Make a Day

I have always been fascinated by the type of things that can cause someone to say, "You just made my day!"
Take last Thursday for example.  I was on choir tour at Six Flags, an amusement park in California filled primarily with roller coasters.  The park also had a merry-go-round and a few other simple attractions.  One of the rides was called "Tidal Wave."  It was a ship that rocked back and forth like a pendulum, just like the "Tidal Wave" at Lagoon.  Right before going on this ride, I and my choir friends decided that whenever our side of the ship tipped upwards, we would sing the three notes of a music chord in an operatic manner.   Sure enough, as we went up, the seven of us breathed deeply and belted out a resonant "Laaaaaaaaa!" with each of us singing our preassigned notes.  When the opposite side of the ship went up, the random, non-choir people on that side merely screamed, as if trying to out-do us.  Sure, they were louder, but we had the advantage of harmonious awesomeness.  This contest last throughout the ride.
"Laaaaaaaaa!"
"AaAaAaAaAaAaAhHHH!!!"
"Laaaaaaaaaa!"
"AaAaAaAaAaAaHhHh!!!"

When we got off the ride, the employee who had been running the ride declared exuberantly, "Ohhh!  You just made my day!"
"Wow," I thought to myself.  "It must be really boring to work here, press a button all day, say the same things over and over, and watch other people have all the fun.  I'm glad we could make something memorable out of the monotony."
This incident made me ask myself, "What small and simple things have made my day in the past?  And what does that even mean?"
I think what makes your day is the one thing that you will always remember even after the rest of your day is forgotten.  If I can be a "day maker" for other people throughout my life, I don't think I'll need fame or riches or anything else. 

First Impressions

First Impressions aren't everything.  But . . . they could be.

My family is moving in two weeks, and I've never been so excited in my life.  I have lived in the same house (the same bedroom!) my whole life, and change means adventure.  Best of all, I'm looking forward to making new first impressions on people.  Maybe then I can be free to be my true self.  You see, when I was a sophomore I was judgmental, somewhat shy, and highly sensitive.  I've changed more in the last two years than any other two years of my life.  Now I love to be teased, I do my best to love everyone without judging them, and I'm a zany, outgoing nut.  The only problem is that all the people that knew me as a sophomore don't realize I've changed, so they still fell like they have to walk on egg shells around me, and when I act any differently it only catches them off guard.  Well, that's okay; being stuck as the old me isn't the worst thing in the world . . . but it won't be long now! bwah-ha-ha-ha.

Speaking of first impressions, I'm making a plan.  For the first month after I move, I'm going to make a point to record my first impressions of the new neighbors and church members in as much detail as possible.  Why?  Because it will give me such great material for nice notes later!  For example, looking back over my high school career, I wish I had written down the identity of the first person who said hi to me on that first, awkward day of school.  What would it mean to someone now if I walked up to them at graduation and said, "You were the first person to welcome me three years ago and I will always remember you for that.  It meant so much to me that I wrote in my journal, and I also wrote, 'I could instantly tell that this girl was exceptionally bright and intelligent.'  Well, my prediction could not have been more correct!  You will bless people with your kind spirit throughout your life!" 

Unfortunately, I didn't do anything of the sort back then.  But thinking outside the box means learning from mistakes.

A Brick and a Blanket

The point I want to make with this entry is how it only takes a little bit of creativity to reveal the deepest roots of your personality.  Last summer my little brother and I challenge each other to think outside the box by holding a series of writing contests.  We soon discovered that it was next to impossible to choose a winner of these contests because it all depended on preference of style. 

For example, over the summer we read a book called Outliers by Malcolm Gladwell, a book about the secrets to achieving success.  The author recommends a creativity experiment and tells the reader to “write down as many different uses you can think of for the following objects: 1. A brick 2. A blanket.”  My brother and I decided to take this challenge, and we instructed our mom to judge or responses based on both quantity and quality.

The following are some of the best uses for a blanket which my brother wrote.

1.       A BLANKET can be enchanted as a flying carpet and used to see the world—Just make sure you keep its batteries charged.

2.       A BLANKET can mute the oars of Paul Revere’s boat as he rows past the Summerset.

3.      A BLANKET can be ripped into squares, sewed into bags, filled with sand, and used as sand-bags when you are in the process of turning State Street into a river but the sand bag suppliers ran out.

