I don’t know if I can explain why I play basketball in a way that makes sense to anyone else. Maybe that’s why I’m writing this because I’m not sure I even fully understand it myself. I only know that when I step onto a court, something shifts. The noise in my head that I hear all day finally quiets down and the freedom I want finally flows. My body just flows as if it knows what it wants to do on its own.

The first time I held a basketball, I was just a kid and I wasn’t very good at all compared to other aspects of my life. I couldn’t shoot properly or keep up with any of the techniques being taught. I'd shove the ball with both hands from my chest because it was too big and heavy for me. The hoop felt impossibly high. I hated the smell of the gym and the nauseous feeling it would give me. So I guess you could say I grew up a pretty soft kid. But one thing that couldn’t be said about me was that I was a dumb kid. I excelled in the classroom while others excelled on the sports court or field. But because of the separation I grew up extremely lonely and the only way I felt connected to my peers was on the basketball court playing the sport I grew up hating. I don’t think that feeling ever really left me until later in my life after my brother passed. My brother was a wonderful person and athlete who I admired because of how popular he was and how much tougher of a person he was compared to me. Unfortunately he died in a car accident that he and I were in. I fortunately made it out alive with a few major injuries. Losing my brother made me mad at the world in a way and being in a wheelchair for six months didn’t make it any better. I got really big and disconnected from my passion in the classroom.  

After my brother's passing I wasn’t really  good with words or connecting with people nor did I care to connect with people. I didn’t know how to say what I was feeling most of the time and was struggling to find my identity. I didn’t want to be known as just the nerd whose brother died. So I made the decision I was going to try basketball again, this time around it was different, I wasn’t horrible and I enjoyed being in the gym. Basketball to me didn’t need words. It was like its own language, one I could speak with very minimal effort.

After my brother died it seemed like everyone had questions for me, which infuriated me. Everyone thinks I’m either sad or mad and didn’t understand my way of coping with things was to remain to myself. Basketball allowed me to do that. I didn’t have to explain myself when I played. People only cared about the way I played , by the way I shot the ball or defended on the court. If I was angry, I played harder and it benefited me. If I was sad, I remained to myself but stayed on the court longer to help me with the pain I was feeling. Basketball became the way I communicated when I couldn’t say what was on my mind.

Even now as a junior in high school, I think that’s still true. When I’m stressed with school or frustrated with life, I’ll grab a ball and shoot around for hours on hours. I don’t even need anyone else there, I actually prefer the empty gym, it’s the best therapy in my opinion. The sound of the ball bouncing and its reliability. As one of my favorite players Kyrie Irving would say “a basketball is one of the most reliable things you will encounter, when you bounce it you know it’s coming right back up”, the feel of it leaving my fingertips on a perfect shot—it’s calming in a way I can’t explain. It’s like coming back to myself and resetting. 

I think that’s one of the reasons I’ve stuck with basketball for all these years after my brother died: it feels therapeutic and honest. You can’t fake who you are on the court. Your strengths, your weaknesses, your fears—they all come out in the way you play. You’re exposed, but you’re also free. If you put the work in you’ll succeed and if you don’t you’ll fail. Basketball is one of those things that you can’t cheat. It is a very honest game. 

On the court, everything makes sense. If you work hard, you get better. If you make a mistake, you have a chance to fix it. The ball doesn’t care who you are or where you come from. It doesn’t matter if you had a bad day or a bad year—if you can play, you can play. To me life isn’t like that there are so many things that goes into if someone is successful or not and isn’t solely the work one puts in.

There’s something beautiful about that. Basketball is fair in a way life often isn’t. It’s not always easy, but it’s honest. If you don’t put in the effort, it shows. If you’re not paying attention, you’ll get left behind. But if you work, if you stay present, the game rewards you. No matter how bad you play there is always another play which I think is beautiful. 

I’ve met so many people through basketball, some I like and most I don’t. Which is true for life outside of basketball as well. The only difference is on the court I can destroy the people I don’t like mentally and physically. Some of the people I like grew to be my brothers. We all started as strangers who were in competition with each other. But we became lifelong friends. Basketball brings people together in a way that feels effortless. You don’t need to know someone’s life story to trust them on the court which I love. My teammates don’t need to know the story about my brother nor do they care about that. They care about winning and to win all you need is to trust in one another and a shared understanding of the end goal. And it’s not just about your teammates. Even your opponents teach you something. They push you, challenge you, force you to be the best version of yourself . 

Basketball teaches you how to fail, which is inevitably going to happen in life. No one makes every shot. No one wins every game. You can play your hardest and best and still come up short. At first, that’s hard to accept but in life you can do everything right and still lose, winning isn’t promised to anyone. You want to blame something—your teammates, the refs, yourself. But eventually, you realize that failure is part of the game and you get back to work to play the next game. 

The best players aren’t the ones who never miss; they’re the ones who keep shooting, keep trying, even after they miss. This is a great life lesson on what to do when facing adversity. That’s what basketball teaches you: to keep going. To trust yourself, even when things don’t go your way. Trusting the work you put in and trusting God that it will all work out.

So why do I play basketball? The short answer is because I play because it makes me feel alive. I play because it’s the one place where I feel completely free of all the stresses of life and completely focused at the same time. I play because it’s where I can be myself without trying or without worrying about satisfying others. Sure I’m a little worried about the opinion of scouts but that’s all fun and a privilege. I play because it reminds me I can do whatever I put my mind to. 

I play because I love it. Even after all these years, when I hear the sound of a ball bouncing on the hardwood, it brightens up my day. Even when I’m tired or busy or frustrated, the thought of playing makes me feel better.

Basketball is more than a sport to me. It’s a part of who I am. It’s how I make sense of the world, how I connect with other people, how I find joy in the middle of chaos.

That’s why I play. Because I can’t imagine not playing. Because as long as I can run, as long as I can shoot, as long as I can feel the ball in my hands, I’ll keep coming back.

This night, burned into my memory, will remain with me the rest of my life. It was just supposed to be a normal Wednesday. However, things were quite the opposite. My hometown, Los Angeles, had extremely high winds for the past two days, causing school to be cancelled, as many fires were raging across the vast county. 

I remember the day it happened. I had just gotten home from practice, around six o’clock. I told my friend to get on the game, just like any other day. I remember looking outside on the porch, as I always do when admiring the unique view from my childhood home. Something was obviously different. Instead of the beautiful lights of the beautiful Altadena homes, I noticed an ominous red glow on the hills. The new fire, being provoked by the winds, was raging on the nearby hills. Immediately after noticing the blazing fire, my family and I evacuated, abandoning almost everything we had ever owned. We went straight to my uncle's house, with just the essentials, a couple articles of clothing and my toothbrush, packing extremely little as I had zero reason to believe my house would soon be gone. Almost as soon as we got to my uncle’s house, he also received an evacuation notice, even though he was far from the fires. We then moved to a new location to spend the night. The house of my long-time family friend was extremely comfortable and luxurious, however, I remained restless that night, overthinking every possible outcome. Just to fall asleep, I convinced myself that my house would be safe, as these fires happen very regularly, never reaching the houses. As the night grew longer, so did my fear of what was to come.

I remember the next morning extremely vividly. I remember waking up, too scared to check my phone for any recent updates on the fire. My parents were gone to check up on the house. My brother was with them. At this moment, I felt alone. I felt as though I had zero control over my own life. 

It was eight in the morning, I heard the front door opening, with the familiar beeping alarm at my home. My family had returned with devastating news. I was so confused, lost, in fact. I remember my dad saying, “God giveth and God taketh”. This quote will forever stick with me.

My family had done everything right, watered the house, left the sprinklers on, and left the hose running. We thought that the fire was under control. However, the outcome was still devastating. How could this happen? Why was this happening to me? Why can’t God just give me a break once in a while? Everyone tries to have things under control, when the fact is that fate will always have the upper hand.

