened to Chucky’s stories intently. I enjoyed them, for I was getting the feel of a how a typical, low caste, Indian family lived. But they were also quite interesting. He was good at telling stories. Each detail added to the narration as fabric adds to a dress, or paint adds to a canvas. And although they were somewhat personal stories, I didn’t feel uneasy when he told them, until he told me the story of his sister.

“I tell you I have a sister, too?”

“No you didn’t.”

“Well…,” he paused for quite a bit of time and said, “You see, my father and mother, when she was eleven, decided to give her away because they need the money. We have no food to eat. We have nothing.”

“What do you mean give her away, and how does giving her away make money?”

“We not give her away,” he answered, mumbled a few words in Hindi, and said, “we becna her.”

“Becna?”

“What is that word in English,” and after another pause, as if a light bulb lit up in his head, he said, “We selled her. We selled her to work as a dancer in Mumbai.”

I had read articles and watched documentaries about it. And I knew it existed, but I thought that selling young girls into prostitution was a rare case, that selling young girls into something that robbed them of their innocence was a sign of complete desperation. I began to sob, and when I wasn’t crying, I was breaking inside. My heart was falling apart; my world was collapsing. Our conversation ended, and Chucky didn’t tell another story.

Chucky was alone. His mother had died abruptly, his brother no longer came to see him, and his sister was gone. When he told me these stories, I thought he was just trying to entertain, for the drive was long. But I later realized that that was not the case. He needed a friend, someone to talk to, someone to share his pain with. But I couldn’t be that friend. I was a traveler, a visitor. How could he expect me to be his friend, his person? Regardless, he left me with one of the heaviest burdens of my life.

Chucky was intense. He was emotional. And, after all, he was human.

Days later, we visited Mumbai and the street on which innocence becomes corruption. Kamathipura Street. I could not stand it. I wondered if Chucky ever made it there to find his sister. I wanted to know, because of the 18 million inhabitants of Mumbai, nobody else seemed to care.

In Switzerland

2010-01-26T15:34:00.000-08:00

Words and Photograph by: Mikael Matossian (Grade 11)

I had never traveled alone. But last summer, I got the opportunity to travel to Switzerland for two weeks with about thirty other students from around the world. I didn’t know what to expect; I had never been to Western Europe, except for one night in a hotel in London. But when I came back to the United States, I knew that I enjoyed the trip and would later pay another visit to “La Suisse.”

When we landed in Geneva International Airport, we were met by a rainstorm. We quickly huddled onto a bus and headed to the hotel. Most of the students were sleeping, but I found myself glued to the window, watching everything going on outside. This was a whole new country, thousands of miles away from home, and I didn’t want to miss any of it. I noticed that wherever the bus went, I found myself being followed by the Swiss Alps, the omnipresent mountain range in western Switzerland. These were nothing like the tiny hills in the San Fernando Valley. Some of the Alps were so high that I needed to bend my neck to see their peaks, which were covered by the clouds.

Over the next few days, the group and I went into downtown Geneva quite frequently, and I found it to be different from the cities in the United States. Everything was more organized and orderly. The buildings were compact, and it seemed like everyone was organized and knew where they were going. The city has been referred to by many as “the world's most compact metropolis.” The public trolley ran in the middle of the street and people jumped on while it was moving. I heard a combination of everything in that city: the smoke spewing out of the trolley, children playing in the alleys, the ragtag street bands found on sidewalk corners, and the Smart Cars speeding away on streets. However, the nightlife was much like that in the United States, with teenagers and young adults on the sidewalks walking to clubs, festivals, and parties. Lake Geneva, (the largest lake in continental Europe and strangely named “Little Lake”) was literally in the middle of the city, and is home to the famous Fetes de Genève, a large multicultural summer festival that lasts from May to August every year.

Everywhere I went, I found stores flush with Swiss products, especially chocolate and watches. You could find anything you wanted: chocolate bars, chocolate squares, chocolate cookies, chocolate Swiss army knives, big watches, small watches, expensive watches, counterfeit watches, and even some chocolate watches.

I also found old castles and fortresses standing next to modern towns and restaurants to be an interesting combination: a union of the old and the new. There was a bevy of ancient castles left from the twelfth century Swiss Confederacy, like the Chateau de-Chillon, an old fortress built by the powerful Saxon noble family. As I walked through the underground prisons and the furnished bedrooms, it seemed like the castle hadn’t been touched since the twelfth century. I learned that the nation of Switzerland was actually a group of cantons, or provinces of people of Swiss descent. The people shared a common historical background dating back to the twelfth century. Yet I found myself bombarded by droves of Swiss flags hung outside patriotic citizens’ houses.

Before going there, I thought most of the people in Switzerland would be primarily either of Swiss or French ethnicity. I did see a lot of Swiss, French, and German people, but what struck me was the number of other races I saw. I truly felt like it was a multicultural city. I heard a number of languages, like French, German, Arabic, Russian, Italian, Hindi, and Romansch (the Swiss variant of the German tongue). Walking through the city I saw throngs of Muslim women with pitch-black burkas that almost covered their entire bodies except for their eyes. Along Lake Geneva, I noticed that there were more Indian, Lebanese, and Pakistani kebab restaurants than Swiss and French ones. The sultan of Oman had even bought a large property right on the lakefront, with his Lamborghinis parked on the street. Farther downtown, I found an avenue of numerous museums and institutions, among them the second-largest United Nations office in the world and the International Red Cross headquarters.

In the middle of Lake Geneva was the Jet d’Eau, a famous water jet that continuously spewed out water 150 meters up into the sky. To see the top of that gigantic behemoth, I was forced to get on my knees and bend my neck, and I could feel its water droplets falling on my shirt while standing dozens of feet away from it.

The city was interesting to see, but so was the countryside. Outside of the city, our tour bus sped past along endless farms and grape vineyards on the mountains. Probably the most distinctive feature of the country was the number of lakes. Next to every town or small urban area there seemed to be a lake. However, I could actually see my reflection clearly in the pristine water, unlike the water of the Pacific Ocean. The water of the lakes was completely clear, without any pollution or trash. The small towns next to the lakes were inundated with restaurants and pubs, with people lounging outside laughing and talking without a care in the world. There were no busy streets or sidewalks inundated with people rushing to get where they needed to be. To me, everything seemed more calm and peaceful.

Overall, I thought it was an amazing trip and I was sad to not only leave the friends I had made but also the calm, quiet, truly multicultural and international country of Switzerland.

What Kind of Armenian Are You?!

2010-01-19T22:21:00.000-08:00

By: Ari Ekmekji (Grade 11)

I remember the first day at my new middle school, the place I would call my second home for the next six years as I continued on into high school. After the opening ceremonies had come to an end and each class went to its respective room, students began introducing themselves to one another. Being the only new kid in the class, I didn’t share the pre-established relationships that other kids who had been there since kindergarten enjoyed, and so naturally, people asked me the most questions.

When recess finally arrived, all my classmates dutifully rushed out to the quad area to talk with their friends and take a short break from the hectic school day. That was when someone approached me for the first time and asked me something I had never heard about before: “Are you Beirutsi?”

Having not been exposed to much Armenian culture in my elementary school years, it was beyond my ability to understand what he meant by this. Innocently, I questioned my classmate and he looked at me in disbelief as if I had just said something sacrilegious. After making it crystal clear that I had no idea what he was talking about, my classmate asked me more directly what city my parents were from. This somewhat alleviated my uneasiness that this abstruse question brought about, and I calmly answered that my mom was from Beirut and my dad was from Aleppo.

Five years later, I now have a complete understanding of this question and, more importantly, of the mentality of the classmate who asked it. Having studied and experienced the Armenian language, culture, and history throughout my middle school and high school years, I now know what it means to be classified under a certain “category” of Armenians. There are Beirutsis (from Beirut), Halebtsis (from Aleppo), Bolsahyes (from Istanbul), Hayastantsis (from Armenia), Yerousamghetsis (from Jerusalem), and the list goes on and on. And with each different “kind” comes certain stereotypes, traditions, music, backgrounds, and ways of life. Unfortunately, Armenians have almost completely lost their meaning as a culture, but rather co-exist as a mixture of several differing ones.

Historically speaking, it is understandable why this difference is prevalent in the world today. Around the time of the Armenian Genocide, throngs of families chose to flee from their homeland in order to hopefully evade persecution and possible death. Some went to Lebanon, others to Syria, others to modern-day Israel, and in this manner Armenians spread throughout the four corners of the planet. In the almost 100 years that have elapsed since then, time has turned these people (and their descendants) into almost half-breeds of Armenian culture and the culture of the area in which they settled. Those who went to Arab countries developed a side-culture that focused on Arabic foods, music, and language. Those who decided to travel all the way to America had a stronger tendency to lose their Armenian identity and adopt an American way of life. And those who remained in Armenia retained their original culture and obtained Russian overtones as the Soviet Union took over. But the question remains that even if we can explain this diversification by looking back on our history, does that mean we can justify it in modern society?

Well the answer, quite simply, is no. The reason? Because it undermines everything that we stand for and have fought for as a nation, as a culture, and as a people. Armenians remain the longest lasting nation in all of history, with an advocated existence of over 3,000 years. Through the thick and thin, we have battled it out and stood up for what we believe. Even to this day, we continue to make efforts to ensure that not only our mother country remains stable and prosperous, but also that the generations to follow feel the same obligation. And yet, the divisions between Armenians from different cities and countries shine through stronger then ever. Often, people of the same categorization befriend each other, separate themselves from others, and are more proud of being a Beirutsi (for example) than they are of being an Armenian.

