Showing posts with label journey. Show all posts
Showing posts with label journey. Show all posts

Tuesday, December 6, 2016

One Word.

12/5/16
#KeepCalmWRITEon Day 5!
(It’s only 10:55 pm---I’m actually writing before midnight!)

Today, I was asked to describe myself in one word.
My first thought--- “One word!? I’m a writer! That’s so hard!”
My second thought --- “There is a literal thesaurus flipping through my brain right now!”

Once the panic subsided, I decided on the word B R A V E.

I am starting to see how this word has described me all along, even though I didn't realize it.  And I'm beginning to see how we are all brave every day.
6th grade confidence booster




I had to be brave and try to make new friends every time my family landed back in Arizona or California after the harvest season ended and it was time to relocate (again).

I had to be brave when I could hear the kids laughing behind my back during 5th and 6th grade whenever I made any attempt at anything athletic during PE class.

I had to be brave and go to court when my parents were fighting for custody of my sister and I, and neither one of us really understood why.  (I just had to stay strong for my sister)

I had to be brave in 7th grade when I had to figure out the whole “switching classrooms every class period” thing, and explain it to my parents (dad---because mom was gone this year), and then explain why I suddenly was struggling with math and had my first “D” grade ever (Algebra was so hard).

Brave was when when my closest “friend” was so threatened by me (I still don't know what I did wrong) that she bullied and harassed me, made me scared to go to school, and effectively convinced several people to unfriend me (Shoutout to Tiffany and Deja, for helping me survive 8th grade).

I thought I'd be brave and take a chance and enroll at the newest, smallest, private high school in town and then try running on the cross-country team, after everyone said it was crazy, after knowing that I wasn't "built like a runner".

I was brave that whole running season, when I spent every step of every 5k race fighting back the negative voices in my head, I was brave when I traveled 3 hours one way, two nights a week for my basketball games (even though I was far from the best player on the team), and I was brave when I decided to do the unpopular thing and throw the shotput and discus, with only two other girls for support and nobody understood why we took it so seriously.

Brave was my middle name when I refused to sleep with any boys in high school, even though it gave me a reputation for being “stuck up”.

I was brave when the only place I took the car every week was to Sunday Mass (if the van wasn’t in the driveway by 11am, I took Daddy’s Dodge Ram—Mom sold it a couple years ago and I’m still not over it).

I put on the bravest face I could, the night I realized Dad probably wasn’t going to be coming out of the hospital (and I cried for a long time in the shower when I got home).

I was brave when I left on my choir tour that April, even though Grandma was upset that I was leaving town while Dad was sick (“The show must go on…”).

On May 5th while I was at my track meet 3 hours away from home, I had to be brave when Sister called me and said “He died”.

The next day was Friday, so I had to be brave and go to school anyway.

B R A V E filled the little church and accompanied us to the graveside and filled my mom’s voice while she sang for my dad one last time.

Age 7-ish and 5-ish
B R A V E filled that summer while Mom and I tried to figure out the rest of the “going off to college next year thing” and the “how are going to pay tuition for my last year of private high school thing” and the “what is everybody feeling thing”.

(we’re still working on that last part…)

I was brave when I got so mad and fed up with everyone’s attitudes and drama during my senior year and stopped feeding into it, but instead, started counting down til graduation.

I was brave the day I opened the letter from Bethany that came in the mail, instead of throwing it away like the first one (this one said “Track and Field Scholarship” on the front).

I wanted so badly to feel brave when I told my mom “I think I want to go to Kansas.”

I bravely got on a plane over spring break and visited campus, and took a deep breath before I made the  choice to sign my letter of intent and enroll for classes, all in the same day.

And then 5 months later, the B R A V E broke down while I sat in my childhood bedroom for the last time before getting in the van and beginning the 22-hour drive…and I hugged my mom and cried for a minute, while she spoke the only reassuring words I can remember her ever speaking to me:

“Time will go by fast.”


Fall 2015, starting to tell my stories...










Monday, March 14, 2016

Hiatus

November 3, 2014 was the last time I wrote on this blog.

My heart and mind are full of stories from all the experiences I've lived since then.  Stories of heartbreak, loss, unforeseen change, plans and dreams shattered...
...but I've also got stories of hard work, perseverance, resilience, triumph, and hope.

I am excited to share these stories with you. Part of me feels awkward sending readers back to this blog, because I know that some of my older posts may not reflect who I am today. .. but I guess that's just proof of the journey.

I'm hoping to start updating this blog, with the possibility of transitioning to my own website sometime this year.  I want to become more of an "official" writer, and follow my heart and dreams in this area of my life as well. 

Let's get to it.

