FINALLY, I found some time to upload stuff I wanted to share. 

Poem, new writings in commentary, etc. etc…I’m very happy  

I neatly placed everything in my uploads folder months ago, but didn’t get the chance!  I’m glad this semester is winding down because that only means I’ll have more time to spend on writing and the site later on.  If I have time I might even tweak with the graphics.  I’m also thinking about posting a links page for site with great writing tips in a few days, as well as place some more works in Fiction.  That’s to help those who visit and wish to improve on writing, too!  

There are tons of links in my favorites section in my browser, and if I post them here, I can click delete and make it clog-free…

Well, until then!

Crystal

To be || ! to be…some after thought…

On Time and Crazy Hurdle Jumpers

By Crystal Hua

I am only a spectator, in the sense, when I stood overlooking the whole Gabrielino lunch quad one day, and saw amazing sprints.  Students were reinventing the Olympics in front of my eyes as larger boys were dashing and small girls looked like fierce piranhas out to get anyone.  Now, usually I don’t judge people by the way they run or the way their “ginormous” backpacks fly behind them, but I can say I was laughing pretty loudly.  I mean, truth is, if I wasn’t observing the adrenaline in me would have done the same.  You know, need to eat to live, right?  I used to feel no shame whatsoever running down the B building like physically disadvantaged me; then flying through lunch tables only to pant like a dog and say “Ha!  I made it before–*breathe– you.”

But being one day older in observation, I feel strange.  Time, like the ticking one, lingers over students during lunch—is not timeless.  We live in America.  The cooperate society that says dash and run at the sound of the shotgun and last is the loser.  I have been Loser only twice during lunchtimes because I was so far from my rubber, teriyaki rice bowl.  But, being Smart Loser I found that if I went against the edge of the wall and waved like an idiot saying “Hey!  Hey so-and-so!” and pretend I knew the girl next to me, I could cut significantly.  Even so, my sense of moral judgment cannot become clouded by the need to feed. 

The point is, students stand in lunch lines that get only larger as the years grow on and from the lack of efforts to censor people from outside the school that use a fake SG address to come to Gabrielino.  It’s not exactly a bad thing, because the shady business is that there are smart people outside of SG and we need to bring them to our school.  But is that ethnically fair for others?  Not counting the impossibility of removing everyone, we get into the whole issue of who to oust and not.  And the next thing we know we will be asked to monitor the dogs that come to sniff for crack and other illegal substances.  So what do we do?  We can leave the situation as it is and field a new track team from the exercises every lunch.  Or we can fix the problem through less dramatic means.  There is a solution to our problems even though we cannot stop time. 

Believe it or not, cooperate America can be fair to employees by giving bonuses and amazing them through what-not means.  So at GHS we need to amuse our students.  Instead of making people wait in endless lines, why not cut them down?  Why not create more of those lunchlady stands or more machines to scan those flashy pink cards that scream scratch.  Or we could do what Disneyland does and make lines more compact to save space to have them become the happiest places on earth. 

What I’m saying is that there is a solution, one that requires the motivation of students and administration.  As such, in the art of war all is fair, right?  So in all fairness we can take hand’s time and leave the blaming on our shoulders to fix.  We need leaders, not another generation of Marion Jones.  We need action and we need to consider the possibilities.  So, that’s why the art of war is…bloody art, but also something to improve upon and make our school blood face and well fed.  

My actions would indicate that I was born in a third-world country and shipped to America during the prime age of adolescence.  Neither deprived nor from foreign lands, I was generally awkward in social situations and life in general.   

            Sure, I had friends and could chew gum while window-shopping with them on occasion, but hadn’t noticed that unless introduced to such things I was hopeless. So, what’s with Starbucks?  

My first encounter with the café was when I lived in a developing city, watching friends dribble over something called ‘Mocha Frappuccino.’  Though what made Starbucks memorable was a particular time I ventured in alone, and didn’t know what to order.  Standing behind that sleek counter and hearing vicious machines whir and pound helpless coffee beans from Brazil made me almost nauseous.  Gurgling temptations to adjust my glasses and view the blurry menu overtook me.  Why?  I couldn’t drink coffee or stand smelling Folders when grownups would have their daily ‘caffeine-wake-up-call.’ So, how did I end up at a famous world class coffee shop?  I only wanted a ‘drink,’ which was an excuse to stay inside a trendy place and pretend to wait for someone, too.  In actuality, I would be busily typing a report for Biology due the next day.  