4.       A BLANKET can be a chess board.  First, take black paint and paint a gigantic, white blanket with a checkerboard pattern.  Then go to the nearest dwarf mine (such as Doria, the Lonely Mountain, pre-developed Ordock, the place where the Seven Dwarves go every day, etc.) and get a dwarf king, a dwarf queen, two dwarf watchmen, two mounted dwarves, two dwarf wizards, and eight common dwarves.  Then go to the nearest goblin kingdom (such as Mount Gundabad, the mountains north of Madsen Land, Dungeons and Dragons, etc.) and corral eight generic goblins, a goblin king, a goblin queen, two goblin dragon riders, two goblin catapult crews, and two goblin wizards.  Arrange these diametrical armies on either side of the blanket, and wah-la!  Insta Chess!  (Warning: may lead to violence and open warfare)

5.       A BLANKET you can rend, take a piece thereof, and write upon it, “In memory of our God, our religion, our freedom, and our peace, our wives, and our children,” fasten upon the end of a pole, and use to rouse a nation in defense of their liberties.

6.       A BLANKET can be sewed together with ten thousand other blankets to create the biggest blanket in the world.

7.       A BLANKET can be used to capture Barney.  Dig a pit, coat the walls and floor with tranquilizer fluid, cover it with a blanket, lay some greenery on top, lure Barney to the site, and then push him in.

8.       A BLANKET can aid in sending smoke-signals

9.       A BLANKET can mask one’s presence from a one-year old

10.   A BLANKET can help practice for calculating the area of rectangles

My brother had a total of 127 uses for a blanket on his list.  I had only 35.  However, I had a slightly different approach.  Instead of making a list, I made a brochure entitled, “Blanket for sale!”  On the cover of the brochure was a picture of Lucy (character from the Peanuts comic strip) with Linus’s blanket.  The brochure was written from Lucy’s perspective as she listed her reasons for why someone should buy the blanket and get it off her hands.  (She could just throw it away, but Lucy never passes up an opportunity to make a profit.)

1.  Do you need something to keep the dust off your piano?  Use this blanket as a cover.  (And if a certain piano-playing friend of mine is reading this, he should be informed that he would get a Favorite-Musician discount.)

2.  Do you struggle to come up with just the right costume for Halloween?   Dress as a ghost in the Charlie-Brown style by grabbing this blanket and going crazy with the scissors.

3.  Do you have anger management problems?  Pin this blanket onto your dart board.  (I’ve tried this, it really works.)

4.  Do you have sufficient material for making a kite?  This blanket can be cut into just the right shape.

5.  Do you have sufficient string for your kite (assuming you get it off the ground to begin with)?  Unravel this blanket.

6.   Do you worry that your pet moths are underfed?  Shred this blanket for them.

7.  Have you ever wondered about the durability of your paper shredder?  Fabric is the perfect testing material.

8.  Does your dog howl at night because he sleeps on the roof and he doesn’t have something to keep him sufficiently warm?  Use this blanket to cover your ears.

9.  Do you need psychiatric help?  Buy this blanket and then come see me.

After some deliberation, my mother declared me the winner because she liked how my work had a distinct voice, a subtle plot, and a list that was interwoven with inside jokes for devoted Peanuts fans.  If I had been the judge, however, I think I would have chosen my brother—for sheer brilliance and variety.  I could never have thought of 129 items even if I'd thought for a week.  The differences between our lists make sense when you take into account our different personalities.  My brother is more practical and systematic.  He’s going to grow to either be an engineer or a college English professor.  I, on the other hand, have a brain filled with emotion, dialogue, irony, corny jokes, and story-telling.  I’m going grow up to be either a super-mom or a basket-case.

When you think outside the box, everyone wins because you discover your true selves and marvel and everyone’s gifts.  If any of you decided to take this same brick and blanket challenge, I'm curious to hear some of your responses!

The Box of Minimum Effort

 Once again, I entreat everyone to think outside the box.  Don’t be fooled into believing that it is a luxury only reserved for those born with certain personalities.  Thinking outside the box is a skill that can be developed.  It’s just a matter of removing the right blinders.

In my last post, I stated that “the box” (that stuffy tomb responsible for suffocating pure creativity!), consists of multiple compartments.  I identified the first compartment as fear.  Now I will discuss the identity of the second compartment: Aiming for the Bare Minimum.

