I Remember Becoming Me

I remember blowing bubbles then falling to scrape my little hands at day care.

I remember I stopped drinking apple juice and starting asking for water when I was four. I wouldn't eat spaghetti-o's either.

I remember the taste of soft pretzels when I was with my mother. I wasn't the spoiled little one much longer.

I remember getting my nose in a book just so I could get out of reality.

I was in the forth grade and I remember being forgotten for hours when the test didn't take that long.

In fifth, I remember wanting to kick my teacher. Anxiety is no one's best friend.

I remember beating up a kid named Josh because he was rude to me.

I remember being the scared seventh grader in a new school.

I remember a fist fight and the fear in her eyes whenever I saw her after.

I remember Annie, when she was in seventh grade, I was in ninth. I felt bad I was leaving her but...

I remember crying every night. A little louder than nessisary, hoping my sister would hear. She never did.

I remember finally asking my mom for help. She let me transfer schools.

I remember the belly ache on back to school night for tenth grade.

I remember being nervous to go to Lone Peak instead of Lehi.

I remember I laughed a lot in class.

I remember my group of friends growing larger and larger. But the closest ones grew closer.

I remember I cried less, I laughed more. I hurt less, I loved more.

I remember passion, goldfish, juice boxes, and other memories and inside jokes.

I remember my smile, and I remember it well. Maybe it isn't a memory after all.

:)

Open-Close Shel Silverstein

For my film festival video I looked through my poetry book, "Where the Sidewalk Ends." I always enjoyed Shel Silverstein, but now I realize it wasn't all just silly things, but they usually meant something more.

YouTube version.

"It's Only Stealing if You Get Caught"

Blackout poetry. Oh, the joys. And frustration. Does this make sense? I don't really know. I wish it would.

Rumors

If you are reading this now,

I am more than words time survived.

My life will continue.

What I've Been Called

I've been called a lot of things.

Stupid.

Worthless.

Annoying.

Freak.

Desperate.

And sometimes nothing at all.

I've also been called better things.

Kind.

Pretty.

Funny.

Talented.

Brave.

I've been called happy, creative, a life saver, a role model, and I've been called Bethany.

You know, I love the name. I'm not sure if it's a mask or something real.

It's the name I hide behind to show who I really am.

It's the name I might always hide behind. Bethany has been my pen name for a while now, and it still will be.

But, this is not owned by Bethany anymore.

It's owned by me.

The me that is honest.

The me that is daring.

The me that was named by my parents.

The me that is Samantha Beth Taylor.

Love and Romance

I have a scene from a book I'm writing that I'm going to share. Background: Copper's grandma left the family to work on some biology project, and died before they finished. Ben's dad worked on the same project.
"Is this a kissing book?"
Yes. Yes it is.

I was glad Ben liked Italian food. Except the fact that I couldn't eat lasagna gracefully to save my life. I feel like such a moron. I probably look like it, too. I bet I have sauce on my face. I've got… yes, that's cheese on my nose. Great first date.

“So, this biology project, do you know what it's about?” I asked.

Ben sat thinking. “You know, I'm not really totally sure. I just believe it is unethical.”

“Unethical? In what way?”

“Animal testing,” He said between bites, “Beyond that and the fact that it involves genetic engineering I have no clue what happens in the lab. Dad says it's confidential.”

“Aren't you curious?”

“Not a whole lot. We were told we could know when they let it out publically. For now, I don't think they have anything beyond theories.”

“I'm curious. I heard grandmas were those that spoil you most, but I kind of didn't have one.”

We sat silently for a while. Why did I say that? Change the subject, change the subject. Cats. No. Cheese. Books. Does he like to read? Kite flying. Where did that come from?

“How's your food?” Ben spoke up.

“Oh, yeah, it's great. I wish I wouldn't get it everywhere though.”

He laughed. “Well you enjoyed it while it lasted.”

I looked down at my plate. The only thing remaining was some sauce. I looked up to see Ben smiling.