            Soon seconds ticked to “Thank-you—May I help the next customer?”, and equipping me with one robotic phrase. 

            “One Mocha Frappuccino.” 

            Forgetting the ‘please’ and pointing a devastated five dollar bill towards the clerk, I also noticed there was a space between the breath of words I whispered and the lady-clerk which spelt weird.  But I was more afraid Ms. Carry (her name tag) would say, “I’m sorry Mocha Frappuccino’s were ten years ago…they’re gone now.”

            Instead of the dreaded reply, she asked, “What size?”

“Decaf?  No I don’t know what size that is.  But small…Small is always small.” I thought, “At least I won’t suffocate from larger portions of MO-chaness.”

            Confidently, I proclaimed, “Small!”

            The wait was exactly five minutes and ten seconds until employee Bob yelled, “One small Mocha Frappuccino!”

            Grabbing the drink without saying a word, I relocated to a private sector far from the pick-up line.  I made it.  SURVIVAL-OF-THE-FITTEST. 

…

The first time I went to the ‘Doughnut Shop’ with Grandpa was when I was six.  I was sitting in the basket attached to his silver mountain bike with the wind whipping in my face.  The ride usually lasted for ten minutes from his home to some corner, that is long since gone by now—but the memory of it remains.

            Grandpa would swerve around corners and I would yell, “Yip—pee!” and we would both say, “Let’s do that again!”  As I recall these times, I remember Grandpa as a younger version of what he looks like today: old, but with an essence of youth still engulfing him.  He also wore this grayish bowler hat when he stepped outside and tilted it to the side of his bald head, which made me think of some detective.  To me, Grandpa was the coolest!

            After the fun ride Grandpa would eventually come to a stop at our destination in front of the Doughnut Shop.  The first time we arrived there together I waited for the click, click of the chain to tie the bike so that it would not be stolen.  Then we stepped into the small, glass window shop and inhaled that sweet air.  On that day in particular, the merry sound of customers could not be heard and the whirring shop only contained the owner, Grandpa, and, of course, me.  Stepping inside there were a few unorganized tables and chairs and straight ahead was a bright lime-green counter with a cashier.  Lined on the right side of the wall were the grand assortments of doughnuts of all shapes and sizes with the most interesting decorations.  And behind the counter was a completely different world decked with posters of coffee, a flashing menu high above, and the various gadgets making the noises of life that made shop so distinct.  I gasped. 

            “Alright, you can go over there and pick any doughnut you want, “ points Grandpa. “But don’t tell your grandma, okay?” 

            I just shake my head and shuffle over to the encased doughnuts.  They were lined in the most beautiful order with chocolate frosting, fillings sticking out, and different kinds of sprinkles jutting everywhere.  I did not know what to make of the sight.  I ate doughnuts before, but never appreciated the moments of munching on one.  The owner saw my astonished face and small hands pressing against the glass and laughed saying, “Who is this, now?” 

Some days ago, I found a poem I wrote using 14 (?) works.  I look a line or two out of the works and made it into something new.  If I find the titles I’ll post them up as well!

The weary blues – I know why the caged bird sings – I, too - Sing America (one of my favorites ) – america – etc Sing America. The very first time I thought I was lost, My dungeon shook and my chains fell off,The days were still stuffy with summer,I was in America, Among the Americans— But not of them. No idle passenger Traveling through life, The watcher turns his eyes away,His dreams mocked to death by time,Scorned by attitudes,He will explode.   Left his footprints in the skyWith a big knife,Without pencil or paper, With one thousand masterpieces, Hanging only from his mind— Maybe it just sags.  Like wet cornstarch, I slide,I was a guide, A pathfinder, An original settler,But I laugh,I LIVE THE ANSWER! Besides,Why should the world be overwise?Tomorrow the radiant stars, Too full to swallow any sorrow,Counting all our tears and sighs,Let the world dream otherwise.   Then,I know why the caged bird sings, ah me,The darkness under the trees,When he beats his bars and would be free.  

I, too, am America.

Hello there!

Crystal, here.  I just started rolling on this awesomeness wordpress blog, which I hope to center around my creative writing works.  Hope you enjoy browsing – categories are navigatable! 

 Crystal 

The civil canvas is blank

by Crystal Hua

The civil canvas is blank,

For those who fear a brush

That which soars and spreads

Lusting for ideas Divine

Artisans sense no bounds

Paints trees of singing-sway

River of Holy life

And, thus, nature is nearest complete

Pen to paper matches the fleeting Mind

Prison for all Halters

Then comes Grail to seekers and seers

Knowing “Sacred is ne`er defined”! 

