The true cost of happiness

I think that true happiness is a complicated and varied quest that is sought by everyone. But how do you attain it? How does one even come close to such fulfillment? Well one thing that society implants in our heads is money. We are all aware of the phrase "money can't buy you happiness", but these words have become challenged by many.

Several people I've talked to argue that money can buy you things that make you happy; that money is the key to success. Key to red Porsche, to the beautiful home on a hill, to lavish parties and multitude of friends. But this vision isn't everyone's happiness. Not everyone thrives on life in the big cityscapes and fancy cars to feel happy. Happiness to others could be hiking the Andes mountains, singing on a street corner, or simply being around a loved one. For instance, I went to Cuba this past summer, and the people there were the happiest I've ever seen in my life.

Despite many people not having much or barely money, the streets were oozed with content. Everywhere I looked, people were laughing and smiling-- they were making jewelry to sell for $2 apiece and celebrating with friends. I feel like the Cubans were less dependent on money for their happiness because there's so little of it, and it can't buy you everything your desires (which I think is a strong stigma held in the US). Because they weren't so focused on the money, the people were able to seek and gain happiness from elsewhere. And it's because of what I witnessed in Cuba that I don't think money can buy you happiness. Yes, I agree it can buy you objects that make you happy, but that type of happiness is temporary. Solely money can't buy  you true happiness, it can't give that wholesome fulfillment in life that so many search and hope for.

Oi, mis pantalones are flaming!

Lying—not telling the truth (according to google).

Lying—marked by or containing falsehoods (according to Merriam Webster.)

            Alright, these definitions are basically the same. I just wanted to do a cool intro, but it doesn’t really seem to be working out. Anyways, all my liars put your hands up! If your hand isn’t up, then you are a liar, thus your hand should be up. So by that logic, everyone is a liar no matter the size of the lie. And I am no different.

            When I was but a mere child, I told lies here and there, I told lies everywhere. But they were just tiny little fibs. I would tell my mom I cleaned my room when I actually just shoved everything in the back of the closet and prayed she was too tired to check. I told my older brother that it wasn’t me who ate his double fudge chocolate chip cookie (it was very delicious by the way). And I told my sister that I didn’t pull off the head of her Barbie doll.

Although, my favorite lie by far, has got to be the one I told my best friend in 3^rd grade. I still remember it because it was so ridiculous and obviously made up, but she just went along with it like a true MVP. So a little back story, I can do this really weird gravely deep voice that kind of sounds like Liam Neeson (if you’ve never heard it, it’s quite terrifying). It was a normal Tuesday afternoon in the playground when Candy (that’s my bestie, my bestie, my best friend, go best friend) and I were hanging out by the monkey bars. I showed her my Liam Nesson voice, and she was quite shocked and wanted to know how I did it. And of course, out tumbled the lies. I told her about how my father was developing this cool new drug that would allow you to change the octave of your voice and whatnot. I told her I was the first person to try this drug and it worked. And that was my very reasonable explanation for my deep Liam Neeson voice. I consider that to be my most elaborate lie of all time; there aren’t many of those these days though.

As I’ve grown up, I found myself lying less and less. The whole concept of lying just makes me extremely uncomfortable and guilty. I think one of the reasons for this change is because the lying format itself has changed. I used to lie about stealing cookies and candy but now lies would involve schoolwork, meetings, and work. And I don’t like to lie about any of those things because I am fully responsible for myself, and lying in regards to those things make me feel like a second grader. So I’d rather face the judgement than make crummy excuse for myself (which is still a work in progress to be honest). Another reason I don’t like to lie is because of how I feel afterwards. I tend to dwell a lot on things that went wrong in any way, and how that problem could’ve been avoided. Therefore, I beat myself up about lying pretty much all the time. And I prefer not to feel like crap, which is why I try not to lie about things.

But an area I consider a bit gray with lying is people. I don’t want to tell my friend she looks horrid in that dress but what kind of friend would I be if I let her strut around in a horrid dress?! I think that when it comes to lying about trivial things like this and whether or not mom’s new meatloaf recipe is the bomb.com are somewhat okay. I wouldn’t’ want to hurt someone’s feelings or minimize their opinion/excitement on something, so in these cases, I think a little fib is okay.

Beyonce vs. Kylie vs. Musk

                If I could live next door to a celebrity, I’d want it to be someone of reasonable stature. I wouldn’t want to live next to someone like Beyoncé because she’d have so much press around her. I wouldn’t want to live near someone who was so famous that there would be people camping out in my driveway to just to catch a glimpse of the Mr. or Ms. International superstar. But then again, imagine the bragging rights that would come with that. Oh yeah, I live next to Beyoncé, no biggie. She and Blue Ivy come over every once in a while for movie nights. That would be the life. But logically, I doubt that would happen. All I’d get would be screaming fans freaking over Beyoncé’s trash or something. Also I wouldn’t want to live next to someone who would make me feel bad about myself. I mean, just think about it. I’m hopping in my little 2007 Nissan car and then the thunderous vroom one of Kylie Jenner’s 23 (it’s actually like 4 or something, but same thing) Lamborghini sounds. And then she’d probably lift an eyebrow and pout her…lips… before driving off to Chipotle or something. Damn, that would suck. That is why you don’t want to live next door to a big named celebrity that flaunts their wealth everywhere or someone who is too famous, because I’d never live in peace.