Friday, May 16, 2014

8 Months Free

May 1, 2014


So it’s been 8 months since I stopped taking any anti-depressant or anti-anxiety medication, after 5-and-a-half years of being on them. (Over the course of those 5+ plus years, I took 3 different medications. Number 3 was the one that worked best for me)
 I think it’s time to update everyone (and myself) a bit on what I’ve gained and lost from this process.

I made this decision on my own, and asked for my doctor’s support.  We designed a “taper off” plan for me to follow, which I proceeded to do, and before I knew it, I didn’t have to remember to take a pill anymore.  I didn’t have to call in refills, or budget for the cost of the medication.  When going on an overnight trip, I didn’t need to pack my pill.  I didn’t need to worry about keeping it in my carry-on while flying.  I could stop worrying about all the horrendous chemical reactions going on inside my body.  Shedding all these things made me feel like I freed up tons of brain space.  I gained confidence, for a while, and optimism about my ability to cope with my emotions and stressors using my own skills and strength.

So, how do I feel?  What is it like?  Am I “cured”?
I wish it was all good news, or that I could say I’m all better now.


I feel like I’ve lost my energy, my sparkle, the pep in my step.  I can’t help but notice how much more taxing it is for me to get up early, and stay up late.  I enjoy being active.  For the last two years, in addition to working my full-time job, I had a class, a Bible study group, or something I was volunteering for, at least 4 evenings a week.  Plus, sometimes I work overtime on Saturdays, and was volunteering at my church on Saturdays, and then I added some volunteering time on Sundays twice a month.  Sometimes, I would attend all 3 of my church’s services in a weekend, because I had the energy and desire to.  I enjoyed hanging with friends, and sharing about my life, smiling, talking, and laughing.  
When I stopped taking my medication, one of the first things to go was my motivation for evening commitments.  Out the door went youth group, for which I volunteered as a leader, and Bible study.  I started skipping out on my Tuesday night dinners that I had at a friend’s house.  I lost interest in being around people and making small talk.  All I wanted to do was go home, and be home, with my cat.  (She has been the best companion for the nearly 4 years she’s been part of my family)


“It is like” not really knowing how to get my old self back.  Is this reserved, independent person who I’ve been all along?
“It is like” I have to work really hard and plan ahead all the time, to make sure that I’m going to be in the right mood at the right time, for whatever it is my responsibilities are at the moment, be it work, volunteer, or social.
“It is like” I’m excited about not depending on a drug anymore, but I don’t feel as proud of myself as I used to feel.  
“It is like” every day is just a routine, something to get through, something to accomplish.  
“It is like” I have to work really darn hard to create the life I want, all the time; the feelings I want, the choices I want, the opportunities I want.  


“It is like” all these questions come up.  
“Was that person not really me?”
“Have I been fake for the last 5 years?”
“Do all my friends only know - and like- the medicated Gilda?”
“Does no one want to hang out with me because I’m depressing to be around?”
“Can I even handle my own life?”


The only choice I see is to keep trudging forward.  Because even at a crawl, I’m not waving that white flag.  The only thing I can choose to believe is that it does get better with time.  That I’m (STILL!) not done growing yet.  


Some days, I’m pretty miserable.  I get fed up with people and commitments; I find myself overly critical, feeling envious of those who possess things or live lifestyles different than mine.  There are moments where I let myself start spiraling down the black hole again, being angry at God for my circumstances, placing my worth in other people instead of in what He has said about me.  


Eventually, I distract myself.  I pick a coping skill (usually rigorous cardiovascular exercise) and go with it.  I hope to write more about the methods of self-defense I use against the enemy of the ever-looming cloud of doom.


Am I cured?  Choosing to separate yourself from something is the first step to ridding your life of it.  I work in the mental health field, so I’ve seen and know what Severe and Persistent Mental Illness looks like.  My level of anxiety and stress doesn’t fit that diagnosis, so I don’t know that “cure” is even a correct term (or that "cure" is a correct term for those who DO suffer from Severe and Persistent Mental Illness).  I believe that anxiety and stress should be managed, and if they are not, then they can lead to a chronic condition.


I know that my stress and anxiety have come from years of building certain thought patterns.  I continued to build these thought patterns as I grew up because I didn’t know any better.  So now, as a young adult, I start the hard work of undoing all those patterns of toxic thinking.  It isn’t easy.  There’s scientific research on this, folks.


So the truth is, if you decide that you can beat toxic thinking, and believe with all your heart that you will, it will still be difficult to do so, and take time.


I choose to be public about this because I refuse to be labeled or judged.  If I put everything out there, then there’s no stories people can make up about me, or judgements that people can make about “how it all started”.  And I can be an example of determination and strength.  


So.  Eight months down.  


There may or may not be a huge celebration involved for my 1-year anniversary.  :)

Wednesday, March 12, 2014

"Unstable"


“I hate when people refer to marriage as ‘stabilizing yourself’. There’s nothing ‘unstable’ about being single.”