Worse yet, parents, children, and organizations promote these differences between us. Although thankfully my parents are not like this, I am almost positive that some Armenian parents do not want to hang out with certain people because of their “land of descent.” In many cases kids are even more open and advocating of this separation than their parents are. I can only begin to count how many of the senior sweaters at my school have said things like “Beirutsi Pride” or “Barsgahye Power.” And sometimes when my grade has had to make teams for sports, people have suggested “Let’s have Barsgahyes vs. everyone else,” or something along those lines.

The most unacceptable remain institutions, like my very own school, which fosters events that strengthen a feeling of individuality within the population of Armenians. Earlier this very year my school hosted a “Barsgahye Night,” where all the Barsgahye parents and students (along with a few non-Barsgahye friends) attended a night full of Persian food, music, and conversation. It is quite discouraging to see that such an organization, which takes on the responsibility of educating today’s youth, remains subject to such foolishness.

One of the troublesome issues that makes the rift even deeper is the language barrier that exists between Armenians. The two main dialects of Armenian (eastern and western), although founded on the same general language, have significant differences in grammar and pronunciation that sometimes complicate even more the issue of communication among Armenians from different regions. Also, having settled in different cities and countries throughout the years has brought foreign words into the Armenian language. Beirutsis and Halebtsis use several Arabic and French words; Bolsahyes utilize Turkish; Barsgahyes use Persian; Hayastantsis incorporate Russian, and so on. I cannot count how many times I have discovered that words I thought were Armenian and have used for years are actually French, or Arabic, or Turkish. It is almost as though there is no real Armenian language in use today, but instead there remains the trace of one in the differing dialects of Armenians throughout the world.

Nowadays, it seems as though Armenians have lost the sense of identity that once so strongly held our ancestors together. Instead, they choose to identify themselves with people from similar regions, which they don’t even live in any more. I can only hope and wait for a day to come, when the idea of being an Armenian will transcend the feeling of being a Beirutsi or Haystantsi.

When Sultan Hamid II, one of the leaders of the Young Turks, was planning the execution of the Armenian Genocide, and the Armenian people as a whole, he said something that Armenians to this day have not failed to remember. His famous quote was that he was determined to eliminate every single Armenian on the face of the planet, except one. This last Armenian, he said, could then be placed in a museum for all the peoples of the world to look at and remember that there had once been a futile race of people who called themselves Armenians. Well here we stand, as a strong Armenian community some 100 years later, having conquered every obstacle placed in our way and beaten every foe that has tried to keep us down. But if we fail to understand the necessity to embrace our collective identity as Armenians, we may just be better of as that one Armenian on display in a museum somewhere. That Armenian would not be a Beirutsi, or a Halebtsi, a Bolsahye, or a Barsgahye. That Armenian would be, simply and truly, an Armenian.

William Blake

2010-01-12T22:10:00.000-08:00

By: Serli Polatoglu (Grade 12)

William Blake explores the fundamental questions of human nature and spirituality in his poetry. Much of his work centers on two main themes: the dichotomy of innocence vs. experience and mankind’s inner struggle between good and evil. Blake’s main works, the poems of his Songs of Innocence and accompanying Songs of Experience, are most representative of these struggles.

Blake glorifies innocence in “The Lamb.” The speaker approaches the concept of creation with childlike wonder and simplicity. He is direct in his inquiry—“Little Lamb, who made thee? Dost thou know who made thee?” The second stanza answers this rhetorical question in a decided and matter-of-fact fashion. The speaker proclaims that Jesus, himself a lamb meek and mild, has created Earth and all its inhabitants. This “blind faith” is characteristic of the innocent for they don’t dare question what they believe.

Blake doesn’t equate innocence with ignorance in this poem; on the contrary, he praises the speaker’s purity and honesty, evidenced by his complete faith in a higher power. However, Blake does acknowledge God’s more malevolent tendencies in “The Tiger.”

Blake begins “The Tiger” sounding incredulous; he asks: “What immortal hand or eye, could frame thy fearful symmetry?” Blake wonders how a benevolent God could have created good and evil, light and dark, the lamb and the tiger. Though some say Blake is in awe of God’s divine plan in keeping the universe in balance, his tone in the latter half of “The Tiger” suggests Blake is actually angry with God. Blake describes the creation of the tiger as like Frankenstein’s creation of the monster. He speculates that God uses tools—a hammer, a chain, a furnace—to manufacture this beast. And, in trying to create something beautiful, He makes something fearsome. “What the anvil? What dread grasp dare its deadly terrors clasp?” Blake’s tone turns accusatory, and he ends with “What immortal hand or eye, Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?”

The use of the word “dare” implies Blake’s anger at God’s audacity to create such an evil beast. When Blake writes, “When the stars threw down their spears, and watered heaven with their tears, did he smile his work to see? Did he who made the Lamb make thee?” he implores God to explain himself. In essence, the tiger represents the evil in the world, and Blake wonders whether God is happy with the corruption and cruelty that has taken hold of the Earth—whether he is happy that the tiger is dominating the lamb.

Blake understands the concept of free will, but he cannot fathom how God, supposedly meek and gentle like the Lamb, could allow misery and cruelty to harm so many. Blake’s “London” demarcates the specific instances where humanity is oppressed; how children become chimney-sweepers and the Church (of all institutions!) daily subjects them to hard, dangerous labor. While God allows us the potential to be evil, it is true that man does not treat his neighbor kindly; all too often, man causes the downfall of his brother.

Blake acknowledges mankind’s duality in “The Human Abstract.” Though he celebrated man’s capacity for compassion and humility in “The Divine Image,” Blake now recognizes that these qualities would not exist if man did not cause poverty, sadness, or fear. Blake personifies mankind’s cruelty in the form of a tree that bears deceitful fruit. This shows that men do not care to take responsibility for one another, and live only to advance and prosper as individuals.

Blake further explores mankind’s tendency to perform evil acts in “A Poison Tree.” The speaker is angry at his foe, and rather than trying to rectify the situation, he pretends nothing is amiss. His repressed anger eventually consumes him, and results in his enemy’s death. This defines man’s merciless disposition.

Though mankind doesn’t escape the blame for evil taking root in the world, Blake ultimately puts the blame on our creator. God’s choice to give us free will results in oppression, violence, and hatred.

Some argue that if we were able to hold onto our innocence, life wouldn’t be so cruel. Unfortunately, in his “Auguries of Innocence,” Blake concludes that in modern society, innocence is impossible to hold. He writes that mankind does everything in its power to stifle innocence—every couplet in this poem shows instances where the innocent are mistreated, and ultimately, moved to vengeance and experience.

Blake writes that “each outcry of the hunted hare a fibre from the brain does tear”—meaning, once man wrenches the innocence out of a sentient creature so many times, he ceases to recognize the consequences of his actions. Man is no longer sensitive to “a robin redbreast in a cage” or “a dove-house filled with doves and pigeons” because he witnesses the ridicule and cruelty forced upon the innocent every day. Subsequently, this desensitization to loss of innocence assures that innocence will not last.

How is one expected to hold on to his sense of child-like wonder and appreciation for the world when overweight American capitalists gorge themselves to death while children in Africa are starving? Inevitably, people figure out that life isn’t fair. Blake insists that innocence is a beautiful, important quality to possess, but the innocent have no place in our cold, calculating world. Like “a horse misused upon the road,” the innocent will “call to Heaven for human blood.”

However, Blake does not paint a wholly dark, dismal scene—upon stating “The wanton boy that kills the fly shall feel the spider’s enmity,” Blake asserts a belief in karma. That, in this lifetime, the evil will receive their punishment, and the innocent their reward.

I agree with Blake to an extent. He believes innocence does not last, and while I do admit it’s easier to look at things in a harshly realistic perspective, if you compartmentalize, you can hold on to your innocence. You can take a chemistry class, know every last detail about the stars in the sky—their atomic weight, composition, and other properties, but it’s easy to look up at the sky late at night and lose yourself in the view. For a moment, your head is filled with the image of bright points filling an infinite space, and you forget the scientific principles you read about in textbooks. You simply appreciate the stars in their natural state—no theories or laws of nature come into play.

And I agree that man does have the potential to be hideously evil, but he has the equal potential to be blindingly good. We forget that sometimes, and we begin to presuppose that evil deeds, like a loss of innocence, is inevitable. If we try, I suspect we will find that it is rather easy wrench the tree of deceit by its roots and toss it out of our minds.

Whether or not you believe in a higher power, the fact of the matter is you have free will. You can do with your life what you wish. And though we often complain that leaving decisions to those incapable of choosing correctly leads to destruction, we find that, without the bad things, we would not appreciate the good. Without thievery, we would not appreciate generosity; without cruelty, we would not appreciate kindness; without illness, we would not appreciate health.

Blake was right to think life is a compilation of endless paradoxes, because every argument has a counterargument. That is why he’s able to argue the value of innocence, and the destructive power of experience so convincingly at the same time. We don’t know what to believe, because we don’t know what is true. We don’t know if everything is true—if every good deed, bad deed, decision, and choice is part of some grand design.

But I do know, that when I stand in my driveway and look up at the stars, I return to my normal life with a renewed conviction that there is something out there, something greater than what we know.

Merry Christmas

2009-12-24T17:17:00.001-08:00

Don't forget to do some singing this holiday season.

Merry Christmas everyone!

The Diagnosis: A Creative Mind

2009-12-20T18:02:00.001-08:00

By Vatche Yousefian (Grade 12)

One day, one of my readers asked me, “How did you come up with this story?”

I told them, “A little girl came up to me and whispered in my ear, ‘Tell them my story.’ Her name was Sandy Clancy.”

“But Sandy Clancy was a character in the story?!” the reader gasped. “Is she real?”

“No, my characters talk to me.”

Ray Bradbury suffers from the same thing I do: a creative mind. I remember going to UCLA last year and Bradbury telling me that his characters came up to him and told him to write down their story in Fahrenheit 451. I was amazed to hear this, because now I knew I wasn’t alone. My characters come up to me all the time while I’m on the computer.