                If I had to pick a celebrity, I’d want to live next to Elon Musk—the dude seems hardcore. The guy is world famous, although, he doesn’t get much publicity, which is perfect for me. It would be super beneficial because I wouldn’t have screaming teens on my lawn and he could help me with physics. Also, Elon Musk seems really nice (like give me a free Tesla nice) and nice neighbors are my favorite type of neighbors. I remember I had this one neighbor growing up who would call the police on us for the stupidest reasons. I think she once did it during the fourth of July for shooting fireworks. But it wasn’t us shooting fireworks, so she just looked dumb for making a big deal out of nothing. I doubt Elon would be like that though. Then again, this is all some type of weird daydream, so who knows what would happen. 

Snail Mail

In this day and age, I feel like teenagers and kids in general get more excited by the concept of receiving mail just because it’s so much cooler than getting an email. And I was not an exception. When I realized that I could receive actual mail, it was like entering a new world. At the time it made me feel very adult; and I guess that is why I enjoyed the mail system so much when I was younger. But I can disappointedly say that that the world of mail wasn’t all that great.

First of all, I never really received a ton of mail to begin with. Any envelopes with my name on it were usually grades or school programs—which were lame and disinteresting at the time. Even now, I don’t really get many things mailed to me. The only things I can think of are out of school programs, letters from friends, and (annoying yet soul-lifting) college letters that I don’t know what to do with.

You see, in my sixteen years of existing on this beautiful blue (now browning) planet, I can’t say that I have ever received something from the mail that was exceptional. I have never had the sensational bliss of opening a package of clothes/shoes (which is mainly my fault, because I don’t shop online) nor opening a letter from a long forgotten friend who moved to Kenya in fifth grade. While we are on the topic of opening, let me tell you; I almost never open my own mail. Yup, there, I said it. My mom prefers to do it because she’s a bit paranoid and formulates that “there could be a bomb or poisonous gas in it”. She also states there’s a proper way to open mail, which she has not yet demonstrated. Every time she tears through mail, it’s like me tearing through a burrito, so I think that whole “proper opening method” is a bit of a fib.

Anyways, let me back on track. I haven’t received much of mailing for me to consider something memorable. I mean, I could always treasure my 6^th grade report card till the day I die; but that seems rather lame. Now that I think about it, there was this one postcard I received that made it onto the bulletin board above my bed. But it wasn’t technically mailed. It was addressed to me and everything but never sent because my friend just handed it to me when she saw me the next day. The postcard was from the Cuba trip I went on this past summer. It was really fun, and I got to meet a ton of lovely people as well as explore the city (and beaches!) which is a memory I’ll definitely treasure for a long time. So it was nice to have that little memento of our beach frolicking and salsa dancing good times. Like I said before, it wasn’t mailed so technically not mail, but we’ll pretend it was. Except for this one relic, I’d say the mailing system is a pretty lame thing for now ( because I’m not cool enough yet to get cool mail, maybe in 10 years it’ll be baller) and that all the hype is in tearing the envelope. Although I do look forwards to receiving, and properly opening on my own, more (or any) memorable mail from the people in my life. 

Rewind

If you could, would you return to a moment from your past? I feel like that’s a question that hides in the back of everyone’s minds. Slowly creeping from the shadows until it finds an opportunity in the quiet silence to reveal itself. And just like that, it makes you start thinking. Of good moments, of bad ones, funny and even embarrassing ones. But of them all, which one would you re-experience. You and your siblings playing at the indoor community pool? Or your cousins 12^th birthday, when the candles almost slid off the cake and set the whole table aflame?

In my 16 years of life, I can barely recount moments that seemed so important that they’d stick with me for a lifetime. But memories are also a vague thing. For instance, I remember biting my brother’s head while hiding under the dining table. Bizarre isn’t it. That’s one of my oldest memories and a moment I would love to see. Although, I once discussed this with my brother who had no recollection of it at all. Even my mother and father didn’t remember. And it made me think. Was this a moment that actually occurred, or was it fabricated in my head? Slowly conjured up to cover something that didn’t want to be seen. Or was it there to fill a lonely void in the darkness?

 That’s the weird thing about memories, we never know what the complete truth is. By tomorrow, I’ll have a vivid description of these words, these phrases I attentively sprinkled onto a paper. In a couple years, there’s a chance (although very low) that I’ll still remember everything about it. Maybe I’ll remember the color of the sky as I fussed over topics in my head. The pale blue walls that were supposed to stimulate active learning, yet there I was with no ideas on how the heck I would satisfy the prompt. But there is also the possibility that this will be nothing more than an essay. No sentiments or explanations to remind why I wrote it like this. Or maybe I’ll forget the existence of this essay altogether. And that’s the sad thing about it—about memories. You lose those golden feelings in time. You may not completely forget it, but I guarantee you wouldn’t feel it as strongly as you once did.