--Me, today, on Twitter     (this Tweet inspired by a comment that my godmother made on the phone to me last night)

 
The thing with me is, I try not to talk down about anything.  I’ve come to this point in life where I become frustrated when someone tries to impose their beliefs on someone else. 

 
It frustrates me when we judge other people because they don’t make the same choices we do. 


It is infuriating that we always have to be at a constant war of telling each other how we’re right and wrong. 

 
I don’t hate marriage, or feel resentment toward, envy of, or anything else negative about my friends who are already married.  Good for them.  My plea is for the judgment to stop. 

 
I basically just stick with telling people how I feel about a subject; what I’ve learned about that subject while on my journey, and how those experiences have shaped me.  I share my thoughts because I think that there is always someone out there feeling pressured by society to think a certain way, and I just wish we could all accept that we are all different, and that maybe, if they read my thoughts, that person will feel a little less alone.  Each person has their own unique path to walk. 

 
I don’t have a smartphone; I tweet from my basic phone (my tweets go directly to my Facebook page as well).  So, I couldn’t monitor all of the comments being thrown at me for my above statement.  But, I could feel them building up, or rather, the anxiety building up about what people were going to argue with me for. 

 
When, in reality, I wasn’t trying to argue about anything.  I wasn’t trying to say “I’m right, you’re wrong, this is how it should be.” 

 
I was saying, “Hey, let’s all stop calling unmarried people ‘unstable’.  It’s rude.”

 
Anyone can make bad choices, married or unmarried.  Anyone can make a really messy bed for themselves and then have to lie in it.  Being married won’t save you from making bad choices.  Discernment will.  Wisdom will.  And these skills can come, even to an unmarried, single person.

 
I wasn’t even trying to argue about anybody’s financial status (which, by the way, money is such a small part of life; get over it already).  But here’s my thoughts on that: there are plenty of single people out there (myself included) who have stable jobs, with stable income, and pay all their own bills, have their own house and car, and/or maintain whatever lifestyle is pleasing to them.  Thus, stability. 

 
(If they find that their current lifestyle is not pleasing to them, then they take actions to change it.)

 
So before you judge someone as “unstable”, examine yourself first.  Your story is not theirs.  Theirs is not yours.  Look up “stable” in the dictionary, and then ask yourself what your personal definition of the word is.  Chances are, we all have a different definition.  

Tuesday, November 19, 2013

Road to Orlando: Dress Rehearsal


11-15-13

 
So, the Orlando Adventure continues.

We have had our monthly workshops, photo shoot, and this last weekend—our final dress rehearsal.

We went through our material for each different competition (which for me are TV Commercial, Monologue, Cold Read, Creative Runway, Photography, and Singing), and also got our final tidbits of information from our coaches. 

We got to practice mock interviews and callback decorum.  I really paid attention to detail and figured out that I will be going to mock interviews and callbacks for three different groups of people: casting directors for TV/movies; agents for modeling; and theatre and music people for singing.  So, I am working on picking out the pertinent info about myself for each category, so that I can individualize each interview and maximize my marketability for each one.

I got to do runway walking with the Fashion girls! This was a big deal because I am not a Fashion Girl.  I am a Commercial Girl.  I technically can fit into the Female Fashion Plus category (praise God for good hip measurements), but then everything I do at the showcase would be scored or looked at in comparison to the rest of the Fashion Plus Girls, many of which are about a size 9.  So my official category is Female Commercial, but I picked each competition very strategically.  I wanted a chance to walk the runway, so I chose Creative Runway.  All my acting will give me exposure in that area, plus I get to sing.  I did the Photography Competition because I know I photograph well, and have been taking pictures since I was 14.

So when I got to walk with the Fashion Girls, our Fashion Director man said, “Gilda, you need to learn how to do this, in case you get picked up by some of those Plus Agents.”  I felt pretty special getting to mix in with them!  And I feel very ready to meet any and all of those Plus Agents who may be wanting me to do some print or commercial work for them. 

Many people have asked me, “So what do you hope to gain out of all this?”

Well, honestly, I get kind of overwhelmed when I think of the possibilities. 

One of my goals is to land a TV or movie role.  I would also like to be some sort of spokeswoman, so I can use my English and Spanish.

Now, I know Orlando may not turn into some Overnight Success thing for me.  It might.  But if it doesn’t, it is the beginning of a series of stepping stones for me.

And I am ready and willing to climb the ladder. 

My Orlando To-Do List is slowly shrinking.  I am now working on minute details, like planning for and budgeting for car parking at airports, food and incidentals, and securing a fantastic makeover on my iPod Nano for the trip.  J  I also still have to complete my Creative Runway outfit, and find some jewelry for my singing outfit.  And, of course, I must continue to run through my monologue, song, and TV commercial, as well as have backups ready in case agents ask me to pull another out of sleeve.