The next morning, I decided to return to the house myself, before the military had blockades set around the perimeter of the burning city. I remember watching the smoldering brick and wood, the last physical embodiment of my house. However, the memories from my childhood will always stay with me. 

Today, after about two weeks since the incident, my family and I are safe. We have a roof over our head, we are all physically “ok”, and not too many valuables were destroyed. However, the devastation of losing a childhood home has caused great emotional agony. 

This incident taught me a couple lessons, in fact. One of them being the idea that not everything is set, meaning that nothing will last forever. Losing my house was definitely not expected. The next idea is something that one must realize in one’s lifetime. The idea that nothing in life is under control is perhaps one of the most important lessons in life. Understanding this can lead to a better understanding of being independent, learning to do things on your own. 

In fact, learning to do things independently is the epitome of life. Much like other animals, humans are raised until they are old and mature enough to experience the outside world on their own, without the constant overlook from parents and guardians. I have always been raised to be independent. From a young age, my parents would teach me how to do things on my own. Little things such as ordering food for myself, taking out the trash, and talking to adults led me to be the young man I am today.

To be in control of something has a very vague meaning. Being able to change an outcome is impossible, according to the idea of fate. The only time one can somewhat be in control is when dealing with the outcome of nature’s demise. One cannot fight a fire until it has truly started. 

Why can’t I use "can't”? Teachers, professors, and nearly anyone will tell you that it is informal and disrupts flow. Does it? Wouldn't it be easier to read? Comparatively, wouldn’t it be nice to have writing that does not jar in its separation of sounds? Writing without contractions results in a cacophony of noises that we hardly notice because of one key issue: people read in their heads.

Once I learned to read, I became discouraged to read out loud. There was silent reading. I absolutely abhorred silent reading. It was, in fact, silence and reading, the latter being something I enjoyed, but I could never do it in the manner I desired. As a child, I had an unconscious habit of mumbling when I read. My mind processed the visual information into auditory information that allowed myself to feel even more engrossed in the novel. I didn't realize I did this until the teacher’s cold hand on my shoulder took me out of my immersion in the story. 

From then I learned to read in my head, but I noticed that my comprehension and engagement was far superior when I could read in seclusion. For a long time, I thought this was simply just a personal trick that would help me do better on reading tests and survive Shakespeare, but it gave me an ability that I have had to painfully watch my peers develop over the years: how to read… out loud.

For context, I went to a K-8th school followed by a high school in which many of my classmates overlapped. All of these people knew how to read by 2nd grade, yet all of these people learned to read clearly out loud by 11th grade, if that. When kids are asked to read out loud, there is a fundamental fear of messing up, a fear that only makes you mess it up. However, there were only two main areas where people messed up: Unheard of vocabulary and strings of small words. What does this have to do with contractions? The latter of the mess ups could have been avoided in a quick simplification of syntax. It isn’t difficult to iterate a wordy sentence, but it is not always simple to iterate a reading when it is not inherently written in the way one would speak. Writing is simplicity. Reading is cohesion. 

People speak in contractions, therefore readers should be able to read out loud in contractions. My persistent reading out loud allowed me to acquire the skill that would later put me in positions to be a voice for myself and others. The skill can be acquired, but it's difficult. There’s a reason speeches contain more contractions than essays, the author knows that he or she will actually read it out loud. In broadcasting, contractions are used to make comprehension simpler for both anchors and the audience. Because no matter how much people stigmatize it, contractions, when used correctly, can allow for better flow. 

The stigma against contractions is not without merit. If the manner with which reading is intended is meant to be read privately, don’t use “don’t.” Instead, it is important to write for your audience, but more importantly, to write in the way they will read it. The way words sound in our heads are not the ways words sound out loud. If people don’t speak in contractions, why does their writing have to be different? Writing is style and voice. Writing is an author sharing a vignette of his soul. It’s a kid mumbling during silent reading. It's growing up feeling alienated and expressing it eloquently in the way that only writing can. It’s us. So who is to say that we can’t use “can’t?”

The sky is blue.

Sometimes.

That phrase, “the sky is blue”, is the average response to the obvious. “1 + 1 = 2? Yeah duh, and the sky is blue!” 

But that’s the odd part. The sky can literally be any color. When it’s clear out, it’s blue. When it’s cloudy, it’s white. When it’s nighttime, it’s black. When the sun is setting, it’s yellow or pinkish. And when the sun is on the horizon and the scene is perfect, the sky is a beautiful gradient of rainbow colors, getting to cooler colors as the sky moves farther from the celestial giant. 

The sky is beautiful. The sky is dynamic. The sky is something to stare at all day. Why then, is the sky just… “blue”? On that same note, why is the ocean blue? Why is everything simple “easy as pie”? Why does 1 + 1 = 2?

Wait.

Okay, upon further investigation, it turns out that 1 + 1 is definitely 2 and only 2. Who would’ve thought?

Nevertheless, it seems that humanity’s acceptance of what is true or obvious is fundamentally flawed. And it all stems from one of the largest enigmas of humanity: tradition. 

Oh tradition, the art of passing on one’s culture to the next generation, and the next, and the next, and so on and so forth until a concept becomes so synonymous with a culture that it is no longer questioned. It seems the traditions of society fall into a few forms: observations, social and spiritual legacy, and odd quirks. 

Okay, so why is the sky blue? Simply put, that’s its standard state. The sky’s been around for a lot longer than humans, so when the homo sapien species came around, they looked up and thought: “Blue.”

And henceforth the sky became the “blue thingy”. The same with the ocean. Of course, modern day humans understand that the ocean is technically clear just like all water, but oceans will continue to be drawn with blue crayons and children will continue to learn that the ocean is blue. It’s not dangerous to teach it, but it does kind of make us look dumb. Observational tradition is generally harmless, but the same cannot be said for legacy.

Passing on legacy is an important part of the human experience. The parent passes down their values to their child, and as a result the child can go on to find success in life. This hypothetical parent could give their child many values: a religion, ethical priorities, and general decorum, among many, many other lessons learned in the formative years of one’s life. Indeed, these are obvious parts of life even if it doesn’t feel like it. Humanity accepts that it is normal to want to find meaning in life, and that takes many forms. For one, there are many religions that offer one an explanation of why one is on Earth to begin with, or give a sense of spirituality, including Christianity, Judaism, Islam, Hinduism, Daoism, and so many more. At the same time, there’s also the simple idea that one has to be good to others simply because that is how humanity should be. That’s (a poorly explained definition of) the study of ethics. Even the idea of being respectful of others, a subsection of the ethical disposition, is an obvious yet integral part of life. In the complex modern world, it’s hard to imagine a time where all of these ideas of how to conduct one’s life were just starting or not even created yet. These realities of life are obvious and absolutely important. It’s not even right to ask what life would be like without religion or ethics. It’s more appropriate to ask how long it would take for Earth to fall into chaos. 

When did this topic become so pessimistic? Let’s move away from the sad realization that this crazy world is as good as it gets. The obvious parts of life can sometimes just be weird to think about. Sometimes, it’s just funny to see how dumb humanity is. For example, why do we raise our hand to knock on doors? Are you still following, oh dear reader? I know that you’re still reeling from the societal implications of the last paragraph, but we need to stay on track. But seriously, there’s no need to bring the fist up to head level to knock on a door. Why not just leave the hand where it already was and knock from there? The answer is that’s just the way it works. There’s not much worse of an answer than that, but that’s just how it goes sometimes.Sometimes, as much as there should be a logical answer, there isn’t. 

Anyways, why do we wear clothes?

Wait, where are you going? Why are you clicking off this document? I swear I have a good point, I think!