 Then again, there is a beauty in memories. They’re a security blanket that engulf us at random moments in time. Memories, even the faux memories, recall you with moments of triumph that could ignite a fire of passion in you. They are also the demons that haunt us, that restrict us, for the fear of a relapse, the fear of failure. They stop us from making bad decisions based on previous events, but they also hinder us from reaching our full potential. The fear could holding us back within a good reason but it might also impede us from achieving something incredible.

With this in mind, I don’t know if would return to a moment from my past. The vagueness and uncertainty of memories make me hesitant towards this. But there is also the possibility of re-living ultimate happiness that makes me think it would be worth it. So despite the uncharted territory, I think going back to a moment in my past would be an intriguing experience. 

Non-Fiction Writing

Posts above this will all be for my non-fiction writing class.

Daddy Issues

 Before I dive into this, I want point out the epigraph that Morrison writes in before she begins the novel: "The fathers my soar and the children may know their names". From this epigraph, we have already been provided with the ideas of flight and fatherhood that will occur throughout the book.

With fatherhood in mind, I'd like to discuss the relationship between Milkman and Macon Jr.
One noticeable thing about the relationship between the two is that there is a chronic strain that is tied to Ruth, Milkman's mother and Macon's wife. Only 15 pages into the book, we are blessed with an example of this as Macon says in response to Milkman's new nickname, "He knew that wherever the name came from, it had something to do with his wife and was, like the emotion he always felt when thinking of her, coated with disgust." Morrison gets straight to the point on how Macon feels about his son in this situation. Something I found really interesting about this was the fact that the nickname mostly bothered him because he knew it was tied to Ruth. Already, to Macon the name sounded "dirty, intimate, and hot". But it was because of Macon's feelings of disgust towards Ruth that he was able to further defile the re-naming of his son. It was because of the image of Ruth and her father that Macon held in his head, that anything Ruth did with Milkman seemed to bother him relentlessly no matter how normal it may appear to anyone else (excluding this situation, it was a bit weird). The thought and possibility that there could be a rerun of what occurred in the doctor's house, made Macon want Ruth as far from Milkman as possible. So he hinders the relationship between mother and son in a sort of tyrannic way if you ask me.

Another example of where this distancing can be found is during the family's "fun" car ride through the town. During the ride, Macon forbids Ruth from carrying Milkman on her lap and taking him out to the use the restroom. He prevents her from doing normal mom duties out of resentment and disgust. We can see that this only further alienates Milkman from his mother because there is no solid foundation or bond time in which they can form an actually relationship. This is what Macon and to ensure this, Macon keeps Milkman by his side.

As the years go by, Milkman has definitely formed a close(er) bond with his father than he has with Ruth. After working under Macon since he was twelve, Milkman is associated with his father throughout the town. But despite the flourishing of their relationship, it still wasn't perfect because although Milkman respected his father, he also feared him, he doesn't necessarily want to be associated with as an exact replica of his father-- mainly because he felt he couldn't never amount to Macon. So he purposefully tries to distance himself from the identity as Macon Dead's son and the any similarities that he could've developed from him. This can be observed on page 43:

"(...) he could never emulate him. So he differed from him as much as he dared. Macon was clean-shaven; Milkman was desperate for a mustache. Macon wore bow ties; Milkman wore four-in-hands. Macon didn’t part his hair; Milkman had a part shaved into his. Macon hated tobacco; Milkman tried to put a cigarette in his mouth every fifteen minutes. Macon hoarded his money; Milkman gave his away. But he couldn’t help sharing with Macon his love of good shoes and fine thin socks."

While all this happening for Milkman, Macon is happy because he was able to influence Milkman into the person he became instead of Ruth. Morrison writes, "Macon was delighted. His son belonged to him now and not to Ruth, and he was relieved at not having to walk all over town like a peddler collecting rents." From these lines you can see that to Macon, his relationship with his son was mainly to take a stab at Ruth by preventing her from starting what Macon seemed to think would be an incestuous relationship with Milkman.


Something else I want to discuss is more related to the epigraph previously stated. As I said earlier, in the epigraph Morrison hints at the themes of flight and fatherhood. One thing that I realized about the book is how well it actually ties in with this. "The fathers may soar, and the children may know their names." Re-reading this, I thought about the death of Macon Dead I and how he was shot five feet into the air (practically flying if you ask me). And after he learns this, Milkman gradually becomes more intrigued in his family name (which is hidden behind the quest for gold). And when he finally finds out that his descendants were the legendary flying Africans, everything kind of ties in together with the epigraph. The recurring theme of flight in the book and self search that Milkman embarks on without realizing, come together to complete the novel with Milkman finally learning the name of his soaring forefathers, which I think helps him fully discover his identity.