Looking back, I think I got my expectations for high school mixed up with college or post-graduate school.  Well, how was I supposed to know the difference?  I’d never been to public school before.  That’s right; I was homeschooled until tenth grade.  Home school is incredible, but, in my case, don’t think that my home-school background gives me any delusions of superiority.  Because even though my older brothers used home school as an opportunity to challenge themselves and to become veritable geniuses, I, on the other hand, took advantage of the situation to be as lazy and smart-aleck as possible.  (I sense that my friends don’t believe me, so I’ll insert an example.  One time when I was about eleven, my mom assigned me to write a one-page report about a famous inventor whom we had just studied.  Well, I couldn’t think of anything to write, so my page consisted of things like, “He was a man.  He was not a whale.  He never dropped an atomic bomb.  He did not invent peanut butter, etc.”)  Why not?  I knew could get away with it.  I knew I’d never be as smart as my brothers, so why even try?  My brothers were born smart; I accepted that fact.  In other words, I aimed for the bare minimum, and I achieved it very well.

But when I was finally sent to public high school (just like all my siblings when we reached that age), I knew the game was up.  I was convinced it was only a matter of time before my classmates figured out how ignorant and unintelligent I was (from years of neglecting my own intellect).  “Maybe,” I thought, “if I work really, really hard for once, then perhaps I can fake it at least enough to blend in with the average students.”

When a new experience is as foreign as a ninja in Greenland, there are bound to be misconceptions.  I was convinced that high school was going to be ten-times harder than home school, convinced that I would be expected to practically memorize every piece on information, and convinced that turning even one assignment in late would doom my grade beyond redemption. 

In my History class, I received my first assignment.  The teacher announced that we would spend the first five minutes of each class period writing a “journal entry” in response to whatever question appeared on the board.  (Questions were usually something like, “What is a civilization?” or “What do you know about Egypt?)  The first few times I wrote such a journal entry, my heart raced, and my adrenaline rushed as fast as though I was taking the ACT. 

You see, I was under the delusion that teachers actually graded based on quality.  Would she give me a B if I only wrote a small paragraph, I wondered?  Would she take off a point for every spelling mistake?  What if my writing was too big?  Would she think I was cheating by trying to take up as much space as possible with as few words as possible?  But if I wrote too small, would she give me a zero if she couldn’t read my handwriting?  Would she research my facts to check for historical accuracy? 

In five minutes, I managed to write about a page of information and personal insights in my neatest handwriting.  I felt a surprising satisfaction; I’d never known before how much meaningful information I could pull out of my brain all at once if I actually searched for it!  Even when working with dry history facts, somehow I had allowed a portion of my heart to bleed onto the paper.  Was that even possible?

I remember looking at the kid next to me and noticing that he had only written about three lines.  “How sad,” I thought.  “I bet he’ll get an F on this assignment.”

That first quarter of high school, I checked my grades online at least three times a day to make sure I hadn’t yet made the one inevitable mistake that would take me down to a B.  In History, we turned in our daily journal entries every two weeks.  When my entries were handed back to me, there was a big, red smiley face on them as well as a series of ecstatic comments scribbled by the teacher.  I sighed with relief; I must have received an A.  All the assignments from my other classes were handled in a similar manner, which is to say, I took them very seriously.  But something wasn’t quite adding up, and I’m not talking about my math homework.  Strangely, my teachers weren't treating me like an average student.  They were treating me as if I was . . . different. 

It wasn’t until about the end of the first quarter that I finally realized that the kids who only wrote a few lines for their journal entries were getting the same grade that I was.  I could have saved myself a lot of trouble if I’d known that teachers typically give students full points just for doing the assignment! 

  I had only been trying to meet the standard that I thought everyone was supposed to meet.  But by the time I realized my “mistake,” it was too late to relax back into my former lazy habits, because by that time I had built a reputation.  My teachers, and all of my peers, thought that I was an overachiever to start with.  I’d fooled them.  And I was reluctant to give up such hard-earned respect.  So I kept it up that year, even though all the attention made me feel guilty because I knew I wasn’t naturally smart like everyone thought.  My brothers were smart, not me.  They’d always been the smart ones, the ones that could instantly figure things out or come up with their own ideas or correct their teachers’ equations.  Not me.

Yet if that was true, then why was my ability to understand concepts suddenly increasing?  Why were the sealed chambers of my mind finally opening?  Why were wheels finally turning?  As the year went along, why could I connect the dots faster and faster?  Why did I suddenly find myself able to think outside the box?  It made no sense.  I’d never been smart.  But then again, I’d never attempted to put forth my best effort before, either. 
That’s when I realized . . . putting forth effort was being smart. 

I felt sort of like this baby robin (from my own yard, I might add).  I was still inside the box (or next in this case), but my head was clear at last.  And there was just a chance that I could someday fly.

