My Heart is in Athens

As my parents and I roamed the festive streets of Athens, Greece, we came across a small, family-run restaurant to have dinner at. After eating my weight in pita bread, tzatziki, and other traditional Greek foods, my dad and I decided to step outside to enjoy Athens at dusk. Adjacent to where we stood, we could see a small building from which Greek disco music was blasting. We peered through the grimy windows and saw that the room was crammed with dancing Athenians, and a small live band was playing in the corner. Before I could register anything else, a barrage of carnations was forcefully thrown at me. I slightly annoyed and taken aback as I looked up, only to see a middle-aged man at the doorway of the club smiling at us and yelling “OPAH!”
“Come on in! Join the party!” he said with a heavy Greek accent. He then proceeded to toss flowers in my dad’s face. I looked at my dad, who wore an expression that said, “Why not?” so we stepped inside the crowded room, leaving the cool breeze of the night behind.
The first thing that hit me was the scent. The air in the room was packed densely with smoke, and the people swirling around me had cigarettes casually placed between their lips. I was disgusted, and wanted to get out as soon as possible, but it was too late- we were already in the center of the crowd, and the sticky, hot atmosphere made me panic. I looked around for my dad, who was making his way towards the bar. I felt like everything inside (and outside) of me was buzzing, and I wanted to escape the scene. Eventually, I reached my father, and we stood next to each other, staring at the happening before us.
“This is loud. And crazy. Wanna go back out?” asked my dad. We had only been there for around 30 seconds, but suddenly, I didn’t want to leave.
“Just a sec, dad,” I said as a man handed us two plates full of flowers, “I want to get the real Greek experience.” I looked at the man who had just handed us the flowers quizzically.
“Trow dem,” he said solemnly, almost looking bored. It took less than an instant for my dad to fling his flowers at the man, who broke into a huge, crooked-toothed grin.
Where should I throw mine? I want to make it special, I wondered, my full plate of flowers still in hand. I looked around the room, smoky air still stinging my nose. As my dad mentioned that we should probably head out, I had the perfect idea. As we headed for the door, we walked past the live band, where a man was singing a slow, romantic song. He looked at me, and I smiled innocently before I whipped out a handful of flowers behind my back and threw them at the face of the singer. He paused mid-song, stumbled for a moment, then got back to the song, his eyes twinkling as he tried to hold back a smile.
As we stepped out of the bar, relieved to be breathing fresh air again, I knew I would remember that moment. We later found that the traditional Greek way to show that you were enjoying yourself was to smash plates at the ground, but through the years, it became too dangerous as well as expensive, so the Greeks substituted it with throwing flowers at one another.
What differentiated that moment from the others my family and I shared in Greece was that I discovered what a powerful thing tradition could be that night. America doesn’t have as much tradition as the other places I have traveled, such as India and Greece, and seeing ancient traditions still alive today is truly incredible. When restaurant owners started losing money on plate-breaking, that didn’t stop the Greeks from expressing their pleasure. Instead, they found a (perhaps better) solution, and went on partying. This made me think back to all of the ancient civilizations we had seen the days leading up to that night, and how those things, so old and seemingly far away, still have an influence on Greek’s current culture. Because of the ancient civilizations, local business workers are afraid to build on unused property, because often times there will be remains of a civilization below it, which the government will buy from the owner for a meager price. It was that night that I realized why the tour guides who had showed us around was so passionate about their country: there was a lot to be proud of. There are so many places with rich cultures, and nothing can stop tradition.

The Meaning of Life

If you can (make) it happen
then have quite an accomplishment
under your belt

It may be different for (others),
and you must search to find it
even when it is
right under your nose

It’s the journey that matters

Stay (happy) as a clam,
and keep calm,
and you will find it.

The Woes of Being an Introvert

Her flaming red hair cascaded down her back
her teal eyes seemed kind and accepting enough
I was determined to be her friend.

I pictured us gushing over our mutual love for Harry Potter
(the one thing I knew we had in common).
I began the mental countdown.
You’ll talk to her in 10… 9…
I began to think,
8… 7…
taking a step forward.
Her head was turned away from me.
I would tap her on the shoulder,
and introduce myself.
6… 5…
Just another step forward,
I extended my arm
4… 3…
She turned to the girl next to her,
began chatting, and walked off
in the other directin.

I sinking feeling overtook me.
2… 3…
I thought to myself as I brewed in my stew
of self pity
Why didn’t you talk to her earlier?
Why do you have to do that stupid countdown?
Why couldn’t you just act natural
like a normal person?

I self consciously tucked bits of my dark hair
behind my ears.
I turned around to face social, normal people
swarming around me.
My back hunched over
and it was as if my shoulders
were being magnetically pulled together.
My mouth was dry, but
I managed to swallow
my possible friendship down.

Knitting

Yes, I knit.
I cast on,
knit a scarf, hat, blanket,
and cast off.