And, I am trying desperately to find the discipline to exercise daily, instead of sporadically, and keep up with my writing and reading.

I am so ready to get on that plane and start what will hopefully be an exciting new phase of my life!

Monday, November 18, 2013

Earth Wanderer


11-15-2013

I grew up on the road, kind of.  My parents worked for a big-name agriculture company out West, and we followed the harvest.  During the summers and fall, we were in Salinas, California; winters and springs were in Yuma, Arizona.  The drive time between the two cities is somewhere between 8 and 11 hours.

I learned to be a very calm road-trippin’ child.  Packing up the car every season became a familiar ritual.

I remember staring out the window a lot.  I used to play a game with the rain drops on the windows, watching them to see which one would “win the race” to the bottom of the window.  I read every road sign: those about mileage, tourist traps, construction zones, speed limits – all of them. 

I memorized the places we stopped along the way, our familiar “rest areas”; the Mcdonald’s just outside L.A., that giant tree somewhere near Paso Robles, nestled amidst the rolling hills of what must be equivalent to prairies out West.

I drank in scenery from all of our family drives: the rows of lettuce fields on the way out to my dad’s “office”, the city parks, the trees along the freeway.  My favorites were the drives up to Monterey, Watsonville, Castroville, and Santa Cruz.  I now know these drives were essentially out to and up the California coast. 

In California, I learned to love the ocean.  I learned to recognize the feeling of the almost-too-cool breeze up on the rocks.  I memorized what the sun felt like beating down on my bare skin on warm days down in the sand. 

In Arizona, I learned to watch sunsets.  I became familiar with people of all different skin tones and cultures.  I was accustomed to hearing at least two languages everywhere I went, sometimes sprinkled with some Korean or some Middle-Eastern dialect. 

The music and food I grew up with were reflective of the cultural whirlpool I grew up in. 

I always used to hear my mother say she was “ready to go somewhere exciting” or “wanting to see something different”. 

I was used to being on the move, and to being around different kinds of people and culture.

I think this was how my peculiar sense of wanderlust started.  It started very small, very innocently, and then it grew.

It turned into wanting to be in Times Square, waving up at the TRL studios, instead of watching MTV from the living room television.

It turned into wishing with all my being to be out on the dude ranch with Mary-Kate and Ashley, and then go with them to see Paris.  And then London, and then Rome, and then Australia.

I even opted for books that were set in different places.  I loved the “Drina the Ballerina” series, and being a part of tea time or the metro rides in London.  I traveled to Stoneybrook, Connecticut (a fictional city) and sometimes New York with my friends in The Babysitter’s Club.

In the spring of 7th grade, when we went back to California as a family for the first time in 4 and a half years, I held on with every heartstring to the reliving of my childhood travels.

In high school, I got to travel all over Arizona and Southern California for my athletic competitions.  The hours on the bus?  Bliss.

And then, I moved halfway across the country for college, and have traveled around the Midwest for my track and field career out here. 

I have traveled to Bolivia and Grenada for volunteer trips, neither one of them long enough, each time falling in love with the native people and connecting with my soul in a way I did not know to be possible.

I don’t think this really boils down to never being happy with where I’m at.  I think some sort of a gypsy soul or spirit was instilled in me a long time ago. 

Today, my love of travel and culture largely encompasses my being.  I have travel plans, wishes, hopes, and dreams.  They are not really tourist destinations, so much as places I want to go to connect with people who carry within them a part of humanity’s history.  I long to breathe the air my ancestors have breathed, and experience the emotions of trial and triumphs from before my time.  I am a lifelong learner, and a lover of all that is human.  I want to understand the connection that Earth has had with its inhabitants over the centuries. 

Some people are content never stepping beyond their front porch.  Not me.


“And miles to go before I sleep; and miles to go before I sleep.” –Robert Frost

Saturday, November 9, 2013

Road to Orlando: Part Three – Dressing The Part

Road to Orlando: Part Three – Dressing The Part
 

 The end of October/beginning of November have been spent getting ready for my big dress rehearsal: the final selection of my competitions was last week; the final workshop for Orlando, this coming weekend.  It is a two-day event, and all of our outfits for all of our competitions have to be finalized.  So since last week, I’ve been doing a little more scrambling for clothes.

The clothing requirements for the showcase are very specific, because everything is geared for the agents to be focusing on the talent/model, and not on the wardrobe.  All of my acting categories require khaki pants and polo shirts, neither of which I previously owned.

These clothing requirements have been in the back of my head since August Orientation, but I hadn’t devoted the energy to shopping for them yet, or rather, I was preoccupied with the monthly assignments for the different workshops.