You came back? Good! Look, there’s technically no need to wear clothes, and I know I sound like an idiot for saying that, but when it’s warm in the summer, there is (TECHNICALLY) no need for them. But why do I sound like an idiot for saying that? Because, it’s a societal expectation. Because if someone went outside and didn’t wear clothes they’d be promptly arrested for indecency. “That’s just the way it is”. 

Okay, but seriously, I swear I like having clothes. Fashion is cool!

Something is strongly compelling me to not end on that note. Let me reel you back into my genius with one final question: why is there right hand supremacy? Once more, we find ourselves back at those six disgusting, boring, stale words: “That’s just the way it is”. But this is a real oddity of humanity. Video game controllers have the important buttons on the right. Mobile apps favor putting important information on the left side to make sure the right handed person can see them. The phonetic writing system is exponentially easier when not having to worry about smearing the words just written. Traffic runs on the right side. The accelerator and brake are pressed with the right. EVERYTHING IS ON THE RIGHT SIDE. It doesn’t even really make sense, and that’s what’s so great about doing a deep dive into a topic like this. There’s no reason. There’s no explanation. We just so happen to favor people that are right handed, because they’re the majority. Often the truths of society feel obvious. In the end though, it’s only being told that something is obvious that makes it obvious. What is true and what isn’t? Why do we call the sky blue when it is the most dynamic and awesome part of nature? Why do you think I’m weird for saying we don’t need clothes? All great questions that I don’t have the answers to. The sky isn’t blue, or black, or pink, or red, or anything. The sky is whatever you want it to be. When you stare up, dare to see it the way you want to. When others tell you to see the world the way they want you to, start asking the questions that matter. Being a skeptic is simple. It’s as easy as asking why. 

“Good writers borrow, Great writers steal”-T.S Eliot. When attributing the role of greatest writer to ever exist, many do not stray apart from the common household names and classic authors. Whether it be American greats Ernest Hemingway or F. Scott Fitzgerald, Russian legends Leo Tolstoy and Fyodor Dostoevsky, or English icons William Shakespeare and George Orwell, Can one really go wrong with a choice? The question of the hour is far from which author presents work that is superior to their time but rather which author has left such a resounding legacy that drops of their work is present in all modern pieces of literature.

Again, “Good writers reuse, Great writers reappear”. Writing, or the simple display of one's thoughts and feelings through the act of physically penning down cohesive sentences, is a treasure of human nature. The appearance of writing from ancient Sumerian depictions to Samuel Johnson’s English Dictionary, one could say the world has made resounding progress. Yet, literature  did not simply appear and evolve through lacked contact or isolation, but rather is solely reliant on oral, physical, and mental interactions  between people, cultures, and ideas. Think of this, What are the greatest moments of history? Do not simply answer this question without wondering to yourself, “How do I know this happened or Why do I know about it? The simple answer is this: LITERATURE. The subjects of language and history are so intertwined that so many people in the modern world fail to realize one depends on the other. Ever feel like your essay in English class is going well and you tie ideas together exceptionally, thank your history professor as I can guarantee it wouldn’t be as good without him. Don't Believe me, lets explore an example. The period known as the Renaissance was the cultural and artistic flourishment of Europe between the years 1450 to 1650 CE. Only 14 years before this estimated date, a man named Johannes Gutenberg created the world’s first large scale printing press and changed history forever. Standardized language for all, increasing literacy rates, rapid production of texts, and the spread of ideas at an unprecedented rate are only a few effects. It almost seems as if Gutenberg's Printing Press opened the door for the Renaissance to become what it is today?

Finally, “Good writers contemplate plagiarism, Great writers cause plagiarism.” Returning back to the lasting image of great writers listed earlier, What separates them and How can people be more like them? T.S Eliot’s recurring image in literature is without coincidence as his quotes premise is that Literature will always evolve, so will humans. The nature of every human is unique and it is that uniqueness and mental journey through the expression of writing that makes a good work of writing a great one. The rise of one's writing portfolio can only take time, practice, blood, sweat, tears, and crumbled paper; But Do not give up! Now I ask you this: What are you going to do to make sure your writing is labeled by people like me as GREAT, GOOD, or NOT!

There’s an often strange word that society seems to dodge, avoid, and almost never embraces, the word is enough. Seen as a hint in a world that infers “need more”. All are taught to want or to reach our hands out and grasp all we can, whether it’s knowledge or possessions. But when was the last time people truly reasoned with the textbook definition of enough. I raised this question while outside in my backyard. The trees, bare limbs with straggling amber and crimson leaves. They let go of their abundance of leaves without a thought, letting the wind do as it pleases. It hit me how they seem to not hoard as they let go, trusting that the next season brings what they need. This was humbling to me as I realized trees are a representation of silent wisdom and understand enough more than I do.

Everyone in society seems to struggle with this concept. We are taught that success grows exponentially, that it can be measured with the zeros in people’s bank accounts. We sprint through life while saying in our head “just a bit more” but the problem with this constant chase is that the finish moves farther. What happens when we finally feel the object that we have longed for only to still have the feeling of emptiness? There is a mystery to enough, a changing of perspective rather than possessing objects. It is not about the true answer but about discerning. The question we all need to be asking is “What do I need so I can feel fulfilled?” This is a question which society doesn’t ask us to often consider and instead we are pushed towards dissatisfaction. People judge others saying: your house could be bigger, you could have a nicer car, you could have more expensive clothing. But when we step back and look at the bigger picture, we can see that fulfillment derives from being simple such as a meal shared with the family as well as the daily walks with your dogs and feeling the sun on your skin. 

I am not telling you to be disciplined. Ambition and desire are not bad at all as they nudge us forward, foster creativity, and cause progress. But when they go unchecked then they become a force that makes us feel more of the emptiness we didn’t want to feel. The solution is balance, learning to take a break, examine our lives with utmost honesty, and recognize when we have too much. The ability to have enough needs courage. It means walking away from the mob sprinting for more and instead being content. It means thinking to ourselves “This is good. I am grateful” even when the world views you as wasted potential as you haven’t reached this goal yet. It means being grateful for what you have as others may not have what you have.

Perhaps like trees, we need to trust what comes next in life to provide for us. Perhaps we can learn to let go of the unnecessary and stand high, our roots deep in the dirt, our branches reaching out but not for desperation but gratitude. In the end, enough is not about transforming sand into glass but realizing sand in a different perspective might be the gold you wanted.

Memories burning in slow motion, consumed by flames that don’t feel the wounds that they inflict on others hearts. A pain that arrives suddenly, a raw wound that continues to throb long after the embers cool. The home forged by love and community is now gone, a void that will be difficult to fill. It was night time and the power went out, yet everyone could still see. The sky was illuminated by red, orange, and yellow. It smelled like someone dropped the whole plastic bag of marshmallows into the campfire. As the howling wind kept fueling and moving the fire, all you could remember is that Joan Didion once described Los Angeles weather as the weather of catastrophe, of apocalypse. A violence that affects every aspect in life. One that creates tension in the air. A contradicting beauty. Carefree yet chaotic.

The fire is right in front of you, and you start packing bags and stop looking at your phone. “What’s most important? What's most important?” Is the only thing that goes through your head. There is a kind of surrealism that takes over in moments like this. Time warps and bends, stretching and snapping unpredictably. The service and wifi are out so you just get the messages asking, “Are you ok? Are you safe?”. And you just stare at them and debate whether to respond or not because you are not sure that you have anything positive to say about this whole messed up situation. The wind moved the fire quicker than you thought, and soon you drive away in disbelief. The little kids in the back seat watch as the flames consume. Your chest is tight, the dense smoke mixing with the ache of helplessness. People talk about feeling numb during moments of crisis, but you feel everything; fear, grief, anger, and a desperate, futile hope that maybe, just maybe, it would stop before the worst happened. 