Don’t misunderstand me. I do not take any drugs or hallucinate.

I see my characters without the need of anything but my mind’s eye.

They tell me the story as I write it; I don’t have it planned out ahead of time. I am as much a reader as you are now. These characters pop out of nowhere. Sandy, the character the reader asked me about, came up to me and said, “I have to tell you something that happened to me. Please, I want to share it with other people, but they won’t listen. Can you be my voice?”

And I started to write about Sandy.

Sandy told me about the dreams she was having, recurring nightmares of a dark man chasing her.

I wrote them down.

The conversation she had with her dad—I scratched it on a notepad. I wrote all her adventures down on those pages.

Characters sometimes don’t just pop into my mind, but images, too.

An accident.

Two people dancing.

A girl waving good-bye.

Anything is possible, but that’s just a piece of the mural that I create. Those images add up to the big picture that becomes my story. My brain just functions differently, I guess.

I saw a girl the other day waving at no one (at least from my point of view) and that image stuck in my mind. Why was she there? To whom was she saying goodbye? I didn’t know, so I invented a story based on the situation. Before I knew it, I started writing down a story entitled, “The Final Goodbye,” about an urban legend where a person, right before he dies, sees this little girl known as the Goodbye Girl.

Sometimes a creative mind doesn’t have as many advantages as you might think. I stay up some nights thinking about the worlds I create just by typing words on a page. The characters do not know when to call it quits.

Sandy tugged at my shirt. “You’ve got to finish my story. You’ve just got to.”

“Let me sleep. I’ll write another chapter tomorrow.”

“You promise?”

“Promise.” She let go of my shirt and disappeared.

I lay in my bed staring at the ceiling. I see another character staring back at me. It is Monte. He is a character I had already written about last year in a story called “Rules to Live By.”

“What is it?” I ask him.

“Can you rewrite my story?” He has his jacket hanging by two fingers on his shoulder. Inside the jacket is a list of rules that he has broken, rules that show him his friends and enemies, rules he tries to live by.

“Why?” I ask.

“You’ve grown as a writer, Vatche. My story has grown, as well. I just remembered some things that I forgot to tell you to write down. Please come back with me to Hillsworth High.”

“Ok,” I tell him as I put my hand over my eyes. “You’ll be after Sandy.”

“Thanks, see ya later.”

Then another character taps me on the shoulder.

“What is it?” I say, annoyed. “Jeez, can’t you guys let me sleep?” I peek out of the gaps between my fingers. There is a line of people waiting to talk to me. I know at that moment that I suffer from a sort of disease. My mom, the doctor in the family, calls it the disease of a creative mind.

Day and night, I write down stories, characters, and images: my calculus book, literature book, assignment book, hands, arms, and post-its, all covered in notes for stories. I have to store the ideas somewhere and keep them safe. I begin ripping out the pages, one by one, and make an idea book. There, in that book, they will stay until the time is right, until I am ready to tell their stories.

By the way, Sandy’s been tugging at my shirt for a while. She wants to say, “Hi.”

The Dead Of Our Town

2009-12-10T20:45:00.001-08:00

By: Nicole Yeghiazarian (Grade 10)

It is not the living who value life, but the dead who no longer have it. No longer tied to emotions or the physical world, the dead of Grover’s Corners in Thorton Wilder’s play, Our Town, fully comprehend how precious life is, how it is wasted, and how it can never be returned. Filled with wisdom they can’t use, the dead wait for what else is to come and watch the living. They become discomforted by the living’s ability to squander the gift of life. The dead comment on the ignorance of the living, how they chase selfish passions. The living, according to the dead, waste their time on earth in conflicts that don’t often come to any meaningful end and trample the feelings of others. It is as if life is wasted on the living, who don’t know what to do with it. When Emily joins the dead, she wishes to relive her life. The other dead warn her against it, telling her that it’s not what she thinks it will be, but she desires this nonetheless. She decides to relive her twelfth birthday, but her experience is tainted by the realization that people in her memory will die later on and that she didn’t fully appreciate her life. Her life was slowly ticking away until death, but she never noticed it.

If given the chance to return to the living with the knowledge and insight gained while dead, Emily would savor every second. It is only because she lost her life that she now grasps its true worth. Emily understands that life is fleeting and that lost time can never be regained. Every day would be an attempt to live fully with not a moment left unappreciated. She would love more intensely and would not be distracted by petty conflicts. However, because Emily also would have an intimate knowledge of death and loss because of her death experience, everything in her life would be overshadowed by the knowledge that life can disappear at any moment. Any happiness she feels would be darkened by death. While attempting to enjoy her life, she would be burdened with the constant worry that it all might end tomorrow, that she will lose her loved ones again. The constant fear and worry could distract her from living life to its fullest and instead fill her life with thoughts of what might come. She would constantly jump between feelings of joy and terror.

Life has meaning if you don’t know what will happen next. We can fear for the future or plan for its arrival. The uncertainty allows you to believe that tomorrow can be a better day than today because you don’t know what will happen. The uncertainty of the future and the possibility of affecting its outcome with our endeavors enrich the human experience. Part of the joy of life is being pleasantly surprised by events that unexpectedly turn your way. Even more important than being pleasantly surprised is when life throws you a curveball and everything suddenly changes for the worse. It is then that you have the chance to grow and take your life in a new direction. Without the challenges and stresses of life, we cannot mature.

Knowledge of the future robs humans of hope. Hope is the feeling that what is desired can be had or that events will turn out well. If a person already knows what the outcome will be, he can’t feel optimistic about the future. Dreams, goals, and aspirations would be nonexistent because they can’t be accomplished. Life would cease to have meaning. It would become a dull march down a predetermined path.

Knowledge of the future is a curse, not a gift. If we knew how our lives would play out, there would be no point in living them. It is as if life were a book you already knew every plot twist in. What would be the point of reading it? You couldn’t enjoy it to its fullest because life would be planned out, everything known. People would lie down and resign themselves to their fate, because they can’t change the future. If a person did not submit to her fate, then she would try to change it and end up wasting her time fighting against the inevitable. There would be the desire to receive only the positive in her life and the attempt to do away with the negative, when we must take the good and the bad in life.

The future is not determined by fate or destiny. Life isn’t a clear cut path that a person follows to his fate. The end product of life is made by the decisions taken in life, and every choice changes what the end product will be. The position of the stars when a person is born can’t control whether or not the person will become a gifted musician or an airplane mechanic. Individuals decide who they will be and where they will go in life. Unlike Romeo, we are not Fortune’s fool and can change our fate. “Fate” is the sum of the decisions we make while living and the effect those decisions have on our lives.

Life is not wasted on the living. The dead of Grover’s Corners owe their understanding of life to the fact that they went through it, and did not waste it, but simply used up the time they had on earth. They judge the living for being full of life, for feeling their emotions and trying to pursue their dreams. Living life to the fullest isn’t just stopping to smell the roses, but having goals and ambitions and trying to reach them.

Dark Prophecies: An Analysis of Heart of Darkness

2009-11-21T23:24:00.000-08:00

By: Derek Yeghiazarian (Grade 10)

The novella Heart of Darkness is one of the most acclaimed pieces of work in English literature. Largely based on the author’s voyage to Africa, Joseph Conrad weaves together a frame narrative about an old sailor who recounts his own experiences in one of the darkest and wildest places in the world: the Congo Free State. This novel is part of the Western canon, a term for a series of books and other forms of art that have had a large impact and influence on Western culture.

The story is told in retrospect by an aged sailor named Marlow, who obtains a position as a captain of a steamboat meant to trade ivory and enlighten “savages” on an unnamed river. Upon arriving at the Company’s station, he hears of a mysterious and feared man named Kurtz, stationed in uncharted parts of the colony, who made his name by becoming a ruthless and exceptional trader in ivory. Marlow and his crew, consisting of a group of “respectable” cannibals and a few other white men whom he calls “pilgrims,” are given the task to retrieve Kurtz after the company loses communication with him. Marlow also believes that the purpose of his task has something to do with the internal strife within the company over its profit and more notably, the company manager’s jealousy and fear of Kurtz. While Marlow is there, he also sees the injustice done to the native populace, put into chain gangs and made to do manual labor only to die of malnutrition, fatigue, and mistreatment at the hands of the Company’s men.

Along the way, they are attacked by a tribe of natives but are saved when Marlow blows the steamer’s horn, frightening off the attackers. Upon arriving at Kurtz’s station, Marlow encounters a man whom he calls the “Russian,” who speaks to Marlow about Kurtz and his conquest of the indigenous tribes of the area and how through these exploits, he made his fortune. During their conversation, the “Russian” reveals to Marlow his admiration for, and fear of Kurtz, while insisting that he is misunderstood and that he is a great man. He also tells Marlow that Kurtz is dying and that Kurtz was the one who initiated the attack on Marlow’s ship due to his desire to remain with the local indigenous people. As Marlow walks the station, he finds severed heads lining the exterior of Kurtz’s cabin which the “Russian” refers to as “rebels.” Marlow sees the evidence of the barbarous acts that Kurtz did while in the wilderness. Marlow and his crew load the ship with Kurtz’s last shipment of ivory and take Kurtz back down the river. While he is on the ship, Kurtz gives Marlow some of his personal belongings including a report that Kurtz originally wrote to an organization called "the International Society for the Suppression of Savage Customs." The report reveals that one of Kurtz’s original purposes for going to Africa was to enlighten the indigenous population. But at one point in the report, he stops short, saying “Exterminate the brutes!”