But last Wednesday, the day before Halloween, I went to Goodwill. 

And there I found 4 cotton polo shirts (men’s size J ) , a pair of khaki pants, and a denim skirt (for the photography competition runway).  The denim skirt I wasn’t crazy about; I knew that I would probably need to get it altered before December, but it would do for Final Workshop.

Three days later, I returned to TACOL, the thrift store in Lindsborg.

There I found a second – BETTER – pair of khakis.  These are in a “long” length for tall girls like me! The Goodwill pair is now my backup. 

I also at some point during the week realized that I would need “interview” clothes, and overall some nicer stuff to be wearing all week in Orlando, as I will be staying on the resort with the agents and casting directors, in the same building with them at all times.  I also need to look presentable every time I’m down in the ballroom as an observer for any of the competitions I am not in.

So, luckily (actually, by the grace of God), I found several tops at TACOL that I deem Orlando-worthy.  J

Today, just today! – I got a second denim skirt – one that fits much better, and will not need alterations.  It is perfect, and I bought it from a lady here in Salina, whom I found on a local Buy-Sell-Trade page on Facebook.  It was 5 dollars.  Perfect.

I can’t help but be utterly grateful for the fact that I am a hippie.  I love thrift-shopping not just because of the lower costs, which for a Human Services worker like me, are AWESOME! – but I love thrift-shopping because it encourages us to use the plethora of things already in existence, instead of contributing to the energy costs and usage that are needed in order to make NEW stuff.  In the last several years, my eyes have been opened to the gross unfairness in the way people across the world live in comparison to us here in America, and I’ve been redefining my parameters for “acceptable” and “necessary”.  Shopping second-hand makes me proud, because it reminds me of my resourcefulness and my refusal to give in to societal pressures that demand that I purchase more, more more.
I will look amazing in Orlando, in mostly second- or third-hand clothing.  I will walk that runway in a dress my sister mailed me from Arizona, a hand-me down from one of her sorority sisters.  I took pictures in clearance-priced and thrift store finds, things no one else wanted.  Well, I thank those people who passed these pieces by.  I will be wearing them as I audition for and receive my first TV or movie roles.

It’s been such a journey and a test of my creativity and resourcefulness to find the clothing I need for Orlando.

I tried to stress, but all the necessary clothing was provided for me, if only I was creative enough to think outside the box and think about where to get it.

I will definitely post some pictures later on.  J

Monday, November 4, 2013

"Gilda"


3 Nov 2013

 

Gilda means “God’s servant”.

I learned this in high school, in my freshmen Morality class (I went to Catholic high school), although now I can’t remember what language that meaning has its origin in (I think it’s Gaelic).

Looking back now, I know it was divinely appointed for me to learn the meaning of my name at this specific time of my life.  Think about it: the beginning of high school is when our independent identities start to set in; yes, it’s when we start rebelling against our parents, and talking back a little more than usual, but really, it’s because our adult personalities are starting to form.  At 14 or 15, we are old enough to start forming our own opinions, and pay attention to the world around us; we are no longer “kids”, both in our own minds and in the minds of those who start giving us more responsibility and holding us accountable for our choices.

So for me to learn, even if on the most superficial of levels, that I was made to serve God, changed everything.

 I say this now, without even having thought about it before! I think this knowledge, of what my name means, in one of probably hundreds of interpretations, subconsciously set me up for life.

I carried that label with me proudly for a couple of weeks after learning about it.  And then, I think it just settled into my soul.

My high school had a community service requirement worked into the curriculum; each student had to complete a certain amount of community service hours during each school year, or by graduation.  I threw myself into that.  I spent my Spring Breaks working the Knights of Columbus food booth at the county fair; over the summers I found festivals to work at, and over winter break, I decorated churches for Christmas.  I know I exceeded the requirement my school set forth.

But I know I struggled with wanting to “serve the most” and “be recognized for all the hours I put in”.  I know now that I was a very insecure teenager, and wanted desperately to be admired for something, anything.

 
I know now that back then, even though I was serving because it was what I was supposed to do (for God and people), I wasn’t serving because I wanted to hear God say, “Well done.”

 
I wanted to hear people say it.

 
And even though I am so grateful that I spent my teenage years looking for ways to help other people, instead of dozens of negative activities I could have taken part in; even though I now see how I spent my teens practicing for my adult life, for the time I spend now in the service of others; even though I love that at the age of 14, I had already decided that I loved to help, and that I loved people;  I know I still struggle with this recognition thing today.

 Lately, I’ve been bothered by the fact that I “haven’t found a place to serve in the church.”  I think it’s a mixture of pressure from the Christian society (to find my “ministry”), and pressure from myself to “be a leader”. 

 I’m learning that this is split-thinking. 

I can’t be a servant if I want to be a leader.