Escaping far away from the fires, you are told to get rest as the adults figure out what to do next. You can’t. You lie awake, staring at the roof of your car. Your mind is racing, every small worry grows into a giant, casting long shadows over your thoughts. The only thing replaying in your mind is fire and wind. Your chest is heavy, and your heartbeat drowns out the silence of the little kids sleeping in the back of your cramped car. You try closing your eyes, forcing your mind to calm down, but the harder you try, the more difficult sleep becomes. You’re tangled in a web of anxieties, each thread strangling you the more you struggle. The quiet of the world, instead of comforting, amplifies everything in your mind. It’s a lonely battle, waiting for the chance to see if your house is standing to bring some sense of relief.

Your father and uncle let you come with them to see the results of the catastrophe. They navigate through the fallen electrical towers, emergency vehicles, and fire that keeps on spreading. Arriving home, all that remains a blackened skeleton of what once was. Walking through the ashes feels like walking through a graveyard. The air is still poison. It feels like it is strangling your lungs, and the ground is littered with unrecognizable remnants of the life that was built. There is a melted kitchen that you used to cook with your grandma in. A playroom that all 20 of your cousins would gather to get in the worst but most hilarious trouble. Each fragment left in ruin feels like a cruel parody of what it had been, a mocking reminder of all that was lost. Grief has a way of catching you off guard. At first, it’s quite overwhelming, so much it leaves you gasping for air. But then it shifts, becoming quieter, hidden. It seeps into the corner of your mind, catching you off guard in the most unexpected moments. Just a whiff of smoke brings back all the experiences and all that you lose. Any house that looks vaguely like yours makes your heart ache, an aching that still doesn’t go away. It’s not the physical material things you mourn. It’s the intangible, the memories tied to those walls. The Christmas mornings where over 20 kids and 10 adults would gather to open up gifts. The nights spent lying in bed, wondering if the fan right above you was ever going to fall. The times playing baseball with your dad preparing for your big tournament. The feeling of safety and belonging that only a childhood home can provide. Losing your home is like losing a piece of yourself, a part of your identity that you can never reclaim.

But even though you went through all this pain you can only be grateful because there were moments of grace. The people who brought meals and clothing to replace what you lost. The friends who showed up unannounced, just to sit with you in silence, telling you that everything will be ok. They were willing to sit there with you for as many hours as it took. Their kindness was a reminder that even in the darkest moments, there is always light to be found. Over time, you learn to carry the loss with you, not as a burden but as a part of who you are. You stop the pain you build up trying to recreate the past. Instead you focus on building something new. The fire taught us about resilience. About the strength it takes to let go of what was and embrace what can be. It shows you that your home was not just a place, but much more. Your home is the people you share your experiences with, the lives and memories you carry in your heart. At times you still wake up with a bittersweet ache, grateful for the time you had there but still mourning its loss. Yet, in the midst of loss, you learn that rebuilding is not just about replacing what was burned away. It’s about rediscovering yourself in the process.

The fire took your childhood home, but it couldn’t take the memories, the lessons, the love that was born within its walls. Those things are yours to keep, unburned and unbroken, a reminder that even in loss, there is something to hold onto.

Resources can never be perfect. No tool will ever solve every problem. 

But some can get pretty close.

Scientists have found traces of one material in all sorts of regions and time periods. There’s evidence that they’ve been used for hundreds of thousands of years; for candle wicks in 4000 BCE, body preservation in Ancient Egypt and Greece, clay pots in Finland, and so much more. It was cheap, abundant, and extremely useful as a fire-retardant and general insulator. It was used even into the 20th century, as recently as the 70s, in home building for its insulating properties.

How could they not use it? This one resource had withstood the test of time for its near perfection.

That is, until the studies came out. In the span of a few decades, this resource was proven to be directly linked to multiple kinds of cancer, including lung cancer, mesothelioma, ovarian cancer, and multiple other life-threatening diseases. This “useful material” was of course asbestos.

If you’ve never heard of asbestos, it’s basically the bane of a home-flipper’s existence. Being such a massive industry, asbestos companies got it installed in countless homes, and now we have to pay the price.

Breathing it in just one time already increases one’s chance of cancer, as the chemicals released when it is broken up are highly dangerous if they enter the lungs. 

Still we say: “Breathe deep.” 

If you’re having a panic attack, literally the first action anyone will tell you to do, the first result on Google, and what’s recommended by all doctors is to just breathe. Letting oxygen in and carbon dioxide out is simple, effective, and is what keeps you alive. Take a pause from reading for a second to breathe right now. In for four seconds, hold for two seconds, and out for six seconds. It’s that simple. If you can repeat that in a stressful situation, it’s proven to calm you down by getting the heart beating slower. Less stress means lower blood pressure, less tensed muscles, better heart health, and a longer lifespan. Breathing deep can keep you alive. 

Why then, is it so hard to just take a second and breathe? It’s not just that our lives are too busy to take a second, it’s also that the world is actively against you breathing deeply. That sounds crazy, right? There’s no way the world is that against each and every individual that much. But think back to asbestos. After the first study came out, it took around 40 years to fully stop the usage of asbestos in construction. In terms of its entire lifespan, 40 years is a small fraction of the time asbestos has been in use, but think of how many people could be saved if the companies which continued to put people in danger were immediately shut down. Think of how many people had their lives altered by a cancer diagnosis. Think of how many people died because they unknowingly breathed in cancer. It’s not necessarily anyone’s fault in particular. Blaming others gets you nowhere. Nonetheless the point stands because if nothing else, we need to protect each other’s lives.

Asbestos isn’t the only problem for breathing. What about people who live in slums with poor air quality? Even if they try, they’ll never be able to breathe deeply. What about those with natural breathing issues? What about people who are addicted to cigarettes or vaping and have forever damaged their lungs? What about people who are overweight and unable to lose it to remember what it feels like to take a full, complete breath again?

Breathing is simple, and it should go without saying that it is a basic human right. Why then, are we faced with complications with even the simplest of tasks? 

There’s really no right answer. Sometimes life can be hard, but it’s ultimately about how you react in the face of adversity that changes the outcome. Just recently as of writing, the LA Fires have taken countless homes and too many lives away. I thank God that my house was not taken, but I nonetheless have seen as an entire city and even many of my own friends have lost almost everything they’ve ever called their own. In just a few hours a windstorm turned to a complete crisis, and the fires have still not been contained two weeks after this all began. In this horrible time I learned what it meant to not be able to breathe. As an athlete and someone who has suffered from multiple anxiety attacks, I am absolutely no stranger to being out of breath. It’s thanks to plenty of track practices and therapy sessions that I’ve learned to control my breathing when the stress piles up and rationality is thrown out the window. No amount of practice and training could stop me from this scenario. It wasn’t just that I couldn't breathe, it’s that the entire LA community couldn’t breathe. I had my best friend tell me that as he evacuated from his home, he read that the air quality was in the mid-200s. Imagine the effects of breathing asbestos, but on a near city-wide scale. That’s how bad the air quality got. If even only for a few days, we all held our breath to see what would happen next. 

Somehow, it got better over time. Even if the fires haven’t been contained, the air quality is returning in certain areas and it seems as though the community is healing once more. I’ve seen life-changing donation funds, help centers, and I even got the gratification of helping out at a clothing drive myself. I’ve seen the power of community flourish in this time of struggle. When I knew that everyone affected by the fires could find safety and help with rebuilding, I got my breath back again. Although even after rebuilding many possessions will remain permanently lost, this effort is also the path towards a better, safer, more united future. Community is the last bastion to rely on when it seems all hope is lost.

No tool is perfect, but some can get pretty close.

I am eternally grateful that I get the opportunity to wake up each morning and breathe deep. Sometimes life can be hard. Sometimes the world, and asbestos, and natural disasters can be against you. Sometimes not even breathing normally is assured. Even so, I know that by remaining strong, I can be there for others. There’s nothing wrong with accepting that you’re struggling. It’s up to one’s community to help those in need. I want to help those who need it. When they are down, I can be a helping hand and remind them, “Just breathe. Breathe deep.”