Before Kurtz dies, he tells Marlow his last words, summarizing his entire experience in the wilderness, saying “The horror, the horror!” Marlow returns to England, spreading the news of Kurtz’s death. Carrying out the man’s last wish, Marlow speaks to Kurtz’s fiancée who is in mourning. When she asks Marlow about Kurtz’s last moments, he finds that he is unable to explain to her what he has seen and to what depths Kurtz sank, and only tells her that Kurtz’s last words were about her.

The most blatant motif of the novella is darkness. Besides a dark, morbid mood and setting, the darkness also has symbolic meaning to it. One of the many aspects it represents is that of the unknown and its ability to conceal things. The issue of morals in an “enlightened society” doesn’t match that found in the Free State of the Congo where cruelty and horror are prevalent. Under the curtain of “darkness” that the remote wilderness provided, Kurtz was given free rein to acquire ivory by any method, even ones that would be deemed incomprehensible in the civilized world. This also gives the traders and colonists the freedom to abuse and wipe out the natives in their pursuit for the Congo’s wealth.

But the most important representation of darkness that Conrad illustrates is the potential that mankind has to commit savagery, emphasizing the duality of human nature and hypocrisy of a “virtuous human.” European colonists and those who supported them, claimed to go to Africa under the banner of “enlightenment,” while Conrad himself witnessed atrocities committed by the Belgian traders and colonists (thoroughly documented accounts on the mistreatment of the native populace was recorded by a friend of Conrad’s named Roger Casement in his 1904 Congo Report). In the book, Marlow’s influential aunt who got him a job in the company believes his mission is to try “weaning the ignorant millions off from their horrid ways.” One of Kurtz’s own reasons for coming to the Congo is to enlighten the native populace, but he embraces the freedom that the wilderness gives him and fully accepts his dark nature to carry out his horrific methods of attaining power.

With this pessimistic outlook on the nature of man, Joseph Conrad makes a radical statement about society, saying how the “darkness” of man’s nature is all too enveloping and that civilized society is capable of dissolving into disorder. Marlow makes a statement at the start of the novel, commenting on how to the ancient Romans, “England was at one time one of the dark places of the Earth” but coincidently, modern England (in the Victorian Era) referred to Africa as the “dark continent.”

A reason why I find Heart of Darkness so enthralling is the profound psychological impact that it has on the reader and how Conrad does a good job of providing a commentary on human nature. Humans of nearly every society cling to the ideals of nobility and virtue, but many times in history, man has committed acts of atrocity in contrast to what he claims to stand for, justifying Conrad’s outlook on mankind. How could we possibly claim to promote and uphold values while our past is speckled with genocides, corruption, and hatred? Leaders of the French Revolution cried out against oppression and tyranny while they themselves started the Reign of Terror. For two centuries, a new nation built on the foundations of equality and justice didn’t have true racial equality. Many times we hear in the news about corruption from politicians to industrialists, such as Governor Blagojevich’s case, Bernie Madoff’s Ponzi scheme, and the Enron scandal.

Despite Conrad’s statement about human nature, I genuinely believe that man is as capable of good as he is of evil. Despite acts of folly, mankind still strives for order and virtue. Every major religion, despite its origin, revolves around the same basic belief in charity and good work. People are now more willing to take active steps to a

Humans, as complex as they are, are flawed beings. Having the ability of complex thought and self-awareness gives us the means to commit both great evil and good. In the end, it is what we choose to do with our greatest gift that will decide the fate of a human society. Will we continue to pursue an enlightened and virtuous society, or, as Conrad warns us, will we succumb to our inner darkness and de-evolve back into the wilderness from where we came?

Making History

2009-11-14T16:38:00.000-08:00

By: Tiffany Esmailian (Grade 11)

BEEEEEEP! The game is over, and I’m still stupefied about how we managed to pull it off. The crowd cheers, the coach claps, teammates hug, but I still can’t absorb the fact that we really did it. Actually, I’m a bit lost at the moment, and can’t figure out if people are congratulating me or trying to comfort me. Tears, hugs, and words of encouragement: I’ve seen them before. I’ve seen them at funerals, and I’ve seen them at graduations. Therefore, at this moment I’m pretty bewildered about what is going on. I look up to see the brightly lit score on the board, and it finally clicks. Wow. I never thought I’d be a part of history at this school.

I’ve been told to keep my head up. I’ve been told to keep going. I’ve been told to stay strong. But, I’ve also been told to give up. I’ve been told to stop trying. I’ve been told that it’s not worth it. For some reason, I hear the first three ringing in my head way more than the last three. Why? It’s because basketball isn’t just a hobby. Basketball is a part of me. Take that part away, and I won’t be a complete person. All those losses, injuries, sweat, tears, and pain are what make me happy. They’re what make me feel deserving of that victory.

Growing up, playing with all the boys wasn’t my favorite thing to do. Having girls look at me with confused faces, thinking I was such a “tomboy,” wasn’t what I looked forward to everyday. Just because I had strength, perseverance, and confidence, it didn’t mean I was any less of a girl than they were. Maybe, back then I’d prefer a new basketball over a new Barbie doll. Maybe, instead of going to the mall, I’d rather go to the park and shoot some hoops. Maybe, instead of wearing the cute little clothes from Limited Too, I’d rather wear my basketball shorts with a Lakers’ championship t-shirt. That’s just the kid I was.

Basketball has taught me how to be dedicated and devoted to something. Missing a practice makes me feel careless, negligent, and lazy, even if I have a legitimate excuse. Coaches, teammates, referees, and crowds don’t even matter sometimes. It’s just me and Mr. Spalding.

After attending AGBU Manoogian-Demirdjian School for twelve years, I began to think of my school days as routine. I’d wake up at the same time, wear the same uniform, sit in the same car, go through the same classes, and come home and do the same homework. There was no excitement, no change, and definitely, no surprises. If anything added a little spark to my day, it was my basketball team. But even that became a bit monotonous after a while. That is, until one day when our team was informed of a very significant piece of information.

Our school, unfortunately, did not pay much attention to sports, or at least, they didn’t pay as much attention as they should. Therefore, it was no surprise that we did not know that our Girls’ Varsity Basketball team was just a few small steps away from making AGBU history. We were informed that the furthest that any sports team at AGBU Manoogian-Demirdjian School had gone was the quarter-finals in our CIF league playoffs. With this piece of information, tremendous dreams were about to be made real.

Something inside all of us sparked; the burning flame of passion was instantly lit. We knew our goal, and we knew our incentive. There was absolutely nothing in the world that would get in our way. Eight determined minds, eight hearts set on the prize, eight reasons why we knew we were doing this. All eight of us were in this together. It was one goal, one team, and one mindset. We were ready to give it our all, regardless of the consequences.

When all of this hit us, we were about mid-season. That meant that we had half a season to play hard, win, and qualify for the playoffs, which we did. Sweat, blood, and tears: on our journey, we saw them all, but thought “No pain, no gain.” With players sitting out due to injuries, long bus rides to away games, loss of sleep due to arriving home late from a game and having to finish up leftover homework—personally, I think we did an exceptional job.

A major disadvantage we faced was not having a gym to practice in for most of the season. Playing outside on our plastic basketball court was beginning to become very irritating, not to mention a dangerous hazard to our bodies. It was December, which meant the sun went down earlier. This cut into our practice time, and well, I think you get my point. The odds were against us, as if that mattered. Try telling a young, determined mind, “No.” I dare you.

So, there we were. The day of our first playoff game, and boy, were we excited. We all frantically ran into the newly renovated gymnasium, to wait for our game to begin. We decorated the place with signs and posters, and we tried to get ourselves the biggest hyped-up crowd that we could. Our opponents from Southwestern Academy entered the gym as if they were tyrants preparing to demolish our team. Little did they know, a little heart goes a long way. We ended up winning by the humiliating score of 78-15.

It was time for round two, and honestly, we were a bit intimidated. We were ranked as the number thirteen team, and we were scheduled to play against the team ranked number four: Saddleback Valley Christian. At this point, rank obviously meant nothing because we were the victors of this game, too, by a score of 49-43. I honestly did not think the amount of pride and sense of accomplishment in that gymnasium could have been measured. We vanquished them on their own home court, and nothing in the world felt better than hearing that buzzer at the end of the fourth quarter.

The buzz about our team grew around campus, and more and more spectators planned on showing up to our next game. This next game just so happened to be the game that determined our reputation. If we defeated our opponent, Highland Hall, we would have officially made AGBU history books as the team to go the furthest in the playoffs. What a sense of accomplishment, don’t you think? We were in it to win. Nothing, no one, and no words could take this away from us.

BEEEEEEP! The game is over, and I’m still stupefied about how we managed to pull it off. The crowd cheers, the coach claps, teammates hug, but I still can’t absorb the fact that we really did it. Actually, I’m a bit lost at the moment, and can’t figure out if people are congratulating me or trying to comfort me. Tears, hugs, and words of encouragement: I’ve seen them before. I’ve seen them at funerals, and I’ve seen them at graduations. Therefore, at this moment I’m pretty bewildered about what is going on. I look up to see the brightly lit score on the board, and it finally clicks. Wow. I never thought I’d be a part of history at this school.
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Addendum: Thank you to Akantha for adding on as a follower of Saroyan's Ghost.

Play

2009-10-17T15:49:00.000-07:00

By Ankine Vasoyan (Grade 11)

Fame, glory, your name surrounded by a hundred gleaming, glistening lights, a thousand people in the audience all here to see you. A few in the crowd wish they were you. Others have experienced this moment before and would give the world to be there again, all of them once in their lives wishing they were famous. The price one pays to reach that fame may be considerably great compared to the reward. On their journey to reach fame, actors face many difficulties. Nevertheless, they persist, unable to hide their secrets from the glare of the paparazzi’s cameras, like normal people. Fame is their reward, their key to recognition, and acknowledgement.