“Her Eyes Turned Towards God”           

            Zora Neale Hurston is a remarkable twentieth-century African American writer, whose stories draw great influences upon her personal experiences in life.  Growing up in the predominately black community of Eatonville, Florida, Hurston has a unique prospective on the interactions of different people which stood out in the Harlem Renaissance.  Hurston’s thoughts as a feminist were also bold and daring and many of her colorful experiences in life can be seen reflected in her novel, Their Eyes Were Watching God.  The events that transform the character Janie and her experiences from a sheltered person to a successful woman is only one detail that Hurston covers, and can be related to parts of her biography Dust Tracks on a Road.  When viewing Hurston’s life through her background and culture, traces of her experiences can be seen through Janie, the people she meets, and personal events in Their Eyes Were Watching God.               

            In Their Eyes Were Watching God, the people that Hurston creates are similar to individuals that she was exposed to in her youth.  The main character, Janie, appears to represent Hurston and her thoughts and complexities as she is followed throughout the story.  Janie is a bright woman who shows that she holds a spiritual personality and one that is open-minded to people and ideas.  In Hurston’s Dust Tracks she speaks about the pride that she harbors for her people, but she comments on seeing “…there [is] stress and strain inside as well as out.  Being black was not enough.  It took more than a community of skin to make your love come down on you” (“My People” 190).  Some of these harbored feelings come from Hurston’s distinct background when she lived in the equal city of Eatonville.  Not suffering from discrimination, Hurston was sheltered from other realities outside of Eatonville.  In the novel, Janie is also hidden from many of these truths and growing-up nurtured by her grandmother and integrated with the white ‘folks’, she did not understand racial differences until she had her picture taken and remarks, “…Ah couldn’t recognize day dark chile as me…” (Their Eyes 9). 

            Janie’s indifferent attitude towards appearances is something that is special, but not appreciated.  Such characters like Mrs. Turner believe in the segregation of people and says to Janie, “…But you know whut the ole folks say ‘de higher de monkey climbs de mo’ he show his behind’…” (Their Eyes 142).  The outlook Mrs. Turner has towards her own people and Janie’s idea of no discrimination for others may come from Hurston’s experiences from living in a black town “…that was the first to be incorporated, the first attempt at organized self-government on the part of Negroes in America” (“Birthplace” 1).  Mrs. Turner shows the type of person who believes in supremacy and the examples of the classic monkey that Hurston uses to demonstrate this, while Janie is simpler and believes in what’s inside a person rather than their skin color.

            Not all of the characters from Their Eyes Are Watching God are fixated on one person, whether it is based on Hurston or others that she knows.  For example, Hurston’s father John Hurston may represent multiple personalities.  His ability to provide, as Hurston remembers during her childhood was that “…there were plenty of orange, grapefruit…and we never went hungry” (“Birthplace” 12).  Hurston’s father can be associated with Tea Cake who provides for Janie and makes sure that she has plenty to live on overwork herself.  And abiding to Tea Cake’s philosophy of not abusing his wife and brushing aside when his friend’s say,”…All you can do is treat her cold whenever she comes round…” (Their Eyes 144).  Being the type who is seeking and opportunistic, John Hurston became the mayor of Eatonville for three terms and wrote the laws.  Janie’s second husband Joe Starks was the mayor of Eatonville and similar to Joe Clarke who was the town Marshall, the people of Eatonville often gathered at his porch to socialize.  However, Hurston’s father is not the only character who may have inspired others in the novel, but people such as her mother and grandmother played an important role for their development, too.

            In recalling her childhood and exuberant personality, Hurston’s nurturing mother claimed that, “Zora is my young’un…I’ll be bound mine will come out…” (“My Folks” 14).  Her mother encouraged her creativity and did not want to bind her daughter to stiffness and no exploration.  Her father, on the other hand, did not believe so much in the free will as her mother, and her grandmother despised the imaginative stories that Hurston would often make up.  As a child she was a visualize person and a dreamer, but Hurston’s grandmother was often suppressing when she would hear her stories about ‘fish and things’ swimming underneath her, calling her a liar.  Free will and ability to think is something that Janie was often denied in the novel.  Janie’s grandmother was one who truly loved her, but wanted her to live a life of benefits and did not care much for feelings.  Hurston’s mother can be depicted as one who allows for the self-expression her daughter, and her right to exploration can be seen in the relationship that Tea Cake and Janie shared.  Tea Cake was one who allowed Janie to search and experience what life has to offer.  The characters resemble the various people whom Hurston met and interacted with in her life, but they only constitute one part of an interwoven tale.