Led Zeppelin, Glen Campbell, Earl Scruggs, Pete Seeger, and the Eagles. While all are seemingly random names of artists and musicians, some of them might not even be well known as artists today, they all have one thing in common. They have all used the banjo. It seems quite odd to think about; Led Zeppelin is a famous rock band, Pete Seeger a folk musician, Glen Campbell a country musician, and Earl Scruggs the bluegrass musician.

All of these musicians differ widely in expertise and musical talent, but they all have used the 5-string banjo in at least one of their songs. It asks an interesting question: what makes the banjo so alluring as an instrument? Why use it over a guitar or any other acoustic instrument?

Over the past couple of months I have been trying to learn the banjo to little avail. While progress has been made in my pursuit of this infamous stringed instrument, I am still confused and intrigued by it.

Despite the instrument being there in front of me, and I playing it almost daily to learn it, there still seems to be something so out of reach about the instrument, something that sets it apart from the rest. Maybe it is the idea that it isn't as mainstream as other acoustic instruments, like a guitar, that puts it in sort of a place of privilege and secrecy. Is it the seeming difficulty to play the instrument, having to learn chords and picking techniques at the same time instead of just strumming?

Alternatively the thing about the banjo is, not even the people that play the banjo can properly describe how they play it. When a banjo picker was interviewed in 1850 and asked if he could read music, in response he said, "Can I read notes? Hell, there are no notes to a banjo. You just play it." Maybe that is the point of the banjo? There are no set rules to it, or structure, you just play it. That the secrecy and privilege of the banjo is something no one knows, not even people thought to be members of its secret society. Is that the beauty of it, maybe?

 It is so free and allusive that it is an instrument of the people. The poor and the rich, the hillbillies of the mountains, the folk artists of the Midwest, and rock bands around the world all play it. They all sing songs about the struggles of being a person on this crazy earth, just in different ways. Songs of unity, a brighter future, and making today better.

Other instruments are always reinvented and changed: guitars and pianos become electrified, and others can now be played digitally. However the banjo is and always will be that simple, thin necked, stringed, round acoustic instrument. That is, the beauty of it and its appeal. That no matter how times change, the banjo will be static, it will always be an instrument available to and of the common man, and one must simply play it, as it is.

What the hell is a Kilometer? This question plagues the 54% of adults in America who read below the 6th-grade level. This prompt torments the minds of those who are subjected to it as they grasp at a metaphorical straw (which is roughly 21 cm long) to find out what it is. So there’s the question. What the hell is a Kilometer? Is it a measurement? Is it a weight? Or is it merely a way of life? The viewpoint of reality which captivates the mind of the average American is one which is quite intriguing to say the least. Even though understanding a kilometer may seem quite interesting, to make a more engaging approach, the better question is truly: Why the hell do they not know what a Kilometer is? 

To the average Red-Blooded, God Fearing, cowboy hat wearing son-of-a-gun, the use of a Kilometer seems “straight up foolish”. Often a different unit seems more applicable, and clearly seems like the option. Maybe it would be better to calculate how far something is using your feet, perchance.  Or how many football fields is a good measurement? Perhaps Bald-Eagles per capita is a better approach? To the average American, the concept of distance is often predicated on some fabricated absurdities which make little to no sense. To be fair, there is not much more you could expect from the people who like to base how far away something is based on the quantities of lower-legged appendages between themselves and their subject. This mentality is often exemplified by the radical ideas of patriotism in America. Why should we have to stoop to the level of those “Damn Brits” who got pulverized in that fateful time of July, 1776? It is likely that the average American knows what a kilometer is, but it is possible that they just have yet to accept its reality. But sadly for them, you cannot call for a recount on the metric system. This prospect of conflicting ideals in the modern era is key to understanding the intriguing ideals of an American, but really understanding the scope of the American ideologies is an investigation of understanding the root of the intellectual problem in America. The rough and simply terrifying lack of education in the United States.

In the United States, the lack of education serves to be a fueling source to many issues within the country. Much of the country is illiterate, but there is also a terrifying low number of people with a surprisingly low reading level within the people who are able to read. This prospect is worrying for the country, as the level of education is dramatically lower than it truly should be. This lack of education leads to two specific results, the lack of intelligence in the workplace, and the lack of conscious decision making within the realm of politics. In the marketplace, if people are uneducated, it is likely that they will not be able to make it as far in their respective careers. This will serve to further isolate the lower classes from the upper echelon, as high paying jobs will likely be reserved for the eloquent, while the high working jobs are left for the others. Also, in the realm of politics this lack of education may lead to false representation in the government in the case of elections and other major decisions. For example, if someone has no personal knowledge of a particular conflict in the country –as well as having no means to understand this information– this opens up the opportunity for politicians to extort this idea for their own gain. If they are able to isolate the uneducated, it allows them to essentially fear monger and convince them far more easily. If the average citizen couldn’t tell you what a kilometer is, or why it would make sense to use Celcius, how could you expect them to be able to speak for themselves in court, or understand the scale of issues in the country? Education is the basis for progress and growth in the nation, but if half of the country is left behind, then likely any ‘progress’ made would be in the wrong direction. 

Another aspect of this ongoing strife in America is the view of the citizens as a whole by the people outside of it. Due to this foolish, gung-ho mentality, much of America is seen as little more than the stereotype of idiocy which it has sadly portrayed. On social media, it would not take long to scroll to a random video where someone asks a random American college student to “Name a country that starts with the letter C”, and the only reply they come up with is “California”. This type of image that has been put out there causes many citizens of other countries to think all Americans are like this. This idea of “Stupid America” is definitely sourced on the terrible education rates, but also truly because of the “can-do” attitude which many of them have. If someone is clearly wrong, but then they keep pushing back because “they are totally-definitely-for sure-right”, it furthers the uneducated stereotypes in America and makes no progress towards remediating this idea. Furthermore, many Americans have gone to just accept this idea, or even make fun of it because it is simply difficult to see a better approach than this. Many Americans–with no fact or reason to back this up–will either out of pride, ignorance, or simply just to avoid having to argue with each other will make the case that “Kilometers are stupid”. They could never fathom that it clearly makes more sense to use a Kilometer, because that wouldn’t be as “awesome” or “manly”. To quote Shadow the Hedgehog “I've been thinking about why so many of the radical left participate in speedrunning…Do it fast, rather than do it right”. He eloquently furthers this with “in a Petersonian sense…it furthers negative sexual archetypes in the marketplace”. He finally finishes this with the powerfully captivating tagline, “You’re a beta male Sonic” (Shadow the Hedgehog). Shadow depicts the American idea of overconfidence. Many uneducated Americans group the idea of “liberality” with that of just anything that opposes them. They would never use a kilometer because that would be too easy. And then if that is too easy, what are they supposed to brag about at a small dirty bar in Boston while they sip on their Coors Banquet (because a Lite would be too wimpy), and yell at a tv box with a group of college students tackling each other to the ground over a misshapen leather ball. This American overconfidence furthers the stereotypes as the outside looking in groups all citizens together into this lack of intelligence, harming the world’s view of the States as a whole. 

So back to the question: What is a kilometer? Well simply it is 1000 meters. Truly however, it is really just the most sensible unit of measurement. Does 1000 meters or 5280 feet make more sense? Exactly. But the issue of the kilometer conundrum is the image it places on the USA. Most of the country cannot read above the level of a 6th grader, which means that most of these people are peaking in intellect at 12 years old. This idea is terrifying, as the world view of America changes in judgement, as the American Pride and the questionability of social and political realities shape the country as a whole. America is not simply the “gaddamn son of a gun” that everyone else thinks of it. Occasionally we aren’t the worst at something. Sometimes we’re actually pretty okay. One day maybe I’ll live to see the country accept my personal proposal of Bald-Eagles per Capita, because at the end of the day, when it is all said and done, we don’t want to hear about your sensible measurement. Let me have my tractors and bill of rights. You ask us why we use a mile? Well then I ask you: WHAT THE HELL IS A KILOMETER!?!?

