3. Comb Jellies

        While putting off writing this very blog, I found the song "Spoken For" by FLAVOR FOLEY. Its charming instrumental instantly hooked me—I’m easily swayed by music and am open to virtually any genre you could name. I’ve listened to FLAVOR FOLEY before stumbling upon this song, so I recognized their style immediately—yet, this song is just so uniquely snazzy with pops of saxophone gracing my ears. This trio of producers is exceptionally creative in how they have a way of imbuing a catchy essence in their music. Beyond musical content, the lyrics called to me, cliche as it is… why else would I mention some random song in a blog about identity and language? Vocal synth songs aren’t typically liked by people who listen to general pop, R&B, and rap, so naturally I would hesitate to write about this. But I couldn’t stop listening to it as I brainstormed all the acceptable things I could blog about, so here we are. 

What do you do when you hold a dying bird in your hands? Do you take it to the vet? Do you try to save it? Do you shake your head and sigh as it dies in your grasp? Do you not care? This is my dilemma with my mother tongue, Konkani: a vibrant, expressive language spoken by a select few living in the Indian states of Goa, Karnataka, and Kerala. Its dialects vary extremely, to the point where I, someone from southern Kerala, regard Goan Konkani as a completely different language.  It's also rarely used in writing, as it has no script. Because of this, Konkani has no literary canon or tradition. There are little to no representations of Konkani in popular media. There are few textbooks or resources * on learning the language. My only encounters with the language of my ancestors are through talking with family members; yet, many of them try to speak to me in broken English despite my constant reminders that yes, I can speak Konkani. Even they are slowly losing this language; when speak...

Identity is a topic that I have always found strange. How is anyone supposed to summarize a whole person—their thoughts, their feelings, their beliefs—when there is so much to cover? When someone asks me to ‘think about my identity’ I never know what they want me to do. Do they want me to talk about where I was born? Am I supposed to talk about where I grew up? Because I was born in one place and grew up in another. Confusing, I know. Or are they asking about my hobbies or interests? Do they want to know what I consider important or what I think others consider important? When I’m asked about identity, there’s this one question that I always connect to this topic—the question ‘If you had to sum yourself up in [amount] of words, what would you say?’. I personally despise this question. It’s not that this question is offensive, or rude, or harmful to me. It’s just that I never know how to respond. To me, when people ask me that question, they’re asking me to sum up who I am, to condense ...

I used to despise English. Growing up, I thought it was a boring subject that existed only to make me rip my hair out. My old teachers taught it with even less gusto than Gemini. It should be no surprise that I was also one of the many students that turned the other way when poetry entered the conversation. My opinion budged in middle school. Though my 8th grade English teacher and I did not get along, my history teacher was the very first to ever praise my writing. He wrote, “Lara, this is an exceptional paper.” The writing was okay--but that was all I needed. Maybe I can write. He inspired me to take English 9 honors despite having warnings flung at me from all directions.  The jump from the honors class at Thornton to American was dizzying. The first semester was a cycle of sifting through work and then panicking. It was when we watched Dead Poets Society that my outlook changed.  I went in with no expectations and I ended up crying. Following the viewing, I thanked my tea...

  Week 1: Who Am I? - 08/27 [5:45 PM] At some point in your academic life you will be asked to write about your identity. Every time I get asked to do this I never know what to write. “What is my identity? How do I even start to find it?” These are the questions I ask myself every time the prompt comes up but I can never figure out the answers to these questions. So, I did the first thing any teenager would do and googled it. That is how I found an article titled 'Who Am I?’ How to Find Your Sense of Self . This article goes over what makes up your identity and how to find it within yourself. So I thought this would be a good place to start both my self discovery and the topic of identity. The first thing the article covers is what your identity  or, as the article refers to it, your “sense of self” is. The article states that, “Personality traits, abilities, likes and dislikes, your belief system or moral code, and the things that motivate you — these all contribute to self-...

I have been going to art classes consistently since I was six years old. I have to admit that I was pretty bad when I first started but regardless, those classes became the highlight of my week. Once I started high school, I could feel myself improving and I started to truly enjoy looking at the pieces I was making.  About one year ago, I started a color pencil sketch of a statue of Medusa sitting in some kind of lake—a pretty ambitious goal for someone who could count the number of times she had sketched a person’s face on one hand. The first part I drew were the eyes; the day I finished them, I looked down at my paper and I realized I had never been more proud of something I had drawn. That gave me a good amount of confidence so I kept going, and to be completely honest, I thought it looked really good. I finished the face and began working on the hair. It was at this point that Sophomore year began taking me out.  I started skipping my art classes to focus on school so my p...

  Dear ice cream,  I love you.  The way you melt into me—soft, delicate, and comforting—is like no other. Each time we kiss, the contrast of your delicate cold pressing upon my warm lips evokes a feeling of security: like an infant with his favorite blanket or a child with his mother’s hand, your touch soothes me.  With you, time slows down, and sometimes even freezes; the outside world disappears and the only thing that matters is the sweetness we share.  You arrive in colors and textures more than of the bouquets shining in a Trader Joe’s.  You dress more decorated than princes and princesses, draped in jewels of rainbow sprinkles and robes of hot fudge. You smile with a caramel sweetness that makes my bitter days less bitter. You speak in soft whispers of cream and sugar that leave my tongue right as I feel the satisfaction. But even after you leave, your sweet perfume lingers, dancing around me romantically, reminding me that love leaves traces, even wh...