            The beginning of Their Eyes Were Watching God presents much of the ‘backbone’ that reoccurs throughout the novel and comes back again to the beginning.  Hurston’s thoughts as a feminist and believer in the human spirit is brought out with the connection that she traces from the sun on the horizon and to the lives’ of men and women.  From Hurston’s childhood her mother was a person who exhorted her children to “…jump at the de sun…[while] Papa did not feel so hopeful…” (“Birthplace” 13).  In Hurston’s novel she begins to say that “…women [were] to remember the envy they had stored up from other times…so they chewed up the back parts of their minds and swallowed with relish…” (Their Eyes 2).  This can also be associated with Hurston’s Christian background, which may explain her references to religion and its positive effects.  The thought of moving on is seen in strongly in Janie who, returning to Eatonville after Tea Cake’s death, decides that, “…She pulled in her horizon like a great fish net…and pulled it form around the world and to her shoulders” (Their Eyes 193).

            In many instances, Janie moves on in life quickly and is willing to find adventure and yearns to be fulfilled in her quest to gain satisfaction and happiness.  Her travels are important as they reveal her experiences from her home to Eatonville, then towards the Everglades and back to Eatonville again.  From Janie’s time spent in Eatonville, the formation of the predominately black community can be traced back to Hurston’s roots in a similar setting, too.  After Janie decides to leave her first husband, Logan Killicks, she wants to chase opportunity that she sees in Joe Starks.  Janie, like Hurston, settles in “…a pure Negro town—charter, mayor, council, town marshal and all” (“Birthplace” 1).  In such a town Janie and Hurston had associations that made them important to Eatonville and the citizens.  The porch of the general store and Joe Starks’ house was also a major area of conversing that Janie was often denied participation in.  In fact, Hurston may have drawn from her pastime of running errands or walking past Joe Clarke’s store porch, where the elders would socialize and gossip.  Hurston’s life in Eatonville supplied her with ample information and early tidings to a new world of grown-up talk, and one that Janie would not be able to enter until after Joe Starks’ death. 

            Following Janie’s time in Eatonville, she meets Tea Cake and goes on to have a loving relationship with him.  When Tea Cake and Janie decide to transition from Jacksonville to the Everglades they embark upon a new life.  From Hurston’s explanations of the land purchases for Eatonville, she speaks about the backing of “…the Whites who helped Joe Clarke to convince the Negroes of [settlement]” (“Birthplace” 6).  Similarly, the whites who lived with the black community in the Everglades did not mind the presence of one another and in the case of Janie’s trial, Mr. Prescott, the local doctor, defended stated the worsening condition of Tea Cake when he was bitten by the mad dog.  Though the jealousy and misunderstanding that Janie suffered from was something that made the blacks use “…the only weak weapon that they had left…and are only allowed to use in the presence of white folks: [their tongues]” (Their Eyes 186).  Other than the fueled flames of sorrow, the conflict that would also go “…inside of [Hurston], off and on for years…[reflects] the self-depreciation that she would feel” (“People” 190).  And in comparison to the land of Hurston’s Eatonville to the Everglades that Janie lived in “…White Maitland and Negro Eatonville, have lived side by side for fifty-five years without a single instance of enmity…” (“Birthplace” 6). 

            From Hurston’s recollections of childhood and background about her family history, coupled with information about her surroundings, she creates a world from drawn exposure in Their Eyes Were Watching God.  The people Hurston immersed herself with and her comfort in Eatonville shows her unique view upon the racial interactions, especially as a woman.  Her personal life is different from other authors of the Harlem Renaissance, but she still prides herself in her cultural heritage and show it through the characters that she depicts.  Janie is someone whom Hurston can associate with and through her eyes turned towards the new horizon, she sets off to find opportunities that Hurston instills in her life adventures.   

Inspired by Langston Hughes “I, too”  

“I, too” Poem on Dreams

Crystal Hua 

I, too, have dreams.

I am one stricken by no voice.

They take no heed of these thoughts

At work, or with books,

But I look forward,

And hold my head high,

And see that light. 

Next time,

They’ll let me paint portraits

Even if silence is the aura,

Nobody’ll shove

And say smiling,

“Miss, that ain’t a task for you.” 

Then floods work with books.

Besides,

They’ll see capable hands tending

And realize they were wrong—

I, too, spread dreams.