“You know, I’ll go to the bathroom while you finish.” I started sliding out of the booth, tripped, then tried to pull myself back up. My hand apparently found his plate which slid onto his shirt. The napkin protected his pants, but his pale blue shirt was no longer just pale blue.

“Oh my gosh, I'm so sorry.”

He stood up and handed me his wallet. “Be sure to tip the waiter, I will wait for you outside.”

I didn't see his face and had no idea how he felt. I left some cash and paid at the counter as quickly as I could. People stared. I tried to hide my face and went out to Ben. We got in the car and sat in silence. I was afraid to speak. He sighed. “Let's go to the park.”

He parked on the road and we both got out. Should I be scared? He looked down at his shirt then peeled it off. He wasn't particularly muscular, but I would never describe him as weak. He wasn’t a model, but imperfect was suddenly perfect. He looked a little vulnerable, being so bare. I wanted to hug him and help him, but at the same time would do anything for him to protect me.

Throwing the shirt in the car he said, “Let's just talk for a minute,” and we headed down a poorly lit trail.

It was dark, and I was with a stranger. I guess Ben wasn't really a total stranger, but he seemed pretty bold earlier. Now he was.. quiet.

"Ben?"

"Hm?"

"Are you mad?"

"Why would I be mad?"

"I don't know. You're just pretty quiet now. Plus, I embarrassed you earlier. I'm a klutz. Sorry."

Ben sighed, running his fingers through his hair. Was he really that frustrated?

"No, I just. How do I say it?"

"I have no idea. But, try anyway."

"The way you looked at me when Emmie brought me..."

"Oh my gosh," I interrupted, "Was that really so obvious?"

He chuckled. "No doubt. I thought a date would be, well, nice. Even though I wasn't interested."

My cheeks were probably bright red, thank goodness it was dark, "So, I'm a waste of time then?"

"What?! No!" Ben sounded more offended than I was. "I don't know how to explain it but..." We had just stopped walking. His face looked as flushed as mine probably was. Did he feel...

I had an arm around my waist and a hand in my hair before I could finish the thought. His lips pulled from mine and...

My eyes were wide open during my first kiss.

I was mad I had no warning, though it was sweet and soft and I just stood while he still held me, stiff and as surprised as I was. The only thing I could get out was....

"I'm sorry." Wait. That wasn't my voice. I hadn't said anything. Ben had.

"I shouldn't have... I could've said it... But..."

"No." I told him, "That felt right.”

He pulled his hand through my hair, around my jaw, and lifted my head. His eyes were bright, he smiled, and pulled in again.

***

Everything blurred together in a colorful  harmony, it was as if I had been dreaming, but with the butterflies that didn't go away, I knew it was real.

His fingers brushed mine as he left me at the doorstep with the silent promise of another day.

I came inside and tried to act normal. “I'm tired.” I said before descending the stairs to my room. I wasn't sleeping, yet. I was thinking. Should I tell my parents? I know they want to know about my first kiss but, “I embarrassed a guy I barely knew on our first date and then we kissed when I thought he was mad,” didn't quite seem like a fairy tale. But then again, it FELT like one. I drifted to sleep expecting to dream, but instead it was a silent peace

Im Actually a Robot

Nelson found out my secret identity!
Alright, poem time! Enjoy.

I wish I could say I wasn't a robot,
But then, I would be lying.
This is to math:
I've done this problem a million times.
This is to history:
I'm tired of the same old dead people.
This is to science:
I've studied this for hours.
Then English has those rules,
I before E except after C,
And that's just weird.
This is to those students going through the motions:
I would say, "I feel you," because I do the same thing,
But I do the same thing.
Because I go through the same day every day of my life.
And that's not what a human would do, is it?
A human would learn from what triggered it to cry.
A human would stop for a moment to look at the world.
A human would do something new, just to do something different.
But what do I know about being human, when I am just a robot.

-Bethany

Thank you, thank you. So I guess I'm a robot.
Or maybe I'm a unicorn.
Still figuring that out.

One Kind of Different

We’re all fighting. Arguing over who is better at this or that. Minorities are portrayed as majorities. Everyone claims to be crazier than everyone else. Being called, “normal,” is an insult. The internet is the new tool to put others down. Our reality is stuck in virtual reality.