I’m reading through “The Purpose-Driven Life” right now with a friend, and the last few days’ chapters have been about serving, and how it is part of our design.  It’s been really eye-opening, and at times, nauseating, because it’s been shedding light on the parts of myself that are really ugly and that I don’t want to see.

 
I have learned that I am petty and competitive and that I compare my service to that of others.  I have learned that I am panicky and envious and that I “want to be seen” and “want to be associated with” and “want to be known for” serving in a certain setting.

 I want to hold on to the memory of learning what my name means as a high school freshman, and use that knowledge correctly now, for the first time ever.  I know I have always had the right intentions, so I will try not to beat myself up too much. 
 
But from now on, I want to enter into true servanthood. 

 




Monday, October 7, 2013

Road to Orlando: Workshops 1 and 2


Sunday, October 6, 2013

 

I wanted to write a little bit about my Orlando workshops thus far.  In preparing for Orlando, we have monthly workshops.  These workshops are meant to help us prepare the material we will perform in Orlando.  As Ms. Kim told us at auditions, nothing is done in Orlando that is not prepared ahead of time.

 
So, August 17th was my Orientation.  We spent lots of time reviewing the Contestant Manual, and practicing appropriate runway walking and “model stance”.  We also went through TV commercials and received our assignments for the next months’ workshop.  We took measurements, and tried to sort through which categories everyone would be in.  There were more people than I expected at Orientation.  The Kansas City location serves as regional center for Iowa, Kansas, Missouri, and Nebraska contestants.  Altogether, though, there were probably about 40 actual contestants there, and then parents/spouses. 

 
It was an exciting, full day; I packed my car with my lunch and learning materials, and drove to Kansas City at about 4:30 am.  I definitely stopped for coffee. 

 
My assignments for next workshop were to bring 3-5 monologues I could present, along with 3-5 songs I could present; the singing and the monologues need to be approved before they’ll let us do them in Orlando.  I also needed to memorize my TV commercial for next time.

 
Our next workshop was on September 22nd.  We spent the morning reviewing the Contestant Manual, and practicing our introductions for the Photography Competition (for this category, we walk the runway and introduce ourselves into a microphone, while our pictures are shown on a big screen behind us).  We also practiced TV commercials.

 
After lunch, we presented monologues and songs, and I was approved for both categories.  I was so nervous to sing in front of our Fashion Man.  He is a little intimidating, but I know that in this business, if you don’t tell your charges how it is, they won’t work.  He definitely tells us how it is. 

 
So now, my current assignments are: prepare 6 outfits for my photoshoot coming up on October 20th; continue to practice my commercial and monologue daily; and to find someone who will help me find the correct key for me to sing my song in, and then find someone who will do a piano recording of my song. 

 
Our next and final workshop will be two days long: November 9th and 10th. 

 
Showtime is December 18th-22nd!  It will be a full week for me, but the exposure I will receive will be so worth it.  I’ve already got my room reserved at the resort, and am booking my flight this week. 

 
Trying to keep myself balanced and sane throughout this process is interesting.  It’s tiring.  I’ve noticed I am taking more interest in my appearance on a daily basis.  I also notice I crave more sleep.
 
I'll keep you posted!

Sunday, November 11, 2012

AZ to KS


October 7, 2012

Today, I write to answer the question: “How did you end up in Kansas?”

I get asked this question a lot.  Not as much now, as I used to get asked in college, of course.  But when people find out I’m from Arizona, they still ask.  It’s an amazing thing to look back now and see exactly how my journey has been presented to me in pieces.  My life and my journey have always belonged to God. 

 I was a high school student like any other in the country, doing my best to be competitive academically, and like other over-achievers, trying hard to cram my resume full of anything that looked like I wanted to be a contributing member of society, worthy of scholarship money of course.

 My sophomore year of high school, my school hosted a “Health Careers Fair”; we had several local professionals come in and talk about their jobs and the education they had to attain to get their careers, etc.  I’m not sure why, but it was during these presentations that I decided that I wanted to end up in the health care field.  I knew in my heart that I wanted to help people, and that I wanted to make a difference.

 My friend Anhel was a close influence, I think.  She was a year older than I was, and was very mature and put-together, and during my junior year, she was a great example of the kind of girl I wanted to be: pure, smart, hard-working, and working towards a degree to eventually become a doctor. 

 By the time my junior year of high school rolled around, I had obviously been signing up for emails and snail-mail from state universities, as well as some universities and colleges in California.  Plus, I was in national databases that sent out my info to colleges everywhere, so I got a lot of mail between my sophomore and junior years.  In the fall of my junior year of high school, the University of Arizona hosted a “Multicultural Junior Day”; this day was designed specifically for high school juniors from minority families.  My mom and I went (my 3 month-old baby sister in tow), spent the night in a hotel room, spent Saturday touring campus and sitting in on mock lectures and interview processes, got lost on the way back to Yuma, took the long way around Gila Bend, and decided I would apply to the U of A.  I did, and, after taking ACT’s and SAT’s, was accepted into their pre-med program by the fall of my senior year.  Because I had spent 3 years of high school taking rigorous science and math classes, I felt prepared.  I had my game plan, and I was ready.  I would finish my senior year, graduate, and attend the U of A in the Fall of 2006. 