We live to be the greatest, taking classes, studying, experimenting, and trying to find our passion. Actors are no different. They take classes and experiment with characters. My life changed once I found my passion for acting. It allows me to escape the world by changing my identity with each character I portray. To cultivate my passion, I enrolled in a class at the Lee Strasburg Institute, a world-renowned center for the art of acting. The institute is a small, red and white building that most people would likely overlook, unaware of what occurs inside. As I walk into the building for the first time, I am surprised at the size and the importance of what takes place here. Immediately, I feel safe and comfortable knowing that my soon-to-be classmates are not here to judge me, as we are all here to share the same profound experience. This is the sort of feeling that you get when a new friend hugs you so tight, when something is so new and familiar at the same time. I suddenly feel as if I have been here my entire life, even though this was my first step, and my first glance at the expanse of history in front of me. Marilyn Monroe, James Dean, and Angelina Jolie, all were in the exact same spot, the exact same position that I am in right now, and it is overwhelming and exhilarating. They allowed themselves to learn to expand on what acting truly is: being human. With all of this in mind, I proceed into the building, up the white stairs into a small classroom. There are no chairs in this class, just a small stage and mirrors lining one side of the room. All fifteen students, including myself, do not know what to expect.

Bottle up the energy and emotions, explode into my character, and come back down to earth. Emotion is essential. As my first exercise the teacher tells me I must first relax; understand myself and my own emotions first. A few of the students begin to whimper, and then start to cry, and end completely bawling.The teacher congratulates the students, they have broken free. In a world where hiding your emotions, feelings, and thoughts is valued, yet expressing yourself and allowing your true colors to illuminate yourself is frowned upon, I can only adjust slowly to the world of acting. The teacher tells the students to now stop crying suddenly. “Stop, control! Control!” We are those who focus, control everything, because our bodies are our tools.

We were advised to prepare a monologue beforehand; a speech performed by one character in order to allow the audience inside the characters thoughts and feeling. Alone on stage, one by one, we walk up the steps and set our emotions, our lives free for those watching. As I walk on stage to present my piece, I am met with blinding stage lights. I find it amazing how the audience can see the actor clearly and perfectly, yet all the actor sees are shadows of her audience. There is a freeing quality about not being able to see to whom you are speaking. Still, the nervousness is present and unavoidable as I pour out my soul into the dark, deep emptiness that is offstage. My heart pounds twenty times faster, my mouth is driest its ever been, and I feel as if everything I memorized is going to fly out of my ears, but I continue on, conserving my nervous energy and using it to enhance my performance. I speak, uttering the words many hope to always keep to themselves: “I am alone.” My character knows who she is, but do I know? Who am I? Where am I? What makes me utter these words? The teacher repeats these questions instilling them in my brain. My character is fearless, I am fearless. My character knows she is alone, and I know it too. She is able to admit she is alone, and now I am too.

“Be your character,” one of my teachers reminds me. After a long day of rehearsal, I am exhausted and drained. After all my classmates complete their monologues my teachers remind my class that actors are “strong when needed, yet weak when asked.” I need to be strong to play a courageous, leader, yet I need to allow this leader figure to feel when her position has been stolen. I feel twice as hard, observing those around me, for they are all my teachers for realism. Most “ordinary” people struggle not to show emotion, try not to get angry, and avoid crying. As an actor, however I must try my hardest to show those emotions, and more so, to emote on cue. My tasks are to feel and be true on stage, as well as conceal my emotion just as true people in society would, off stage.

Acting allows me to have different experiences, live another life, and be another person. It enables me to change my viewpoint on life, by completely changing the answer to the question; “What is my purpose of my life?” To be true, I must first understand how I would honestly react to rejection, to my best friend passing away from cancer, or my sister having her first child, and many other scenes of life. I observe others and understand reactions, and rehearse, and rehearse some more, to stand up at the end of the play and be surrounded by the thunderous applause. Actors are entertainers, here to evoke happiness, sadness, anger, frustration, jealousy, and most of all to hear the screams, claps, and roars of the crowd. Actors are here to show you how to live.

Aramayis Kageorgis

2009-10-11T22:07:00.000-07:00

By Aramayis Kageorgis (Grade 12)

Aramayis Kageorgis - proper noun – Ar`a*ma"is [are-a-ma-yees]

My name is Aramayis Kageorgis and my life is made up of numerous experiences that define my personality. These experiences are filled with unique discoveries that only I can cherish. The only reason I find significance in these experiences is that I saw them through my own perspective. My experiences didn’t always have a positive impact but that doesn’t matter. All that matters is that I’m reflecting on them now just as I did before and by doing that, I am making myself a better person.

In the not so distant past, I was really ashamed of my name. It was too long and I hated how people mispronounced it. I wanted an average name, a common name, a one-syllable name. I wanted a name like John, Sam, or Paul. Whenever I was talkative in class my fourth-grade teacher, Mrs. Momjian, told me, “Aramayis, you have too beautiful a name to group with words like stop and talking so, ARAMAYIS STOP TALKING!!!”

At the time I didn’t understand what she meant by that phrase. I kept my mouth shut, but I didn’t think my name was beautiful.

Thinking back even earlier than that, I remember complaining to my mom about my name. I used to yell, “That Jamba Juice worker just called me Eruhmayonnaise! Why couldn’t you just name me John or Sam or…?”

“Before you say Paul again, let me inquire…”

“What does inquire mean?”

“It means to ask.”

“Ask ahead.”

“How many people do you know are named Aramayis?”

“None.”

“And how many people do you know who are named John, Sam, and Paul?”

“Plenty, that’s exactly my point. Nobody’s named Aramayis.”

“Let me finish. My point is, janeegus, that if I had named you John, et cetera, et cetera, that employee would have pronounced your name correctly because he has heard those names before, because everyone has those names, and they’re not as special as yours.”

“Yeah, well, I hate having a special name.”

Recently I have come to realize that I love my name. Thinking back on what I said, I think I was so wrong. My name is unique. I don’t ever have to worry about being confused with someone else. Only one image comes to people’s minds when reading my name.

Aramayis Kageorgis…

My teachers were so right.

About five years after that, I picked up a burning passion for cinema. My ninth grade second semester film elective was surely the instigator. One of our projects was to compose a short film that had to have a plot outline with a meeting and exchange between two individuals. This project was the match that ignited my interest. My film’s story was made up of a drug deal between a famous musician and a dishonest cocaine dealer that results in both of their deaths. It made me realize how much I love creating stories and letting my imagination go off-leash.

I was inspired to take every other class associated with film available to me. During summer of that year, I signed myself up for Cinema 107: The Analysis of Motion Pictures at Pierce College, taught by Mr. McColloch. The classroom basically looked like a movie theater with the same type of seating and a large projector pointed toward the wall. I remember reading the first line of the syllabus that stated:

*WARNING: After taking this class you will never view films the same way*

This line had an extremely negative impact on me because of the way I incorrectly and subconsciously applied the knowledge I acquired after taking the class to every film I watched. It basically had the effect of a self-fulfilling prophecy but in a negative way. Films started to boil down to the low angle shots, long takes, mise-en-scene and other cinematic elements that the filmmaker used to compose it. I didn’t understand the reason why those elements were being used, just that they were being used, which was a major mistake. Films started to bore me and gradually that burning passion faded into a freezing dislike for anything to do with films. This class didn’t help me in the traditional way a class should, but it opened up an opportunity for me. It wasn’t until a year and a half later that the fire was lit again.

I can say that last year, a few weeks before spring break, was one of the most enlightening periods of my lifetime. The cause of this instructive knowledge was expected considering that it was when I was first introduced to Transcendentalist philosophy. It was in Mrs. Martin’s eleventh grade literature class. The introduction couldn’t have come at a better time. I had recently experienced a snow-blanketed Yosemite during winter break. My appreciation for nature was already there and this just added to it. I began to see everything exactly for what it was and the pointless judgment that clouded my vision before was now cleared. I began to view life with a transparent eye. Henry David Thoreau once said, “It's not what you look at that matters, it's what you see.” What I thought of when I read that quote was spectators looking at a stage with actors performing, and instead they see Marie Antoinette being decapitated during the French Revolution. They’re only actors paid to be in costumes and makeup, recite lines of dialogue, and act out the character that was written for them.

This mindset helped me gain back my interest in cinema. My uncle was interested in filming a documentary on the roots of the Armenian Alphabet. He knew that I had taken a college class in film and asked me to work with him. I saw this opportunity for exactly what it was and agreed to help. He bought an expensive digital camera, tripod, and other accessories. As we worked on it, I felt the fire burning once more. He told me the equipment was just as much mine as it was his. The opportunity to use those tools helped me in the future.

During spring break of the same year, I was given the opportunity to experience Yosemite once again, although this time it was spring. Coincidentally I had a fresh mindset in which to experience it. My brother and I decided to make the best of this opportunity and explore its vast untouched beauty by hiking its trails. As we were walking back to our campsite after our first hike, we encountered a bit of irony. While walking, we saw a group of campers herded to the side of the street which connected the campsites curiously gazing toward the woods. The curiosity was contagious and without hesitation we joined this group of tourists. Out of nowhere, we heard a small child scream, “Look it’s a bear!” And everyone looked to where he pointed. It was actually a baby bear, a cub is the correct term for it. Most people wouldn’t think much of seeing a bear in Yosemite; it’s quite common actually. However my brother and I viewed it from quite a different perspective. We had just endured a three and a half mile hike and the closest thing we saw to wildlife was a squirrel that looked exactly like the squirrels in the valley. The irony of the situation is that we didn’t see this bear while hiking the more secluded parts of Yosemite, but we saw it in the most civilized part.