If man were ever to interact with aliens, we would struggle the most to explain human feelings. Personally, I believe if or when we meet “other life” they will be much smarter than us and filled to the brim with common sense. We could easily explain the desire to be happy, the desire to be with friends, but the desire to put one’s life on the line with uncertain results? That would be difficult. But adrenaline fuels and drives all of us. The first pictures that pop into your head when you think of adrenaline, are pictures of men in rally cars jumping huge obstacles. Or maybe a man jumping out of an airplane. Or maybe if you are old school, you think of Evel Knievel and the Grand Canyon. But adrenaline can be so much more than just physical endangerment. When I submit this essay, I will feel (an admittedly small) rush of adrenaline. So what is it? Why does it drive us? And why did Evel Kinivel dress like that? Hopefully I will be able to answer most of these questions. (I mean seriously wouldn’t the cape get caught in the motorcycle?)

Chased adrenaline is the act of putting an important part of one’s life on the line. A great dumbed down example of this is a lottery ticket. When you guess those numbers there is always the excitement that you could be right. And oh how much better your life would be if you were right. When you submit that ticket you feel the rush of adrenaline hit. The odds of winning the lottery are 1 in 292.2 million. Pretty much physically impossible, and yet we still get that excited and nervous feeling when we hand in the ticket. The common sense alien I mentioned earlier, would be able to see the situation from their spaceship and believe that we are stupid for having any sort of nervous energy as the odds against us are so high that we should have no hope of winning. But we still have hope. One reason we feel this way could be that we have a small chance of winning. There is however another; the danger. What is the danger you ask? We are actively handing over our hard earned money, just to lose. That is dangerous. Think of primal instincts. That's like giving a wolf the last bit of meat you have for the winter in hopes that he will bring you back 10x what you gave him. Is it possible, I guess. Is it probable? No. It's stupid and extremely dangerous as you may not be able to eat for months. Same with the ticket. There is no chance of this truly panning out. But us humans want that hit of danger, to varying degrees. So we give away our money and are handed a ticket. An essentially worthless piece of paper. 

The other element that comes into play besides danger, is the chance of success. Danger is the most important element, but pure danger is horrible. The chance of success is what gives us the enjoyable rush of adrenaline. Referring to the lottery ticket again, it is the small chance and sliver of hope that one could win which makes it fun. It makes it interesting, what if the wolf did bring back 10x the amount of food. That fun combined with danger creates adrenaline. 

At this point in time, we live comparatively uneventful lives. Throughout human history there has been a lot to keep us on our toes. Whether it is a bear attacking our family, or the Romans conquering our country, we were constantly in a place of danger and panic, attempting to live peaceful, safe lives. Today however, some of that is gone. This leaves us with the need to manufacture danger. I.e., the lottery ticket. Now we strive for that danger. We build entire theme parks based around wheeling us around until we feel like we are on the brink of death. Modern humans are continually bored. We don’t go out and hunt with our bare hands anymore, we type on computers and slowly become our chair. And thank God for these luxuries. We live much happier lives with them. But again we now find ourselves in a position to crave the danger. We have been wired and programmed for thousands of years to live with and suppress this danger, and now we need to bring it back into our lives. The common sense alien would be critical of these feelings as well. Although you may notice, we have never put ourselves in real danger again, well most of us.

I’m going to refer to this idea as “fake danger”. This is an extremely controlled danger. As we become more civilized we crave this “fake danger” Danger that is not ever close to life or death, but could be career ending. Extremely controlled and regulated danger that everyone can enjoy without feelings of grief. Enter the entertainment industry. This place is full of risk takers and people who apparently don’t care what people think. Every movie, every joke, every novel, and every song is a risk. A risk that someone won’t like it. This is an extremely controlled risk which by comparison to putting one's life on the line, is very subdued. This industry is a fake danger paradise. These performers, whatever they may do, get adrenaline, and we get adrenaline from watching them. It is the complete combination of extreme fake danger and the incredible chance of success. With everything they do, these people put their career on the line. I believe the precipice example of this is the Tonight Show With Johnny Carson. Hear me out. In the later years, Carson had on completely unknown comedians that his staff picked out from local comedy clubs. At this point in time this is the most watched show on television. Every night the show was doing Super Bowl numbers. If used correctly a person could make their entire career in 5 minutes. Or they could fall on their face in front of the entire nation for 5 minutes. People would tune every night to watch and feel the performers' adrenaline. Viewers felt that mix of danger and fun which created the adrenaline the audience lived through vicariously. This is the ultimate version of the modern day adrenaline. It is the combination of these two feelings, which combine in order to create the adrenaline that we all crave. The chance of a lifetime, and the incredibly high risk of failure.

Uncertainty is an inherent aspect of human existence, influencing our lives in profound and often unpredictable ways. The desire for control and stability is deeply ingrained in human nature, yet the reality of life's unpredictability constantly challenges this. Embracing uncertainty, instead of resisting it, can help us grow as people and become more resilient while developing a better understanding of ourselves throughout life. Through accepting change as a constant part of our daily lives, we can learn to better navigate what is unknown and what the future holds through understanding the limits of control, through accepting impermanence, and through learning to adjust and adapt. 

In understanding the limits of control, attempting to control every aspect of life can be a disastrous waste of time. A moment that highlights this concept comes from the recent fires of Eaton Canyon that took place on the seventh of January this year. This fire is a perfect example of how attempting to control aspects of life come with disastrous outcomes. This fire showed its vigor to over ten thousand structures, displacing more than one hundred thousand people. In just a matter of hours, this fire was able to claim about fifteen thousand acres of land, and the lives of seventeen men and women, including the life of Victor Shaw. Victor Shaw was a sixty-six year old who wanted to preserve the home that he had lived in for fifty-five years, his family's home. In listening to our local television station, KTLA5, I was able to uncover and understand the horrific circumstances that took place for Victor on this fateful night. Victor Shaw had a younger sister with her own family and children that he held very dear. In light of the approaching fires, Victor made the heroic decision to stay behind and put his own safety at danger to save the home he had grown to love. With hose in hand, Victor took the fire head on with the thought of his family in mind. The morning after the fire had erupted, Victor Shaw could be found in the rubble of his home holding the same water hose that he used to protect and defend his house from peril. In light of the heroic actions taken by Shaw for his family's history and home, trying to control aspects of life can often come with disastrous consequences. According to Victor’s younger sister, Shari Shaw, during the final moments of Victor Shaw's life, he felt serene and at peace. Victor had come to terms with the uncertainty of life and had embraced it with open arms. With immense sorrow, this understanding and realization had sadly come at the price of his life. His life and legacy will live on through his family for years to come, such as the heroic actions that he exerted on that fateful night. 

In light of the horrific and disastrous outcomes that come from attempting to exert control over what is uncontrollable, finding peace through embracing uncertainty and acknowledging impermanence can help with embracing the uncertainty that shrouds life whilst building resilience and allowing for growth as people. From personal experience, recognizing that nothing in life is permanent is hard to overcome. As Victor Shaw lost his home, my family also underwent the same loss of our sanctuary. We had called our bungalow home for more than twenty years and yet, in less than twelve hours that very sanctuary was reduced to ash and rubble. Visiting this scene everyday after school for multiple hours carried on for weeks. Day after day, my Dad and I would visit our house to sift through broken glass and cement walls that were minimized to mere dirt. Through finding the little remnants of what our house used to be, my Father and I were both able to come to terms with the situation that we had at hand. We both understood what this meant for the future and embraced this change as an inevitable part of life. Instead of resisting these changes and succumbing to depression and other emotions alike, I learned to understand these changes as a new part of life. This perspective allows me to adapt and take on new challenges and find opportunities for growth in whatever the future holds. 