 Well, God decided he wanted to throw a monkey wrench in for me.  In about October of my senior year, I received an envelope in the mail from some school in Kansas.  I thought it was a mistake; plus I was already accepted to U of A, so I didn’t need it.  I tore it up (because my mother taught me to never throw an envelope in the trash without ripping it up, to prevent identity theft), and forgot about the envelope. I went on about my life for several weeks, and then got another envelope in the mail; this time, it said something about “Track and Field Program” or “Track and Field Office/scholarships” on it.  I actually opened it this time, and read that the coaching staff would like to talk to me about their program and earning scholarship money.  I briefly mentioned it to my mom, then called the number and began a few-month-long conversation with Coaches Joe Wilkerson and Alan Webb. 

 The more I talked to the coaches, the more interesting it all sounded.  I remember mentioning my talks with the coaches to my teammates and peers; I knew that I appreciated being sought by ANY college for my athletic abilities.  I didn’t ever think that I would go on to participate in athletics at the collegiate level, and so I knew this was probably all coming as a surprise to my high school community.  A little piece of me felt like I was proving everyone wrong, and I liked it.  I remember the first time I brought up the subject of going to Kansas as a serious consideration; my mom freaked out.  She asked, “Kansas?  I thought you already had the plan of going to Tucson (to U of A).”  I said, “I want to set up a campus visit.”

 My mom and I booked airplane tickets with her credit card, and over my spring break my senior year of high school, we flew to Wichita, Kansas to see what this place was all about.  I remember talking to the Coach Webb about specifics before our trip; What would the weather be like? Where would we stay in Wichita? Who would pick us up and drive us the 70 miles north to Lindsborg?  How big was Lindsborg again?

 Well, this trip was only my second time on a plane, and it was my mom’s first.  I remember all the freak-outs; the creepy guy standing up by the lavatory door, who my mom (and I, secretly) was convinced was a murderer or a bomber.  My mom’s reaction to turbulence was quite comical, although I had to keep a straight face to keep her calm throughout the trip.  Once we landed in Wichita, we took a cab or a shuttle, or something, to the hotel; the Regency Inn (to this day, when I drive by it on West Kellogg Avenue, I think of my first night in Kansas).  We walked over to the Walmart that evening, and we ate at Ryan’s buffet place.  I remember the hotel was run by people of Middle Eastern descent.  I don’t remember much else about the stay.  I don’t think either of us had a cell phone, so I’m pretty sure I used a phone card to call Coach Webb and tell him we were in Wichita, and to arrange our pick-up for the next morning.

 Coach Webb himself came and picked us up.  I remember when I got in the car, (I rode in the front, my mom in the back), the most incredible wind I’d ever known forced me to shut my hair in the car door.  That was the first of many, many times that this would happen over the next 6 years.  One of the first things Coach Webb said to me was, “I don’t have that problem” with a laugh.  He is bald.  And he makes lots of jokes about it, all the time, even now, 6 years later. 

 On the drive to Lindsborg, I remember thinking that Kansas was quite pretty.  Everything was pretty green; spring was starting.  Good thing I didn’t visit during the winter months, or I probably would have never come back.  Everything gets really dead and ugly here during the winter, and I don’t like it. 

 When we took the exit to Lindsborg, I remember my heart started fluttering.  I have always been an anxious traveler.  I don’t like not knowing what to expect, and yet here I was, flying to the middle of the country, getting in a car with a man I’d never met before, going to visit only the second college campus I’d ever been on.  What were people in Kansas like?  I was about to find out a whole lot more than the folks at the Regency Inn were able to tell me.

 I remember bits and pieces about the visit, which was about 2 days, I think.  I know I didn’t sit in on any classes, which was weird, now that I look back on it.  I went to practice with the team a couple different times; I remember throwing shot put for Coach Wilkerson for the first time, and him telling me I “wasn’t bad”.  I went in the weightroom with the team once, too.  Now that was nervewrecking.  Lifting weights with some intimidating college athletes.  Yikes.  I remember meeting Nathan, mostly because I thought he was cute, and I remember him cheering me on in the weightroom when I was with the girls.  I stayed in the dorm in Anna’s room, because she was an RA and had a futon I could sleep on.  I didn’t shower in the dorm.  I must have showered at some point because of going to practice, but that must have been on my second afternoon in Lindsborg, and then the second night I stayed with my mom in the hotel before taking back off to the airport. 