“If life is a game, aren’t we all on the same team?”

        Kid President

We want to be either extremely different than everyone else or reach the unattainable high expectations of the media. You are different, but you are still a part of a working society. You are human.

Being human is having life. Breathe in the expectations of the world, but breathe out what you really are. Who are you?

You are unique.

You are creative.

You are funny.

Optimistic. Emotional. Resilient.

Kind.

A human is kind.

Humanity is kind. Humanity is that feeling inside you when you see someone in need and want to help. It’s not yelling that person in your first period class that will never shut up. It is seeing someone else’s perspective and realizing that everyone has lives of their own.

While we argue about who has a bigger flame of madness, let’s stay sane enough that we can keep a hold of our humanity. Start a new spark. A spark of unity and a spark of connection.

    Different in what we know, but one in what we want.

    And we want something new.

Coloring

The sound of scribbles fill the classroom, that we thought was filled with enough noise already.

Sophie writes with purple. Garret writes in blue. I just assume those are their favorite colors. What does that even mean anyway?

"Yeah, my favorite color is green."

"Why?"

"Uh... it is."

Okay... I wrote in orange, yellow was too light, and I would do anything but pink. I hate pink. My sister taught me you can be a girl, but that doesn't mean you have to be girly. At least, that's what I got out of it. And that's why I despised pink.

I had a blanket, quilt, and pillowcase that were yellow, and I LOVED them. Yellow was my favorite color. Now, so are sparkles. That's a color, right?

"Time to rap it up." The teacher clasped her hands while speaking.

Whining throughout the room. I didn't join the whining, I just struggled to finish my artwork in time.

"If you aren't finished, you can take it home for homework."

I'd done that countless times.

Can't I just go back?

I want crayons and watercolors, not some gibberish algebra. Because now I'm here and my best talent is my ability to procrastinate. Successful, right?

Can success be an unbroken imagination and new perspectives? Because if you don't want to think inside the box, why not get rid of it?

Is it because English, Math and History? A one way gate to Hades. Thanks, school. Thanks.

This Hat

It doesn't match what I'm wearing.
I know that sounds a little girly but,
I'm wearing it to cover my nest.
Yeah. My nest.
That pile of tangles of hair and grease and, I think that is yesterday's breakfast.
I'm not sure.
Whatever it is, I want to hide it.
Beneath this hat.
I don't even know where I got this hat.
I just know it was in my closet this morning after I looked myself in the mirror and said:
"You look terrible."
I kind of felt terrible.
Not like the belly ache that makes me want to puke,
But like the "I have to pretend today," that makes me want to puke.
I have to pretend that I exist, and that I don't.
I have to pretend that I was brave, and that I was a coward.
Pretending to be someone that's "normal" when, in fact, no one is.
No one is.
And I feel like a loser for believing them.
The ones who say what is normal, what is average, and what is expected of me.
It is expected that I am above that average, reaching higher highs than that average,
When in truth, only 50% of people are above average.
And I just want to hide. Just like this thing on top of my head.
This nest of twisted clumps of hair, when really the only thing twisted is this hat that hides it.
This hat that doesn't match what I'm wearing.

This is Me

I am Bethany Yaleen Lee. I love writing stories and want to be able to write better poetry. If I could pick one word to describe how I want the world to see me, I would pick inspire. I want to inspire others and I want to be inspired. That probably comes with a little fleck of crazy.

I am enthusiastic and look optimistic, even when I feel anything but. I love my friends, but they are so hard to keep track of... wait a moment... I have your name.... Ryan? No? It was a good try.

I ramble a lot in writing and in speaking. I try to write intellegently, but in a way people can relate to. How I balance the two depends on my intentions.

Let's stop talking about me. Let's talk about you! Oh, wait. Right. I'll just read the other blogs.

My mind is an endless strand of thoughts. Interupted time after time, sometimes without me noticing.

I guess I should thank you for reading....

Thanks. Love you already.