In addition to accepting impermanence, learning to adjust and adapt is essential for embracing uncertainty during challenging times. Learning to adjust and adapt amidst the chaos of the fires was an important lesson in resilience and acceptance of what was uncertain. As my family, and many others, faced the aftermath of losing our home, we were forced to reevaluate our priorities and find new ways to move forward. The initial shock and grief was overwhelming for everyone in my family; however, we gradually began to see the situation as an opportunity for growth and a test to our strength in situations of peril. During this time, my parents and I stayed in a small one bedroom townhome. For about a month we stayed in this flea infested, cramped room to which I did homework on the floor and used the light illuminated from my devices as the primary light source to do my homework once my parents had fallen asleep. Learning to adjust and adapt to these circumstances was the hardest challenge I have ever faced. As a family, we learned to appreciate the small joys of life and support each other more than ever before. The fires had taught us the invaluable lesson of resilience and the importance of adjusting to life's unpredictability. 

As the world continues to move on, and the city of Altadena continues to smolder, it is paramount that all displaced persons choose to embrace and understand the uncertainty that shrouds the world. Through understanding the limitations of control, accepting impermanence, and learning how to adapt, we as a community can find a sense of peace and resilience in the face of adversity. These principles allow us to grow stronger and better equipped to handle whatever life throws at us. 

Father Time is unforgiving. He moves forward steadily, never backward, taking moments away that we can never get back. The only thing guaranteed in this world is the future. But why then do we focus on the past?

Humans have a distinct obsession with the past. We hold on to memories, relive moments, and reflect on choices that cannot be changed. Sometimes I remember conversations from years ago simply because I regret the tone of my voice. Since the dawn of our existence, humans have recorded history with cave drawings, stone engravings, literature, and countless other mediums. Despite living in the present, the past greatly influences our lives. It shapes who we are, influences our decisions, and stays in the mind, demanding attention long after the moment is gone.

I worry about the experiences I can’t get back–the distant memory of an old birthday party or the sound of my sister’s first laugh. I dread the time when my future becomes my past. To protect myself, I reminisce–trying to turn my part into the present. However, time is a paradox. We try to revisit the past, but the past is no longer there. What we hold in our memory is not the moment itself, but our recollection of it–an imperfect reconstruction of time, shaped by perception and emotion. Whenever we recall a memory, we alter it, coloring it with nostalgia and regret, reshaping it into something that feels real but is a distorted copy. As a result, our memories often become more idealized–more distant from what actually occurred. In trying to hold onto time, we lose its essence. 

This paradox serves as a warning. While we live in the present, our minds are constantly stuck in the past. Memory is both a gift and a curse. It gives us depth and perspective, allowing us to learn from the past to do better in the future. Yet, in this gift lies an unfortunate truth. The past is fixed. We return to it repeatedly, searching for something we can never truly get back. We try to rewrite our regrets or relive moments of joy, but we can only hold onto the remnants of what once was. In the pursuit of the past, we risk missing the only thing that is real–the now. We must learn to embrace time as it is–to accept the past while allowing the present to unfold. Time moves on, and so must we. 

I live in California. More specifically, I live in Los Angeles. That must mean that my life is a breeze and I must go to the beach and surf everyday, right? That could not be more far from the truth. Whenever somebody is informed that a person is from Southern California, specifically Los Angeles, their minds immediately go to the beach and palm trees. Although that is a big part of California, it is not the entire state. Yes, I may live near Los Angeles. No, I do not know how to surf. Yes, I love the weather. No, I’m not some rich entitled kid that knows a dozen famous people. I do like California, but I don’t like how people view it. 

My lacrosse coach is from Vermont, and grew up playing lacrosse on the east coast, including in college. He is used to the cold, snowy weather, having played some games in it. Whenever the weather gets either pretty cold or pretty hot here in California, our team will talk about it. It will usually involve some form of complaining, because who likes to play in near hundred degree weather? Responding to this, my coach will say, “Oh, you guys are a bunch of California soft serve.” I have maybe heard that phrase from him about a thousand times now. Just because we live in California does not mean that we don’t have our own problems. I am not saying that California is terrible or a living hell, but it’s not completely perfect. 

People really seem to stray away from the problems that California has. According to US News, California alone has accounted for more than thirty percent of all homelessness in America. People like to talk about the beach and the weather and just all of the good aspects of the state, but fail to include how the streets are littered with homeless people. How about how California has the third highest cost of living in the U.S? We are only behind Hawaii, which is an island thousands of miles away from the mainland, and Massachusetts. Could we possibly talk about how Californians have to pay the highest income tax in the nation? These are a few of the problems that come with living in California. Some people may say that problems will come everywhere that you go, so of course California isn’t some perfect paradise. Money is a huge issue for most Americans, so having these types of problems is a major concern. Is being the most expensive state to live in worth having good weather and some beaches? If you have the money, I believe so. But, many people within California do not have the money. There is a very select population in California that can actually afford living here. I would say that most of the population either is living paycheck to paycheck or just above that. Then there is the argument about just moving to another state. Do you know how hard that is, plus how much it would cost? They might not even have the chance to move to another state because they can barely afford to survive. 

Life in California is not always easy. Yes, it’s nice to have great weather and be able to go to the beach every now and then. But it does not define the entire state. You cannot classify Californians as having an easy-breezy life with no problems. Each of us have our own issues to battle, just like everybody else, and each of us have our own identity, and are not defined by beaches and warm weather. 

Yesterday, as I was mindlessly taking notes on Joan Didion’s essay “On Keeping a Notebook”, I saw a sentence that brought me back to consciousness: “I have already lost touch with a couple of people I used to be”. In the surrounding context, this statement means that Didion’s notebook has kept her in touch with the majority of people she used to be, and it’s possible that those who she hasn’t kept in touch with decided not to write in the notebook at all. This quote meant something to me because I’ve now realized that I’m not sure if I’ve stayed in touch with any of the people I used to be. 

To be fair to myself, the phrase “stayed in touch” could mean a variety of things. Am I a mirror image of my eighth grade self? No, but I’m still friends with the people I was friends with in eighth grade, and the chalk wall in my room still contains the same drawings as it did in eighth grade, and I’m struggling to come up with a third similarity between myself in eleventh grade and myself in eighth grade, but that’s my point. No matter how many similarities there are between the people I used to be and my current self, I don’t feel like I can say I’ve kept in touch with the majority of them. This isn’t an issue that has recently appeared either. Since I was eleven or twelve, my interests and taste in everything changed so drastically between the years that I sometimes found it hard to identify with the person I was even a year ago. For some reason, the years before then (ten and below) have all molded together in my memory as one cohesive person. My personality, taste in music, haircut, hobbies, and everything in between during those years don’t strike me as different from one another, and up until now, I’ve struggled to understand why.

In looking through the combined photos from my iPod from 2017 (when I would have been nine years old) and my family’s old Sony digital camera (which is at least 20 years old by now), the major difference between my 1-10 year old self and my 11-16 year old self is what exactly I was aiming for. One of the first videos on that iPod is a screen recording of a Youtube video I posted when I thought I might become as famous as my favorite youtubers of the time (which were, of course, those making Minecraft lets-play videos). At the age of nine I was able to convince myself that the world wanted to listen to my voice through a broken microphone as I recorded myself playing Roblox, and as I grew older, it became harder and harder to picture my own success in a market so competitive. A few years ago, when I was twelve or thirteen, I decided I wanted to pick up skateboarding. I bought a board, trucks, wheels, and a lot of unnecessary gear as well (I figured skate shoes and a skateboard backpack would give me that slight advantage over the rest of the newbies). I took lessons for about five months, but every time I attended them, all I could see was that I wasn’t getting much better and it was taking much longer than I thought it would to do so. I started making excuses to skip my lessons whenever they came up in conversation, and eventually I abandoned them altogether. 