This wasn’t the last of unusual experiences to happen that year. The most recent happened this summer only one week before school started. Michael, Anthony, and I had come up with a short story which I adapted into a screenplay for short film. It happened the first day we began filming “What A Load Of Crap!” The story takes place in a public recreation area named Serrania Park. It includes a shot where Michael and Anthony carry an object wrapped in a sheet that looks identical to a dead body.

We were finishing up the last take of that shot when we noticed a woman with a worried face suspiciously observing us. She was speaking on a cell phone rather quickly. I had to urinate, so I took care of that on a nearby tree. The next thing we knew, a police car rolled right in front of the camera. We immediately uncovered the object which was composed of a soccer bag, a backpack, and a blanket. We told them we were just filming. They were still convinced that we were up to something. It must have been something that lady said. They asked, “Can we see what’s in the bags? We want to make sure you guys aren’t transporting any dead bodies, body parts, bombs, grenades, or large quantities of drugs or drug paraphernalia.”

“It’s just a soccer bag, sir,” I said, showing them what was inside the bag.

“Yeeeaaah. Was anybody urinating anywhere?”

“Uhhh no not us, sir, not us.”

They then asked to see our IDs. They checked them out and our records were clean. No past history of any murdering, concealing, or smuggling. They finally realized we were really just filming and they let us continue. The last thing the cop said was, “Continue filming and if anyone looks at you funny, just tell them you’re filming.”

“Of course, officers, have a good day.”

The first thing I did when they left was check if the camera was still rolling and luckily it was. Needless to say we were overjoyed. I took two things from this experience. The first thing I learned was that next time it would be convenient to put signs that said:

We are not: Transporting any dead bodies, body parts, bombs, grenades, or large quantities of drugs or drug paraphernalia.
We are: just filming.

The second was a possible blooper scene.

Albert Sezent-Gyorgyi Nagyrapolt said: “Discovery consists of seeing what everybody has seen and thinking what nobody has thought.” I completely agree with him because I believe anyone could tell you a story about an experience, his experience, but you shouldn’t base your facts on it. Should you trust his opinion while passing judgment on that particular experience? I believe you shouldn’t because he viewed the experience with his own eyes and mind. You should experience it yourself, then pass your own judgment. The result of all the experiences I reflected on is who I am today. I can say that I am completely satisfied with the result.

Armenia: To Andranik (Gramps)

2009-10-04T15:31:00.001-07:00

By: Natalie Baghdassarian (Grade 12)

“There is no greater pain than to remember, in our present grief, past happiness.”
-Dante Alighieri

When I think about the trip I took this summer, I don’t know where to start. I’ll try to put in context what I saw, how that changed me, and who I became.

At first it started out as a class trip. Ten days of having fun, partying and some sightseeing. The second I got out of the airport and stepped on my first piece of Armenian land, I knew it was going to be much different, much more.

It was six AM in Armenia, we took a bus from the airport to the hotel, and Mount Ararat was in full view.

Now that I’m back, I look at the Los Angeles mountains and I can’t figure out what it was about Ararat that was so different from anything I’ve ever seen.

I need you to understand that I found myself there, and I lose myself here.

When you asked me to write to you about Armenia, I dreaded it. I didn’t want to just summarize what I saw because that’s not nearly what I experienced. You’re my grandfather, but I’m going to overlook our age difference affecting how we view things, the fact that we don’t truly know each other and that you’re a part of my family. I don’t know what this will make you feel, what you expect, or if you’ll be unsatisfied. But I want to do this because you asked me to write to you, and I am going to do just that.

I want to make this perfect. This was too big of a factor in my life to make it any less than that.

Yerevan was overrated. The people were rude and thought too much of themselves. I hated how commercialized Echmiatzin was. It was just a country and I’m not going to say it’s the most beautiful one I’ve seen.

I didn’t belong there and I certainly don’t belong here.

I can’t tell you the names of the places I saw, or the history of each place because I don’t remember. I didn’t ask, it simply didn’t matter. I was there, as me.

It was old and new. Rich and poor. Big and small. It was my home. Those people were a part of me, a part of you, a part of our story—our history.

We had a routine: wake up, eat the marvelous Marriot breakfast, go on tour, get ready and go out.

The nights were fun, but it’s the tours I’ll always remember. It’s the hours of bus rides that will stick with me. I found a corner on the bus to stand while everyone was busy sleeping or talking. My eyes, as well as my heart, followed the scenery. I soaked in every bit of every place I could. The scene of sixty kids taking pictures to post on the internet. I didn’t take a camera, I didn’t need one. I separated myself to explore and I became a part of every place we saw.

I mostly enjoyed spending time alone, but I never felt lonely.

I am not religious. I didn’t pray at the churches more than once or twice. But I loved them. I loved the history and the making and the feeling of each church. I loved that they were made such a long time ago and were left unrenovated, untouched, real.

Everything I felt there was real.

When we would return to Yerevan to have our “fun,” it became so loud, so repetitive, so meaningless.

I’m not going to go into detail about the clubs, the walks around Yerevan, the hotel fun. Except that it was freedom. It was doing without permission, spending with no time and ten days with no worries.

When I was there I was myself. But I knew and regretted that when the ten days were over, I would come back to LA, give in to technology, the pointless spending of money in order to enjoy life—the way everyone lives. But that’s okay, I’ll always have Armenia.

It’s extremely difficult to make you feel what I felt, but this is my job as the writer.

I am not a strong believer of things I can’t see. That is why I know Armenia is special, at least to me. I know it’s not just the yearly junior trip we take, of being with life-long classmates and drinking, as everyone had explained.

We all went to the same places, but I saw different things.

I fell in love in Armenia, something I couldn’t do here. I don’t exactly know what I fell in love with, but I know it was strong and true and everlasting.

I never want to go back, but I always want to be there.

__________________________________________

Addendum: The editor wishes to thank those who have added themselves to the list of followers for this blog, including Shantello, William Michaelian, Tim Wilkins, and NEFrost. All the writers appreciate your readership and those who leave comments.

Thank you.

The Value of the Individual and Independent Thought

2009-09-23T23:18:00.001-07:00

By: Narineh Melkonian (Grade 12)

In the novel 1984, George Orwell introduces the reader to a world where the corrupt party of Big Brother manipulates everything that exists. The people of Oceania live obliviously as the thought police track down those who suggest going against the system. The worst part of the regime is that it not only controls the present, but creates the past. It does this by hiring people to change historical records in order to favor the party and make it seem like they are always in the right.

The concept of the “mutability of the past” interests Winston Smith, as he is assigned to contribute to the alteration of history in the Ministry of Truth. He is to align the policies of the party with the past and erase the existence of people who have committed thoughtcrime (unpersons.) Winston recognizes its strong influence on the people of Oceania. If the party decides that it needs to change facts, then those facts become undeniable truths to the citizens. Smith is blown away by the idea because he recognizes that there is no way of disproving the party once the evidence is destroyed because they control every aspect of the media and records. He realizes that “Who controls the present, controls the past” and “Who controls the past, controls the future.” With this, he realizes that the party has no limits in power and can therefore manipulate the people into believing anything. This makes the party extremely dangerous, as they have supreme power over the future after conquering the past.

As he ponders the purpose for twisting history, Winston says, “He must be cut off from the past, just as he must be cut off from foreign countries, because it is necessary for him to believe that he is better off than his ancestors and that the average level of material comfort is rising.” This quote demonstrates the party’s intention: to set the standard of good living by having nothing to compare it to. This helps the people of Oceania believe that every day, in every way, things are getting better. He continues, “But by far the more important reason for the re-adjustment of the past is the need to safeguard the infallibility of the Party.” By eliminating evidence of the true past, the party can create an illusion of progress that makes the system seem efficient and successful.

Winston states, “The past is whatever the records and the memories agree upon.” This claim shows his resignation to the fact that the mere changing of records truly does change the past events that occurred. Although the propaganda that the party injects into the records is not true, it becomes true once everyone believes in it. He explains, “For when it has been recreated in whatever shape is needed at the moment, then this new version is the past, and no different past can ever have existed.” This quote clarifies that the changes do not merely set up the illusion of the past, but create the past.

One example of the party changing historical records for the benefit of its image is when they claim that they have raised the chocolate ration after they reduce it. He says, “Was it possible that they could swallow that, after only twenty-four hours? Yes, they swallowed it.” Smith finds it hard to believe that the people of Oceania not only believed the propaganda, but participated in demonstrations to thank Big Brother for raising it the day after the reduction of the ration. Little do the citizens know that the telescreens continuously lie about the amount of food, clothes, houses, furniture, fuel and books they have in the country. This also demonstrates the suggestibility of the citizens, as they swear to anything and everything the party favors.

Another instance where the party successfully creates its own history is when they change Oceania’s enemy. At their convenience, the party claims that their mortal enemy is Eastasia and then switches their focus to Eurasia. Once the change is made, posters and propaganda are adjusted, and the citizens of Oceania go on with life without noticing the obvious alteration. When O’Brien discusses this occurrence with Smith, he says, “But I tell you, Winston, that reality is not external. Reality exists in the human mind, and nowhere else.” This shows that he believes that if people think Oceania was always at war with Eurasia, then it is true because it is in their mind. By stating that reality is not external, he demonstrates that the only evidence of anything is the human memory, which the party can manipulate anyways. He continues by saying, “Whatever the Party holds to be truth is truth.” By the end of the novel, Winston tragically learns this lesson.