I learned to knit from
watching my grandma’s deft fingers
making the needles dance.
Weaving patterns into the yarn,
she would make a mistake sometimes-
no problem-
she could turn a gaping hole into a gorgeous design.

My life is being knit.
I am the yarn, being crafted
into something (hopefully) beautiful.
But when I make a mistake,
I can never turn that hole into a design.
I can never go back.

Sometimes I can’t help but ask myself:
who’s holding the needles?

Dandelions

Nobody likes them
because they distract from their
perfectly manicured
unnaturally green lawns.

But I adore them,
I think they’re beautiful.
I can almost hear their bright, fluffy voices
calling out to me.

This dollop of yellow
placed on a stem,
as if Sun himself
tossed pieces of gold
into the whispering grass.

So today,
in honor of this forgotten flower
(“weed”, as they say),
I wear them in my hair,
weave them into the dirty
laces of my shoes,
and throw handfuls of them
into the lake,
watching them drift
down the stream.

Don’t forget
the dandelions.

The Blind Musician

There once was a boy who could make his violin sing,
the horsehairs on his bow danced across the string.
He produced music that no other could make,
but his rude remarks towards others could make them quake.
He was too blind to see the light,
his hubris, excessive pride, was at such a height.
Some dared to criticize, tell this boy his flaws,
though he was deaf to such things, he could only hear the applause.
His conductor might tell him, “This line is pianissimo, you are too loud.”
“Have you studied at Julliard?” responded the boy, so very proud.
This boy may have seemed bitter, “snotty” he was only,
but truly, deep down, he was confused as he was lonely.
Until one day, as he was crossing the street,
a car came speeding, and sent him flying off of his feet.
The boy saved his precious violin, threw it out of the way,
and the driver jumped out, shook him, and began to pray.
The boy was taken immediately to a hospital bed,
he lay there unconscious, stitches weaved into his head.
It was days before the boy again opened his eyes,
and when he did so, he was no longer blind.
The doctors told him, “I’m sorry to inform you,
but your wrists have been permanently damaged. Your shoulders and arms, too.”
“Can I ever play the violin again?” the boy’s life seemed to crash,
with that, he slammed his dearest violin to the floor, and into pieces it smashed.
It seems that when Fortuna spun her giant wheel,
this poor boy got the bad end of the deal.
He knelt down on the floor,
pounding the ground, his tears shed all the more.
At last the boy saw the light, his hubris dissolved,
he saw how cruel he had been, and to apologize and change his ways, he resolved.
He first went to his fellow musicians, who accepted, seeing he had changed his ways,
then to his conductor, who was also elated he was complete with this phase.
The boy went on to live, though he never touched that beloved instrument again,
the violins no longer cared for him, and he them.
He had learned is lesson, though through a painful experience,
and from then on, he never allowed his hubris to become an interference.
Now this story may seem sad, melancholy, perhaps,
but from this boy we have learned never to fall into pride’s tempting traps.
He used to be deaf, yet now he can hear,
his eyes were once blind, but now the light is clear.
This once blind musician had his life reformed,
He overcame his hubris, adjusted the way he was born.
We must remember, we may be talented, but we are never the best,
we do what we must, and fate holds the rest.

Childhood?

School was over, it was a Friday, and I was more than ready to get home. I swung my heavy backpack over my shoulder and grabbed my violin, heading out the door to the bus. I habitually thumped my violin case against my knee every other step I took along the way. As I stepped up onto the bus, the second to last one in the seemingly endless line of yellow, I greeted my bus driver and made my way to the back of the bus. As I tried to avoid stepping on lower schoolers’ toes that were sticking out of their seats into the aisle, I overheard one first grader in the front row the bus. His bright blue eyes and blonde hair like corn silk looked so young and carefree that it made me miss being that age.
“My homework for this weekend is to play outside, get dirty, and to hug someone in my family,” he told a girl who was sitting next to him, his young, blue eyes shining. As I took my seat, I thought about what the boy had said. It made me long for childhood again. I could hardly remember days when I had fun homework like that, when people could just see the youth and innocence shining through my eyes, when life was simple and everyone was my friend. Out the window, trees, houses, and buildings rolled by, but I couldn’t get what that boy had said out of my head.
For that boy, life was a simple. He didn’t know about the ugly, destructive, parts of the world. He didn’t know the extents of homework. He could be friends with anyone, be it a girl his age on the bus, or someone who shared their crayons with him. He didn’t need to know about the complexity of gender, race, or religion.
What I really wanted to do at that moment was to tell that boy to enjoy life at that time. I wanted to tell him to live it up, because life wasn’t always going to be like that. Then I thought about what would happen if someone told me that when I was his age. Honestly, I probably wouldn’t understand what they meant, and if I did, it would scare me. I realized that there’s no use telling people to enjoy their moments, because the enjoyment comes from within themselves.