What I’ve discovered about the way I deal with challenges is that I often make them appear much larger than they really are. I take myself too seriously, and create a picture in my mind of myself at the level I want to reach. The fact that I don’t resemble this picture is what I believe takes away my inspiration and makes me leave behind the person that once did something for fun rather than for perfection. When I recall the beginning and end of my interest in skateboarding, I can clearly see the point at which I become tired of waiting to get good, but when I look at the last Youtube video I posted over seven years ago, I can’t distinguish why I stopped or the point at which making videos wasn’t fun anymore. I believe that the fact that I can’t understand why I stopped is evidence that the people I used to be are in fact still with me. The person I was in 2017 at the age of nine made an apology video to his 13 subscribers for not uploading for a month. The person I am today stresses far too much about his mistakes, and to be completely honest, has uploaded a few Youtube shorts with his friends since that last video in 2017.

From age seven to age twelve I took art lessons in a studio apartment in Pasadena with a teacher named Ms. Asia. It comes to me now that throughout all five years of my lessons - and to this day - I never asked Ms. Asia if Asia was her last name or first name, or what the other part of her name was. Hung across the walls of my home are pieces of art I created in Ms. Asia’s studio during my time as an artist, and they serve as daily reminders that I’m either not as creative as I once was, or that I spend too much time focusing on the parts of life that I don’t enjoy. I definitely keep in touch with the person I was during those years of my life, but it’s hard to believe that the drive I once had towards those aspects of life is now being put towards the parts of life I actually enjoy the least. I remember for one of my birthday parties during that five year stretch, I took my family to Ms. Asia’s art studio, and we all followed her instructions to paint a portrait of a llama. When all was said and done, I compared my painting to those of my family members (who had spent no time at all with a brush and easel in Ms. Asia’s studio), and was heartbroken to see that their paintings were [objectively] more similar than mine to Ms. Asia’s. I’m not sure that I cared at the moment, but I began to convince myself that everyone in the world could do what I could, and therefore my talent was less special than I had once thought it was. Looking back, that outlook on life is a horrible one, and to be honest, I’m not even sure that my family member’s paintings were that good, but nonetheless, at the time, it was a harrowing thought/experience. About a month ago, I got the urge to paint again. I worked through my drawers and closet to find a canvas and some cloth paints, but as I continued down the list of items needed to paint, I realized that I was missing brushes and a surface to paint on, but it was late I night so I told myself I would go out and buy everything over the weekend. I didn’t end up buying anything, and eventually that canvas and those cloth paints disappeared from my desk, possibly back into my closet, but I’ve been waiting for another surge of inspiration to find out if that’s the case.

I’d like to go into detail about how I used to play the drums, and about the lessons I took, and the sudden disappearance in interest, but I’m now realizing that it’s essentially the exact same story as those I already told above. What I notice, however, is that when someone asks me what my hobbies are, I still say, “I play the drums, and the guitar, and I make beats sometimes”. I haven’t really sat down and played the drums in over a year. I’ll sit down at my kit and play some patterns and songs I remember from my glory days as a drummer, but it doesn’t take long before I run out of muscle memory and go back to my room. 

The reason I mention the fact that I still say, “I play the drums” is because it has helped me realize that I still consider the people I used to be parts of myself. The videos filmed, edited, and posted by the nine-year-old Youtuber are my notebook, along with the paintings of various birds hung in my home, and the skateboard gear collecting dust in my garage, and even my constant foot tapping as I play the imaginary kick drum to a song I learned a few years ago. The most reassuring part, however, about feeling the way I do about the people I used to be, is that in a few years, I guarantee I’ll find it hard to identify with the person I was when I was 16.

I used to own this shirt with an itchy tag. Whatever the reason for a good portion of my elementary-year shirts having itchy tags was, I just knew that it would bother me into insanity. I loved that shirt, why would I take it off for a tag? I would beg my mom to cut it off like if I were wearing a cilice underneath my collar. She would cut it off and I’d feel satisfied. I thought I knew better than the Hot Topic I bought the shirt from. But after a few hours, I would feel the frayed tag biting the back of my neck again. The tag got even itchier. The looped tag turned into four, sharp corners. I wish I could have sewn it back on but unfortunately I threw away the tag. The tag got the best of me. I did not care about how the shirt looked. I ripped the tag right from the shirt. I was finally relieved. Did I care that the shirt had two holes where the tag was sewn onto? No, I was finally free to return to whatever I did as a kid. Whether it was just to play video games or to play with my twin brother, all I knew was that two holes in my shirt was a cheap price to pay for a non-itchy neck. 

Whether or not there is 100% truth to that memory in my life, or whether or not I still have the shirt, there is fact to be made out of the parable. We are often given really nice shirts. Maybe it is a depiction of your favorite cartoon or maybe it has your favorite stripe pattern. Maybe it has spots just in the right places or maybe it is plain grey; your favorite color. It cannot be denied that the shirt is nice and perfectly styled to your liking. But it has an itchy tag. Some people ignore the tag. Their necks become callused and over time they lose the ability to feel the irritation caused by the shirt or any sensation in that area of your neck entirely. Some people choose to cut the tag. They convince themselves that it was the right decision. They lie to themselves about the pain and irritation. Then there are others that rip the tag out entirely. People that are willing to sacrifice the niceness of their shirt to the irritation. They rather live with people staring at the back of their necks than live with the annoying poking sensation following them with every step. So who is wiser? The person who chooses to live with the pain in pursuit of aesthetics or the person that ruins their shirt just for pleasure? 

An itchy tag could be anything or anyone. A parent that convinces you that anything you do away from their guidance is a pursuit in vain. Maybe an addiction. Whatever it is, chances are that your shirt has an itchy tag. Even if you cut off the tag, the remaining tag on your shirt often hurts more than the tag attached. Cutting something, or someone, from your life often leaves bruises that hurt more than the punch. Your instincts tell you to sew it back on but sometimes you throw away the tag. You could ignore the pain, and it might go away. The ends begin to fray and become soft and able to ignore. But sometimes the wise decision is to pull the tag all together. Sometimes making drastic changes that make it obvious you had an itchy tag is the best decision. Does it matter that people are eying the back of your neck? To make a decision for yourself, the wearer, is occasionally better than worrying about the perception of others. 

During the pandemic, friendships formed through social media were at a rise. I knew I kid, maybe his name was Josh but I had not known for sure what it was. He was this random guy I had never met in my life. When I was inducted into this friend group with some kids at my school that I barely talked to, I met Josh. Josh was someone with a lot of energy. He could bring the group up but he could as easily bring the group down. We would play after Zoom or Google Meet often and we would play for hours. I mean hours. I may have spent a month or two worth of time playing games with them. Close to the end of the lockdown tension between Josh and the rest of the friends, including myself was high. We would find out that he would lie about details of his life, we did not like the negative and occasionally toxic attitude he would bring to the group. But we ignored it for a while. I personally had cut the tag between me and him. I only really liked talking to the other two kids in the group. Eventually, I received a call from one of my friends that Josh had found his address through some means of hacking. At that moment we just had agreed to rip the tag all together. We may have lost a friend, we may have been looked at by others as having left a loyal friend behind, but we knew that was just the best decision for ourselves. A couple holes in a shirt do not match the stress of having an unpredictable friend. Many tags in my life are not comparable to those in other people’s lives. Some tags are just itchier than others. But we all have them. This example is extremely mild but offers perspective on the everyday, normal itchy tags we may have. Some people live their lives not realizing why their neck hurts, or why it becomes red and tender to the touch. Many choose to never investigate. Being able to detect these itchy tags is important. But learning how to identify and deal with them might just save you a scratched up neck.