In the real world in which we live, the concept of having a mutable past is true. This is because, just as the party did in the novel, governments can alter information through the media. Also, the suggestibility of the people in Oceania is realistic, as I have observed that the American public is just as suggestible. An example of this is when America had good relations with Saddam Hussein in the 1970s and then switched to becoming enemies with him in the 1990s. All the while, the susceptible American public did not hesitate, as it seemed that nothing had ever changed. In 1963, the United States backed Saddam Hussein by assisting in a coup against the old government of Iraq. Hussein’s Baath Party eventually took over, thanks to the help of America. Then under the administrations of Ronald Reagan and George H.W. Bush, America assisted Iraq by selling them chemical weapons. Then from the Persian Gulf War in 1991, the United States’ relation with Iraq started to wither. The U.S. encouraged other countries to form a coalition to fight against Iraq. Then after the September 11th attacks, America declared war on the country. During this ordeal, the American public blindly and eagerly went along with whatever decision the government made. This parallels the party’s manipulation of the people of Oceania. Once the public surrenders the ability to think to the government, it suddenly has the power to do anything because it will not face any opposition. This example shows that the past really does only exist in the human mind, because once the American public forgot about the U.S.’s relationship with Iraq, it ceased to exist. In this way, the demonstration of the mutability of the past in the novel is real.

George Orwell wrote 1984 in 1948 by anticipating what the future would be like. Unfortunately, elements of the corrupt party in the novel are apparent in our present world. As long as we keep value in the individual and encourage independent thought, we can still look ahead to the future with hope.

1984

2009-09-23T23:08:00.001-07:00

By: Serli Polatoglu (Grade 12)

Humanity is a proponent of stability. We like to believe that certain things are absolute. Some first-rate thinkers are able to reason that “basic human rights” and “freedom of expression” are privileges subject to change, but even the sharpest thinkers hope to believe some things are interminable.

Before I read 1984, I was sure the past was one of these eternal truths. Try as we might, we cannot change what has already occurred.

I’m still right, but only because of a technicality.

No one can change the past. What’s done is done. However, if someone manages to convince the populace that past events are different from actuality, what good is the truth?

Winston Smith grapples with this idea in dystopian Oceania, where Big Brother rules the Party, and telescreens watch your every move. Oceania is teeming with contradictions; the government agency administering torture is called the Ministry of Love, those who rewrite history work at the Ministry of Truth, and government officials who concern themselves with war report to the Ministry of Peace.

The omnipotent Party slogan reflects the paradoxical nature of the times: “War is Peace; Freedom is Slavery; Ignorance is Strength.” The Party claims to operate in the name of Ingsoc (Newspeak for “English Socialism”), but Big Brother’s supporters have perverted the principles of socialism to such a degree that it no longer resembles the original institution.

The Party employs the use of several stratagems in order to stay in power. One of the most prevalent tactics is the alteration of the past. The Party believes that: “Who controls the past controls the future; who controls the present controls the past.”

Minitrue (Ministry of Truth) workers constantly revise periodicals to make the Party look infallible. One day, news breaks that the chocolate ration has to be decreased to twenty grams a week so that funds could be redirected to the war with Eurasia. The next day, telescreens triumph the good news: the amiable Big Brother actually raised the chocolate rations to twenty grams a week.

The scariest part of this ordeal? Everyone believes it. The citizens of Oceania eat this “good news” up and are ever-thankful for Big Brother and his generosity.

Oceania is in the midst of Hate Week, seven days when all citizens of Oceania profess their hate for the dreaded enemy Eurasia, when the ultimate mind game is executed. Just as a member of the Inner Party is giving a speech about how Eurasia is the most despicable place on the planet, the orator switches, mid-sentence, to outline his hatred for Eastasia.

The people of Oceania do not flinch. They are so brainwashed that they truly believe “Oceania was at war with Eastasia: Oceania had always been at war with Eastasia” (Orwell 150).

But the Party’s sabotage goes beyond merely mutating the past; it overrides all human reason. Common sense warns one not to put his finger on a burning hot stove, but the Party can convince the same person that self-mutilation is good for society!

The Party is all-powerful, and its dictatorship forces one to straddle the line between insanity and obedience. When forced to choose between the two, people choose obedience – it is, after all, human nature to preserve mental health.

Or is it? According to O’Brien, a member of the Inner Party, the Party defines human nature. It can make people think it’s natural to want to die for Big Brother, kill for Big Brother, and love Big Brother.

Eerily enough, O’Brien is right. The people of Oceania are easily convinced of false reality. In Newspeak, “doublethink” is the term used to describe the way people can convince themselves of the infallibility of the Party. While, consciously, they may be aware that they are being fed lies, they are able to convince themselves that the Party is the ultimate truth.

Winston is a man with the courage to stand up for the truth. He stands his ground far longer than most men would have, and asserts his belief that 2+2=4, no matter what O’Brien tells him.

Slowly, he is able to worm his way out of the insanity that consumes him. He knows the truth. He knows the Party created a perpetual war to keep the people in check, and he knows they punish people for expressing contrary views – something that, nowadays, is essential to the health of our society.

He also knows that he is probably the only one to despise the Party with such a passion. Winston can’t seem to understand why people don’t revolt. Why don’t the proles stand up for themselves? Why doesn’t Oceania in its entirety make a conscientious effort to create a better world? Why doesn’t anyone else realize that things aren’t as they seem? The statistics that claim people are so much better off are all fabricated! Why doesn’t anyone see that?

Though Winston has to endure abuse, beatings, and torture for his beliefs, he knows the truth matters. The only thing that makes him question himself is the psychological torment he has to endure.

“[Winston] wondered, as he had many times wondered before, whether he himself was a lunatic. Perhaps a lunatic was simply a minority of one. At one time it had been a sign of madness to believe that the earth goes round the sun; today, to believe that the past is unalterable. He might be alone in holding that belief, and if alone, then a lunatic. But the thought of being a lunatic did not greatly trouble him; the horror was that he might also be wrong” (Orwell 68).

I’ll be the first to admit that contemporary society isn’t perfect, but reading about the horrors of Orwell’s 1984 made me very appreciative of the government we have. We are allowed to think, criticize, assemble and let our voices be heard. Our thoughts and opinions help shape the institution that governs us. And though we may not feel as though we are always listened to, we are still granted a voice.

The fact that U.S. officials allow citizens to access past records, allow historians to analyze unbiased truth, and admit to having made mistakes, makes me proud to be an American. I’m aware that many nations do not allow such freedom for their citizens, and I acknowledge the fact that we are an imperfect world, but, in the end, I’d rather have imperfection than be subdued.

To Kill A Mockingbird

2009-09-18T22:16:00.001-07:00

By: Anais Zarifian (Grade 10)

Throughout Harper Lee’s novel, To Kill a Mockingbird, Scout learns about life and human nature through her life experiences. Scout, like every other child, is innocent, but as she sees the events take place, she learns more and more about justice, racism, society, courage, and respect. She starts to lose her innocence and sees what real life truly is.

Through the story of Tom Robinson and Atticus Finch, the reader sees the beginnings of Scout’s ideas of injustice. In the beginning of the novel, Scout is only able to realize that something is wrong, but cannot identify it. She attacks and beats up anyone she suspects of doing her or her family wrong. When Atticus is confronted by the lynch mob, Scout does not understand what is happening. Her innocence is truly shown when she starts talking to Walter Cunningham’s father conversationally. However, during the trial of Tom Robinson, Scout is able to realize that the verdict is unjust, but doesn’t know that racism is the cause.

Scout also sees the effect of racism on society and her life, but does not understand it, yet again. She hears Aunt Alexandra’s traditional view of society: that blacks should know their place. She also sees Atticus’ treatment of Calpurnia as an equal. Scout also sees how Bob Ewell regards blacks and how he accuses Tom Robinson of rape. She doesn’t realize that Bob Ewell only accuses Tom because of his color and because of his social status. Bob Ewell, after all, needs something to separate himself from a black person.

Racism also has an effect on Scout’s family. When Francis calls her family “nigger-lovers,” she beats him up out of anger despite the fact that she has no knowledge or idea of the meaning of the word.

Because of this, Atticus does his best to teach her that courage is not necessarily dependant on a person’s strength or ability to do something. Therefore, he takes advantage of the incident when he had to shoot the mad dog and the story of Mrs. Dubose to teach Scout a lesson. Here, Scout learns that true bravery and courage do no involve violence, a gun, or physical action. She realizes that true bravery is in Mrs. Dubose’s decision to die without drugs in her body. To tolerate and live with the pain until her last day just to die sober is a very brave and admirable choice to make. Scout also learns here that she must respect others and that she can only understand someone when she walks in his shoes.

Her experience with Arthur “Boo” Radley teaches her that she has to respect every human being, even if he is the subject of legend and superstition. In Boo Radley’s case, almost all of Maycomb is afraid of him, but he is just an innocent man and ends up saving the children in the end. Scout never understands why Boo is the way he is, but she does know that she shouldn’t have judged him before she knew more about him or at least, met him.

Children, including Scout, are born innocent. Like Scout, they may not fully understand the situations and problems in life, but as they grow older, they lose their innocence and learn things they’ll remember for the rest of their lives. In the novel, Scout learns about racism, society, courage, and respect, and starts to realize that the real world is not like her games of pretend. She learns that there are good and bad people in the world, but she must not judge them before understanding their situations.

The lessons she learns in the novel and throughout the rest of her life will make an impact on her forever.

My Love Life

2009-09-15T22:15:00.001-07:00

By: Vatche Yousefian (Grade 12)

“How can you write in a world where books are extinct? Technology is taking over; books are deadwood,” my friend said.

“Don’t you mean why do I write?” I smiled.

“Fine, why are you going to a job that doesn’t have any future, that won’t pay the bills? Why go into something like writing novels when novels might not exist in a few more years?”

“Love.” I bit into my sandwich. We were having lunch in the quad-area, a great place to enjoy the scenery of the school and the people. My friend Michael and I were discussing what to do once we graduate.

“Love?” He sounded confused.

“Love,” I repeated. “I love to read and write. I love to read stories that aren’t ordinary and to write about the strange and the unknown. I write so that I can release my imagination onto the paper and put it somewhere where it can be safe and imagined over and over again.”