If I had only done the bare minimum (that is, the bare minimum required to receive and A), my grades would be the same.  But that wouldn't be thinking outside the box.  If you think outside the box, you have enough perspective to see that that piece of paper isn’t just homework; it’s you.  It’s your inner light, your gateway to express yourself, your chance at discovery, your paw-print of personality.  Homework is for you, not your teachers.  You can only cheat yourself. 

If I had aimed to meet only low expectations, as I had done before, I would still be stuck in a box compartment, unable to grow.  But when you look outside the box by giving assignments a personal touch, you reach the perspective to be able to see homework as more than just something you have to do.  Honest effort makes homework something to teach you to be.

I haven’t always stayed true to this lesson.  My homework efforts during my senior year have been tardy, sloppy, unmotivated, average, and lacking sincerity.  (That hasn’t affected my peers’ perception of me, though.  Amazing how first impressions can stick!) 

This blog is the exception to my senior pattern.  I know this is just an assignment for an easy Journalism  class, but I want to put forth extra effort because I long to feel that same level of growth that I once felt as a sophomore.  Once you get accustomed to the thrill of thinking outside the box, that feeling can be addicting. 

I’ve got to find that feeling again.

Please, tell me how I can be better.  I've still got some blinders left.  I can feel that they're there, but I still havn't identified them.  As you'll notice, the little bird still can't see.  I still don't know what I was born to be.  Think, Audzey . . . think . . . think . . .

What is the Box?

What is the box?  We must define it in order to know how to think outside of it.  This box has multiple compartments.  Later on I may discuss the other compartments.  Right now, my biggest compartment is fear.  Specifically, the fear of . . . not sounding profound.  Let me explain.
Imagine my reaction when I overheard a boy in my newspaper class say the following:

"Audzey is brilliant.  When she opens her mouth, gold doubloons spew forth.  She vomits wisdom.” 

Initially, I was flattered, of course.  However, the comment also constrained me to a box.  Why?  Because when I opened my mouth to compliment him in return, I stopped myself and thought, “No, I can’t say that; the words I had in mind weren’t profound enough to live up to his expectations.”  So I kept silent.  But I should have known better.  Any time I bite back a sincere, heartfelt comment, I block my ability to think outside the box. 

Similarly, my drive for perfection makes me feel that I can’t share my writing with anyone unless my writing is filled with anecdotes, metaphors, big words, and pearls of wisdom.  But in order to unlock my purest creativity, I must let go of that.  Otherwise, all my scribbles and random bursts of pure thought and expression will never be deemed worthy to see the light of day.    

Hmm, I'll bet that sounded confusing.  Some of you may be thinking, “If you feel driven to sound profound, isn’t that a good thing?  Don’t you have to think outside the box in order to be profound?”  No, actually.
I have another experience to share that will illustrate this point:

In my sophomore year (I’m now a senior), I was determined to win the school poetry contest.  I had a brilliant idea to write a poem about a shoe who comes alive and rebels against its owner.  Sounds cool, right?  Well, it was, until my desire to be profound got in the way.  I felt that the poem had to rhyme, it had to have meter, it had to be long, and it had to be flowery. 

After a long and painstaking process, I showed the poem to my Mom.  The first words out of her mouth were, “I don’t like it.”  She continued on to say, “You’re putting on airs, you make no sense, you’re confusing, and your rhyming is trite.  You’re terrible at narratives, so you should turn it into a first-person monologue; that’s what you're good at.  Drop the rhyme, drop the meter.  Start over.  Nothing about this poem has the excitement, simplicity, voice, and attitude that you expressed when first told me your idea.”

Yes, I was deflated, but I took her suggestions.  And guess what?  I won first place in the contest because I decided to be myself.  That, my friends, is the secret to thinking outside the box.  If we think we need to fit some kind of established pattern (whether it be a stereotype, perception, or assumption), then we try to mold our souls into the kind of straight, flat, boring shape that can fit inside a box—a box complete with a label.  But who needs a label?  True souls come in unique sizes. 
(Did that metaphor make sense?  Anyone?)

Compare my original poem to my final poem:

#1 The Living Shoe

Lightning leapt the skies to pulverize a shoe upon the back-porch stairs.

But not a mark nor lingering spark remained—the shoe was all still there.

Though deep with in its leather skin, a new awareness lined its frame.

From toe to heel it could think and feel.  Its very sole was not the same.

But the shoe was seized—so cruelly squeezed!—and placed upon a foot that day.