 Well, somewhere between the weight room, the cafeteria food, which my mom was a huge fan of, and shot put practice, I also squeezed in a visit with the camp registrar and financial aid office, and put down a $300.00 enrollment fee, and met with the head of the Biology department, Mark McDonald, and registered for my first semester of classes. 

 I remember my mom and I fell in love with the people.  All of the athletes, coaches, and professors we met made us feel immensely comfortable.  We felt like everyone was really helpful and considerate, and wanted us to be a part of the community.  I remember being really nervous about all the college guys who kept asking about me in the cafeteria to Coach Wilkerson ( I actually heard them say, “Who’s that? She fiiiiine.”)  I remember taking my student ID picture. 

 Everything just felt right.  When it came time to register for classes, I didn’t sit and ponder my decision, or pray about it really.  I just had this sense of “go with the flow” type of peace about me the whole time.  I just knew that I was doing what I was meant to do all along, and I was excited.  Now, of course, 6 years later, I know that God was guiding my each and every step.  I know that I was not nervous, because I was falling in line with God’s will for me. 

 I finished my school year, graduated from high school, and then the countdown began for the drive to Kansas.  Oh, as soon as I got back from Kansas, I couldn’t stop talking about it to my friend and teammate Michelle.  We ended up getting her hooked up with the coaches and the scholarship as well, and she never visited; she just registered over the phone.  So, for the entire summer, she and I counted down together until the morning when we would leave for our new lives.

 The preparation for the trip was really stressful.  We knew we would be driving, because there’s no way we could fly with all the things we needed for a college dorm.  We packed up all of our clothes and bedding into my mom’s minivan, and okay, I had already purchased some school supplies (my mom went nuts buying me lined paper; I still have like 6 packages of it, I think).  I remember being so panicked and nervous about being expected to share all my belongings and my things, mostly because my mom kept putting these awful thoughts in my brain about how to “take care of my own stuff” and “not be taken advantage of”.  It’s safe to say I was a wreck on the eve of our trip to Kansas.  My mom wanted Michelle and her mom to sign a piece of paper saying that Michelle would pay for half of the gas the whole way to Kansas; it was ridiculous, and made me feel so awkward.  I remember feeling sick to my stomach for some of the ways my mom was so rude and inconsiderate on this trip (not going out of her way to find cheap hotels; being high maintenance). 

 My mom’s then-boyfriend Oscar drove with us, because my mom didn’t want me driving at all (it was too dangerous, she said...).  We had to replace a windshield wiper on the road, we took back roads in the middle of the night and had to keep our eyes peeled for animals; I kept the atlas of the United States open on my lap for the entirety of the trip once we hit Flagstaff, because then we were entering into unfamiliar territory.  So, I kid you not, I am getting anxious feelings just writing about this trip; ugh it was stressful.  I hope you, reader, are not getting anxious as well.  If you are, I apologize, I’m almost through this part.

 It rained a lot on the drive.  I remember not sleeping at all while we were on the road (because of course, if anything happened while I was sleeping, it would be my fault; read: Anxiety is real, people). 

 We made it to Salina, Kansas late one night; we came in on the North side of Salina.  Now that I go back and think about it, I’m sure we drove through Ellsworth (where I ended up living 4 years later; a topic for another writing session).  We called Coach Webb to tell him we made it.  We got dinner and a hotel (stressful topic; I’m going to avoid it; let’s just say Michelle almost slept in the car.  And I cried.).  And we drove down to Lindsborg the next day.  My mom and I argued about which direction was North or South (I was right; I didn’t know my directions at this point, but I have an impeccable photographic memory).  And my mom and Oscar helped us move all of our stuff into the dorm.  Darcy and Michelle helped us (they were RA’s in Anna Marm, our residence hall), and I hugged my mom for the first time in years.  I remember fighting back some tears of nervousness, but overall being ok.  I don’t remember details about that first night; did I sleep?  Did I dream? 

 I know there were lots of awkward moments; figuring out where to get drinking water (fountain downstairs).  Michelle and I were glued to each other’s sides until classes started.  We had arrived on campus with the fall athletes, so a couple weeks earlier than everyone else.  Our days were filled with practices, meeting teammates, and telling the “We’re from Arizona/we went to high school together” story repeatedly for the first couple weeks. 

 And that, folks, is how this Arizona girl ended up in Kansas.  Or at least, briefly.  I actually feel kind of anxious and nervous sitting here wondering if I want to continue the story, and write about “Fall ‘06”, but I think I’m done reliving the past for now, and want to go think of something soothing and happy, so I will continue the story later.  At least now you kind of see how I got where I am.  Wait, no, that’s a lie.  Cuz there is so much more to the story.