“And where’s that?”

“In someone else’s mind.” I drank some water and cleared my throat; I was preparing myself for another all-out discussion with my friend.

“So you love to write?” he asked and I nodded. “Then, what about your parents? Don’t they want you to become a doctor or a lawyer or something?”

“Sure, what Armenian parent doesn’t want that for their child?”

“But you’re smart, you’re in all advanced classes and you’re going to go to a university to write?”

“It takes great skill and knowledge like any other field of work.”

“Aren’t your parents angry?”

“Angry, they are not. They are just slightly disappointed that I don’t focus my attention in areas of business, or to be a physician or dentist. But you know why?” I asked him.

“Why?” He stopped eating and was fully attentive.

“Because they don’t understand immortality,” I whispered.

“Immortality? What does immortality have to do with writing?”

“Think about Shakespeare; he was born in 1564. Yet over four hundred years later, we are still reading his works. That is immortality, Michael. I want to be remembered. If I was just another doctor or lawyer, I would be like a grain of sand on a beach.”

“You said you love to read. What’s that got to do with writing?”

“Good question. To be the best, one must read the best, right?”

“What a cliché!” He waved his hand in the air as if pushing my sentence away and out of his mind.

“I bet you didn’t want to be a writer forever, now did ya?” he asked.

“No.” I answered.

“So you might just change your field of work as soon as you get tired of writing, won’t you?”

“No. Because now writing and reading are my life,” I said.

“Your life? Come on, man, you just decided to become a writer, what, a year ago?”

“Four years ago. However, I have been reading since I was three years old, and that’s how the seed was planted.”

“The seed?”

“The seed is my idea of becoming a writer. It started at an early age when I was reading. I loved to read books of fantasy and fairy tales. I still read today, don’t I? And that seed has sprouted, grown, and turned into the flowering idea of me wanting to be a writer in the 21st century.”

“Writing in the 21st century won’t exist.” I felt attacked by his comment.

“Writing will always exist. How else do we communicate? Telepathy? What are the movies you watch based on? People need scripts to read because not everything can be reality TV. You catch my drift.”

“I guess you’re right.” He smirked and shrugged his shoulders.

“I’ve been thinking about this all my life, so I’m prepared for all these questions you have asked me here at lunch. I’ve prepared myself for the hard, long road ahead of me with a dim light at the end, but the thing is I know it’s there.”

“Cliché!” He began eating again.

“Shut up! You don’t know what it’s like. I’ve been through so many difficulties in my life because of this career choice.”

“Like what?”

“I’ve been bullied, because I love to read.”

“Why? Isn’t reading a good thing?”

“Not to my peers, apparently. They sometimes think I’m a nerd, geek, dork, whatever you’d like to call it. I’ve been made fun of because instead of watching TV or playing the newest video game, I was reading Stephen King or Ray Bradbury.”

“Stephen King? He’s so overrated.”

“Well, I read the classics, as well. Stephen King is like junk food to me. You know it’s not good for you, but you still eat it. I read the classics like Sylvia Plath, Shakespeare, and William Golding.”

“So back to this idea of you being made fun of: is there any other reason?”

“It was back in tenth grade. I clearly remember it was a Monday. I came back to school after attending the Festival of Books held at UCLA.”

“Festival of Books?” Michael didn’t know much about me. We had our discussions during lunch, but that’s as close as we got as friends.

“It’s a thing where authors come to California to talk about their next upcoming book or talk about writing.”

“Ok,” he said, “I get it.”

“So it was Monday and I took pictures with this guy named Joe Hill, who is Stephen King’s son and also a writer. I felt like the happiest guy on earth. I got my book signed and told Joe Hill how much I wanted to become a writer.”

“What did he say?”

“He told me to keep on writing.”

“Go back to the Monday you got bullied,” he pushed.

“A few my classmates saw the picture and called him a pedophile for giving me a hug in the picture. They said I was a nerd and so on and so forth. Then, I went into class with my dreams crushed. I stood silent in the classroom wishing that my English teacher would not ask me how the festival went. I was praying to God that I would hold it together, not to crack.”

“What happened?”

I had finished eating my sandwich, so I held out the plate right in front of me, and ripped it in half. “I cracked.”

“What was the catalyst?” Michael was intrigued.

“We were beginning Ovid’s Metamorphosis and then my teacher asked the class about our weekends. Other students talked while I remained silent in the back corner. Then, he suddenly remembered that I went to the festival and asked me, ‘Vatche, you went to the festival, right? How did that go?’”

“What did you say?”

“I said nothing. I cried out tears instead of words. They were not tears of the happiest man on earth, but of the most broken-hearted child.”

“What happened next?”

“My teacher took me outside and talked to me. He told me that I had something the other kids didn’t.”

“What was that?”

“The determination and heart to become a writer, that’s what I had that those students didn’t. He told me that some of those kids just didn’t understand what I have and that’s why they make fun of me.”

“What happened after that?”

“I washed my face, came back to a class of worried faces, and listened to the words of Ovid. After that, I decided to keep my dream of becoming a writer to my friends and family and to never give up on that dream. That’s why writing is my life.”

“So do you still go to the festival?”

“Every year,” I said proudly.

“Who else did you meet?”

“Well, last year I saw Clive Barker and Ray Bradbury. I’ve been going for only four years, so I haven’t seen many. Only the top people on my list of writers I want to meet.”

“You have a list?”

“Yeah,” I threw away the ripped plate, while Michael continued eating his sandwich.

“What do they talk about at this festival?”

“About my love: my love for writing, my love for reading their books and about the ideas they had when they were my age about becoming writers. I learned from the best.”

“What else do you do to enhance your writing?” he said, “What do you write about?”

“I have enhanced my writing by writing down every idea I get in my Idea Book. I write stories almost everyday after my homework. I write and write until I get my thoughts out of my head and onto to that blank white paper. I also enhanced my writing by going to a writing workshop held by a guy named Al Martinez.”

“The LA Times columnist?” Michael has read newspapers a lot because he wanted to become a historian or a politician.

“Yes, that Al Martinez, and what I learned from him is that characters are what drive a story. However, I did not just learn from him. I’ve learned from a variety of experiences and people. I’ve learned from Clive Barker that one must have great imagination to have a story. Al Martinez told me about the character. Joe Hill told me about the determination and plot. Ray Bradbury spoke to me about the love to write. I’ve learned from what I consider the best.”

“You have the determination, I can give you that.” Michael said, “So what do you write about?”

“I write to escape my life and become a different person, in a different time, a different place, a different world. I write about the known and the unknown, the loved and the hated, the good and the evil. I write what I believe to be a good story. I write what I believe that the reader might enjoy and say he wants more. I want my readers to be satisfied by what they read, but to have an appetite for more of my work.”

“Who are your readers? You’ve never given me any of your pieces.”

“Well, my readers are people like my closest friends, my mom, and my neighbor.”

“Look there’s five minutes left before the whistle blows. Tell me a quick story of one of your readers.” Michael looked at his watch.

“Fine, I met a girl who enjoyed my art in ninth grade. Her name was Angeline.”

“You’re using a fake name aren’t you?”

“Yes,” I admitted.

“So, Angeline met me because I also draw. She met me when one of her friends noticed my drawings and pulled me away to talk to her. Angeline said she was amazed by my art style and that was the last I saw of her in the school year.”

“Wait, what?”

“Hold on, let me finish. You’re always rushing aren’t you? Anyway, so I met her at a summer SAT practice course called LIM’s. She noticed that I was the guy who drew the picture she liked and started talking to me. I told her that I wanted to be a writer and not an artist, though I draw occasionally for the relaxation. She said that she had to read my writing and compare it with my drawings. So, I gave her a story I just finished at the end of the school year called, “Rules to Live by.” It was a twenty page piece and I didn’t expect her to finish it, because I thought she would put it down and tell me to become an artist instead.”

“Well, what happened?

“She came the next day to LIM’s and sat next to me. I asked her if she read the story. She didn’t speak. She later told me it was because she was thinking of what to say. She sat there for a good five minutes in silence. Then, she burst into a talking frenzy like all those words that she didn’t speak in those five minutes were exploding out of her. She told me how she loved the story and especially the characters. She told me how she wanted to laugh along with a character, slap another, and cry during a scene.”

“Then, what?”

“She became one of the closest friends I ever had. She talked to me everyday. She told me about how I gave her goosebumps and then she asked the most peculiar question.”

“What was the question?”

“Was it real?”

“What did you tell her?”

“Obviously, it wasn’t real because it involved a guy burning down the school and seeing hallucinations of the dead.”

“Was she crazy?”

“No, she wasn’t. However, I knew I did my job as a writer. I made her believe it was real, that all the emotions I put into the story were correctly triggered in her reading of my story. I got the exact reactions that I wanted. I told her no, but I wish it were true. By the way, she then asked if my story was based on anyone and I told her no. Then, she was in awe; she believed that it must’ve happened, because how else could I write such a story? Any other questions?”

“Can I read one of your stories?” The whistle blew.

“Sure,” I said, “I’ll bring one tomorrow.”

I went home that day and sat in front of my desk staring at the infamous blank page of my laptop staring at me with its blinking cursor. I wanted to give Michael a new piece of writing, one that would leave him in awe, so I started typing. I finished the story later that evening and handed it to Michael the next day.

He read it during his English class, “I was hiding it from my teacher,” he told me at lunch. He read it the entire period thinking that he was in a world I created rather than at school, on earth, in our universe. He brought the story back to me during lunch and stood silent much like Angeline. I ate my sandwich in silence. He exploded into words.

We had yet another discussion that lunch, but not about politics, books, school, or TV, but about the story. My story. I felt like an accomplished writer once again.