Each spring, each jump, with each new thump, the shoe in silence longed to say:

“Oh constant strain, oh sandwiched pain—a buffer twixt bare floor and feet!

Oh rhythmic pound, each second bound to kiss the filth of ground and street.”

            “Oh how absurd, this undeserved invasion of my private space!

Would you feel shock to have a sock inserted in your face?!”

“I will not bend to this sorry end!  I’ll fight this fate with all I’ve got.

Let this harsh oppression give me obsession to integrate a vengeful plot.”

At noon its chance came all too soon—the man departed on his jog.

Ten minutes out, his luck ran out and left him fleeing from a dog.

The gloating shoe found strength anew and with a flourish came untied.

The man soon tripped, his heartbeat skipped as head and sidewalk did collide.

The shoe turned smug . . . then felt a tug—the dog had seized its chosen prize.

It wrenched it’s treat from off the feet, much to the frightened shoe’s surprise.

Left to its plunder, the dog tore asunder and chewed the shoe—quite unashamed

and with lightning speed—for Lightning indeed was what the dog was truly named.

Thus lightning’s vice indeed struck twice!  And more than this I cannot tell.

Every dog has his day, and dare I say, that goes for shoes as well.

Now compare to my final version

#2 Consider the Shoe

Call me Lefty.

I’m the left tennis shoe on your foot.

Yoo hoo!  Down here.  Could you please lend an ear?

It’s quite a hard life when I’m just kissing dirt.

But I am a shoe, and a shoe will be true whatever you do.

But for now, let’s take a look at what I do.

And kid, I don’t mind telling you,

you’re such a heel! 

How would you feel to have such weight upon your sole?

Downtrodden.  Forgotten.  And having no say

in where you are taken and where you are going— 

day . . . after day . . . after day

(as with each passing moment your groove is worn away).

But I’m still a shoe . . . and a shoe will stay true . . .whatever you do.

So, I’m here tied in knots with a sock in my face.

Could you spare just a moment to maybe give me some thanks?

I’m a shield to your heel, and I yield to your will.

I’m your true, best support.  I’m your runner!  Your skipper!

So why, when you want comfort, am I traded for a slipper?!

A Donald Duck slipper?  Dare I say, what a quack!

Do you want me for your enemy?  You’d better think about that.

Ever thought of what would happen if I went on strike?

Yeah, in your math class in front of that cute boy you like?

I could, as you know, simply loosen my laces,

trip you up, and catapult you down the nearest staircases!

Ha, ha!  I’m a shoe, but I’m done being true! 

Now at last I’ll prevail!  The time has come to rebel.

Well . . . I would, except . . . that right shoe . . . .

Aw, shoot, she is kind of cute.

And how could I quit when we make a perfect fit?

So thus I remain:  I am a shoe.  And I will stay true whatever you do.

See how I thrive when faced with constructive criticism?

Note to Viewers

Note to viewers: I know many of you are kids from my journalism class who are required to comment on the blogs of classmates.  I want to use this opportunity to become a better writer, so if you are unsure of what kind of comments to leave, then I have some suggestions:

• Tell me about my gramatical errors.
• Tell me when I'm too confusing, inconsistent, verbose, or erudite.
• Tell me what my words make you think about or remind you of.
• Tell me if my opening sentences for each post grab your attention.
• Tell me when I'm interesting and when I'm boring.

Be nice, of course, but also don't be afraid to be honest.  Sometimes I have to beg my teachers to give me the kind of constructive criticism that will force me to grow and learn from mistakes.  Often I want to scream at them, "Stop assuming that I'm so sensitive!!!"  But ironically, screaming such a thing would make me sound sensitive.

Out Foxed

Contrary to your first impression, I did not make this blog to be a random smart aleck.  (In fact, later on I will discuss the credibility of first impressions.)  No, this is a blog to teach me how to think outside the box.  As you can see, I chose a title which illustrates the point.  Someday I hope to inspire others to think outside the box.  If you are not feeling inspired right now . . . well, I’m not surprised because I know I have a lot to learn.  How do I know that I have a lot to learn?  Because I originally tried to name this blog “Think outside the Fox,” BUT THAT TITLE WAS ALREADY TAKEN!  So obviously I did not think far enough outside the box.  Since having my title rejected was such a humbling experience, I have decided to one day entitle my memoir “Fox in Socks.”   Oh, but wait, Dr. Seuss already had that idea.  So I guess the only logical alternative is to call it “Socks in Fox!”